And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, But e'en this morn to me was given A prize, the first fruits of the war, Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 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:*

* O Dowglas! Dowglas!

Tendir and trew. The Houlate.

Forgive me, Douglas, once again."—
And, while the King his hand did strain,
The old man's tears fell down like rain.
To seize the moment Marmion tried,
And whispered to the King aside :
"Oh! let such tears unwonted plead
For respite short from dubious deed!
A child will weep a bramble's smart;
A maid to see her sparrow part;
A stripling for a woman's heart:
But wo 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,
Perchance our meeting next may fall
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall."-
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,
And answered, grave, the royal vaunt:
"Much honoured were my humble home,
If in its halls King James should come;

But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.
On Darby hills the paths are steep;
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;
And many a banner will be torn,
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,

Bung out" Blue Bonnets o'er the border."

XVIII.

Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda's maids befell;
Whose galley, as they sailed again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en.
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,
Till James should of their fate decide;
And soon, by his command,
Were gently summoned to prepare
To journey under Marmion's care,
As escort honoured, safe, and fair,

Again to English land.

The ancient cry to make room for a dance, or pageant.

The abbess told her chaplet o'er,

Nor knew which Saint she should implore; For when she thought of Constance, sore

She feared Lord Marmion's mood. And judge what Clara must have felt! The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt, Had drunk De Wilton's blood. Unwittingly, King James had given, As guard to Whitby's shades, The man most dreaded under heaven By these defenceless maids; Yet what petition could avail, Or who would listen to the tale Of woman, prisoner and nun, Mid bustle of a war begun ? They deemed it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide.

XIX.

Their lodging, so the King assigned,
To Marmion's, as their guardian, joined;
And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,
The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye,
Who warned him by a scroll,

She had a secret to reveal,

That much concerned the Church's weal,

And health of sinner's soul;

And with deep charge of secrecy,

She named a place to meet,

Within an open balcony,

That hung from dizzy pitch, and high,
Above the stately street:

To which, as common to each home,

At night they might in secret come.

XX.

At night in secret there they came,
The Palmer and the holy dame.
The moon among the clouds rode high,
And all the city hum was by.

Upon the street, were late before
Did din of war and warriors roar,
You might have heard a pebble fall,

A beetle hum, a cricket sing,
An owlet flap his boding wing

On Giles' steeple tall.

The antique buildings, climbing high,
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,
Were here wrapt deep in shade;
There on their brows the moonbeam broke,
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,
And on the casements played.
And other light was none to see,
Save torches gliding far,
Before some chieftain of degree,
Who left the royal revelry

To bowne him for the war.-
A solemn scene the abbess chose;
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.