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 fair climes it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott,
A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when in Salamanca'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 thein my heart within,

A treble pénance 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 an o'er,
Again the volume to restore,

I buried him on St. Michael's night,

When the bell tolled 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 past,
The banners waved without a blast."

Still spoke the Monk when the bell tolled one,
I tell you that a braver man

Than William of Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed;
Yet somewhat was he chilled 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."

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 withered hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

With beating heart to the task he went-
His sinewy frame o'er the gravestone 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

Streamed 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,

Showed the Monk's cowl and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-browed Warrior's mall,
And kissed his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seventy winters old.
A palmer's amice wrapped 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 gotton grace.

XX.

Often had William of I'eloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,
And neither known remorse or awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he owned;
His breath came thick, his head swan round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved he stood,
And the priest prayed fervently and loud;
With eyes averted prayed he-
He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the men he had loved so brotherly.

XXI.

And when the priest his death-prayer had prayed

Thus unto Deloraine he said:

"Now speed thee what thou hast to do, Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;

For those thou mayest not look upon

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!" Then Deloraine in terror took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

With iron clasped, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frowned;

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 returned 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 passed,
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 '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 returned him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bellThe Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead!

Before the cross was the body laid,
With hands clasped fast, as if still be prayed.

XXIV.

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind, And strove his hardihood to find;

He was glad when he passed the tombstones gray,

Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the mystic 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 gray;
He joyed to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as well he might.

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 blushed, and how she sighed, And, half consenting, half denied. And said that she would die a maidYet, might the bloody feud be stayed, 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:-
may not, must not, sing of love.

XXXI.

Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld,
The Baron's Dwarf his courser held.

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.
'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 tennis-ball by raquet tossed,

A leap, of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorge this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed; '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 maryel, 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 tossed,

And often muttered, "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,
Talked 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, besides Our Ladye's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,
And he would pay his vows.
But the Ladye of Branksome gathered 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 Thirlestaine,
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 burned the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page.

XXXIV.

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 poured the lengthened tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail;
Full slily smiled the observant page,
And gave the withered hand of age
A goblet, crowned with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop filled his eye,
Prayed God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheered a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see,
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed;
And he, emboldened by the draught,
Looked gaily back to them, and laughed.
The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swelled his old veins, and cheered his soul;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.

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 withered heart was dead
And that I might not sing of love?-
How could I to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false, a recreant prove!
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my harp to notes of flame!

II.

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's recd;
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 sweat, and splashed with clay;
His armour red with many a stain:
He seemed 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 marked the crane on the Baron's crest;
For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high, That marked the foeman's feudal hate; For question fierce, and proud reply,

Gave signal soon of dire debate. Their very coursers seemed to know That each was other's mortal foe;

*Wood-pigeon.

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,

Pierced 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,
Hurled on a heap lay man and horse.
The Baron onward passed his course;
Nor knew-so giddy rolled his brain-
His foe lay stretched upon the plain.

VII.

But when he reined his courser round,
And saw his foeman on the ground
Lie senseless as the bloody clay,
He bade his page to stanch the wound,
And there beside the warrior stay,
And tend him in his doubtful state,
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate:
His noble mind was inly moved
For the kinsman of the maid he loved.
"This thou shalt 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 marvelled, 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 clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristened hand,
Till he smeared 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 nutshell seem a gilded barge.

A sheelingt seem a palace large,

And youth seem age, and age seem youth

All was delusion, nought was truth.

*Magical delusion.

A shepherd's hut.

X.

He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buffet fell,
So fierce it stretched him on the plain,
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismayed,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he muttered, 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 smeared 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.

Unwilling himself he addressed,
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 passed 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 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 welled freshly from the wound.

Full sore amazed at the wondrous change,
And frightened, 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 lilye flower;

And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay,
He feared to see that grisly face

Glare from some thicket on his way.
Thus, starting oft, he journeyed on,
And deeper in the wood is gone,-
For aye the more he sought his way,
The further still he went astray,-
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.

* Magic.

XV.

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouthed bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher;
Burst on the path a dark bloodhound,
His tawny muzzle tracked the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.

Soon as the wildered 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 glowed 'twixt fear and ire!
He faced the bloodhound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;

So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bayed,
But still in act to spring;

When dashed an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stayed,
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 checked his fellow's surly mood,
And quelled 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-burned 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 faulchion, sharp and clear, Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

XVII.

His kirtle made of forest green,
Reached scantly to his knee;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen,
A furbished sheaf bore he;

His buckler scarce in breadth a span,
No longer fence had he;

He never counted him a man,

Would strike below the knee;

His slackened bow was in his hand,

And the leash, that was his bloodhound'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,
Shows 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 hanged 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 seemed 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 pinched, and beat, and overthrew;
Nay, some of them he well-nigh 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 scorched the hackbutteer.t
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made;
Till many of the castle guessed,
That the young baron was possessed!

XXII.

Well I ween, the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispelled;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend to wounded Deloraine.

Much she wondered to find him lie

On the stone threshold stretched 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 stanched the blood;
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound.
No longer by his conch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,

And washed it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.
William of Deloraine, in trance,
Whene'er she turned it round and round,
Twisted as if she galled his wound;

Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound, Within the course of night and day. Full long she toiled; for she did rue Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So passed 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
Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret, sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touched a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green:
Her golden hair streamed 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?

*Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. + Hackbuttéer, musketeer.

Is yon red glare the western star?-
O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war!
Scarce could she draw her tightened breath;
For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI.

The Warder viewed it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rang around.
The blast alarmed the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helmes and plumes, confusedly tossed,
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

The ready page, with hurried hand, Awaked the need-fire'st slumbering brand, And ruddy blushed the heaven:

For a sheet of flame, from the turret high, Waved, 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 glanced to sight,
As stars arise upon the night.
They gleamed 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 in the blazes saw,
From Soltra and Dumpender Law;