XXVIII.

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, And on his neck his daughter hung. The Monarch drank, that happy hour, The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,-- When it can say with godlike voice, Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice! Yet would not James the general eye On nature's raptures long should pry; He stepped between--' Nay, Douglas, nay, Steal not my proselyte away! The riddle 'tis my right to read, That brought this happy chance to speed. Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray In life's more low but happier way, 'Tis under name which veils my power Nor falsely veils,--for Stirling's tower Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, And Normans call me James Fitz-James. Thus watch I o'er insulted laws, Thus learn to right the injured cause.' Then, in a tone apart and low,-- 'Ah, little traitress! none must know What idle dream, what lighter thought What vanity full dearly bought, Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew My spell-bound steps to Benvenue In dangerous hour, and all but gave Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!' Aloud he spoke: 'Thou still dost hold That little talisman of gold, Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring,-- What seeks fair Ellen of the King?'