“When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow’s holy dome The King, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father’s soul, The chanters sung, the bells did toll, The bishop mass was saying— For now the year brought round again The day the luckless king was slain— In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt, With sackcloth-shirt and iron belt, And eyes with sorrow streaming; Around him, in their stalls of state, The Thistle’s knight-companions sate, Their banners o’er them beaming. I too was there, and, sooth to tell, Bedeafened with the jangling knell, Was watching where the sunbeams fell, Through the stained casement gleaming; But, while I marked what next befell, It seemed as I were dreaming. Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight, In azure gown, with cincture white; His forehead bald, his head was bare, Down hung at length his yellow hair. Now, mock me not, when, good my lord, I pledged to you my knightly word, That, when I saw his placid grace. His simple majesty of face, His solemn bearing, and his pace So stately gliding on, Seemed to me ne’er did limner paint So just an image of the Saint, Who propped the Virgin in her faint— The loved Apostle John! XVII. “He stepped before the monarch’s chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made: Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent, But on the desk his arm he leant, And words like these he said, In a low voice—but never tone So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone:— ‘My mother sent me from afar, Sir King, to warn thee not to war— Woe waits on thine array; If war thou wilt, of woman fair, Her witching wiles and wanton snare, James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: God keep thee as he may!’ The wondering monarch seemed to seek For answer, and found none; And when he raised his head to speak, The monitor was gone. The marshal and myself had cast To stop him as he outward passed: But, lighter than the whirlwind’s blast, He vanished from our eyes, Like sunbeam on the billow cast, That glances but, and dies.” XVIII.