第194章 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 shine 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 cost hold That little talisman of gold, Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring,--What seeks fair Ellen of the King?'