Mary Queen of Scots

Thou pleadest well, yet some will say, and weep
To say it: ' See, the fond historian stands
Chafing the blood from Mary's snowy hands
In vain, for still their ancient stains they keep;'
I join them not — I, too, am fain to think
That thou hast wrought a credible disproof
Of that old verdict. Shall I hold aloof,
And shut my heart up from the veriest blink
Of charitable sunshine, that descends
On this still-closing, still-re-opening bud
Of unproved innocence? O Holyrood!
Speak, for thou knowest! Tell the means, the ends
Of that dark conclave! All good spirits move
The lost truth to the light; it is a work of love!