(_For the Mirror_.)
Beneath the Douglas plaid, he wore a grinding shirt of mail;
Yet, spite of pain and weariness, press'd on that gallant Gael:
On, on, beside his regal foe, with eyes which more express'd
Than _words_, expecting favour still, from him who _once_ caress'd!
"_'Tis_," quoth the prince, "my poor Graysteil!" and spurr'd his steed
amain,
Striving, ere toiling Kilspindie, the fortalice to gain;
But Douglas, (and his wither'd heart, with hope and dread, beat high)
Stood at proud Stirling's castle-gate, as soon as royalty!
Stood, on his ingrate _friend_ to gaze; no answ'ring love-look came;
Then, mortal grief his spirit shook, and bow'd his war-worn frame;
Faith, _innocence_, avail'd not _him!_ he suffer'd for his line,
And fainting by the gate he sunk, but feebly call'd for _wine!_
The menials came, "_wine?_ up! begone! _we_ marvel who thou art!
Our _monarch_ bids to France, Graysteil, his trusty _friend_ depart!"
Blood to the Douglas' cheek uprush'd: proud blood! away he hied,
And soon afar, the "poor Graysteil," the _broken hearted_, DIED!