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XXVIH.

« Ah! noble lords!» he, breathless, said,
« What treason has your march betray'd?
What make you here, from aid so far,
Before you walls, around you war?
Your foemen triumph in the thought,
That in the toils the lion's caught.
Already on dark Ruberslaw
The Douglas holds his weapon-shaw;'
The lances, waving in his train,

Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;
And on the Liddel's northern strand,
To bar retreat to Cumberland,
Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men good,
Beneath the eagle and the rood;
And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,
Have to proud Angus come!
And all the Merse and Lauderdale
Have risen with haughty Home.
An exile from Northumberland,

In Liddesdale I've wander'd long;

But still my heart was with merry England,
And cannot brook my country's wrong;
And hard I've spurr'd all night to show
The mustering of the coming foe.»>-

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«Yet hear,» quoth Howard, « calmly hear, Nor deem my words the words of fear; For who, in field or foray slack,

Saw the blanche lion (20) e'er fall back?
But thus to risk our Border flower

In strife against a kingdom's power,

Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands three,
Certes, were desperate policy.

Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,
Ere conscious of the advancing aid :
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine
In single fight, (21) and if he gain,
He gains for us; but if he 's cross'd,
'T is but a single warrior lost:
The rest, retreating as they came,
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame, »—

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XXXII.

The pursuivant-at-arms again

Before the castle took his stand;
His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain,
The leaders of the Scottish band;
And he defied, in Musgrave's right,
Stout Deloraine to single fight;

A gauntlet at their feet he laid,
And thus the terms of fight he said:-
« If in the lists good Musgrave's sword
Vanquish the knight of Deloraine,
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's lord,
Shall hostage for his clan remain :
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave,
The boy his liberty shall have.

Howe'er it falls, the English band,
Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd,
In peaceful march, like men unarm'd,
Shall straight retreat to Cumberland.»

XXXIII.

Unconscious of the near relief,

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief,

Though much the Ladye sage gainsaid; For though their hearts were brave and true, From Jedwood's recent sack they knew

How tardy was the regent's aid: And you may guess the noble dame

Durst not the secret prescience own,
Sprung from the art she might not name,

By which the coming help was known.
Closed was the compact, and agreed,
That lists should be inclosed with speed,
Beneath the castle, on a lawn:
They fix'd the morrow for the strife,
On foot, with Scottish axe and knife,

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn;
When Deloraine, from sickness freed,
Or else a champion in his stead,
Should for himself and chieftain stand,
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.

XXXIV.

I know right well, that, in their lay,
Full many minstrels sing and say,

Such combat should be made on horse,
On foaming steed, in full career,
With brand to aid, when as the spear
Should shiver in the course:
But he, the jovial harper, (22) taught
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought,
In guise which now I say;

He knew each ordinance and clause
Of black Lord Archibald's battle laws,
In the old Douglas' day. (23)

He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue
Should tax his miustrelsy with wrong,

Or call his song untrue:

For this, when they the goblet plied,
And such rude taunt had chafed his pride,
The Bard of Reull he slew.

On Teviot's side in fight they stood,

And tuneful hands were stainid with blood; Where still the thorn's white branches wave,

Memorial o'er his rival's

grave.

XXXV.

Why should I tell the rigid doom,
That dragg'd my master to his tomb;

How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, Wept till their eyes were dead and dim, And wrung their hands for love of him, Who died at Jedwood Air?

He died!-his scholars, one by one,
To the cold silent grave are gone
And I, alas! survive alone,
To muse o'er rivalries of yore,

And grieve that I shall hear no more
The strains, with envy heard before;
For, with my minstrel brethren fled,
My jealousy of song is dead.

He paused: the listening dames again Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain. With many a word of kindly cheer,In pity half, and half sincere,Marvell'd the duchess how so well His legendary song could tellOf ancient deeds, so long forgot; Of feuds, whose memory was not; Of forests, now laid waste and bare: Of towers, which harbour now the hare; Of manners, long since changed and gone; Of chiefs, who under their gray stone So long had slept, that fickle Fame Had blotted from her rolls their name, And twined round some new minion's head The fading wreath for which they bled; In sooth, 't was strange, this old man's verse; Could call them from their marble hearse.

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II.

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal uru
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song.
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle minstrel's bier
The phantom knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead;
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,
And shrieks along the battle-plain:
The chief, whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now, from the mountain's misty throne,
Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguish'd lie,

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'Vails not to tell each hardy clan,

From the fair Middle Marches came;
The Bloody Heart blazed in the van,

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name! (1)
'Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn,
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne (2)
Their men in battle-order set;
And Swinton laid the lance in rest,
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest
Of Clarence's Plantagenet. (3)
Nor lists I say what hundreds more,
From the rich Merse and Lammermore,
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war,,
Beneath the crest of old Dunbar,

And Hepburn's mingled banners, come,
Down the steep mountain glittering far,
And shouting still, « A Home! a Home!» (4)

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And how a day of fight was ta'en Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; And how the Ladye pray'd them dear, That all would stay the fight to see, And deign, in love and courtesy,

To taste of Branksome cheer.

Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,
Were England's noble lords forgot;
Himself, the hoary seneschal,
Rode forth, in seemly terms to call
Those gallant foes to Branksome-hall.
Accepted Howard, than whom knight
Was never dubb'd more bold in fight;
Nor, when from war and armour free,
More famed for stately courtesy:
But angry Dacre rather chose
In his pavilion to repose.

VI.

Now, noble dame, perchance you ask,
How these two hostile armies met?
Deeming it were no easy task

To keep the truce which here was set:
Where martial spirits, all on fire,
Breathed only blood and mortal ire.
By mutual inroads, mutual blows,
By habit, and by nation, foes,

They met on Teviot's strand:
They met, and sate them mingled down,
Without a threat, without a frown,
As brothers meet in foreign land:
The hands, the spear that lately grasp'd,
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd,

Were interchanged in greeting dear;
Visors were rais'd, and faces shown,
And many a friend, to friend made known,
Partook of social cheer.

Some drove the jolly bowl about;

With dice and draughts some chased the day; And some, with many a merry shout,

In riot, revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play. (5)

VII.

Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,
Or sign of war been seen,
Those bands, so fair together ranged,
Those hands, so frankly interchanged,
Had dyed with gore the green:
The merry shout by Teviot side
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,
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 infrequent, nor held strange,
In the old Border day: (6)

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

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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 watch-word of their clan; (7)
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 toil'd there,
Strong 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 mark'd 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 banner'd hosts repose,.
She view'd 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 coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort, Had rung the livelong yesterday; Now still as death; till, stalking slow,The jingling spurs announced his tread,—

A stately warrior pass'd 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

Of that sly urchin page;

This to his lord he did impart,
And made him seem, by glamour art,

A kuight from Hermitage:
Unchallenged, thus, the warder's post,

The court, unchallenged, thus he cross'd, 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
That vile 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;

bad

And oft I 've deem'd, 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 Ettrick wood;
To Branksome many a look they threw,
The combatants' approach to view,
And bandied many a word of boast,
About the knight each favour'd 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 seem'd, and free from pain,

A martial piece of music adapted to the bagpipes.

In armour sheath'd from top to toe, Appear'd, and craved the combat due. The dame her charm successful knew,' And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew,

XVI.

When for the lists they sought the plain,
The stately Ladye's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;
Unarmed by her side he walk'd,
And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd
Of feats of arms of old.

Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,
With satin slash'd 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
Call'd 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 broider'd rein.
He deem'd, she shudder'd at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror, all unguess'd,
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 long'd 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 assign'd
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,
In king and queen, and warden's name,
That none, while lasts the strife,
Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,
Aid to a champion to afford,

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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 pour'd 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 scorn'd, amid the reeling strife,
To yield a step for death or life.

XXII.

"T is done, 't is done! that fatal blow

Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain;
He strives to rise-Brave Musgrave, no!

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 hail'd the conqueror's victory,
He raised the dying man;

Loose waved his silver beard and hair, As o'er him he kneel'd 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,

Mark'd 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 throng'd array,
In panic haste gave open way
To a half-naked ghastly man,
Who downward from the castle ran:
He cross'd the barriers at a bound,
And wild and haggard look'd 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 Teviot side!

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

XXV.

Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd,
And often press'd him to her breast;
For, under all her dauntless show,
Her heart had throbb'd at every blow;
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet,
Though low he kneeled at her feet.
Me list not tell what words were made,
What Douglas, Home, and Howard said-
-For Howard was a generous foe-
And how the clan united pray'd,

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

XXVI.

She-look'd to river, look'd to hill,

Thought on the Spirits' prophecy, Then broke her silence stern and still,— «Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd me; Their influence kindly stars may shower. On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, For pride is quell'd, 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!

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