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!
_Note_--Graysteil (so called after the champion of a romance then popular) had returned from banishment in the hope, as he was perfectly innocuous, of renewing his ancient friendship with the Scottish king; and James declared that he would again have received him into his service, but for his oath, never more to countenance a Douglas. He blamed his servants for refusing refreshment to the veteran, but did not escape censure from our own Henry VIII. for his cruel conduct towards his "poor Graysteil," upon this occasion.
[1] Archibald, of Kilspindie, a noble Douglas, and until the disgrace of his clan, a personal friend and favourite of James V. of Scotland. For the incidents of this ballad, vide _Tales of a Grandfather_, 1st Series, vol. 3.
To this low orb is lost a shining light. Useful, resplendent, and tho' transient, bright! For scarce has soaring genius reach'd the blaze Of fleeting life's meridian hour, Than Death around the naming meteor plays, And spreads its cypress o'er the short liv'd flower. The great projector of that grand design,[1] In time's remotest annals, long will shine; While sons of toil aloud proclaim his name, And _life preserv'd_ perpetuate his _fame_.