At first, she consoled herself with the knowledge that Seymour was safe beyond the power of the vain tyrant who kept her within those walls; but she soon found that even that consolation, when she indulged in it, produced an evil effect upon her mind. The thought that he was secure and free, brought with it the eager yearnings of a warm and affectionate heart to be with him, to rest upon the bosom of him she loved, to hear the music of his voice, to see his eyes beaming upon her with tenderness and devotion.
She dared not trust herself with such meditations, for they were dangerous to her tranquillity, and were sure to end in long and bitter weeping. Then she strove to extract hope from some fruitless effort to soften the cold and obdurate heart of the King,--as the alchymists of the day attempted to draw gold from lead or iron. But yet, even in the act, she knew it to be idle. She would gaze upon the letter she had written, beseeching this person or that, who was supposed to have influence over James, to intercede for her; and with a sad smile, shake her head and sigh, exclaiming, "Vain, vain! it is all in vain!"
Then she would wander round the walls of the Tower, gaze on the busy multitudes swarming freely without, picture to herself their thoughts, feelings, and occupations; trace them, in her imagination, through their daily labour, and follow them back again to the home of domestic love; and the tears would rise in her eyes, as she thought that no such home was ever to be hers.
Or, at other times, she would turn towards the river with its shipping, and mark the light boats gliding over the waters, and long--oh, with what a thirsty longing!--to pursue the course of that stream once more, and over the wide sea, to find the free happiness denied her there; and when she looked around on bars, and gates, and guards, her heart would feel chilled and crushed; and again her tears would rise, and drop upon the stones of the wall.
Often, when such was the case, some words which had been used by Ida Mara came back to her mind; and she would ponder on them, and turn them in her imagination a thousand ways; for sadness ever will sport with fancy, and misery often dances in her chains.
One day, as she was sitting in her chamber, with the fair Italian beside her singing to her, she wrote from time to time a word or two on some paper which lay upon the table; and when the girl's song was done, she said, "Give me your instrument, Ida; I will sing you a song now;" and placing the paper upright before her, she proceeded to pour forth, to a simple air of the time, the lines she had just written.
SONG.
"Ye gloomy walls, that circling round,
Oppress this form of clay,
When shall my spirit spurn the bound