The monarch o’er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer and more near, He whispered praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied, And ladies winked and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seemed to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too, A real or feigned disdain: Familiar was the look, and told Marmion and she were friends of old. The king observed their meeting eyes With something like displeased surprise: For monarchs ill can rivals brook, E’en in a word or smile or look. Straight took he forth the parchment broad Which Marmion’s high commission showed: “Our Borders sacked by many a raid, Our peaceful liegemen robbed,” he said; “On day of truce our warden slain, Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta’en— Unworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, Our herald has to Henry borne.” XIV. He paused, and led where Douglas stood, And with stern eye the pageant viewed— I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, Who coronet of Angus bore, And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy, And all his minions led to die On Lauder’s dreary flat: Princes and favourites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, Its dungeons and its towers, Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, To fix his princely bowers. Though now in age he had laid down His armour for the peaceful gown, And for a staff his brand, Yet often would flash forth the fire That could in youth a monarch’s ire And minion’s pride withstand; And e’en that day, at council board, Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his royal lord. XV.