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-For thee,-who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line,'
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd Pine!

"What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.-
O woe for Alpine's honour'd Pine!

"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine.”


Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remain'd in lordly bower apart,

Where play'd, with many-colour'd gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall;
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.


The banquet proud, the chamber gay, '
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun-deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,

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Her station claim'd' with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd.—
Those who such simple joys have known,
Are taught to prize them when they're gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power

To win her in this woful hour!

"Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.



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My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.

I wish I were as I have been,

Hunting the hart in forest green,

With bended bow and bloodhound free,

For that's the life is meet for me.'

I hate to learn the ebb of time,

From yon dull3 steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;

These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me."

"No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,

[MS." earnest on his game."]
[MS.-"was meant for me."]
[MS. "From darken'd steeple's."]
[MS.-"The lively lark my matins rung,
The sable rook my vespers sung."]

[MS.-"Have not a hall should harbour me." }

While fled the eve on wing of glee,

That life is lost to love and me!??


The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list'ner had not turn'd her head,
It trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again

The prisoner should renew his strain.
"O welcome, brave Fitz-James!" she said;
"How may an almost orphan maid

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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 beating heart, and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper'd hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half staid,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.


Within 'twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glow'd 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 Fitz-James her footing staid ;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed;

[MS." Within 'twas brilliant all and bright,
The vision glow'd on Ellen's sight."]

For him she sought, who own'd 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 turn'd bewilder'd and amazed,
For all stood bare; and, in the room,
Fitz-James 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!


As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 3
And at the Monarch's feet she lay ;
No word her choking voice commands,-
She show'd the ring-she clasp'd her hands.
O! not a moment could he brook,

The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her, and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd,
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd:-


"Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;

He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask nought 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 clamour loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.
I stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencairn;
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own


[MS. "For him who own'd this royal state."]

[See Appendix, Note Q.]

[MS.-"shrinking, quits her stay."]

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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."


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 stepp'd 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,

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-“Ah, little trait'ress! none must know`

[MS.-"In lowly life's more happy way."]

William of Worcester, who wrote about the middle of the fifteenth century, calls Stirling Castle Snowdoun. Sir David Lindsay bestows the same epithet upon it in his Complaint of the Papingo:

"Adieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high,

Thy chaple-royal, park, and table round;
May, June, and July, would I dwell in thee,

Were I a man, to bear the birdis sound,
Whilk doth againe thy royal rock rebound.”.

Mr. Chalmers, in his late excellent edition of Sir David Lindsay's works, has refuted the chimerical derivation of Snawdoun from snedding, or cutting. It was probably derived from the romantic legend which connected Stirling with King Arthur, to which the mention of the Round Table gives countenance. The ring within which justs were formerly practised, in the castle park, is still called the Round Table. Snawdoun is the official title of one of the Scottish heralds, whose epithets seem in all countries to have been fantastically adopted from ancient history or romance.

It appears [see Appendix, Note Q.] that the real name by which James was actually distinguished in his private excursions, was the Goodman of Ballenguich; derived from a steep pass leading up to the Castle of Stirling, so called. But the epithet would not have suited poetry, and would besides at once, and prematurely, have announced the plot to many of my countrymen, among whom the traditional stories above mentioned are still


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