XVII.

“He stepped before the monarch’s chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made: Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent, But on the desk his arm he leant, And words like these he said, In a low voice—but never tone So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone:— ‘My mother sent me from afar, Sir King, to warn thee not to war— Woe waits on thine array; If war thou wilt, of woman fair, Her witching wiles and wanton snare, James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: God keep thee as he may!’ The wondering monarch seemed to seek For answer, and found none; And when he raised his head to speak, The monitor was gone. The marshal and myself had cast To stop him as he outward passed: But, lighter than the whirlwind’s blast, He vanished from our eyes, Like sunbeam on the billow cast, That glances but, and dies.”