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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 boary 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 armour free,
More famed 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 interchanged 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 chased the day; And some, with many a merry shout,

In riot, revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play. (5)

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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,

Gave the shrill watch-word of their clan; (7) And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim Douglas' or Dacre's conquering name.

IX.

Less frequent heard, and fainter still,
At length the various clamours 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:

By times, 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 gazed 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 announced his tread,—

A stately warrior pass'd below;

But when he raised his plumed head-
Blessed Mary! can it be?
Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

He walks through Banksome's hostile towers,
With fearless step and free.

She dared not sign, she dared 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

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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 loved 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 blast the bugles blew,
The pipe's shrill port' aroused each clan;
In haste, the deadly strife to view,

The trooping warriors eager rau :
Thick round the lists their lances stood,
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood;
To Branksome many a look they threw,
The combatants' approach to view,
And bandied many a word of boast,
About the knight each favour'd most.

XV.

Meantime full anxious was the dame;
For now arose disputed claim,
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane;
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,

A martial piece of music adapted to the bagpipes.

In armour sheath'd from top to toe, Appear'd, and craved 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, shaped of buff,
With satin slash'd and lined;
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,
His cloak was all of Poland fur;

His hose with silver twined:
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 placed,
The dame and she the barriers graced.

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,

See page 12, Stanza 23.

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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.

'T is done, 't is 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; Lumindful of the shouts on high, That hail'd the conqueror's victory, He raised the dying man;

Loose waved his silver beard and hair, As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer;

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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 list 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 Spirits' 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 armour 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.-
Cared 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 scared the clan,
Who held him for some fleeting wraith,
And not a man of blood and breath.
Not much this new ally he loved,
Yet, when he saw what hap had proved,
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 't was 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;

The spectral apparition of a living person.

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, 1 Thou wert the best to follow gear. 'T was pleasure, as we look'd behind, To see how thou the chase couldst wind, Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, And with the bugle rouse the fray; (8) 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 raised 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.

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Liked not to hear it rank'd so high
Above his flowing poesy;

Less liked he still, that scornful jeer
Misprised the land he loved so dear,
High was the sound, as thus again
The bard resumed his minstrel strain.

CANTO VI.

I.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, (1)
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, unhonour'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 are 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.

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IV.

Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendour 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 waved 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 : (2)
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 entwined, Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; A merlin sat upon her wrist, (3) Held by a leash of silken twist, VI.

The spousal rites were ended soon;
"T was now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshall'd the rank of every guest;
Pages, with ready blade, were there,
The mighty meal to carve and share :
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane,
And princely peacock's gilded train, (4)
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, (5)
And cygnet from St Mary's wave, (6)
O'er ptarmigan and venison,
The priest had spoke his benison,
Then rose the riot and the din,
Above, beneath, without, within!
For, from the lofty balcony,
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery;
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd,
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd;
Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild,
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled.

The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam,
The clamour join'd with whistling scream,
And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells,
In concert with the stag-hounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.

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