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 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 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 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, unarm'd, le 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 gallant foe:
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.
«Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here! I ween, my deadly enemy;
The spectral apparition of a living person.
For, if I slew thy brother dear,
Thou slew'st a sister's son to me; And when Flay in dungeon dark,
Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till ransom'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, snaffle, spur, and spear,'
Thou wert the best to follow gear.
'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind,
To see how thou the 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.»-
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 levell'd lances, four and four,
By turns, the noble burden bore.
Before, at times, upon the gale,
Was heard the minstrel's plaintive wail;
Beh iud, four priests, in sable stole,
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul:
Around, 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.
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, When the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hand.
The aged harper, howsoe'er His only friend, his harp, was dear,
The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snaffle, spur, and spear.
BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, (1)
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
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 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, unhonour'd, and unsung.
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 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.
Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome-hall-
The 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-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 turrets shake and ring.
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 furr'd 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.
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 sianders these:-I 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.
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,
Marshall'd 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, beneath, without, within!
For, from the lofty balcony,
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery;
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd,
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-hounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.
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 cross'd,
About some steeds his band had lost,
High words to words succeeding still,
Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill; (7)
A hot and hardy Rutherford,
Whom men call Diccon 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.-(8)
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood,
Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd 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;
ever from that time, 't was said,
That Diccon wore a Cologne blade.
The warf, who fear'd his master's eye
Mit 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 Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes; (9)
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,
Foam'd forth, in floods, the nut-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)
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 cheer'd his wife:
Then, shunning still his powerful arm,
At unawares lie 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.
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!
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!
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!
And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan spy,
Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream;
Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem
To form a lordly and a lofty room,'
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.
Fair all the pageant-but how passing fair
The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind! O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair, Pale her dear cheek as if for love she pined; All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined,
And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine Some strain, that seem'd her inmost soul to find: That favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line, That fair and lovely form, the Lady Geraldine.
Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely form,
And swept the goodly vision all away-
So royal envy roll'd the murky storm
O'er my beloved master's glorious day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay
On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,
The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine,
The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine!
Both Scots and southern chiefs prolong
Applauses of Fitztraver's song:
These hated Henry's name as death,
And those still held the ancient faith.-
Then, from his seat, 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 bay;-(14)
Still nods their palace to its fall,
Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall!—(15)
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave,
As if grim Odin rode her wave;
And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale,
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail;
For all of wonderful and wild
Had rapture for the lonely child.
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 Norsemen, 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 wond'rous tale;
And many a Runic column high
Had witness'd grim idolatry.
And thus had Harold, in his youth,
Learn'd many a saga's rhyme uncouth,-
Of that sea-snake, tremendous curl'd,
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 arms!
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 minstrelsy:
Yet something of the northern spell
Mixed with the softer numbers well.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. (20)
«Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, (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 shroud swathe a ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : Why cross the gloomy frith to-day?»
«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.
<<'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'd 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 bright 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) Iach, isle.
So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,
Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,
A wond'rous shade involved them all:"
It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drain'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 scarce his own stretch'd hand behold.
A secret horror check'd the feast,
And chill'd the soul of every guest;
Even the high dame stood half aghást,
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 seem'd on flame, Glanced every rafter of the hall, Glanced shield every the wall; upon 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 fill'd the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elvish page it broke.
It broke, with thunder long and loud,
Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the proud,-
From sea to sea the larum rung;
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,
To arms the startled warders sprung.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elvish Dwarf was seen no more!
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