But now? The hand that reared hath razed;
And as old ANGUS stood amazed
At WILTON's shameful tale,
So fealty here must bend the brow,
And faith, though sorely tried, till now
Surviving, faint and fail;
As DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak,
So, saddened by unknightly stroke,
The ancient chief must draw;
Nor in mere pharisaic scorn,
But in the name of faith foresworn
And honour's broken law.

"'Tis pity of him, too!" 'Twas so,
The half-relenting ANGUS, low
Spake in his snowy beard.
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:
I warrant him a warrior tried."
A foeman to be feared,
A leader to be trusted, seemed
This dark, cold chief, and few had dreamed
Of such strange severance.
And any not ignoble eye
In sorrow more than mockery
Aside will gladly glance.
'Tis pity of it! Right or wrong,
The Cause needs champions true as strong,
And blameless as they're bold.
"A sinful heart makes feeble hand,"
Cried MARMION, his "failing brand"