When the young hand of Darnley lock'd in her's
Had knit her to her northern doom — amid
The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters,
Her fate look'd forth and was no longer hid;
A jealous brain beneath a southern crown
Wrought spells upon her; from afar she felt
The waxen image of her fortunes melt
Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown
Of her own lords o'ermaster'd her sweet smiles —
And nipt her growing gladness, till she mourn'd,
And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles;
But, ever since, all generous hearts have burn'd
To clear her fame, yea, very babes have yearn'd
Over this saddest story of the isles.