Chapter XIII

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.”