XVII.

'Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee; Yet life I hold but idle breath When love or honor's weighed with death. Then let me profit by my chance, And speak my purpose bold at once. I come to bear thee from a wild Where ne'er before such blossom smiled, By this soft hand to lead thee far From frantic scenes of feud and war. Near Bochastle my horses wait; They bear us soon to Stirling gate. I'll place thee in a lovely bower, I'll guard thee like a tender flower--' 'O hush, Sir Knight! 't were female art, To say I do not read thy heart; Too much, before, my selfish ear Was idly soothed my praise to hear. That fatal bait hath lured thee back, In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; And how, O how, can I atone The wreck my vanity brought on!-- One way remains--I'll tell him all-- Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall! Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, Buy thine own pardon with thy shame! But first--my father is a man Outlawed and exiled, under ban; The price of blood is on his head, With me 't were infamy to wed. Still wouldst thou speak?--then hear the truth! Fitz-James, there is a noble youth-- If yet he is!--exposed for me And mine to dread extremity-- Thou hast the secret of my bears; Forgive, be generous, and depart!'