The Monarch o'er the siren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper'd praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied; 365
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Marmion threw
A glance, where seem'd to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest too, 370
A real or feign'd 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; 375
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
Even in a word, or smile, or look.
Straight took he forth the parchment broad,
Which Marmion's high commission show'd:
'Our Borders sack'd by many a raid, 380
Our peaceful liege-men robb'd,' he said;
'On day of truce our Warden slain,
Stout Barton kill'd, his vessels ta'en--
Unworthy were we here to reign,
Should these for vengeance cry in vain; 385
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,
Our herald has to Henry borne.'