XIII.

The monarch o’er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer and more near, He whispered praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied, And ladies winked and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seemed to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too, A real or feigned disdain: Familiar was the look, and told Marmion and she were friends of old. The king observed their meeting eyes With something like displeased surprise: For monarchs ill can rivals brook, E’en in a word or smile or look. Straight took he forth the parchment broad Which Marmion’s high commission showed: “Our Borders sacked by many a raid, Our peaceful liegemen robbed,” he said; “On day of truce our warden slain, Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta’en— Unworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, Our herald has to Henry borne.”