XXVIII.
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The Monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,—
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On Nature’s raptures long should pry;
He stepp’d between—“Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!
The riddle ’tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.[361]
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life’s more low but happier way,
’Tis under name which veils my power;
Nor falsely veils—for Stirling’s tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch I o’er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.”—
Then, in a tone apart and low,—
“Ah, little traitress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join’d to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drew
My spellbound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!”—
Aloud he spoke,—“Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James’s ring—
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?”