Act 1 — SONNET.—QUEEN OF SCOTS.

Within a castle's battlemented walls, In crimsoned dungeon lay fair Scotia's queen: Like drooping sorrow seemed she oft to lean Her weary head. Pale, weeping memory recalls The beaming joys of her life's early day, Forever fled. Her spirit, palled with gloom, Anticipates sweet rest but in the tomb— White wingéd Faith, her guardian one, alway There hovering nigh. 'Tis morn; dreams she no more; On Fotheringay's black scaffold now she stands, Clasping her cherished croslet in her hands, Anon to die. Her fate the loves deplore; The angel-loves, eke, waft her soul to heaven; Her faults, her follies, to her faith forgiven.