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eyes off the land。 Then everyone gathered round her to try to divert
and console her。 But she； growing sadder； and not being able to
respond； so overcome was she with tears； could hardly eat； and；
having had a bed got ready on the stern deck； she sent for the
steersman； and ordered him if he still saw land at daybreak； to come
and wake her immediately。 On this point Mary was favoured； for the
wind having dropped； when daybreak came the vessel was still within
sight of France。
It was a great joy when； awakened by the steersman； who had not
forgotten the order he had received； Mary raised herself on her
couch； and through the window that she had had opened； saw once more
the beloved shore。 But at five o'clock in the morning； the wind
having freshened； the vessel rapidly drew farther away； so that soon
the land completely disappeared。 Then Mary fell back upon her bed；
pale as death； murmuring yet once again〃Adieu； France！ I shall see
thee no more。〃
Indeed； the happiest years of her life had just passed away in this
France that she so much regretted。 Born amid the first religious
troubles； near the bedside of her dying father； the cradle mourning
was to stretch for her to the grave； and her stay in France had been
a ray of sunshine in her night。 Slandered from her birth； the report
was so generally spread abroad that she was malformed； and that she
could not live to grow up； that one day her mother； Mary of Guise；
tired of these false rumours； undressed her and showed her naked to
the English ambassador； who had come； on the part of Henry VIII； to
ask her in marriage for the Prince of Wales； himself only five years
old。 Crowned at nine months by Cardinal Beaton； archbishop of St。
Andrews； she was immediately hidden by her mother； who was afraid of
treacherous dealing in the King of England； in Stirling Castle。 Two
years later； not finding even this fortress safe enough； she removed
her to an island in the middle of the Lake of Menteith； where a
priory； the only building in the place； provided an asylum for the
royal child and for four young girls born in the same year as
herself； having like her the sweet name which is an anagram of the
word 〃aimer；〃 and who； quitting her neither in her good nor in her
evil fortune； were called the 〃Queen's Marys〃。 They were Mary
Livingston； Mary Fleming； Mary Seyton； and Mary Beaton。 Mary stayed
in this priory till Parliament； having approved her marriage with the
French dauphin； son of Henry II； she was taken to Dumbarton Castle；
to await the moment of departure。 There she was entrusted to M。 de
Breze； sent by Henry II to…fetch her。 Having set out in the French
galleys anchored at the mouth of the Clyde； Mary； after having been
hotly pursued by the English fleet； entered Brest harbour； 15th
August； 1548； one year after the death of Francis！ Besides the
queen's four Marys； the vessels also brought to France three of her
natural brothers； among whom was the Prior of St。 Andrews； James
Stuart； who was later to abjure the Catholic faith； and with the
title of Regent； and under the name of the Earl of Murray； to become
so fatal to poor Mary。 From Brest； Mary went to St。 Germain…en…
Laye； where Henry II； who had just ascended the throne； overwhelmed
her with caresses； and then sent her to a convent where the heiresses
of the noblest French houses were brought up。 There Mary's happy
qualities developed。 Born with a woman's heart and a man's head；
Mary not only acquired all the accomplishments which constituted the
education of a future queen； but also that real knowledge which is
the object of the truly learned。
Thus； at fourteen； in the Louvre； before Henry II； Catherine de
Medici； and the whole court； she delivered a discourse in Latin of
her own composition； in which she maintained that it becomes women to
cultivate letters； and that it is unjust and tyrannical to deprive
flowery of their perfumes； by banishing young girls from all but
domestic cares。 One can imagine in what manner a future queen；
sustaining such a thesis； was likely to be welcomed in the most
lettered and pedantic court in Europe。 Between the literature of
Rabelais and Marot verging on their decline； and that of Ronsard and
Montaigne reaching their zenith； Mary became a queen of poetry； only
too happy never to have to wear another crown than that which
Ronsard； Dubellay； Maison…Fleur； arid Brantome placed daily on her
head。 But she was predestined。 In the midst of those fetes which a
waning chivalry was trying to revive came the fatal joust of
Tournelles： Henry II； struck by a splinter of a lance for want of a
visor； slept before his time with his ancestors； and Mary Stuart
ascended the throne of France； where； from mourning for Henry； she
passed to that for her mother； and from mourning for her mother to
that for her husband。 Mary felt this last loss both as woman and as
poet； her heart burst forth into bitter tears and plaintive
harmonies。 Here are some lines that she composed at this time：
〃Into my song of woe；
Sung to a low sad air；
My cruel grief I throw；
For loss beyond compare；
In bitter sighs and tears
Go by my fairest years。
Was ever grief like mine
Imposed by destiny？
Did ever lady pine；
In high estate； like me；
Of whom both heart and eye
Within the coffin lie？
Who； in the tender spring
And blossom of my youth；
Taste all the sorrowing
Of life's extremest ruth；
And take delight in nought
Save in regretful thought。
All that was sweet and gay
Is now a pain to see；
The sunniness of day
Is black as night to me；
All that was my delight
Is hidden from my sight。
My heart and eye； indeed；
One face； one image know；
The which this morrnful weed
On my sad face doth show；
Dyed with the violet's tone
That is the lover's own。
Tormented by my ill；
I go from place to place；
But wander as I will
My woes can nought efface；
My most of bad and good
I find in solitude。
But wheresoe'er I stay；
In meadow or in copse；
Whether at break of day
Or when the twilight drops；
My heart goes sighing on；
Desiring one that's gone。
If sometimes to the skies
My weary gaze I lift；
His gently shining eyes
Look from the cloudy drift；
Or stooping o'er the wave
I see him in the grave。
Or when my bed I seek；
And…sleep begins to steal；
Again I hear him speak；
Again his touch I feel；
In work or leisure； he
Is ever near to me。
No other thing I see；
However fair displayed；
By which my heart will be
A tributary made；
Not having the perfection
Of that； my lost affection。
Here make an end； my verse；
Of this thy sad lament；
Whose burden shall rehearse
Pure love of true intent；
Which separation's stress
Will never render less。〃
〃It was then；〃 says Brantorne； 〃that it was delightful to see her；
for the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended
togethe