Yon secret stairs, yon closet nook,
The swords that through the arras gleam,
Rude Darnley's ill-dissembled joy,
Lost Rizzio's shrill, despairing scream,
The chapel decked for marriage rite,
The royal bride, with flushing cheek,
Triumphant Bothwell's hateful glance,
Alas! Alas! what words they speak!
Dread gift of Beauty! who can tell
The ills and perils round thee strown,
When warm affections fire the heart,
And Fortune gives the dangerous throne;
And Power's intoxicating cup,
And Flattery's wile the conscience tames,
While strong temptations spread their snare,
And Hatred every lapse proclaims?
But since each trembling shade of guilt
None, save the eternal Judge, may know,
O'er erring hearts, by misery crushed,
Let pity's softening tear-drop flow.
Thursday, Sept. 3, 1840.
