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XXIV.

O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear!

Ere break of day,» the warrior 'gan say,

Again will I be here:

And safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, noble dame, by me;

Letter nor line know I never a one,

Were 't my neck-verse at Hairibee.»>1

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,

And soon the steep descent he past,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,2
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode,
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod;
He pass'd the Peel3 of Goldiland,

And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, (17)
Where Druid shades still flitted round:
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon he spurr'd his courser keen,
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. (18)

XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ;— ཚ Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.»

« For Branksome, ho!» the knight rejoin'd,
And left the friendly tower behind.
He turn'd him now from Teviot side

And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,
And gain'd the moor at Horsliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman way.4

XXVII.

A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed,
Drew saddle-girth and corslet band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moon-beams glint, (19)
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs from whence his eagle eye
For
many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,

When some sad swain shall teach the grove
Ambition is no cure for love!

XXVIII.

Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine

To ancient Riddel's fair domain, (20)

Where Aill, from mountains freed,

flairibee, the place of executing the Border marauders, at Carlisle. The neck-rerse is the beginning of the 51st psalm, Miserere sei, etc., anciently read by criminals claiming the benefit of clergy.

1 Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of a feudal castle.

1 Peel, a Border tower.

* An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.

Down from the lakes did raving come, Cresting each wave with tawny foam,

Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the I water broke o'er the saddle-bow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,

Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
For he was barded' from counter to tail,

And the rider was arm'd complete in mail:
Never heavier man and horse

Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say,

Was daggled by the dashing spray;

Yet, through good heart and Our Ladye's grace,

At length he gain'd the landing-place.

XXX.

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,

And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; (21) For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallow'd morn arose, When first the Scott and Car were foes; When royal James beheld the fray Prize to the victor of the day;

When Home and Douglas, in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

In bitter mood he spurred fast,
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan,

Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran: (22)
Like some tall rock, with lichens gray,
Rose, dimly huge, the dark abbaye.
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds 3 were in Melrose sung.
The sound upon the fitful gale,

In solemn wise did rise and fail,

Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

Is waken'd by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reach'd, 't was silence all;

He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

And sought the convent's lonely wall.

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Ir thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.

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; (1)
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; (2)
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. (3)

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 cloisters far and wide
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

Ile 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,

'Aventayle, visor of the helmet.

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. Wouldst thou thy every future year

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, Yet wait thy latter end with fearThen, 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: (4) 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.(5)

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'd 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 Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start; Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart. (6)

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-lis, or a quatre-feuille ;

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 screened altar's pale; And there the dying lamps did burn Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant chief of Otterburne! (7)

And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale! (8)

O fading honours of the dead!

O high ambition, lowly laid!

XI.

The moon on the east oriel shone (9)
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 knot, 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,
Show'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; (10)
Thus spoke the monk, in solemn tone-
<< I was not always a man of woe;
For Paynim countries I have 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: (11)
A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave, (12)
Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame! (13)
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: (14) 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;

Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.

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XVII.

« Lo, warrior! now the cross of red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wond'rous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night;
That lamp shall burn unquenchably, (15)
Until the eternal doom shall be..-

Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone,
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 heaven's own blessed light;
And, issuing from the tomb,
Show'd the monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd warrior's mail,
And kiss'd his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their the wizard lay,
eyes
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 mayst 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; (16)
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.
"T is said, as through the aisles they past,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel 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 't was 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 noon-tide 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 tomb-stones gray,
Which girdle round the fair abbaye;

For the mystic book, to his bosom press'd,
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 gray;

He joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot

gray, The sun had brighten'd the Carter's side, And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot 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 Margaret 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 blood-hound,
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 ladye 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 green-wood 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.

A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.

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 riband press'd:
When her blue eyes their secret told,

Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair

With Margaret 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 sighi'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, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Its lightness would my age reprove:
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold :
1 may not, must not, sing of love.

XXXI.

Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,
The baron's Dwarf his courser held, (17)
And held his crested helm and spear:
That Dwarf was scarcely an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran

Through all the Border, far and near.
'T was said, when the baron a-hunting rode
Through Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod,
He heard a voice cry, Lost! lost! lost!»
And, like tennis-ball by racquet 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. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd; '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 eltish 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 Cranstoun served he : And he of his service was full fain; For once he had been ta'en or slain, An it had not been 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 Lady'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; (18)
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 stream,
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.

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
Ilow 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.

Wood-pigeon.

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