Introduction

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old;

His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,

Seem'd to have known a better day;

The harp, his sole remaining joy,

Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the Bards was he,

Who sung of Border chivalry;

For, welladay! their date was fled,

His tuneful brethren all were dead;

And he, neglected and oppress'd,

Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.

No more on prancing palfrey borne,

He caroll'd, light as lark at morn;

No longer courted and caress'd,

High placed in hall, a welcome guest,

He pour'd, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone;

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;

The bigots of the iron time

Had call'd hs harmless art a crime.

A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor,

He begg'd his bread from door to door.

And timed, to please a peasant's ear,

The harp, a king had loved to hear.

He pass'd where Newark's stately tower

Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:

The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye--

No humbler resting-place was nigh,

With hesitating step at last,

The embattled portal arch he ass'd,

Whose ponderous grate and massy bar

Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,

But never closed the iron door

Against the desolate and poor.

The Duchess marked his weary pace,

His timid mien, and reverend face,

And bade her page the menials tell,

That they should tend the old man well:

For she had known adversity,

Though born in such a high degree;

In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,

Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!

When kindness had his wants supplied,

And the old man was gratified,

Began to rise his minstrel pride:

And he began to talk anon,

Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone,

And of Earl Walter, rest him, God!

A braver ne'er to battle rode;

And how full many a tale he knew,

Of the old warriors of Buccleuch:

And, would the noble Duchess deign

To listen to an old man's strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,

He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,

That, if she loved the harp to hear,

He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain'd;

The Aged Minstrel audience gain'd.

But, when he reach'd the room of state,

Where she, with all her ladies, sate,

Perchance he wished his boon denied:

For, when to tune his harp he tried,

His trembling hand had lost the ease,

Which marks security to please;

And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,

Came wildering o'er his aged brain--

He tried to tune his harp in vain!

The pitying Duchess praised its chime,

And gave him heart, and gave him time,

Till every string's according glee

Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain

He could recall an ancient strain,

He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churls,

But for high dames and mighty carls;

He had play'd it to King Charles the Good,

When he kept court in Holyrood,

And much he wish'd yet fear'd to try

The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,

And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head.

But when he caught the measure wild,

The old man raised his face, and smiled;

And lighten'd up his faded eye,

With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along:

The present scene, the future lot,

His toils, his wants, were all forgot:

Cold diffidence, and age's frost,

In the full tide of song were lost;

Each blank in faithless memory void,

The poet's glowing thought supplied;

And while his harp responsive rung,

'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

Canto I

I.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower

Streams on the ruin'd central tower;

When buttress and buttress, alternately,

Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then go--but go alone the while--

Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;

And, home returning, soothly swear,

Was never scene so sad and fair!

II

Short halt did Deloraine make there;

Little reck'd he of the scene so fair;

With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,

He struck full loud, and struck full long.

The porter hurried to the gate--

``Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?''

``From Branksome I,'' the warrior cried;

And straight the wicket open'd wide:

For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood,

To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

III

Bold Deloraine his errand said;

The porter bent his humble head;

With torch in hand, and feet unshod,

And noiseless step, the path he trod,

The arched cloister, far and wide,

Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,

Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest,

And lifted his barred aventayle.  

To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle.

IV

``The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,

Says, that the fated hour is come,

And that to-night I shall watch with thee,

To win the treasure of the tomb.''

From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,

With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;

A hundred years had flung their snows

On his thin locks and floating beard.

V

And strangely on the Knight look'd he,

And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide;

``And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see

What heaven and hell alike would hide?

My breast, in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;

For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn:

Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.

Would'st thou thy very future year

        In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,

Yet wait thy latter end with fear--

        Then, daring Warrior, follow me!—

VI

``Penance, father, will I none;

Prayer know I hardly one;

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,

Save to patter an Ave Mary,

When I ride on a Border foray.

Other prayer can I none;

So speed me my errand, and let me be gone.''--

VII

Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old,

And again he sighed heavily;

For he had himself been a warrior bold,

And fought in Spain and Italy.

And he thought on the days that were long since by,

When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high:--

Now, slow and faint, he led the way,

Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay;

The pillar'd arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

VIII

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,

Glisten'd with the dew of night;

Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there,

But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.

The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

        Then into the night he looked forth;

And red and bright the streamers light

        Were dancing in the glowing north.

So had he seen in fair Castille,

        The youth in glittering squadrons start;

Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

        And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,

That spirits were riding the northern light.

IX

By a steel-clenched postern door,

They enter'd now the chancel tall;

The darken'd roof rose high aloof

On pillars lofty and light and small;

The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuille,

The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;

And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourish'd around,

Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

 IX

By a steel-clenched postern door,

They enter'd now the chancel tall;

The darken'd roof rose high aloof

On pillars lofty and light and small;

The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuille,

The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;

And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourish'd around,

Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

X

Full many a scutcheon and banner riven,

Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

Around the screenëd altar's pale;

And there the dying lamps did burn,

Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant Chief of Otterburne!

And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale!

O fading honours of the dead!

O high ambition, lowly laid!

XI

The moon on the east oriel shone

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand

'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand,

In many a freakish know, had twined;

Then framed a spell, when the work was done,

And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.

The silver light, so pale and faint,

Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint,

Whose image on the glass was dyed;

Full in the midst, his Cross of Red

Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the Apostate's pride.

The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane,

And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

XII

They sate them down on a marble stone,

(A Scottish monarch slept below;)

Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone:--

``I was not always a man of woe;

For Paynim coutries have I trod,

And fought beneath the Cross of God:

Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,

And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

XIII

``In these far climes it was my lot

To meet the wondrous Michael Scott,

A wizard, of such dreaded fame,

Than when, in Salmanca's cave,

Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame!

Some of his skill he taught to me;

And Warrior, I could say to thee

The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone:

But to speak them were a deadly sin;

And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.

XIV

``When Michael lay on his dying bed,

His conscience was awakened:

He bethought him of his sinful deed,

And he gave me a sign to come with speed;

I was in Spain when the morning rose,

But I stood by his bed ere evening close.

The words may not again be said,

That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;

They would rend they Abbay's massy nave,

And pile it in heaps above his grave.

XV

``I swore to bury his Mighty Book,

That never mortal might therein look;

And never to tell where it was hid,

Save at his Chief of Branksome's need:

And when that need was past and o'er,

Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on St. Michael's night,

When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright,

And I dug his chamber among the dead,

When the floor of the chancel was stained red,

That his patron's cross might over him wave,

And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.

XVI

``It was a night of woe and dread,

When Michael in the tomb I laid!

Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd,

The banners waved without a blast;''--

--Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!--

I tell you, that a braver man

Than William of Deloraine, good at need,

Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;

Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,

And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII

``Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red

Points to the grave of the mighty dead;

Within it burns a wondrous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night:

That lamp shall burn unquenchably,

Until the eternal doom shall be.''--

Slowly moved the Monk to the broad flagstone,

Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:

He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the Warrior took;

And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII

With beating heart to the task he went;

His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;

With bar of iron heaved amain,

Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.

It was by dint of passing strength,

That he moved the massy stone at length.

I would you had been there, to see

How the light broke forth so gloriously,

Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,

And through the galleries far aloof!

No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:

It shone like haaven's own blessed light,

And, issuing from the tomb,

Show'd th Monk's cowl, and visage pale,

Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail,

And kiss'd his waving plume.

XIX

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,

As if he had not been dead a day.

His hoary beard in silver roll'd,

He seem'd some seventy winters old;

A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round,

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,

        Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;

His left hand held his Book of Might;

A silver cross was in his right;

        The lamp was placed beside his knee;

High and majestic was his look,

At which the fellest fiends had shook,

And all unruffled was his face:

They trusted his soul had gotten grace.

XX

Often had William of Deloraine

Rode through the battle's bloody plain,

And trampled down the warriors slain,

And neither known remorse nor awe;

Yet now remorse and awe he own'd;

His breath came thick, his head swam round,

When this strange scene of death he saw,

Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood,

And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:

With eyes averted prayed he;

He might not endure the sight to see,

Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

XXI

And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd,

Thus unto Deloraine he said:--

``Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,

Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;

For those, thou may'st not look upon,

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!''--

Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd;

But the glare of the sepulchral light,

Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.

XXII

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,

The night return'd in double gloom;

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;

And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew,

With wavering steps and dizzy brain,

They hardly might the postern gain.

'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,

They heard strange noises on the blast:

And through the cloister-galleries small,

Which at mid-height thread the cancel wall,

Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,

And voices unlike the voice of man;

As if the fiends kept holiday,

Because these spells were brought to day.

I cannot tell how the truth may be;

I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

XXIII

``Now, hie thee hence,'' the Father said,

``And when we are on death-bed laid,

O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!''

The Monk return'd him to his cell,

        And many a prayer and penance sped;

When the convent met at the noontide bell--

        The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead!

Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

============================================== End of Canto 1

Canto Second.

I

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower

Streams on the ruin'd central tower;

When buttress and buttress, alternately,

Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;<14>

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then go--but go alone the while--

Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;

And, home returning, soothly swear,

Was never scene so sad and fair!

II

Short halt did Deloraine make there;

Little reck'd he of the scene so fair;

With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,

He struck full loud, and struck full long.

The porter hurried to the gate--

``Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?''

``From Branksome I,'' the warrior cried;

And straight the wicket open'd wide:

For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood,

To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

III

Bold Deloraine his errand said;

The porter bent his humble head;

With torch in hand, and feet unshod,

And noiseless step, the path he trod,

The arched cloister, far and wide,

Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,

Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest,

And lifted his barred aventayle,

To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle.

IV

``The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,

Says, that the fated hour is come,

And that to-night I shall watch with thee,

To win the treasure of the tomb.''

From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,

With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;

A hundred years had flung their snows

On his thin locks and floating beard.

V

And strangely on the Knight look'd he,

And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide;

``And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see

What heaven and hell alike would hide?

My breast, in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;

For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn:

Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.

Would'st thou thy very future year

        In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,

Yet wait thy latter end with fear--

        Then, daring Warrior, follow me!--

VI

``Penance, father, will I none;

Prayer know I hardly one;

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,

Save to patter an Ave Mary,

When I ride on a Border foray.

Other prayer can I none;

So speed me my errand, and let me be gone.''--

VII

Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old,

And again he sighed heavily;

For he had himself been a warrior bold,

And fought in Spain and Italy.

And he thought on the days that were long since by,

When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high:--

Now, slow and faint, he led the way,

Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay;

The pillar'd arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

VIII

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,

Glisten'd with the dew of night;

Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there,

But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.

The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

        Then into the night he looked forth;

And red and bright the streamers light

        Were dancing in the glowing north.

So had he seen in fair Castille,

        The youth in glittering squadrons start;

Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

        And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,

That spirits were riding the northern light.

IX

By a steel-clenched postern door,

They enter'd now the chancel tall;

The darken'd roof rose high aloof

On pillars lofty and light and small;

The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuille,

The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;

And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourish'd around,

Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

X

Full many a scutcheon and banner riven,

Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

Around the screenëd altar's pale;

And there the dying lamps did burn,

Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant Chief of Otterburne!<15>

And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale!<16>

O fading honours of the dead!

O high ambition, lowly laid!

XI

The moon on the east oriel shone

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand

'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand,

In many a freakish know, had twined;

Then framed a spell, when the work was done,

And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.

The silver light, so pale and faint,

Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint,

Whose image on the glass was dyed;

Full in the midst, his Cross of Red

Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the Apostate's pride.

The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane,

And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

XII

They sate them down on a marble stone,

(A Scottish monarch slept below;)

Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone:--

``I was not always a man of woe;

For Paynim coutries have I trod,

And fought beneath the Cross of God:

Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,

And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

XIII

``In these far climes it was my lot

To meet the wondrous Michael Scott,<17>

A wizard, of such dreaded fame,

Than when, in Salmanca's cave,

Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame!

Some of his skill he taught to me;

And Warrior, I could say to thee

The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,<18>

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone:

But to speak them were a deadly sin;

And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.

XIV

``When Michael lay on his dying bed,

His conscience was awakened:

He bethought him of his sinful deed,

And he gave me a sign to come with speed;

I was in Spain when the morning rose,

But I stood by his bed ere evening close.

The words may not again be said,

That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;

They would rend they Abbay's massy nave,

And pile it in heaps above his grave.

XV

``I swore to bury his Mighty Book,

That never mortal might therein look;

And never to tell where it was hid,

Save at his Chief of Branksome's need:

And when that need was past and o'er,

Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on St. Michael's night,

When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright,

And I dug his chamber among the dead,

When the floor of the chancel was stained red,

That his patron's cross might over him wave,

And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.

XVI

``It was a night of woe and dread,

When Michael in the tomb I laid!

Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd,

The banners waved without a blast;''--

--Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!--

I tell you, that a braver man

Than William of Deloraine, good at need,

Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;

Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,

And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII

``Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red

Points to the grave of the mighty dead;

Within it burns a wondrous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night:

That lamp shall burn unquenchably,

Until the eternal doom shall be.''--

Slowly moved the Monk to the broad flagstone,

Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:

He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the Warrior took;

And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII

With beating heart to the task he went;

His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;

With bar of iron heaved amain,

Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.

It was by dint of passing strength,

That he moved the massy stone at length.

I would you had been there, to see

How the light broke forth so gloriously,

Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,

And through the galleries far aloof!

No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:

It shone like haaven's own blessed light,

And, issuing from the tomb,

Show'd th Monk's cowl, and visage pale,

Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail,

And kiss'd his waving plume.

XIX

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,

As if he had not been dead a day.

His hoary beard in silver roll'd,

He seem'd some seventy winters old;

A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round,

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,

        Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;

His left hand held his Book of Might;

A silver cross was in his right;

        The lamp was placed beside his knee;

High and majestic was his look,

At which the fellest fiends had shook,

And all unruffled was his face:

They trusted his soul had gotten grace.

XX

Often had William of Deloraine

Rode through the battle's bloody plain,

And trampled down the warriors slain,

And neither known remorse nor awe;

Yet now remorse and awe he own'd;

His breath came thick, his head swam round,

When this strange scene of death he saw,

Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood,

And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:

With eyes averted prayed he;

He might not endure the sight to see,

Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

XXI

And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd,

Thus unto Deloraine he said:--

``Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,

Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;

For those, thou may'st not look upon,

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!''--

Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd;

But the glare of the sepulchral light,

Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.

XXII

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,

The night return'd in double gloom;

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;

And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew,

With wavering steps and dizzy brain,

They hardly might the postern gain.

'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,

They heard strange noises on the blast:

And through the cloister-galleries small,

Which at mid-height thread the cancel wall,

Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,

And voices unlike the voice of man;

As if the fiends kept holiday,

Because these spells were brought to day.

I cannot tell how the truth may be;

I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

XXIII

``Now, hie thee hence,'' the Father said,

``And when we are on death-bed laid,

O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!''

The Monk return'd him to his cell,

        And many a prayer and penance sped;

When the convent met at the noontide bell--

        The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead!

Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

XXIV

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey,

Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the mistic Book, to his bosom prest,

Felt like a load upon his breast;

And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,

Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.

Full fain was he when the dawn of day

Began to brighten Cheviot grey;

He joy'd to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well he might.

XXV

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey,

The sun had brighten'd the Carter's side;

And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale,

And waken'd every flower that blows;

And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain rose.

And lovelier than the rose so red,

Yet paler than the violet pale,

She early left her sleepless bed,

The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

XXVI

Why does fair Margarent so early awake?

And don her kirtle so hastilie;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie;

Why does she stop, and look often around,

As she glides down the secret stair;

And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound,

As he rouses him up from his lair;

And, though she passes the postern alone,

Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?

XXVII

The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

The lady caresses the rough blood-hound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round,

The watchman's bugle is not blown,

For he was her foster-father's son;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light

To meet Baron Henry her own true knight.

XXVIII

The Knight and ladye fair are met,

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.

He was stately, and young, and tall;

Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:

And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

When the half sigh her swelling breast

Against the silken ribbon prest;

When her blue eyes their secret told,

Though shaded by her locks of gold--

Where whould you find the peerless fair,

With Margarent of Branksome might compare!

XXIX

And now, fair dames, methinks I see

You listen to my minstrelsy;

Your waving locks ye backward throw,

And sidelong bend your necks of snow;

Ye ween to hear a melting tale,

Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,

        To paint his faithful passion strove;

Swore he might at her feet expire,

        But never, never, cease to love;

And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd.

And, half consenting, half denied,

And said that she would die a maid;--

Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,

Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,

Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.

XXX

Alas! fair dames, you hopes are vain!

My harp has lost the enchanting strain;

Its lightness would my age reprove;

My hairs are grey, my limbs are old,

My heart is dead, my veins are cold:

I may not, must not, sing of love.

XXXI

Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,

The Baron's Dwarf his courser held,<19>

And held his crested helm and spear:

That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man,

If the tales were true that of him ran

Through all the Border far and near.

'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode,

Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod,

He heard a voice cry, ``Lost! lost! lost!''

And, like a tennis-ball by racket toss'd,

        A leap, of thirty feet and three,

Made from the gorse this elfin shape,

Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

        And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee.

'Tis said that five good miles he rade,

        To rid him of his company;

But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four,

And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

XXXII

Use lessens marvel, it is said:

This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid;

Little he ate, and less he spoke,

Nor mingled with the menial flock:

And oft apart his arms he toss'd,

And often mutter'd ``Lost! lost! lost!''

He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,

But well Lord Carnstoun served he:

And he of his service was full fain;

For once he had been ta'en, or slain,

An it had not been for his ministry.

All between Home and Hermitage,

Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page.

XXXIII

For the Baron went on Pilgrimage,

And took with him this elvish Page,

To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes;

For there beside our Ladye's lake,

An offering he had sworn to make,

And he would pay his vows.

But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band

Of the best that would ride at her command:

The trysting place was Newark Lee.

Wat of Harden came thither amain,

And thither came John of Thirlestane,

And thither came William of Deloraine;

They were three hundred spears and three.

Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow strem,

Their horses prance, their lances gleam.

They came to St. Mary's lake ere day;

But the chapel was void, and the Baron away.

They burn'd the chapel for very rage,

And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page.

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XXXIV

And now, in Branksome's good green wood,

As under the aged oak he stood,

The Baron's courser pricks his ears,

As if a distant noise he hears.

The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,

And signs to the lovers to part and fly;

No time was then to vow or sigh.

Fair Margaret through the hazel grove,

Flew like the startled cushat-dove:

The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein;

Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain,

And, pondering deep that morning's scene,

Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale

The Minstrel's voice began to fail:

Full slyly smiled the observant page,

And gave the wither'd hand of age

A goblet crown'd with mighty wine,

The blood of Velez' scorched vine.

He raised the silver cup on high,

And, while the big drop fill'd his eye

Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long,

And all who cheer'd a son of song.

The attending maidens smiled to see

How long, how deep, how zealously

The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd;

And he, embolden'd by the draught,

Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd.

The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul;

A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

============================================== End of Canto 2

Canto Third

I

And said I that my limbs were old,

And said I that my blood was cold,

And that my kindly fire was fled,

And my poor wither'd heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love --

How could I to the dearest theme,

That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream

So foul, so false a recreant prove!

How could I name love's very name,

Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

II

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;

In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;

In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

And men below, and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

III

So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,

While, pondering deep the tender scene,

He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green.

But the Page shouted wild and shrill,

        And scarce his helmet could he don,

When downward from the shady hill

        A stately knight came pricking on.

That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray,

Was dark with sveat, and splashed with clay;

His armor red with many a stain

He seem'd in such a weary plight,

As if he had ridden the live-long night;

For it was William of Deloraine.

IV

But no whit weary did he seem,

When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He mark'd the crane on the Baron's crest;

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high,

        That mark'd the foemen's feudal hate;

For question fierce, and proud reply,

        Gave signal soon of dire debate.

Their very coursers seem'd to know

That each was other's mortal foe,

And snorted fire, when wheel'd around

To give each foe his vantage-ground.

V

In rapid round the Baron bent;

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer:

The prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.

Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd,

Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid;

But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his spear,

And spurred his steed to full career.

The meeting of these champions proud

Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI

Stern was the dint the Borderer lent!

The stately Baron backwards bent;

Bent backwards to his horse's tail

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;

The tough ash spear, so stout and true,

Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail

Pierc'd through, like silk, the Borderer's mail;

Through shield, and jack, and acton, past,

Deep in his bosom broke at last.--

Still sate the warrior saddle-fast

Till, stumbling in the mortal shock,

Down went the steed, the girthing broke,

Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.

The Baron onward pass'd his course;

Nor knew--so giddy rolled his brain--

His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain.

VII

But when he rein'd his courser round,

And saw his foeman on the ground

Lie senseless as the bloody clay,

He badehis page to stanch the wound,

And there beside the warrior stay,

And tend him in his doubtful state,

And lead him to Brauksome castle gate:

His noble mind was inly moved

For the kinsman of the maid he loved.

"This shalt thou do without delay:

No longer here myself may stay;

Unless the swifter I speed away

Short shrift will be at my dying day."

VIII

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;

The Goblin-Page behind abode;

His lord's command he ne'er withstood,

Though small his pleasure to do good.

As the corslet off he took,

The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book!

Much he marvell'd a knight of pride,

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride:

He thought not to search or stanch the wound

Until the secret he had found.

IX

The iron band, the iron clasp,

Resisted long the elfin grasp:

For when the first he had undone

It closed as he the next begun.

Those iron chlsps, that iron band,

Would not yield to unchristen'd hand

Till he smear'd the cover o'er

With the Borderer's curdled gore;

A moment then the volume spread,

And one short spell therein he read:

It had much of glamour might;

Could make a ladye seem a knight;

The cobwebs on a dungeon wall

Seem tapestry in lordly hall;

A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,

A sheeling seem a palace large,

And youth seem age, and age seem youth:

All was delusion, nought was truth.<20>

X

He had not read another spell,

When on his cheek a buffet fell,

So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain

Beside the wounded Deloraine.

From the ground he rose dismay'd,

And shook his huge and matted head;

One word he mutter'd, and no more,

"Man of age, thou smitest sore!"

No more the Elfin Page durst try

Into the wondrous Book to pry;

The clasps, though smear'd with Christian gore,

Shut faster than they were before.

He hid it underneath his cloak.

Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,

I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;

It was not given by man alive.

XI

Unwillingly himself he address'd,

To do his master's high behest:

He lifted up the living corse,

And laid it on the weary horse;

He led him into Branksome hall,

Before the beards of the warders all;

And each did after swear and say

There only pass'd a wain of hay.

He took him to Lord David's tower,

Even to the Ladye's secret bower;

And, but that stronger spells were spread,

And the door might not be opened,

He had laid him on her very bed.

Whate'er he did of gramarye

Was always done maliciously;

He flung the warrior on the ground,

And the blood well'd freshly from the wound.

XII

As he repass'd the outer court,

He spied the fair young child at sport:

He thought to train him to the wood;

For, at a word be it understood,

He was always for ill, and never for good.

Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay

Led him forth to the woods to play;

On the drawbridge the warders stout

Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.

XIII

He led the boy o'er bank and fell,

Until they came to a woodland brook

The running stream dissolv'd the spell,<21>

And his own elvish shape he took.

Could he have had his pleasure vilde

He had crippled the joints of the noble child;

Or, with his fingers long and lean,

Had strangled him in fiendish spleen:

But his awful mother he had in dread,

And also his power was limited;

So he but scowl'd on the startled child,

And darted through the forest wild;

The woodland brook he bounding cross'd,

And laugh'd, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!"--

XIV

Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change,

And frighten'd, as a child might be,

At the wild yell and visage strange,

And the dark words of gramarye,

The child, amidst the forest bower,

Stood rooted like a lily flower;

And when at length, with trembling pace,

        He sought to find where Branksome lay,

He fear'd to see that grisly face

        Glare from some thicket on his way.

Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,

And deeper in the wood is gone,--

For aye the more he sought his way,

The farther still he went astray,--

Until he heard the mountains round

Ring to the baying of a hound.

XV

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark

Comes nigher still, and nigher:

Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound;

His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,

And his red eye shot fire.

Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,

He flew at him right furiouslie.

I ween you would have seen with joy

The bearing of the gallant boy,

When, worthy of his noble sire,

His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire!

He faced the blood-hound manfully,

And held his little bat on high;

So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,

At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd

But still in act to spring;

When dash'd an archer through the glade,

And when he saw the hound was stay'd,

He drew his tough bow-string;

But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy!

Ho! shoot not, Edward; 'tis a boy!"

XVI

The speaker issued from the wood,

And check'd his fellow's surly mood,

And quell'd the ban-dog's ire:

He was an English yeoman good,

And born in Lancashire.

Well could he hit a fallow-deer

Five hundred feet him fro;

With hand more true, and eye more clear,

No archer bended bow.

His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,

Set off his sun-burn'd face:

Old England's sign, St. George's cross,

His barret-cap did grace;

His bugle-horn hung by his side,

All in a wolf-skin baldric tied;

And his short falchion, sharp and clear,

Had pierc'd the throat of many a deer.

XVII

His kirtle, made of forest green,

Reach'd scantly to his knee;

And, at his belt, of arrows keen

A furbish'd sheaf bore he;

His buckler, scarce in breadth a span,

No larger fence had he;

He never counted him a man,

Would strike below the knee:<22>

His slacken'd bow was in his hand,

And the leash that was his blood-hound's band.

XVIII

He would not do the fair child harm,

But held him with his powerful arm,

That he might neither fight nor flee;

For when the Red-Cross spied he,

The boy strove long and violently.

"Now, by St. George," the archer cries,

"Edward, methinks we have a prize!

This boy's fair face, and courage free,

Show he is come of high degree."

XIX

"Yes! I am come of high degree,

For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch

And, if thou dost not set me free,

False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue!

For Walter of Harden shall come with speed,

And William of Deloraine, good at need,

And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed;

And, if thou dost not let me go,

Despite thy arrows and thy bow

I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!"

XX

"Gramercy for thy good-will, fair boy!

My mind was never set so high;

But if thou art chief of such a clan,

And art the son of such a man

And ever comest to thy command

Our wardens had need to keep good order;

My bow of yew to a hazel wand

Thou'lt make them work upon the Border.

Meantime, be pleased to come with me

For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see;

I think our work is well begun,

When we have taken thy father's son."

XXI

Although the child was led away

In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,

For so the Dwarf his part did play;

And, in the shape of that young boy,

He wrought the castle much annoy.

The comrades of the young Buccleuch

He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew;

Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew.

He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire

And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire

He lighted the match of his bandelier,

And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer.

It may be hardly thought or said,

The mischief that the urchin made,

Till many of the castle guess'd,

That the young Baron was possess'd!

XXII

Well I ween the charm he held

The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd;

But she was deeply busied then

To tend the wounded Deloraine.

Much she wonder'd to find him lie

        On the stone threshold stretch'd along;

She thought some spirit of the sky

        Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong;

Because, despite her precept dread

Perchance he in the Book had read;

But the broken lance in his bosom stood,

And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII

She drew the splinter from the wound,

And with a charm she stanch'd the blood;

She bade the gash be cleans'd and bound:

No longer by his couch she stood;

But she has ta'en the broken lance,

And wash'd it from the clotted gore

And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.

William of Deloraine, in trance

Whene'er she turn'd it round and round,

Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.

        Then to her maidens she did say

That he should be whole man and sound

        Within the course of a night and day.

Full long she toil'd; for she did rue

Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV

So pass'd the day; the evening fell,

'Twas near the time of curfew bell;

The air was mild, the wind was calm,

The stream was smooth, the dew was balm;

E'en the rude watchman on the tower

Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour.

Far more fair Margaret lov'd and bless'd

The hour of silence and of rest.

On the high turret sitting lone,

She waked at times the lute's soft tone;

Touch'd a wild note, and all between

Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.

Her golden hair stream'd free from band,

Her fair cheek rested on her hand

Her blue eyes sought the west afar

For lovers love the western star.

XXV

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,

That rises slowly to her ken,

And, spreading broad its wavering light,

Shakes its loose tresses on the night?

Is yon red glare the western star?

O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war!

Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath,

For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI

The Warder view'd it blazing strong,

And blew his war-note loud and long,

Till, at the high and haughty sound,

Rock, wood, and river rung around.

The blast alarm'd the festal hall,

And startled forth the warriors all;

Far downward, in the castle-yard,

Full many a torch and cresset glared;

And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd,

Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;

And spears in wild disorder shook,

Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII

The Seneschal, whose silver hair

Was redden'd by the torches' glare,

Stood in the midst with gesture proud,

And issued forth his mandates loud:

"On Penchryst glows a bale of fire,

And three are kindling on Priest-haughswire;

        Ride out, ride out,

        The foe to scout!

Mount, mount for Branksome, every man!

Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan

        That ever are true and stout;

Ye need not send to Liddesdale,

For when they see the blazing bale,

Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.

Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!

And warn the Warder of the strife.

Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,

Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise."

XXVIII

Fair Margaret from the turret head

Heard, far below, the coursers' tread,

While loud the harness rung

As to their seats, with clamor dread,

The ready horsemen sprung:

And trampling hoofs, and iron coat,

And leaders' voices mingled notes,

        And out! and out!

        In hasty route,

The horsemen gallop'd forth;

Dispersing to the south to scout,

And east, and west, and north,

To view their coming enemies,

And warn their vassals and allies.

XXIX

The ready page, with hurried hand,

Awaked the need-fire's slumbering brand,

And ruddy blush'd the heaven:

For a sheet of flame from the turret high

Wav'd like a blood-flag on the sky,

All flaring and uneven;

And soon a score of fires, I ween,

From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen;

Each with warlike tidings fraught,

Each from each the signal caught;

Each after each they glanc'd to sight

As stars arise upon the night.

They gleam d on many a dusky tarn,

Haunted by the lonely earn;

On many a cairn's grey pyramid,

Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;<23>

Till high Dunedin the blazes saw

From Soltra and Dumpender Law,

And Lothian heard the Regent's order

That all should bowne them for the Border.

XXX

The livelong night in Branksome rang

The ceaseles sound of steel;

The castle-bell, with backward clang

Sent forth the larum peal;

Was frequent heard the heavy jar,

Where massy stone and iron bar

Were piled on echoing keep and tower,

To whelm the foe with deadly shower

Was frequent heard the changing guard,

And watch-word from the sleepless ward;

While, wearied by the endless din,

Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within.

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XXXI

The noble Dame, amid the broil

Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil,

And spoke of danger with a smile;

Cheer'd the young knights, and council sage

Held with the chiefs of riper age.

No tidings of the foe were brought

Nor of his numbers knew they aught,

Nor what in time of truce he sought.

Some said that there were thousands ten;

And others ween'd that it was nought

But Leven clans, or Tynedale men,

Who came to gather in black-mail;

And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen.

So pass'd the anxious night away,

And welcome was the peep of day.

Ceas'd the high sound. The listening throng

Applaud the Master of the Song;

And marvel much, in helpless age,

So hard should be his pilgrimage.

Had he no friend, no daughter dear,

His wandering toil to share and cheer;

No son to be his father's stay,

And guide him on the rugged way?

"Ay, once he had--but he was dead!"

Upon the harp he stoop'd his head,

And busied himself the strings withal

To hide the tear that fain would fall.

In solemn measure, soft and slow,

Arose a father's notes of woe.

============================================== End of Canto 3

Canto Fourth.

I

Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;

No longer steel-clad warrior ride

Along thy wild and willow'd shore

Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill

All, all is peaceful, all is still,

As if thy waves, since Time was born

Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed,

Had only heard the shepherd's reed,

Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II

Unlike the tide of human time,

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow

Retains each grief, retains each crime

Its earliest course was doom'd to know;

And, darker as it downward bears,

Is stain'd with past and present tears

Low as that tide has ebb'd with me,

It still reflects to Memory's eye

The hour my brave, my only boy

Fell by the side of great Dundee.

Why, when the volleying musket play'd

Against the bloody Highland blade,

Why was not I beside him laid!

Enough, he died the death of fame;

Enough, he died with conquering Graeme.

III

Now over Border dale and fell

Full wide and far was terror spread;

For pathless marsh, and mountain cell,

The peasant left his lowly shed.<24>

The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent

Beneath the peel's rude battlement;

And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear,

While ready warriors seiz'd the spear.

From Branksome's towers, the watchman's eye

Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,

Which, curling in the rising sun,

Show'd southern ravage was begun.

IV

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried--

"Prepare ye all for blows and blood!

Watt Tinlinn,<25> from the Liddel-side

Comes wading through the flood.

Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock

At his lone gate, and prove the lock;

It was but last St. Barnabright

They sieg'd him a whole summer night,

But fled at morning; well they knew

In vain he never twang'd the yew.

Right sharp has been the evening shower

That drove him from his Liddel tower;

And, by my faith," the gate-ward said,

"I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid."

V

While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman

Enter'd the echoing barbican.

He led a small and shaggy nag,

That through a bog, from hag to hag,

Could bound like any Billhope stag.

It bore his wife and children twain;

A half-clothed serf was all their train;

His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd,

Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,

Laugh'd to her friends among the crowd.

He was of stature passing tall,

But sparely form'd, and lean withal

A batter'd morion on his brow;

A leather jack, as fence enow

On his broad shoulders loosely hung;

A border axe behind was slung;

His spear, six Scottish ells in length,

Seem'd newly dyed with gore

His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength,

His hardy partner bore.

VI

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show

The tidings of the English foe:

"Belted Will Howard<26> is marching here,

And hot Lord Dacre<27> , with many a spear,

And all the German hackbut men,<28>

Who have long lain at Askerten:

They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour,

And burn'd my little lonely tower:

The fiend receive their souls therefore!

It had not been burnt this year and more.

Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright,

Serv'd to guide me on my flight;

But I was chas'd the livelong night.

Black John of Akeshaw and Fergus Graeme

Fast upon my traces came,

Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg,

And shot their horses in the bog,

Slew Fergus with my lance outright

I had him long at high despite--

He drove my cows last Fastern's night."

VII

Now weary scouts from Liddesdale,

Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale;

As far as they could judge by ken,

        Three hours would bring to Teviot's strand

Three thousand armed Englishmen;

        Meanwhile, full many a warlike band,

From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade,

Came in, their Chief's defence to aid.

There was saddling and mounting in haste,

        There was pricking o'er moor and lea;

He that was last at the trysting-place

        Was but lightly held of his gay ladye.

VIII

From fair St. Mary's silver wave,

From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,

His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Array'd beneath a banner bright.

The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims

To wreathe his shield, since royal James,

Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave,

The proud distinction grateful gave,

For faith 'mid feudal jars;

What time, save Thirlestane alone,

Of Scotland's stubborn barons none

Would march to southern wars;

And hence, in fair remembrance worn,

Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne

Hence his high motto shines reveal'd--

" Ready, aye ready" for the field.<29>

IX

An aged Knight, to danger steel'd,

With manyaa moss-trooper came on;

And azure in a golden field,

The stars and crescent graced his shield,

Without the bend of Murdieston.

Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower

And wide round haunted Castle-Ower;

High over Borthwick's mountain flood

His wood-embosom'd mansion stood;

In the dark glen, so deep below,

The herds of plunder'd England low--

His bold retainers' daily food,

And bought with danger, blows, and blood.

Marauding chief! his sole delight

The moonlight raid, the morning fight;

Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms,

In youth, might tame his rage for arms

And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest,

And still his brows the helmet press'd,

Albeit the blanched locks below

Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow;

Five stately warriors drew the sword

        Before their father's band;

A braver knight than Harden's lord

        Ne'er belted on a brand.

X

Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band,

Came trooping down the Todshaw-hill;

By the sword they won their land,

And by the sword they hold it still.

Hearken, Ladye, to the tale,

How thy sires won fair Eskdale.

Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair;

The Beattisons were his vassals there.

The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood;

The vassals vere warlike, and fierce, and rude;

High of heart, and haughty of word,

Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord.

The Earl into fair Eskdale came,

Homage and seignory to claim:

Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought,

Saying, "Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought."

"Dear to me is my bonny white steed,

Oft has he help d me at pinch of need;

Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow

I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou."

Word on word gave fuel to fire,

Till so highly blazed the Beattison's ire,

But that the Earl the flight had ta'en,

The vassals there their lord had slain.

Sore he plied both whip and spur,

As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir;

And it fell down a weary weight,

Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.

XI

The Earl was a wrathful man to see,

Full fain avenged would he be.

In haste to Branksome's Lord he spoke,

Saying--"Take these traitors to thy yoke;

For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold,

All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and hold:

Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan

If thou leavest on Eske a landed man;

But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone,

For he lent me his horse to escape upon."

A glad man then was Branksome bold,

Down he flung him the purse of gold;

To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amain,

And with him five hundred riders has ta'en

He left his merrymen in the mist of the hill

And bade them hold them close and still;

And alone he wended to the plain,

To meet with the Galliard and all his train.

To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said

"Know thou me for thy liege-lord and head;

Deal not with me as with Morton tame,

For Scotts play best at the roughest game.

Give me in peace my heriot due,

Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.

If my horn I three times wind,

Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind."

XII

Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn;

"Little care we for thy winded horn.

Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot

To yield his steed to a haughty Scott.

Wend thou to Branksome back on foot

With rusty spur and miry boot."

He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse

That the dun deer started at fair Craikcross;

He blew again so loud and clear,

Through the grey mountain-mist there did lances appear;

And the third blast rang with such a din

That the echoes answer'd from Pentoun-linn

And all his riders came lightly in.

Then had you seen a gallant shock

When saddles were emptied and lances broke!

For each scornful word the Galliard had said

A Beattison on the field was laid.

His own good sword the chieftain drew,

And he bore the Galliard through and through;

Where the Beattisons' blood mix'dwith the rill,

The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still,

The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison clan

In Eskdale they left but one landed man

The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the source

Was lost and won for that bonny white horse.

XIII

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came

And warriors more than I may name;

From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair,

From Woodhouselie to Chesterglen,

Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear;

Their gathering word was Bellenden.<30>

And better hearts o'er Border sod

To siege or rescue never rode.

The Ladye mark'd the aids come in,

        And high her heart of pride arose:

She bade her youthful son attend,

That he might know his father's friend,

        And learn to face his foes.

"The boy is ripe to look on war;

        I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff,

And his true arrow struck afar

        The raven s nest upon the cliff;

The red cross on a southern breast

Is broader than the raven s nest:

Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his weapon to wield,

And o'er him hold his father's shield."

XIV

Well may you think the wily page

Car'd not to face the Ladye sage.

He counterfeited childish fear

And shriekd, and shed full many tear,

And moan'd and plain'd in manner wild.

        The attendants to the Ladye told

Some fairy, sure, had chang'd the child,

        That wont to be so free and bold.

Then wrathful was the noble dame;

She blush'd blood-red for very shame:

"Hence! ere the clan his faintness view;

Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch!

Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide

To Rangleburn s lonely side.

Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line

That coward should e'er be son of mine!"

XV

A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had,

To guide the counterfeited lad.

Soon as the palfrey felt the wight

Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight,

He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain,

Nor heeded bit nor curb, nor rein.

It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil

To drive him but a Scottish mile;

        But as a shallow brook they cross'd,

The elf, amid the running stream,

His figure chang'd, like form in dream,

        And fled, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!"

Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd,

But faster still a cloth-yard shaft

Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew

And pierc'd his shoulder through and through.

Although the imp might not be slain,

And though the wound soon heal'd again

Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain;

And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast,

Rode back to Branksome fiery fast.

XVI

Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood,

That looks o'er Branksome's towers and wood;

And martial murmurs, from below,

Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe.

Through the dark wood, in mingled tone,

Were Border pipes and bugles blown;

The coursers' neighing he could ken,

A measured tread of marching men;

While broke at times the solemn hum

The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum;

        And banners tall of crimson sheen

Above the copse appear;

        And, glistening through the hawthorns green,

Shine helm, and shield, and spear.

XVII

Light forayers, first, to view the ground,

Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round;

        Behind, in close array, and fast,

The Kendal archers, all in green,

        Obedient to the bugle blast,

Advancing from the wood were seen.

To back and guard the archer band,

Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand:

A hardy race on Irthing bred,

With kirtles white, and crosses red,

Array'd beneath the banner tall,

That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall;

And minstrels, as they march'd in order,

Play'd "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border."

XVIII

Behind the English bill and bow,

The mercenaries, firm and slow,

        Moved on to fight, in dark array,

By Conrad led of Wolfenstein,

Who brought the band from distant Rhine,

        And sold their blood for foreign pay.

The camp their home, their law the sword,

They knew no country, own'd no lord :

They were not arm'd like England's sons,

But bore the levin-darting guns;

Buff coats, all frounc'd and 'broider'd o'er,

And morsing-horns and scarfs they wore;

Each better knee was bared, to aid

The warriors in the escalade;

All as they march'd, in rugged tongue,

Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.

XIX

But louder still the clamour grew,

And louder still the minstrels blew,

When fom beneath the greenwood tree,

Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry;

His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear,

Brought up the battle's glittenng rear.

There many a youthful knight, full keen

To gain his spurs, in arms was seen;

With favor in his crest, or glove,

Memorial of his ladye-love.

So rode they forth in fair array,

Till full their lengthen'd lines display;

Then call'd a halt, and made a stand,

And cried "St. George for merry England!"

XX

Now every English eye intent

On Branksome's armed towers was bent;

So near they were, that they might know

The straining harsh of each cross-bow;

On battlement and bartizan

Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partisan;

Falcon and culver, on each tower,

Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower;

And flashing armor frequent broke

From eddying whirls of sable smoke,

Where upon tower and turret-head,

The seething pitch and molten lead

Reek'd, like a witch's caldron red.

While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,

The wicket opes, and from the wall

Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.

XXI

Armed he rode, all save the head,

His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread;

Unbroke by age, erect his seat,

He rul'd his eager courser's gait;

Forc'd him, with chasten'd fire to prance,

And, high curvetting, slow advance;

In sign of truce, his better hand

Display'd a peeled willow wand;

His squire, attending in the rear,

Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.

When they espied him riding out,

Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout

Sped to the front of their array,

To hear what this old knight should say.

XXII

"Ye English warden lords, of you

Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch

Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide,

In hostile guise ye dare to ride,

With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand,

And all yon mercenary band,

Upon the bounds of fair Scotland?

My Ladye redes you swith return;

And, if but one poor straw you burn

Or do our towers so much molest

As scare one swallow from her nest,

St. Mary! but we'll light a brand

Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland."

XXIII

A wrathful man was Dacre's lord,

But calmer Howard took the word:

"May 't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal,

To seek the castle's outward wall,

Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show

Both why we came, and when we go."

The message sped, the noble Dame

To the wall's outward circle came;

Each chief around lean'd on his spear

To see the pursuivant appear.

All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd,

The lion argent deck-d his breast;

He led a boy of blooming hue--

O sight to meet a mother's view!

It was the heir of great Buccleuch

Obeisance meet the herald made,

And thus his master's will he said:

XXIV

"It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords,

'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords;

But yet they may not tamely see,

All through the Western Wardenry,

Your law-contemning kinsmen ride,

And burn and spoil the Border-side;

And ill beseems your rank and birth

To make your towers a flemens-firth

We claim from thee William of Deloraine

That he may suffer march-treason pain.<31>

It was but last St. Cuthbert's even

He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven,

Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave,

And slew his brother by dint of glaive.

Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame

These restless riders may not tame,

Either receive within thy towers

Two hundred of my master's powers,

Or straight they sound their warrison,

And storm and spoil thy garrison:

And this fair boy, to London led,

Shall good King Edward's page be bred."

XXV

He ceased--and loud the boy did cry,

And stretch'd his little arms on high;

Implor'd for aid each well-known face,

And strove to seek the Dame's embrace .

A moment chang'd that Ladye's cheer,

Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear;

She gaz'd upon the leaders round,

And dark and sad each warrior frown'd;

Then, deep within her sobbing breast

She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest;

Unalter'd and collected stood,

And thus replied in dauntless mood:

XXVI

"Say to your Lords of high emprize,

Who war on women and on boys,

That either William of Deloraine

Will cleanse him by oath of march-treason stain

Or else he will the combat take

'Gainst Musgrave, for his honor's sake.

No knight in Cumberland so good,

But William may count with him kin and blood.

Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword,<32>

When English blood swell'd Ancram's ford;<33>

And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight,

And bare him ably in the flight,

Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight.

For the young heir of Branksome's line,

God be his aid, and God be mine;

Through me no friend shall meet his doom;

Here, while I live, no foe finds room.

Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge

        Take our defiance loud and high;

Our slogan is their lyke-wake dirge,

        Our moat the grave where they shall lie."

XXVII

Proud she look'd round, applause to claim--

Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of flame

His bugle Wat of Harden blew;

Pensils and pennons wide were flung,

To heaven the Border slogan rung,

"St. Mary for the young Buccleuch!"

The English war-cry answer'd wide,

And forward bent each southern spear;

Each Kendal archer made a stride,

And drew the bowstring to his ear;

Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown;

But, ere a grey-goose shaft had flown

A horseman gallop'd from the rear.

XXVIII

"Ah! noble Lords!" he breathless said,

"What treason has your march betray'd ?

What make you here, from aid so far,

Before you walls, around you war?

Your foemen triumph in the thought

That in the toils the lion's caught.

Already on dark Ruberslaw

The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw;

The lances, waving in his train,

Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;

And on the Liddel's northern strand,

To bar retreat to Cumberland,

Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men good,

Beneath the eagle and the rood;

And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,

        Have to proud Angus come;

And all the Merse and Lauderdale

        Have risen with haughty Home.

An exile from Northumberland,

        In Liddesdale I've wander'd long;

But still my heart was with merry England,

        And cannot brook my country's wrong;

And hard I've spurr'd all night, to show

The mustering of the coming foe."

XXIX

"And let them come!" fierce Dacre cried;

"For soon yon crest, my father's pride,

That swept the shores of Judah's sea,

And wav'd in gales of Galilee,

From Branksome's highest towers display'd,

Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid!--

Level each harquebuss on row;

Draw, merry archers, draw the bow;

Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry,

Dacre for England, win or die!"

XXX

"Yet hear," quoth Howard, "calmly hear

Nor deem my words the words of fear:

For who, in field or foray slack,

Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back?<34>

But thus to risk our Border flower

In strife against a kingdom's power,

Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands three,

Certes, were desperate policy.

Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,

Ere conscious of the advancing aid:

Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine

In single fight, and, if he gain,

He gains for us; but if he's cross'd,

'Tis but a single warrior lost:

The rest retreating as they came,

Avoid defeat, and death, and shame."

XXXI

Ill could the haughty Dacre brook

His brother Warden's sage rebuke;

And yet his forward step he stay'd,

And slow and sullenly obey'd.

But ne'er again the Border side

Did these two lords in friendship ride;

And this slight discontent, men say,

Cost blood upon another day.

XXXII

The pursuivant-at-arms again

Before the castle took his stand;

His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain

The leaders of the Scottish band;

And he defied in Musgrave's right,

Stout Deloraine to single fight;

A gauntlet at their feet he laid,

And thus the terms of fight he said:

"If in the lists good Musgrave's sword

Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine,

Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's Lord

Shall hostage for his clan remain:

If Deloraine foil good Musgrave,

The boy his liberty shall have.

Howe'er it falls the English band,

Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd,

In peaceful march, like men unarm'd,

Shall straight retreat to Cumberland."

XXXIII

Unconscious of the near relief

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief,

Though much the Ladye sage gainsay'd;

For though their hearts were brave and true,

From Jedwood's recent sack they knew

How tardy was the Regent's aid:

And you may guess the noble Dame

Durst not the secret prescience own,

Sprung from the art she might not name,

By which the coming help was known.

Clos'd was the compact, and agreed

That lists should be enclos'd with speed,

Beneath the castle, on a lawn:

They fix'd the morrow for the strife,

On foot, with Scottish axe and knife,

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn;

When Deloraine, from sickness freed,

Or else a champion in his stead,

Should for himself and chieftain stand

Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.

XIV

I know right well, that, in their lay,

Full many minstrels sing and say,

Such combat should be made on horse,

On foaming steed, in full career,

With brand to aid, when as the spear

Should shiver in the course:

But he, the jovial Harper, taught

Me, yet a youth, how it was fought,

In guise which now I say;

He knew each ordinance and clause

Of Black Lord Archibald s battle-laws,

In the old Douglas' day.

He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue

Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong,

Or call his song untrue:

For this, when they the goblet plied,

And such rude taunt had chaf'd his pride,

The Bard of Reull he slew.

On Teviot's side, in fight they stood,

And tuneful hands were stain'd with blood;

Where still the thorn's white branches wave,

Memorial o'er his rival's grave.

XXXV

Why should I tell the rigid doom

That dragg'd my master to his tomb;

How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair

Wept till their eyes were dead and dim

And wrung their hands for love of him

Who died at Jedwood Air?

He died!--his scholars, one by one,

To the cold silent grave are gone;

And I, alas! survive alone,

To muse o'er rivalries of yore,

And grieve that I shall hear no more

The strains, with envy heard before;

For, with my minstrel brethren fled,

My jealousy of song is dead.

He paused: the listening dames again

Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain.

With many a word of kindly cheer,

In pity half, and half sincere,

Marvell'd the Duchess how so well

His legendary song could tell

Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;

Of feuds, whose memory was not;

Of forests, now laid waste and bare;

Of towers, which harbor now the hare;

Of manners, long since chang'd and gone;

Of chiefs, who under their grey stone

So long had slept, that fickle Fame

Had blotted from her rolls their name,

And twin'd round some new minion's head

The fading wreath for which they bled;

In sooth,'twas strange, this old man's verse

Could call them from their marble hearse.

The Harper smil'd, well-pleas'd; for ne'er

Was flattery lost on poet's ear:

A simple race! they waste their toil

For the vain tribute of a smile;

E'en when in age their flame expires,

Her dulcet breath can fan its fires:

Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,

And strives to trim the short-liv'd blaze.

Smil'd then, well pleas'd, the aged man

And thus his tale continued ran.

============================================== End of Canto 4

Canto Fifth.

I

Call it not vain;--they do not err,

Who say, that when the Poet dies,

Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,

And celebrates his obsequies:

Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone

For the departed Bard make moan;

That mountains weep in crystal rill;

That flowers in tears of balm distill;

Through his lov'd groves that breezes sigh,

And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;

And rivers teach their rushing wave

To murmur dirges round his grave

II

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn

Those things inanimate can mourn;

But that the stream, the wood, the gale

Is vocal with the plaintive wail

Of those, who, else forgotten long,

Liv'd in the poet's faithful song,

And with the poet's parting breath,

Whose memory feels a second death.

The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,

That love, true love, should be forgot,

From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear

Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier:

The phantom Knight, his glory fled,

Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead;

Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,

And shrieks along the battle-plain.

The Chief, whose antique crownlet long

Still sparkled in the feudal song,

Now, from the mountain's misty throne,

Sees, in the thanedom once his own,

His ashes undistinguish'd lie,

His place, his power, his memory die:

His groans the lonely caverns fill,

His tears of rage impel the rill:

All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung,

Their name unknown, their praise unsung.

III

Scarcely the hot assault was staid,

The terms of truce were scarcely made,

When they could spy, from Branksome's towers,

The advancing march of martial powers.

Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd,

And trampling steeds were faintly heard;

Bright spears, above the columns dun,

Glanced momentary to the sun;

And feudal banners fair display'd

The bands that moved to Branksome's aid.

IV

Vails not to tell each hardy clan,

From the fair Middle Marches came;

The Bloody Heart blaz'd in the van,

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name!<35>

Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn,

Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne

Their men in battle-order set;

And Swinton laid the lance in rest,

That tamed of yore the sparkling crest

Of Clarence's Plantagenet.<36>

Nor list I say what hundreds more,

From the rich Merse and Lammermore,

And Tweed's fair borders to the war,

Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar.

And Hepburn's mingled banners come,

Down the steep mountain glittering far

And shouting still, "A Home! a Home!"<37>

V

Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent,

On many a courteous message went;

To every chief and lord they paid

Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid:

And told them,--how a truce was made.

And how a day of fight was ta'en

'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine;

        And how the Ladye pray'd them dear,

That all would stay the fight to see,

And deign, in love and courtesy,

        To taste of Branksome cheer.

Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,

Were England's noble Lords forgot

Himself, the hoary Seneschal

Rode forth, in seemly terms to call

Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall.

Accepted Howard, than whom knight

Was never dubb'd more bold in fight;

Nor, when from war and armor free,

More fam'd for stately courtesy:

But angry Dacre rather chose

In his pavilion to repose.

VI

Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask

How these two hostile armies met?

Deeming it were no easy task

To keep the truce which here was set;

Where martial spirits, all on fire,

Breathed only blood and mortal ire.

By mutual inroads, mutual blows,

By habit, and by nation, foes,

They met on Teviot's strand;

They met and sate them mingled down,

Without a threat, without a frown,

As brothers meet in foreign land:

The hands the spear that lately grasp'd,

Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd,

Were interchang'd in greeting dear;

Visors were raised, and faces shown,

And many a friend, to friend made known,

Partook of social cheer.

Some drove the jolly bowl about;

With dice and draughts some chas'd the day;

And some, with many a merry shout,

In riot revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play.

VII

Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,

Or sign of war been seen,

Those bands so fair together rang'd,

Those hands, so frankly interchang'd,

Had dyed with gore the green:

The merry shout by Teviot-side

Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,

And in the groan of death;

And whingers, now in friendship bare

The social meal to part and share,

Had found a bloody sheath.

'Twixt truce and war, such sudden change

Was not infrequent, nor held strange,

In the old Border-day:<38>

But yet on Branksome's towers and town,

In peaceful merriment, sunk down

The sun's declining ray.

VIII

The blithsome signs of wassel gay

Decay'd not with the dying day:

Soon through the lattic'd windows tall

Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall,

Divided square by shafts of stone,

Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone

Nor less the gilded rafters rang

With merry harp and beakers' clang:

And frequent, on the darkening plain,

        Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,

As bands, their stragglers to regain

        Give the shrill watchword of their clan;<39>

And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim

Douglas or Dacre's conquering name.

IX

Less frequent heard, and fainter still

At length the various clamors died:

And you might hear, from Branksome hill

No sound but Teviot's rushing tide;

Save when the changing sentinel

The challenge of his watch could tell;

And save where, through the dark profound,

The clanging axe and hammer's sound

Rung from the nether lawn;

For many a busy hand toil'd there,

Strong pales to shape, and beams to square,

The lists' dread barriers to prepare

Against the morrow's dawn.

X

Margaret from hall did soon retreat,

Despite the Dame's reproving eye;

Nor mark'd she as she left her seat,

Full many a stifled sigh;

For many a noble warrior strove

To win the Flower of Teviot's love,

And many a bold ally.

With throbbing head and anxious heart,

All in her lonely bower apart,

In broken sleep she lay:

Betimes from silken couch she rose

While yet the banner'd hosts repose,

She view'd the dawning day:

Of all the hundreds sunk to rest

First woke the loveliest and the best.

XI

She gaz'd upon the inner court,

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay;

Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort

Had rung the livelong yesterday;

Now still as death; till stalking slow--

The jingling spurs announc'd his tread--

A stately warrior pass'd below;

But when he rais'd his plumed head--

        Bless'd Mary! can it be?

Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

He walks through Branksome's hostile towers

With fearless step and free.

She dar'd not sign, she dar'd not speak--

Oh! if one page's slumbers break,

His blood the price must pay!

Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears

Not Margaret's yet more precious tears,

Shall buy his life a day.

XII

Yet was his hazard small; for well

You may bethink you of the spell

Of that sly urchin page;

This to his lord he did impart,

And made him seem, by glamour art,

A knight from Hermitage.

Unchalleng'd thus, the warder's post,

The court, unchalleng'd, thus he cross'd,

For all the vassalage:

But O! what magic's quaint disguise

Could blind fair Margaret s azure eyes!

She started from her seat;

While with surprise and fear she strove,

And both could scarcely master love--

Lord Henry's at her feet.

XIII

Oft have I mus'd what purpose bad

That foul malicious urchin had

To bring this meeting round;

For happy love's a heavenly sight,

And by a vile malignant sprite

In such no joy is found;

And oft I've deem'd perchance he thought

Their erring passion might have wrought

Sorrow, and sin, and shame;

And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight

And to the gentle ladye bright

Disgrace and loss of fame.

But earthly spirit could not tell

The heart of them that lov'd so well.

True love's the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven:

It is not fantasy's hot fire,

        Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

        With dead desire it doth not die;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind

In body and in soul can bind.

Now leave we Margaret and her Knight,

To tell you of the approaching fight.

XIV

Their warning blasts the bugles blew,

The pipe's shrill port arous'd each clan;

In haste, the deadly strife to view,

The trooping warriors eager ran:

Thick round the lists their lances stood

Like blasted pines in Ettric wood;

To Branksome many a look they threw,

The combatants' approach to view,

And bandied many a word of boast

About the knight each favor'd most.

XV

Meantime, full anxious was the Dame;

For now arose disputed claim

Of who should fight for Deloraine,

'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestaine

They 'gan to reckon kin and rent,

And frowning brow on brow was bent;

But yet not long the strife--for, lo!

Himself, the Knight of Deloraine,

Strong, as it seem'd, and free from pain

In armor sheath'd from top to toe,

Appear'd and crav'd the combat due.

The Dame her charm successful knew,

And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

XVI

When for the lists they sought the plain,

The stately Ladye's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;

Unarmed by her side he walk'd,

And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd

Of feats of arms of old.

Costly his garb; his Flemish ruff

Fell o'er his doublet, shap'd of buff,

With satin slash'd and lin'd;

Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,

His cloak was all of Poland fur,

His hose with silver twin'd;

His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,

Hung in a broad and studded belt;

Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still

Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will.

XVII

Behind Lord Howard and the Dame,

Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,

Whose foot-cloth swept the ground:

White was her wimple, and her veil,

And her loose locks a chaplet pale

Of whitest roses bound;

The lordly Angus, by her side,

In courtesy to cheer her tried;

Without his aid, her hand in vain

Had strove to guide her broider'd rein.

He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight

Of warriors met for mortal fight;

But cause of terror, all unguess'd,

Was fluttering in her gentle breast,

When, in their chairs of crimson plac'd,

The Dame and she the barriers grac'd.

XVIII

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch,

An English knight led forth to view;

Scarce rued the boy his present plight,

So much he long'd to see the fight.

Within the lists, in knightly pride,

High Home and haughty Dacre ride;

Their leading staffs of steel they wield

As marshals of the mortal field;

While to each knight their care assign'd

Like vantage of the sun and wind.

Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,

In King and Queen and Warden's name

That none, while lasts the strife,

Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,

Aid to a champion to afford,

On peril of his life;

And not a breath the silence broke,

Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke:

XIX

English Herald

"Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,

Good knight and true, and freely born,

Amends from Deloraine to crave,

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn.

He sayeth that William of Deloraine

Is traitor false by Border laws;

This with his sword he will maintain,

So help him God, and his good cause!"

XX

Scottish Herald

"Here standeth William of Deloraine,

Good knight and true, of noble strain,

Who sayeth that foul treason's stain,

Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his coat;

        And that, so help him God above!

He will on Musgrave's body prove,

        He lies most foully in his throat."

Lord Dacre

"Forward, brave champions, to the fight!

Sound trumpets!"--

Lord Home

                --"God defend the right!"--

Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang,

When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang

Let loose the martial foes,

And in mid list, with shield pois'd high,

And measur'd step and wary eye,

The combatants did close.

XXI

Ill would it suit your gentle ear,

Ye lovely listeners, to hear

How to the axe the helms did sound,

And blood pour'd down from many a wound;

For desperate was the strife and long,

And either warrior fierce and strong.

But, were each dame a listening knight,

I well could tell how warriors fight!

For I have seen war's lightning flashing,

Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing,

Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing,

And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife,

To yield a step for death or life.

XXII

'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow

Has stretch d him on the bloody plain;

He strives to rise--brave Musgrave, no!

Thence never shalt thou rise again!

He chokes in blood! some friendly hand

Undo the visor's barred band,

Unfix the gorget's iron clasp,

And give him room for life to gasp!

O, bootless aid! haste, holy Friar,

Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!

Of all his guilt let him be shriven,

And smooth his path from earth to heaven!

XXIII

In haste the holy Friar sped

His naked foot was dyed with red

As through the lists he ran;

Unmindful of the shouts on high,

That hail'd the conqueror's victory,

He rais'd the dying man;

Loose wav'd his silver beard and hair,

As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer;

And still the crucifix on high

He holds before his darkening eye;

And still he bends an anxious ear

His faltering penitence to hear;

Still props him from the bloody sod,

Still, even when soul and body part,

Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,

And bids him trust in God.

Unheard he prays; the death pang's o'er!

Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.

XXIV

As if exhausted in the fight,

Or musing o'er the piteous sight,

The silent victor stands;

His beaver did he not unclasp,

Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp

Of gratulating hands.

When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,

Mingled with seeming terror, rise

Among the Scottish bands;

And all amid the throng'd array,

In panic haste gave open way

To a half-naked ghastly man

Who downward from the castle ran:

He cross'd the barriers at a bound,

And wild and haggard look'd around,

As dizzy, and in pain;

And all, upon the armed ground

Knew William of Deloraine!

Each ladye sprung from seat with speed;

Vaulted each marshal from his steed;

"And who art thou," they cried,

"Who hast this battle fought and won?"

His plumed helm was soon undone--

"Cranstoun of Teviot-side !

For this fair prize I've fought and won."

And to the Ladye led her son.

XXV

Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd,

And often press'd him to her breast;

For, under all her dauntless show,

Her heart had throbb'd at every blow;

Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet,

Though low he kneeled at her feet.

Me lists not tell what words were made,

What Douglas, Home, and Howard said--

For Howard was a generous foe--

And how the clan united pray'd

The Ladye would the feud forego,

And deign to bless the nuptial hour

Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower.

XXVI

She look'd to river, look'd to hill,

Thought on the Spirit's prophecy,

Then broke her silence stern and still--

"Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd me;

Their influence kindly stars may shower

On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,

For pride is quell'd, and love is free."

She took fair Margaret by the hand,

Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand;

That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave she:

"As I am true to thee and thine,

Do thou be true to me and mine!

This clasp of love our bond shall be;

For this is your betrothing day,

And all these noble lords shall stay

To grace it with their company."

XXVII

All as they left the listed plain

Much of the story she did gain

How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine

And of his page, and of the Book

Which from the wounded knight he took;

And how he sought her castle high,

That morn, by help of gramarye;

How, in Sir William's armor dight,

Stolen by his page, while slept the knight,

He took on him the single fight.

But half his tale he left unsaid

And linger'd till he join'd the maid.

Car'd not the Ladye to betray

Her mystic arts in view of day;

But well she thought, ere midnight came

Of that strange page the pride to tame

From his foul hands the Book to save,

And send it back to Michael's grave.

Needs not to tell each tender word

'Twixt Margaret and twixt Cranstoun s lord;

Nor how she told of former woes,

And how her bosom fell and rose,

While he and Musgrave bandied blows

Needs not these lovers' joys to tell:

One day, fair maids, you'll know them well.

XXVIII

William of Deloraine some chance

Had waken'd from his deathlike trance;

And taught that, in the listed plain

Another, in his arms and shield

Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield

Under the name of Deloraine.

Hence to the field unarm'd he ran,

And hence his presence scar'd the clan,

Who held him for some fleeting wraith

And not a man of blood and breath.

Not much this new ally he lov'd,

Yet, when he saw what hap had prov'd

        He greeted him right heartilie:

He would not waken old debate,

For he was void of rancorous hate,

        Though rude, and scant of courtesy;

In raids he spilt but seldom blood,

Unless when men-at-arms withstood,

Or, as was meet, for deadly feud

He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow,

Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe:

And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now,

        When on dead Musgrave he look d down;

Grief darken'd on his rugged brow,

        Though half disguised with a frown;

And thus, while sorrow bent his head,

His foeman's epitaph he made.

XXIX

"Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy

For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slew'st a sister's son to me;

And when I lay in dungeon dark

Of Naworth Castle, long months three,

Till ransom'd for a thousand mark,

Dark Musgrave, it was 'long of thee .

And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,

And thou wert now alive as I,

No mortal man should us divide,

Till one, or both of us, did die:

Yet, rest thee God! for well I know

I ne'er shall find a nobler foe.

In all the northern counties here,

Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear,

Thou wert the best to follow gear!

'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind,

To see how thou the chase could'st wind,

Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way

And with the bugle rouse the fray!

I'd give the lands of Deloraine

Dark Musgrave were alive again."

XXX

So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band

Were bowning back to Cumberland.

They rais'd brave Musgrave from the field,

And laid him on his bloody shield;

On levell'd lances, four and four,

By turns, the noble burden bore.

Before, at times, upon the gale,

Was heard the Minstrel s plaintive wail;

Behind, four priests, in sable stole,

Sung requiem for the warrior's soul:

Around, the horsemen slowly rode;

With trailing pikes the spearmen trode;

And thus the gallant knight they bore

Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore;

Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave,

And laid him in his father's grave.

The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the song,

The mimic march of death prolong;

Now seems it far, and now a-near,

Now meets, and now eludes the ear;

Now seems some mountainside to sweep,

Now faintly dies in valley deep;

Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail,

Now the sad requiem, loads the gale;

Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,

Rung the full choir in choral stave.

After due pause, they bade him tell,

Why he, who touch'd the harp so well,

Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil,

Wander a poor and thankless soil,

When the more generous Southern land

Would well requite his skillful hand.

The aged Harper howsoe'er

His only friend, his harp, was dear,

Lik'd not to hear it rank'd so high

Above his flowing poesy:

Less lik'd he still that scornful jeer

Mispris'd the land he lov'd so dear;

High was the sound, as thus again

The Bard resum'd his minstrel strain.

============================================== End of Canto 5

Canto Sixth.

I

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,

As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

II

O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,

Land of the mountain and the flood,

Land of my sires! what mortal hand

Can e'er untie the filial band,

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Still as I view each well-known scene,

Think what is now, and what hath been,

Seems as, to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;

And thus I love them better still,

Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,

Though none should guide my feeble way;

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,

Although it chill my wither'd cheek:

Still lay my head by Teviot Stone,

Though there, forgotten and alone,

The Bard may draw his parting groan.

III

Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome Hall

The Minstrels came at festive call;

Trooping they came, from near and far

The jovial priests of mirth and war;

Alike for feast and fight prepar'd,

Battle and banquet both they shar'd.

Of late, before each martial clan,

They blew their death-note in the van,

But now, for every merry mate,

Rose the portcullis' iron grate;

They sound the pipe, they strike the string,

They dance, they revel, and they sing,

Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

IV

Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendor of the spousal rite,

How muster'd in the chapel fair

Both maid and matron, squire and knight;

Me lists not tell of owches rare,

Of mantles green, and braided hair,

And kirtles furr'd with miniver;

What plumage wav'd the altar round,

How spurs and ringing chainlets sound;

And hard it were for bard to speak

The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek--

That lovely hue which comes and flies

As awe and shame alternate rise!

V

Some bards have sung the Ladye high

Chapel or altar came not nigh;

Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,

So much she fear'd each holy place.

False slanders these: I trust right well

She wrought not by forbidden spell;<40>

For mighty words and signs have power

O'er sprites in planetary hour:

Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,

Who tamper with such dangerous art.

But this for faithful truth I say,

        The Ladye by the altar stood;

Of sable velvet her array,

And on her head a crimson hood

With pearls embroider'd and entwin'd,

Guarded with gold, with ermine lin'd;

A merlin sat upon her wrist

Held by a leash of silken twist.<41>