Mary Stuart. Фридрих ШиллерЧитать онлайн книгу.

       What were my feelings, then, as I approached

       The threshold of the churches, and within,

       Heard heavenly music floating in the air:

       While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamed

       Crowds of celestial forms in endless train—

       When the Most High, Most Glorious pervaded

       My captivated sense in real presence!

       And when I saw the great and godlike visions,

       The Salutation, the Nativity,

       The Holy Mother, and the Trinity's

       Descent, the luminous transfiguration

       And last the holy pontiff, clad in all

       The glory of his office, bless the people!

       Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewels

       With which the kings of earth adorn themselves!

       He is alone surrounded by the Godhead;

       His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom,

       For not of earthly moulding are these forms!

       MARY.

       O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no more

       Life's verdant carpet out before my eyes,

       Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner.

       MORTIMER.

       I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swift

       My prison-gates flew open, when at once

       My spirit felt its liberty, and hailed

       The smiling dawn of life. I learned to burst

       Each narrow prejudice of education,

       To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths,

       And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd.

       Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal,

       Encouraged me, and with the gallant French

       They kindly led me to your princely uncle,

       The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man!

       How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great!

       Born to control the human mind at will!

       The very model of a royal priest;

       A ruler of the church without an equal!

       MARY.

       You've seen him then—the much loved, honored man,

       Who was the guardian of my tender years!

       Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me?

       Does fortune favor him? And prospers still

       His life? And does he still majestic stand,

       A very rock and pillar of the church?

       MORTIMER.

       The holy man descended from his height,

       And deigned to teach me the important creed

       Of the true church, and dissipate my doubts.

       He showed me how the glimmering light of reason

       Serves but to lead us to eternal error:

       That what the heart is called on to believe

       The eye must see: that he who rules the church

       Must needs be visible; and that the spirit

       Of truth inspired the councils of the fathers.

       How vanished then the fond imaginings

       And weak conceptions of my childish soul

       Before his conquering judgment, and the soft

       Persuasion of his tongue! So I returned

       Back to the bosom of the holy church,

       And at his feet abjured my heresies.

       MARY.

       Then of those happy thousands you are one,

       Whom he, with his celestial eloquence,

       Like the immortal preacher of the mount,

       Has turned and led to everlasting joy!

       MORTIMER.

       The duties of his office called him soon

       To France, and I was sent by him to Rheims,

       Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor, priests

       Are trained to preach our holy faith in England.

       There, 'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan,

       And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop,

       Who pass in France their joyless days of exile.

       I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men,

       And fortified my faith. As I one day

       Roamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was struck

       With a fair female portrait; it was full

       Of touching wond'rous charms; with magic might

       It moved my inmost soul, and there I stood

       Speechless, and overmastered by my feelings.

       "Well," cried the bishop, "may you linger thus

       In deep emotion near this lovely face!

       For the most beautiful of womankind,

       Is also matchless in calamity.

       She is a prisoner for our holy faith,

       And in your native land, alas! she suffers."

       [MARY is in great agitation. He pauses.

       MARY.

       Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed,

       While such a friend remains in my misfortunes!

       MORTIMER.

       Then he began, with moving eloquence,

       To paint the sufferings of your martyrdom;

       He showed me then your lofty pedigree,

       And your descent from Tudor's royal house.

       He proved to me that you alone have right

       To reign in England, not this upstart queen,

       The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed,

       Whom Henry's self rejected as a bastard.

       [He from my eyes removed delusion's mist,

       And taught me to lament you as a victim,

       To honor you as my true queen, whom I,

       Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows,

       Had ever hated as my country's foe.]

       I would not trust his evidence alone;

       I questioned learned doctors; I consulted

       The most authentic books of heraldry;

       And every man of knowledge whom I asked

       Confirmed to me your claim's validity.

       And now I know that your undoubted right

       To England's throne has been your only wrong,

       This realm is justly yours by heritage,

       In which you innocently pine as prisoner.

       MARY.

       Oh, this unhappy right!—'tis this alone

       Which is the source of all my sufferings.

       MORTIMER.

       Just at this time the tidings reached my ears

       Of your removal from old Talbot's charge,

       And your committal