CROSSING SOLWAY

Blow from the North, thou bitter North wind,

Blow over the western bay,

Where Nith and Eden and Esk run in

And fight with the salt sea spray,

And the sun shines high through the sailing sky

In the freshness of blue Mid-may.

Blow North-North-West, and hollow the sails

Of a Queen who slips over the sea

As a hare from the hounds; and her covert afar;

And now she can only flee;

And death before and the sisterly shore

That smiles perfidiously.

O Mid-may freshness about her cheek

And piercing her poor attire,

The sting of defeat thou canst not allay,

The fever of heart and the fire,

The death-despair for the days that were,

And famine of vain desire!

— On Holyrood stairs an iron-heel'd clank

Came up in the gloaming hour:

And iron fingers have bursten the bar

Of the palace innermost bower:

And fiend-like on her the Douglas and Ker

And spectral Ruthven glower.

She hears the shriek as the Morton horde

Hurry the victim beneath;

And she feels their dead man's grasp on her skirt

In the frenzy-terror of death;

And the dastard King at her bosom cling

With a serpent's poison-breath.

O fair girl Queen, well weep for the friend

To his faith too faithful and thee;

For a brother's hypocrite tears; for the flight

To the Castle set by the sea;—

Where thy father's tomb lay and gaped in the gloom

‘ Twere better for thee to be!

O better at rest where the crooning dove

May sing requiem o'er thy bed,

Sweet Robin aflame with love's sign on his breast

With quick light footstep tread;

While over the sod the Birds of God

Their guardian feathers outspread!

Too womanly sweet, too womanly frail,

Alone in thy faith and thy need;

In the homeless home, in the poisonous air

Of spite and libel and greed;

Mid perfidy's net thy pathway is set,

And thy feet in the pitfalls bleed.

— O lightnings, not lightnings of Heaven, that flare

Through the desolate House in the Field!

Craft that the Fiend had envied in vain;

Till the terrible Day unreveal'd,—

Till the Angels rejoice at the Verdict-voice,

And Mary's pardon is seal'd!

As a bird from the mesh of the fowler freed

With wild wing shatters the air,

From shelter to shelter, betray'd, she flees,

Or lured to some treacherous lair,

And the vulture-cry of the enemy nigh,

And the heavens dark with despair!

Bright lily of France, by the storm stricken low,

A sunbeam thou seest through the shade

Where Order and Peace are throned‘ neath the smile

Of a royal sisterly Maid:—

For hope in the breast of the girl has her nest,

Ever trusting, and ever betray'd.

Brave womanly heart that, beholding the shore,

Beholds her own grave unaware,—

Though the days to come their shame should unveil

Yet onward she still would dare!

Though the meadows smile with statesmanly guile,

And the cuckoo's call is a snare!

Turn aside, O Queen, from the cruel land,

From the greedy shore turn away;

From shame upon shame:— But most shame for those

On their passionate captive who play

With a subtle net, hope enwoven with threat,

Hung out to tempt her astray!

Poor scape-goat of crimes, where,— her part what it may,—

So tortured, so hunted to die,

Foul age of deceit and of hate,— on her head

Least stains of gore-guiltiness lie;

To the hearts of the just her blood from the dust

Not in vain for mercy will cry.

Poor scape-goat of nations and faiths in their strife

So cruel,— and thou so fair!

Poor girl!— so, best, in her misery named,—

Discrown'd of two kingdoms, and bare;

Not first nor last on this one was cast

The burden that others should share.

— When the race is convened at the great assize

And the last long trumpet-call,

If Woman‘ gainst Man, in her just appeal,

At the feet of the Judge should fall,

O the cause were secure;— the sentence sure!

— But she will forgive him all!—

O keen heart-hunger for days that were;

Last look at a vanishing shore!

In two short words all bitterness summ'd,

That Has been and Nevermore!

Nor with one caress will Mary bless,

Nor look on the babe she bore!

Blow, bitter wind, with a cry of death,

Blow over the western bay:

The sunshine is gone from the desolate girl,

And before is the doomster-day,

And the saw-dust red with the heart's-blood shed

In the shambles of Fotheringay.