THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘How may an almost orphan maid

       Pay the deep debt—’ ‘O say not so!

       To me no gratitude you owe.

       Not mine, alas! the boon to give,

       And bid thy noble father live;

       I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,

       With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid.

       No tyrant he, though ire and pride

       May lay his better mood aside.

       Come, Ellen, come! ‘tis more than time,

       He holds his court at morning prime.’

       With heating heart, and bosom wrung,

       As to a brother’s arm she clung.

       Gently he dried the falling tear,

       And gently whispered hope and cheer;

       Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,

       Through gallery fair and high arcade,

       Till at his touch its wings of pride

       A portal arch unfolded wide.

       XXVI

      Within ‘t was brilliant all and light,

       A thronging scene of figures bright;

       It glowed on Ellen’s dazzled sight,

       As when the setting sun has given

       Ten thousand hues to summer even,

       And from their tissue fancy frames

       Aerial knights and fairy dames.

       Still by FitzJames her footing staid;

       A few faint steps she forward made,

       Then slow her drooping head she raised,

       And fearful round the presence gazed;

       For him she sought who owned this state,

       The dreaded Prince whose will was fate!—

       She gazed on many a princely port

       Might well have ruled a royal court;

       On many a splendid garb she gazed,—

       Then turned bewildered and amazed,

       For all stood bare; and in the room

       FitzJames alone wore cap and plume.

       To him each lady’s look was lent,

       On him each courtier’s eye was bent;

       Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,

       He stood, in simple Lincoln green,

       The centre of the glittering ring,—

       And Snowdoun’s Knight is Scotland’s King!

       XXVII

      As wreath of snow on mountain-breast

       Slides from the rock that gave it rest,

       Poor Ellen glided from her stay,

       And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;

       No word her choking voice commands,—

       She showed the ring,—she clasped her hands.

       O, not a moment could he brook,

       The generous Prince, that suppliant look!

       Gently he raised her,—and, the while,

       Checked with a glance the circle’s smile;

       Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,

       And bade her terrors be dismissed:—

       ‘Yes, fair; the wandering poor

       FitzJames The fealty of Scotland claims.

       To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;

       He will redeem his signet ring.

       Ask naught for Douglas;—yester even,

       His Prince and he have much forgiven;

       Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,

       I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.

       We would not, to the vulgar crowd,

       Yield what they craved with clamor loud;

       Calmly we heard and judged his cause,

       Our council aided and our laws.

       I stanched thy father’s death-feud stern

       With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;

       And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we own

       The friend and bulwark of our throne.—

       But, lovely infidel, how now?

       What clouds thy misbelieving brow?

       Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;

       Thou must confirm this doubting maid.’

       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

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