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 showed the ring--she clasped her hands. Oh! not a moment could he brook, The generous Prince, that suppliant look! Gently he raised her--and, the while, Checked with a glance the circle's smile; Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, And bade her terrors be dismissed: "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; yester even 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 stanched 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."