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And in the groan of death;
And whingers,* now in friendship bare,
The social meal to part and share,

Had found a bloody sheath.

"Twixt truce and war, such sudden change
Was not unfrequent, nor held strange,
In the old Border-day;

But yet on Branksome's towers and town,
In peaceful merriment, sunk down
The sun's declining ray.

VIII.

The blithesome signs of wassel gay
Decayed not with the dying day;
Soon through the latticed windows tall
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 watchword of their clan;
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 toiled there,
Srong 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 marked 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 bannered hosts repose,
She viewed 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 courtiers' clang, and stamp, and snort, Had rung the live-long yesterday. Now still as death, till, stalking slow,

The jingling spurs announced his tread-
A stately warrior passed below,

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

He walks through Branksome'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

A sort of knife, or poniard.

Of that sly urchin Page; This to his lord he did impart, And made him seem, by glamour art, A knight from hermitage. Unchallenged thus the warder's post, The court, unchallenged, thus he crossed, For all the vassalage.

But, O! what magic's quaint disguise Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes! She started from her seat

While with surprise and fear she strove, And both could scarcely master loveLord Henry's at her feet.

XIII.

Oft have I mused, what purpose bad
That foul malicious urchin had

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 deemed, 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 ran:
Thick round the lists their lances stood
Like blasted pines in Ettricke wood.
To Branksome many a look they threw,
The combatants approach to view,
And bandied many a word of boast
About the knight each favoured 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 seemed, and free froin pain,
In armour sheathed from top to toe,
Appeared, and craved the combat due.
The Dame her charm successful knew,f
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

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With satin slashed 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 Called 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 broidered rein.
He deemed, she shuddered at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror, all unguessed,
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 longed 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 assigned
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,
In king and queen, and wardens' 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 of silence broke, Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke

XIX.

English Herald.

Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, Good knight and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave,

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. He sayeth, that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws; This with his sword he will maintain, So help him God, and his good cause!

XX.

Scottish Herald.

Here standeth William of Deloraine,
Good knight and true, of noble strain,
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain,
Since he bore arms, ne'er soiled his coat;
And that, so help him God above,
He will on Musgrave's body prove,
He lyes most foully in his throat.
Lord Dacre.

Forward, brave champions, to the fight!
Sound trumpets!--

Lord Home.

--"God defend the right !"— Then, Teviot! how then echoes rang, When bugle sound and trumpet clang, Let loose the martial foes,

And in mid list, with shield poised high,
And measured step and wary eye,
The combatants did close.

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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 poured 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 scorned, amid the reeling strife,
To yield a step for death or life.

XXII.

Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow
Has stretched him on the bloody plain;
He strives to rise-Brave Musgrave, ho;
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;
Unmindful of the shouts on high,
That hailed the conqueror's victory,
He raised the dying man;
Loose waved his silver beard and hair,
As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer;
And still the crucifix on high

He holds before his darkening eye;
And still he bends an anxious ear,
His faltering penitence to hear;

Still props him from the bloody sod,
Still, even when soul and body part,
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,
And bids him trust in God!

Unheard he prays;-the death-pang's o'er!-Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.

XXIV.

As if exhausted in the fight,
Or musing o'er the piteous sight,
The silent victor stands;
His beaver did he not unclasp,
Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp
Of gratulating hands.

When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,
Mingled with seeming terror, rise
Among the Scottish bands;

And all, amid the thronged array,
In panic haste gave open way
To a half-naked ghastly man,

Who downward from the castle ran:
He crossed the barriers at a bound,
And wild and haggard looked 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 Teviotside!

For this fair prize I've fought and won," And to the Ladye led her son.

XXV.

Full oft the rescued boy she kissed,
And often pressed him to her breast;
For under all her dauntless show,
Her heart had throbbed at every blow;

4

Yet not Lord Cranstoun deigned she greet.
Though low ne kneeled at her feet.
Me lists not tell what words were made,
What Douglas, Home, and Howard said-
For Howard was a generous foe-
And how the clan united prayed,

The Ladye would the feud forego,
And deign to bless the nuptial hour
Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower.
XXVI.

She looked to river, looked to hill,
Thought on the Spirit's prophecy,
Then broke her silence stern and still,-

"Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me;
Their influence kindly stars may shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,
For pride is quelled, 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."

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 lingered till he joined 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.

William of Deloraine, some chance
Had wakened from his death-like 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, unarmed, 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 heartile:
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 'twas seen of him, e'en now,
When on dead Musgrave he looked down;
Grief darkened on his rugged brow,

Though half disguised with a frown;

*The spectral apparition of a living person.

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;
For, if I slew thy brother dear,
Thou slewest a sister's son to me:
And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three,
Till ransomed 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
Thou wert the best to follow gear!
'Twas pleasure, as we looked behind,
To see how thou the chase couldst wind,
Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."

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XXX.

So mourned he, till Lord Dacre's band

I Were bowning back to Cumberland.

They raised brave Musgrave from the field,
And laid him on his bloody shield;
On levelled lanses, four and four,
By turns, the noble burden bore:
Before, at times, upon the gale,
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wall;
Behind, four priests, in sable stole,
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul;
Around, the horsemen slowly rode;
With trailing pikes the spearmen trod;
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.

The harp's wild notes, though hushed the song,
The mimic march of death prolong;
Now seems it far, and now a-near,
Now meets, and now eludes the ear;
Now seems some mountain-side to sweep,
Now faintly dies in valley deep;
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail,
Now the sad requiem loads the gale;
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,
Rung the full choir in choral stave.

After due pause, they bade him tell,
Why he, who touched the harp so well,
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil,
Wander a poor and thankless soil,
When the more generous southern land
Would well requite his skilful hand.

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CANTO SIXTH.

I.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned,

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, unhonoured, and unsung.

Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan.

III.

Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall
The Minstrels came, at festive call;
Trooping they came, from near and far,
The fovial priests of mirth and war;
Alike for feast and fight prepared,
Battle and banquet both they shared.
Of late, before each martial clan,
They blew their death-note in the van,
But now, for every merry mate,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;

They sound the pipe, they strike the string,
They dance, they revel, and they sing,
Till the rude tur ake and ring.

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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 were 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 Ettricke break,
Although it chill my withered cheek;

IV.

[See page 26.

Me lists not at this tide declare
The splendour of the spousal rite,
How mustered 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 furred 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 feared each holy place.
False slanders these:-1 trust right well,
She wrought not by forbidden spell;
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 embroidered and entwined,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined;
A merlin sat upon her wrist,
Held by a leash of silken twist.

VI.

The spousal rites were ended soon:
"Twas now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshalled 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,
And o'er the boar-head, garnished grave,
And cygnet from St. Mary's wave;
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 quaffed,
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laughed:
Whispered young knights, in tone more mild,
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled.

The hooded hawks, high perched on beam,
The clamour joined with whistling scream,
And flapped their wings, and shook their bells
In concert with the staghounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
Their task the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.

VII.

The Goblin Page, omitting still
No opportunity of ill.

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,
To rouse debate and jealousy;
Till Conrad, lord of Wolfenstein,

By nature fierce, and warm with wine,
And now in humour highly crossed.
About some steeds his band had lost,
High words to words succeeding still,
Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill;
A hot and hardy Rutherford,

Whom men call Dickon Draw-the-Sword.
He took it on the Page's saye,
Hunthill had driven these steeds away.
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose,
The kindling discord to compose:
Stern Rutherford right little said,
But bit his glove, and shook his head.-
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood,
Scout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood,
His bosom gored with many a wound,
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found';
Unknown the manner of his death,
Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath:
But ever from that time, 'twas said,
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

VIII.

The Dwarf, who feared his master's eye
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery,
Were many a veoman, bold and free,

Revelled as merrily and well
As those that set in lordly selle.
Wat Tinlinn there did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them on the English side
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
"A deep carouse to yon fair bride!"
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foamed forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale:
While shout the riders every one,

Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clan
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,
When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.

IX.

The wily Page, with vengeful thought,
Remembered him of Tinlinn's yew,
And swore it should be dearly bought
That ever he the arrow drew.
First, he the yeoman did molest
With bitter gibe and taunting jest-
Told how he fled at Solway strife,
And how Hob Armstrong cheered his wife;
Then shunning still his powerful arm,
At unawares he wrought him harm;
From trencher stole his choicest cheer,
Dashed from his lips his can of beer;
Then, to his knee sly creeping on
With bodkin pierced him to the bone:
The venom'd wound and festering joint
Long after rued that bodkin's point.
The startled yeoman swore and spurned,
And board and flagons overturned;
Riot and clamour wild began-
Back to the hall the urchin ran;
Took in a darkling nook his post,
And grinned and muttered,

X.

"Lost! lost! lost!"

By this, the Dame, lest further fray
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the minstrels tune their lay.
And first stept forth old Albert Græme,
The Minstrel of that ancient name:
Was none who struck the harp so well,
Within the Land Debateable;

Well friended, too, his hardy kin,
Whoever lost, were sure to win;'

They sought the beeves that made their broth,
In Scotland and in England both.
In homely guise, as nature bade,
His simple song the Borderer said.

XI.

Albert Græme.

It was an English Ladye bright,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And she would marry a Scottish Knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall,
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all!

XII.

That wine she had not tasted well,

The sun shines fair on Carlisle wallWhen dead in her true love's arms she fell, For Love was still the lord of all.

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