esis, 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, and 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
mournful 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