' 'No, madam,' he said,
Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound,
She, with her poor blind hands feeling--'where is it?
Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound,
She, with her poor blind hands feeling--'where is it?
Tennyson
Yet doubtless you can tell me how she died?
BAGENHALL. Seventeen--and knew eight languages--in music
Peerless--her needle perfect, and her learning
Beyond the churchmen; yet so meek, so modest,
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy
Mismatch'd with her for policy! I have heard
She would not take a last farewell of him,
She fear'd it might unman him for his end.
She could not be unmann'd--no, nor outwoman'd--
Seventeen--a rose of grace!
Girl never breathed to rival such a rose;
Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. She came upon the scaffold,
And said she was condemn'd to die for treason;
She had but follow'd the device of those
Her nearest kin: she thought they knew the laws.
But for herself, she knew but little law,
And nothing of the titles to the crown;
She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands,
And trusted God would save her thro' the blood
Of Jesus Christ alone.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. Then knelt and said the Misere Mei--
But all in English, mark you; rose again,
And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiven,
Said, 'You will give me my true crown at last,
But do it quickly;' then all wept but she,
Who changed not colour when she saw the block,
But ask'd him, childlike: 'Will you take it off
Before I lay me down?
' 'No, madam,' he said,
Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound,
She, with her poor blind hands feeling--'where is it?
Where is it? '--You must fancy that which follow'd,
If you have heart to do it!
CROWD (_in the distance_).
God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Their Graces, our disgraces! God confound them!
Why, she's grown bloodier! when I last was here,
This was against her conscience--would be murder!
BAGENHALL. The 'Thou shall do no murder,' which God's hand
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd out pale--
She could not make it white--and over that,
Traced in the blackest text of Hell--'Thou shall! '
And sign'd it--Mary!
STAFFORD. Philip and the Pope
Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's coming
To bring us absolution from the Pope.
BAGENHALL. Seventeen--and knew eight languages--in music
Peerless--her needle perfect, and her learning
Beyond the churchmen; yet so meek, so modest,
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy
Mismatch'd with her for policy! I have heard
She would not take a last farewell of him,
She fear'd it might unman him for his end.
She could not be unmann'd--no, nor outwoman'd--
Seventeen--a rose of grace!
Girl never breathed to rival such a rose;
Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. She came upon the scaffold,
And said she was condemn'd to die for treason;
She had but follow'd the device of those
Her nearest kin: she thought they knew the laws.
But for herself, she knew but little law,
And nothing of the titles to the crown;
She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands,
And trusted God would save her thro' the blood
Of Jesus Christ alone.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. Then knelt and said the Misere Mei--
But all in English, mark you; rose again,
And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiven,
Said, 'You will give me my true crown at last,
But do it quickly;' then all wept but she,
Who changed not colour when she saw the block,
But ask'd him, childlike: 'Will you take it off
Before I lay me down?
' 'No, madam,' he said,
Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound,
She, with her poor blind hands feeling--'where is it?
Where is it? '--You must fancy that which follow'd,
If you have heart to do it!
CROWD (_in the distance_).
God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Their Graces, our disgraces! God confound them!
Why, she's grown bloodier! when I last was here,
This was against her conscience--would be murder!
BAGENHALL. The 'Thou shall do no murder,' which God's hand
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd out pale--
She could not make it white--and over that,
Traced in the blackest text of Hell--'Thou shall! '
And sign'd it--Mary!
STAFFORD. Philip and the Pope
Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's coming
To bring us absolution from the Pope.
