Ws a the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, fight return'd in double gloom,

man

For the moon had gone down,and the stars were few;
And as the knight and priest withdrew,
With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
hey havlly might the postern gain.

I said, as through the aisles they past,
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 't was said to me.

XXIII.

Now hie thee hence,» the father said,
And when we are on death-bed laid,

O may Our dear I adye, and sweet St John,
Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!»>

& return'd him to his cell,

many a prayer and penance sped;

», the convent met at the noontide bell, The Monk of St Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

XXIV.

The knight breathed free in the morning winc
And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-stones
Which girdle round the fair abbaye;
For the mystic book, to his bosom press'd,
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 joy'd to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary as well as he might.

Bath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,
e baron's Dwarf his courser held, (17)
And held his crested helm and spear:
Tas: 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 Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod,
Be heard a voice cry, «Lost! lost! lost!»
And, like tennis-ball by racquet toss'd,
A leap of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorse this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee.
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd;
Tis said that five good miles he rade,
To rid him of his company;

Bat where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four,
And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

XXXII.

The lessens marvel, it is said:

This elfish Dwarf with the baron staid;

Little be ate, and less he spoke,
Nor mingled with the menial flock:
And oft apart his arms he toss'd,

And often mutter'd, « Lost! lost! lost!»

To Mary's chapel of the Lowes: For there, beside Our Lady's lake, An offering he had sworn to make,

And he would pay his VOWS.

But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band
Of the best that would ride at her command; (18)
The trysting-place was Newark Lee.
Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestane,
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 burn'd the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's goblin-page.

XXXIV:

And now, in Branksome's good green-wood,
As under the aged oak he stood,
The baron's courser pricks his ears,
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 pour'd the lengthen'd tale, The Minstrel's voice began to fail : Full slyly smiled the observant page, And the wither'd hand of age gave A goblet, crown'd with mighty wine, The blood of Velez' scorched vine. He raised the silver cup on high, And, while the big drop fill'd his eye, Pray'd God to bless the duchess long, And all who cheer'd a sou of song. The attending maidens smiled to see How long, how deep, how zealously, The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd; Aud he, embolden'd by the draught, Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd. The cordial nectar of the bowl Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

1 Wood-pigeon.

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 heimet 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 splash'd with clay;
His armour red with many a stain:

He seem'd in such a weary plight,
As if he had ridden the livelong night;
For it was William of Deloraine.

IV.

But no whit weary did he seem,
When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest; (1)

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high,
That mark'd the foemen's feudal hate,
For question fierce and proud reply

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

And snorted fire, when wheel'd around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.

V.

In rapid round the baron bent;

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer;
The prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.
Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd,
Nor saint nor ladye call'd to aid;

But he stoop'd his head, and conch'd his spear,
And spurr'd his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI.

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,
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The baron onward pass'd his course;
Nor knew-so giddy roll'd his brain-
His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain.

VII.

But when he rein'd his courser round,
And saw his foeman on the ground
Lie senseless as the bloody clay,
He bade his page to staunch 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 shalt thou 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 marvell'd, a knight of pride

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride: (2)
He thought not to search or staunch the wound,
Until the secret he had found.

IX.

The iron band, the iron clasp,
Resisted long the eltin 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 unchristen'd hand,
Till he smear'd 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, (3)
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,

Magical delusion.

A shepherd's hut.

I had not read another spell,
Then on his cheek a buffet fell,

So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain,
leside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,

And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he mutter'd, and no more-

Man of age, thou smitest sore!»>

No more the elfin page durst try

Ints the wondrous book to pry;

The clasps, though smear'd with christian gore,

Shat 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. (4)

XI.

Twillingly himself be address'd
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 pass'd 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,
Be had laid him on her very bed.
Whate er he did of gramarye,'

Vas always done maliciously;

fung the warrior on the ground,

ad the blood well'd freshly from the wound.

XII.

As he repass'd the outer court,

He spied the fair young child at sport:
Be thought to train him to the wood;
Forfat a word, be it understood,
He was always for ill, and never for good.
Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the draw-bridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.

XIII.

He led the boy o'er bank and fell,
Until they came to a woodland brook;
The running stream dissolved the spell, (5)
And his own elvish shape he took.
Could he have had his pleasure vilde,

He had crippled the joints of the noble child;
Or, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen.
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited;

So he but scowl'd on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;

The woodland brook he bounding cross'd, And laugh'd, and shouted « Lost! lost! lost!»> XIV.

Full sore amazed at the wondrous change,

And frighten'd, 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 lily flower;
And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay,
He fear'd to see that grisly face

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

XV.

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher;
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound,
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.
Soon as the wilder'd 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 glow'd 'twixt fear and ire!
He faced the blood-hound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,

But still in act to spring;

When dash'd an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stay'd,
He drew his tough bow-string;

But a rough voice eried, « Shoot not, hoy!
Ho! shoot not, Edward-'t is a

XVI.

boy!»

The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd 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 sunburnt 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 falchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

XVII

His kirtle, made of forest green, Reach'd scantly to his knee;

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 splash'd with clay;
His armour red with many a stain:

He seem'd in such a weary plight,
As if he had ridden the livelong night;
For it was William of Deloraine.

IV.

But no whit weary did he seem,
When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest; (1)

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high,
That mark'd the foemen's feudal hate,
For question fierce and proud reply

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

And snorted fire, when wheel'd around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.
V.

In rapid round the baron bent;

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer; The prayer was to his patron saint,

VI.

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 gate;
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,
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The baron onward pass'd his course;
Nor knew-so giddy roll'd his brain—
His foe lay stretch'd
the plain.

upon

VII.

But when he rein'd his courser round,
And saw his foeman on the ground
Lie senseless as the bloody clay,
He bade his page to staunch 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 shalt thou do without delay;
No longer here myself may stay:
Unless the swifter I speed away,
Short shrift will be at my dying day.»-

VIIL

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 marvell'd, a knight of pride

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride: (2)

He thought not to search or staunch 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 unchristen'd hand,
Till he smear'd 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, (3)
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,

1 Magical delusion.

A shepherd's hut.