Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, More than to face his country's foes. But e'en this morn to me was given A bevy of the maids of heaven. Under your guard, these holy maids Shall safe return to cloister shades, And, while they at Tantallon stay, Requiem for Cochran's soul may say."— And, with the slaughtered favourite's name, Across the Monarch's brow there came A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. XVI. In answer nought could Angus speak; His proud heart swelled well nigh to break : He turned aside, and down his cheek A burning tear there stole. His hand the Monarch sudden took ; That sight his kind heart could not brook : "Now, by the Bruce's soul, Angus, my hasty speech forgive! For sure as doth his spirit live, As he said of the Douglas old, I well may say of you, That never king did subject hold, In speech more free, in war more bold, More tender, and more true :* Forgive me, Douglas, once again." And, while the King his hand did strain, The old man's tears fell down like rain. *O, Dowglas! Dowglas! Tendir and trew. The Houlate. A child will weep a bramble's smart, A maid to see her sparrow part, A stripling for a woman's heart: But woe awaits a country, when She sees the tears of bearded men. Then, oh! what omen, dark and high, When Douglas wets his manly eye!" XVII. Displeased was James, that stranger viewed And tampered with his changing mood. Laugh those that can, weep those that may,” Thus did the fiery Monarch say, "Southward I march by break of day; And if within Tantallon strong, The good Lord Marmion tarries long, "Much honoured were my humble home, And Yorkshire men are stern of mood, And many a knight to earth be borne, And many a sheaf of arrows spent, Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent: Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may."— The Monarch lightly turned away, And to his nobles loud did call, "Lords, to the dance,-a hall! a hall !”* Himself his cloak and sword flung by, And led Dame Heron gallantly; And minstrels, at the royal order, Rung out" Blue Bonnets o'er the Border." The ancient cry to make room for a dance, or pageant. XVIII. Leave we these revels now, to tell What to Saint Hilda's maids befel, Till James should of their fate decide; Were gently summoned to prepare To journey under Marmion's care, As escort honoured, safe, and fair, The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, Nor knew which Saint she should implore; For, when she thought of Constance, sore And judge what Clara must have felt! Had drunk De Wilton's blood. |