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.
O, 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 shine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.'
