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. 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 thine aid; Thou must confirm this doubting maid.'