XXVII.
As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;
No word her choking voice commands,—
She show’d the ring—she clasp’d her hands.
Oh! not a moment could he brook,
The generous Prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her; and, the while,
Check’d with a glance the circle’s smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss’d,
And bade her terrors be dismiss’d:—
“Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask naught for Douglas; yestereven,
His Prince and he have much forgiven:
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue—
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not, to the vulgar crowd,
Yield what they craved with clamor loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.
I stanch’d thy father’s death-feud stern
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our Throne.—
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”