I stand in Edinburgh, in Holyrood,
Where Scotland’s Mary flaunted; iron Knox came,
With cavernous eyes and words of prophet-flame,
And broke her soul as bonds of brittle wood:—
And all stern Scotland’s evil and her good,
Her austere ghosts, her souls of fiery shame,
Her adamantine passions none could tame,
Arise anew and drip in Rizzio’s blood.
Here in these walls, these guilty corridors,
Beside[4] that bed where Elizabeth’s eyes look down;—
Across the centuries with their fading band
Of angry years of Presbyterian frown,—
I only know these tears[5] of weird remorse;
The woman rules. All else is shifting sand.
[4] In Queen Mary’s bedroom in Holyrood, a portrait of Queen Elizabeth hangs on the wall above the bed.
[5] It is said that Knox, during this memorable interview, made the Queen weep.
Unabsolved
A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE
(This poem is founded on the confession of a man who went with one of the expeditions to save Sir John Franklin’s party, and who, being sent ahead, saw signs of them, but, through cowardice, was afraid to tell.)
O Father, hear my tale, then pity me,
For even God his pity hath withdrawn.
O death was dread and awful in those days!
You prate of hell and punishment to come,
And endless torments made for those who sin.
Stern priest, put down your cross and hearken me;—
I see forever a white glinting plain,
From night to night across the twinkling dark,
A world of cold and fear and dread and death,
And poor lost ones who starve and pinch and die;—
I could have saved them—I—yea, even I.
You talk of hell! Is hell to see poor frames,
Wan, leathery cheeks, and dull, despairing eyes,
From whence a low-flamed madness ebbing out,
Goes slowly deathward through the eerie hours,
To hear forever pitiless, icy winds
Feel in the shivering canvas of the tent,
With idle, brute curiosity nature hath,
While out around, one universe of death,
Stretches the loveless, hearthless arctic night?