In one is the sepulchre of the
haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely
and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation
of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre
continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave
of her rival.
A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies
buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by
dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the
walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure
of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron
railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem--the thistle.
I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the
monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous story
of poor Mary.
The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could
only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest
repeating the evening service and the faint responses of the
choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The
stillness, the desertion, and obscurity that were gradally
prevailing around gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the
place;
For in the silent grave no conversation,
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,
No careful father's counsel--nothing's heard,
For nothing is, but all oblivion,
Dust, and an endless darkness.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280