Poems (Truesdell)/The Captive Queen

by Helen Truesdell

THE CAPTIVE QUEEN.

"I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
 "Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rose I in the morn,
 As blithe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the Sovereign of Scotland,
 And mony a traitor there,
Yet here I lie, in foreign hands,
 And never-ending care."—Burns

She sat alone—yes, all alone—within that gloomy tower,
For she, though young and beautiful, had felt oppression's power;
She had each lovely attribute that ladies ever prize,
The sylph-like form, the fairy step, the bright and starry eyes.

And ne'er a loftier intellect had fallen to woman's lot;
A fame, that malice tried in vain on which to fix a blot.
The sun threw out its gorgeous rays o'er mount, and vale, and hill.
And seemed the very earth and air with joyousness to fill.

But though it shed its genial rays, no joy could it impart,
To soothe the agony and care that weighed the Captive's heart;
She gazed upon the glorious scene through bitter, blinding tears,
And hurriedly her mind went back to earlier, happier years.

But where were now those happy hours, the step and spirit free?—
The thousand warriors, who had deemed it pride to bend the knee
To one so good and beautiful, the Dauphin's gentle bride,
Heir of fair Scotia's royal crown, and France a dower beside?

Where were ye, lords of Scotland, all, and gentlemen of France?
Why came ye not, with valorous hearts, to break for her a lance?
And where were ye, ye courtly dames, in proud and rich array,
Who dwelt within your Sovereign's court, and owned her gentle sway?

And Murray, thou of princely blood, near to the royal line,
Hadst thou no offering to lay upon thy sister's shrine?
Did no avenging spirit wake within thy haughty breast?
Or didst thou coldly fold thine arms, as faithless as the rest?

No answer!—let thy silence tell thy perjury and shame!
Ambition lured thee, but thou ne'er didst wear a wreath of fame;—
Ambition lured thee on to dwell amid thy sister's foes,
Forgetful of her kindred ties, forgetful of her woes;

Forgetful of her tender care, her too confiding love,
A sovereign's wrongs, a sister's tears, could not thy pity move.
But by a woman thou wert made, in after years, to feel,—
For't was her hand which armed with death the dread assassin's steel.

Thou, who so recklessly upon another's rights hadst trod,
Saw thine own name go down in death, in darkness, and in blood!
But, Mary, in thy darkest hour some happiness was thine;
For thou didst lay thy trusting heart upon a holy shrine.

For though thine was an erring faith, 'twas beautiful to see
Thy steadfast love, thy earnest zeal, thy tender constancy;
All Europe looked with pitying eyes upon thy closing fate,
And mourned for Scotland's Royal Flower—the lone, the desolate!