A wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,1
Elim listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame !2
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 this Abbaye'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.

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."-

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 ;3

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.

ΧΙΧ.

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;

he had loved with brotherly affection-the horror of Deloraine, and his belief that the corpse frowned, as he withdrew the magic volume from its grasp, are, in a succeeding part of the narrative, circumstances not more happily conceived than exquisitely wrought."-Critical Review

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 dissolved the spell,1

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 amazed 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 ave 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-mouthed 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 check 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,

1 See Appendix, Note 2 0.

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 pierced 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 :2

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 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,

Sea Appendix, Note 2 P

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 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!

XXIL

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.

1 Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. Hackbuteer, musketeer.

See Appendix, Note 2 Q.
Ibid. Note 2 R.

XXIII

She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she stanch'd the blood;
She bade the gash be cleansed 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.1
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;
Een the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved 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;

"As another illustration of the prodigious improvement which the style of the old romance is capable of receiving from a more liberal admixture of pathetic sentiments and gentle affections, we insert the following passage [Stanzas xxiv. to xxvii.], where the effect of the picture is finely assisted by the contrast of its two compartments." -JEFFREY.

Each from each the signal caught;
Each after each they glanced 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 gray pyramid,
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;
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 ceaseless 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 watchword from the sleepless ward;
While, wearied by the endless din,
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within.

XXXI.

The noble Dame, amid the broil,
Shared the gray 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 naught
But Leven clans, or Tynedale men,
Who came to gather in black-mail;1o
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.

CEASED 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;

5 Need-fire, beacon.

Tarn, a mountain lake.

Earn, a Scottish eagle. 8 See Appendix, Note 2 U. Bowne, make ready.

10 Protection money exacted by freebooters.

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.'

The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more, No longer steel-clad warriors 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."

1"Nothing can excel the simple concise pathos of the close of this Canto-nor the touching picture of the Bard when, with assumed business, he tries to conceal real sorrow. How well the poet understands the art of contrast-and how judiciously it is exerted in the exordium of the next Canto, where our mourning sympathy is exchanged for the thrill of pleasure!"-ANNA SEWARD.

"What luxury of sound in this line!"--ANNA SEWARD. Orig." Since first they rolled their way to Tweed."

4 The Viscount of Dundee, slain in the battle of Killicrankie. 5 "Some of the most interesting passages of the poem are those in which the author drops the business of his story to moralize, and apply to his own situation the images and reflections it has suggested. After concluding one Canto with an account of the warlike array which was prepared for the reception of the English invaders, he opens the succeeding one with the following beautiful verses, (Stanzas i. and ii.) "There are several other detached passages of equal beauty,e

No one will dissent from this, who reads, in particular, the first two and heart-glowing stanzas of Canto VI.-now, by association of the past, en lered the more affecting -ED

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 Græme,

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." 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 seized 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.R

IV.

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried'Prepare ye all for blows and blood: Watt Tinlinn, 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 sieged 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.""

10" And when they cam to Branksome ha',
They shouted a' baith loud and hie,

Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,
Said-Whae's this brings the fraye to me?'-
'It's I, Jamie Telfer, o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be,'" &c.
Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii.
p. 8.

11 An inroad commanded by the Warden in person. 12"The dawn displays the smoke of ravaged fields, and shepherds, with their flocks, flying before the storm. Tidings brought by a tenant of the family, not used to seek a shelter on light occasions of alarm, disclose the strength and object of the invaders. This man is a character of a lower and of a rougher cast than Deloraine. The portrait of the rude retainer is sketched with the same masterly hand. Here, again, Mr. Scott has trod in the footsteps of the old romancers, whe