XVII.

’Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be,
Since it is worthy care from thee;
et life I hold but idle breath
When love or honor’s weighed with death. 
Then let me profit by my chance,
And speak my purpose bold at once. 
I come to bear thee from a wild
Where ne’er before such blossom smiled,
By this soft hand to lead thee far
From frantic scenes of feud and war. 
Near Bochastle my horses wait;
They bear us soon to Stirling gate. 
I’ll place thee in a lovely bower,
I’ll guard thee like a tender flower—­’
’O hush, Sir Knight! ’t were female art,
To say I do not read thy heart;
Too much, before, my selfish ear
Was idly soothed my praise to hear. 
That fatal bait hath lured thee back,
In deathful hour, o’er dangerous track;
And how, O how, can I atone
The wreck my vanity brought on!—­
One way remains—­I’ll tell him all—­
Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall! 
Thou, whose light folly bears the blame,
Buy thine own pardon with thy shame! 
But first—­my father is a man
Outlawed and exiled, under ban;
The price of blood is on his head,
With me ’t were infamy to wed. 
Still wouldst thou speak?—­then hear the truth! 
Fitz- James, there is a noble youth—­
If yet he is!—­exposed for me
And mine to dread extremity—­
Thou hast the secret of my bears;
Forgive, be generous, and depart!’

XVIII.

Fitz-James knew every wily train
A lady’s fickle heart to gain,
But here he knew and felt them vain. 
There shot no glance from Ellen’s eye,
To give her steadfast speech the lie;
In maiden confidence she stood,
Though mantled in her cheek the blood
And told her love with such a sigh
Of deep and hopeless agony,
As death had sealed her Malcolm’s doom
And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 
Hope vanished from Fitz-James’s eye,
But not with hope fled sympathy. 
He proffered to attend her side,
As brother would a sister guide. 
’O little know’st thou Roderick’s heart! 
Safer for both we go apart. 
O haste thee, and from Allan learn
If thou mayst trust yon wily kern.’ 
With hand upon his forehead laid,
The conflict of his mind to shade,
A parting step or two he made;
Then, as some thought had crossed his brain
He paused, and turned, and came again.

XIX.

’Hear, lady, yet a parting word!—­
It chanced in fight that my poor sword
Preserved the life of Scotland’s lord. 
This ring the grateful Monarch gave,
And bade, when I had boon to crave,
To bring it back, and boldly claim
The recompense that I would name. 
Ellen, I am no courtly lord,
But one who lives by lance and sword,
Whose castle is his helm and shield,
His lordship the embattled field.