And covered thine eyes and mouth.
“For every man on God’s ground, O King,
His death grows up from his birth
In a shadow-plant perpetually;
And thine towers high, a black yew-tree,
O’er the Charterhouse of Perth!”
Then, in strange contrast to the wild scenery of the “black beach-side” in winter, we are shown the king and queen at home and keeping festival in the ill-fated house. The revelry of the halls, and the quiet joy of the hearthside, seem to avert for a time the coming woe. The king takes his harp, and sings to the queen an old love-song which he had written to her from prison long ago. But soon the boded fate falls on them unaware:
“’Twas a wind-wild eve in February,
And against the casement pane
The branches smote like summoning hands,