86 HOLYEOOD. ..
Yon secret stairs, yon closet nook,
The swords that through the arras gleam,
Rude Darnley s ill-dissembled joy,
Lost Rizzio s shrill, despairing scream.
The chapel, decked for marriage rite, The royal bride, with flushing cheek,
Triumphant Bothwell s hateful glance, Alas ! alas ! what words they speak !
Dread gift of Beauty ! who can tell The ills and perils round thee strown,
When warm affections fire the heart,
And Fortune gives the dangerous throne,
And Power s intoxicating cup,
And Flattery s wile the conscience tame, And strong Temptation spreads its snare.
And scowling Hatred wakes to blame ?
Yet, since each trembling shade of guilt None, save the eternal Judge, may know,
O er erring hearts, by misery crushed, Let pity s softening tear-drop flow.
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