On him each courtier’s eye was bent;
Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The center of the glittering ring,—
And Snowdoun’s Knight[360] is Scotland’s King.
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;