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.”—

XXVII. All as they left the listed plain, Much of the story she did gaid; How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, And of his page, and of the book Which from the wounded knight be took; And how he sought her castle high, That moro, 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 lale he left unsaid, And linger'd till he join'd 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 Cranstoua'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.

For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou siew'st a sister's son to me; And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till rapsom'd 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 dje: 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, spaffle, spur, and spear,' Thou wert the best to follow gear. 'T was pleasure, as we look'd bekind, To see how thou thc chase couldst wind, Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, And with the bugle rouse the fray; (8) I'd give the lands of Deloraine, Dark Musgrave were alive again.»—

XXX. So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band Were bowning back to Cumberland. They raised brave Musgrave from the field, And laid him on his bloody shield; On levellid lances, four and four, By turns, the noble burden bore. Before, at times, upon the gale, Was heard the minstrel's plaintive wail ; Beh iod, four priests, in sable stole, Sung requiem for the warrior's soul: Arouud, the horsemen slowly rode; With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; 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.

William of Deloraine, some chance
Had waken'd from his deathlike 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, arm'd, 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 heartilie:
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 gallanl foc :
And so 't was seen of him, e en now,

When on dead Musgrave he look'd down; Grief darken'd on his rugged brow,

Though half disguised with a frown; And thus, while sorrow bent his head, His foeman's epitaph he made,

The harp's wild notes, though hush'd 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 touch'd the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, Whea the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hapd.

The aged harper, howsoe'er His only friend, his harp, was dear,

XXIX. « Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy;

1 The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the ynaffle, spur, and spear.

Poly-Albion, Song siii.

The spectral apparition of a living person.

Liked not to hear it rank'd so high
Above his flowing poesy;
Less liked he still, that scornful jeer
Misprised the land he loved so dear,
High was the sound, as thus again
The bard resumed his minstrel strain.

Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendour of the spousal rite,
How muster'd 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 furrd 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 a we and shame alternate rise.


BREATHES there the man, will soul so dead, (1)
Who never to himself bath said,

This is my own, my native laud!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark hin well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish cau claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall 60

To the vile dust, from whence hıc sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

V. Some bards have sung, the Ladye high Chapel or altar came not nigh; Nor durst the rites of spousal grace, So much she fear'd each holy place. False slanders these :-1 trust right well She wrought not by forbidden spell: (2) 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 embroider'd and entwined, Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; A merlin sat upon her wrist, (3). Held by a leash of silken twist.

II. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and ihe flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand! Sull, 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 are 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 Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan.

The spousal rites were ended soon;
"T was now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the Gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshalld 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, (4)
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, (5)
And cygnet from St Mary's wave, (6)
O'er ptarmigan and venison,
The priest had spoke his benison,
Then rose the riot and the din,
Above, bencath, without, within!
For, from the lofty balcony,
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery;
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffd,
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh’d;
Whisper d young knights, in tone more mild,
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled.
The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam,
The clamour join'd with whistling scream,
And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells,
In concert with the stag-houuds' yells.

go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
Their tasks the busy sewer's ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.

IIT. Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome-hallThe minstrels came, at festive call; Trooping they came, from near and far, The jovial 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-110te 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 turrets shake and ring.


The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd,
And board and flacons overturn'd,
Riot and clamour wild began :
Back to the hall the urchin ran;
Took in a darkling nook his post,
And grinn'd, and mutter'd, « Lost! lost! lost!»

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The goblin-page, omitting still
No opportunity of ill,
Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,
To rouse debate and jealousy;
Till Courad, lord of Wolfenstein,
By nature fierce, and warm with wir
And now in humour highly cross'd,
About some steeds his band had lost,
High words to words succeeding still,
Smote, with his gauntlet, slout Hunthill; (7)
A hot and hardý Rutherford,
Whom men call Diccon Draw-the-sword..
lle 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 bis glove, and shook his head. -(8)
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood,
Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd in blood,
His bosom gored with many a wound,
Was hy a woodman's lyme-dog found;
Unknowo the manner of his death,
fone was his brand, both sword and sheath;

lever from that time, 't was said, "I Thime Piccon wore a Cologne blade.

X. By this, the dame, lest farther fray Should mar the concord of the day, Had bid the mins(rels tune their lay. And first stept forth old Albert Grame, The minstrel of that ancient name: (11) 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.



It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) (12) * And she would marry a Scottish kõight,

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.

VIN Theywarf, who fear d his master's eye Aliyat his foal treachery espie, now sought the castle butlery, Where many a yeoman bold and free, Revell d as merrily and well As those that sat in lordly selle. Watt Tinlion, there, did frankly raise The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes; (9) And be, 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, Foam'd forth, in floods, the pus-brown ale; While shout the riders every one, Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan, Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. (10)

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!

That wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,

For Love was still the lord of all.

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

The wily page, with vengeful thought,

Remember'd 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 cheerd his wife: Then, shunning still his powerful arm, At unawares lic wrought him harm; From trencher stole his choicest cheer, Dash'd 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 the bodkin's point.

And then he took the cross divine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all you lovers, that faithful prove,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) Pray for their souls who died for love,

For Love shall still be lord of all !

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Fitztraver! Owhat tongue may say

The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,
When Surrey, of the deathless lay,

Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ! Regardless of the tyrant's frown, Ilis barp call'd wrath and vengeance down. He left, for Naworth's iron towers, Windsor's green glades, and courtly bowers, And, faithful to his paéron's name, With lloward still Fitztraver came; Lord William's foremost favourite be, And cbief of all his minstrelsy.


FITZTRAVER. 'T was All-souls eve, and Surrey's heart beat higli;

He licard the midnight bell with anxious start, Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh,

When wise Cornelius promised, by bis art, To show to liim the ladye of his heart,

Albeit betwixt them roard the ocean grim: Yet so the sage had hight to play his part,

That he should see her form in life and limb, And mark, if still she loved, and still şlıe thought of him.

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye,

To which the wizard led the gallant knight,
Save that before a mirror, huge and high,

A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering light On mystic implements of magic might;

On cross, and character, and talisman,
And almagest, and altar, nothing bright;

For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
As watch-light by the bed of some departing man.

XXI. Both Scots and southern chiefs prolong Applauses 8f Fitztraver's song: These hated Henry's name as death, And those still befd the ancient faith.Then, from his scat, with lofty air, Rose Harold, bard of brave St Clair; St Clair, who, feasting high at Home, Had with that lord to battle come. Harold was born where restless seas Howl round the storm-swept Orcades; Where erst St Clairs held princely sway O'er isle and islet, strait and hay;-(14) Still nods their palace to its fall, Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall !-(15) Thence oft hic mark'd fierce Pentland ravé, As if grim Odin rode her wave; And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale, And throbbing licart, the struggling sail; For all of wonderful and wild Had rapture for the lonely child.

XXII. And much of wild and wonderful In these rude isles might fancy cull; For thither came, in times afar, Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, The Norsemeo, train d to spoil and blood, Skill'd to prepare the raven's food : Kings of the main their leaders brave, Their barks the dragons of the wave.(16) And there, in many a stormy vale, The scald hath told his wondrous tale; And many a Runic column high Had witness'd grim idolatry.

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Seem'd all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd ail the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairSo still they blaze, when fale is nigh

The lordly line of high St Clair.

And thus had Harold, in his youth,
Learn'd many a saga's rhyme uncouth,-
Of that sea-snake, tremendous curld,
Whose monstrous circle girds the world; (17)
Of those dread maids, whose hideous yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell;(18)
Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old,
Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' hold, (19)
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
And bade the dead arise to arras!
With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,
Where, by sweet glen and green-wood tree,
He learn'd a milder miostrelsy :
Yet something of the northern spell
Mixed with the softer numbers well.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle? Each one the holy vault doth hold

But the sea holds lovely Rosabeile!

And each St Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.



O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arias I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. (10)

--« Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Raveusleuch, (21)

Nor tempt the stormy frith to-day.

« The blackening wave is edged with white;

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the water sprite,

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

« Last night the gifted seer did view

A wet sliroud swathe a ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:

Why cross the gloomy frith to-day?»

So sweet was Harold's pilcous lay,

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,

A wondrous shade involved them all :
It was not eddying mist or fog,
Draiu'd by the sun from fen or bog,

Of no eclipse had sages told;
And yet, as it came on apace,
Each one could scarce his neighbour's face,

Could scurce his own stretch'd hand behold
A secret borror check'd the feast,
And chilld the soul of every guest;
Even the high dame stood half aghast,
She knew some evil on the blast;
The elvish page fell to the ground,
And, shuddering, mutter d, « Found! found!
found !>>

Then sudden, through the darken'd air

A flash of lightning came;
So broad, so bright, so red the glare,

The castle seemd on flame,
Glanced every rafter of the hall,
Glanced every

the wall;
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone;
Were instant seen, and instant gone;
Full through the guests' bedazzled band
Resistless flash'd the levin- brand,
And ild the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elvish page it broke.
It broke, with thunder long and loud,
Dismay'd the brave, appallid the proud, --

From sea to sea the larum rung;
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,

To arms the started warders sprung.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elvish Dwarf was scen no more!

« 'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

shield upon

« 'T is not because the ring they ride.

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide,

If 't is not fill'a by Rosabelle.»< O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wond'rous blaze was seen to gleam; 'T was broader than the watch-fire light,

And redder than the brighit moon-beam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'T was seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern d Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie; Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply. (22)

XXVI. Some heard a voice in Branksome-ball, Some saw a sight, not seen by all; That dreadful voice was heard by some. Cry, withi loud summons, «Gylbin, COME!» (23) And on the spot wbere burst the brand,

Just where the page lead fluog lim down,

! Iach, isle.

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