་ 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, And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand; XXVI. The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ;— ཚ Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.» « For Branksome, ho!» the knight rejoin'd, And, guided by the tinkling rill, XXVII. A moment now he slack'd his speed, When some sad swain shall teach the grove 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, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; And the rider was arm'd complete in mail: Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. 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, Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran: (22) 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. Ir thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; (1) And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave; Then go but go alone the while- II. Short halt did Deloraine make there; « Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?— << From Branksome I,» the warrior cried, Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose. (3) III. Bold Deloraine his errand said; Ile enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, 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, 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, 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, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.(5) VIII. Spreading herbs and flowerets bright 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, The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle, The corbells were carved grotesque and grim, 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) In many a freakish knot, had twined; 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, And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. XIII. In these far climes, it was my lot The bells would ring in Notre Dame! (13) 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. k XVII. « Lo, warrior! now the cross of red To chase the spirits that love the night; Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone, 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; Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. I would you had been there to see XIX. Before their the wizard lay, The lamp was placed beside his knee: Often had William of Deloraine Rode through the battle's bloody plain, And neither known remorse nor awe; His breath came thick, his head swam round, He might not endure the sight to see 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; Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!»>- 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) XXII. When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few; XXIII. «Now hie thee hence, the father said, The monk return'd him to his cell, 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, For the mystic book, to his bosom press'd, And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, He joy'd to see the cheerful light, 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 the silken knots, which in hurry she would make, Why tremble her slender fingers to tie; As she glides down the secret stair; XXVII. The ladye steps in doubt and dread, Lest her watchful mother hear her tread: 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, 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: Though shaded by her locks of gold- With Margaret of Branksome might compare? XXIX. And now, fair dames, methinks I see Your waving locks ye backward throw, But never, never, cease to love; And how she blush'd, and how she sighi'd, XXX. Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! XXXI. Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, Through all the Border, far and near. 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; 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 Wat of Harden came thither amain, They were three hundred spears and three. But the chapel was void, and the baron away. XXXIV. And now, in Branksome's good green-wood, As if a distant noise he hears; The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high, WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale, Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; Wood-pigeon. |