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VI.

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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.

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.

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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,

Magical delusion.

A shepherd's hut.

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No more the elfin page durst try

Into the wondrous book to pry;

The clasps, though smear'd with christian gore,

Shut 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.

Tawillingly himself he 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,
He had laid him on her very bed.
Whate'er he did of gramarye,'
Was always done maliciously;

E flung the warrior on the ground,

lad 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,
Catil 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;

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

XIV.

Full sore amazed at the wond'rous 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 boy!»>

XVI.

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;

And, at his belt, of arrows keen

A furbishi'd sheaf bore he:

His buckler scarce in breadth a span,

No larger fence had he;

He never counted hima man

Would strike below the knee; (6) His slacken'd bow was in his hand,

And the leash, that was his blood-hound's band.

XVIII.

He would not do the fair chiid harm,
But held him with his powerful arm,
That he might neither fight nor flee;
For when the red cross spied he,
The boy strove long and violently.
«Now, by St George,» the archer cries,
Edward, methinks we have a prize!
This boy's fair face, and courage free,
Show he is come of high degree.»>

XIX.

«Yes! I am come of high degree,

For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch;

And if thou dost not set me free,

False southron, thou shalt dearly rue! For Walter of Harden shall come with speed, And William of Deloraine, good at need, And every Scott from Esk to Tweed; And, if thou dost not let me go, Despite thy arrows and thy bow,

I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow !»

XX.

« Gramercy, for thy good will, fair boy!
My mind was never set so high;
But if thou art chief of such a clap,
And art the son of such a man,
And ever comest to try command,

Our wardens had need to keep good order: My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

Thou 'It make them work upon the Border. Meantime, be pleased to come with me, For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see: I think our work is well begun, When we have taken thy father's son.>>

XXI.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play;
And, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew;
Nay, some of them he well nigh slew.
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
He lighted the match of his bandelier,'
And woefully scorch'd the hackbutteer,2
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd
That the young baron was possess'd!

Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. Hicklatteer, musketeer.

XXII.

Well I ween, the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wonder'd to find him lie,

On the stone threshold stretch'd along; She thought some spirit of the sky

Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong; Because, despite her precept dread, Perchance he in the book had read; But the broken lance in his bosom stood, And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII.

She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she staunch'd the blood: ;)
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound:

No longer by his couch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,
And wash'd it from the clotted gore,

And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. (8)
William of Deloraine, in trance,
Whene'er she turn'd it round and round,
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say,
That he should be whole man and sound,

Within the course of a night and day.
Full long she toil'd; for she did rue
Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So pass'd the day-the evening fell.
'T was near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm;
E'en the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour;
Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,

She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and, all between,
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.
Her golden hair stream'd free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.

XXV.

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,
And, spreading broad its wavering light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?—
O, 't is the beacon-blaze of war!
Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath,
For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI.

The warder view'd it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rung around.
The blast alarm'd the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;

Far downward, in the castle-yard,

Fail many a torch and cresset glared;

And belms and plumes, confusedly toss'd,

Tee in the blaze half seen, half lost; laispears in wild disorder shook, Je reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII.

The seneschal, whose silver hair
Was redden'd by the torches' glare,
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud,

And issued forth his mandates loud.

Peachryst glows a bale' of fire,

And three are kindling on Priesthaugh-swire; (9) Ride out, ride out,

The foe to scout!

Mount, mount for Branksome, every man! ̧
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,

That ever are true and stout.

Ye need not send to Liddesdale;
Far, when they see the blazing bale,
Ebots and Armstrongs never fail.-
kide, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the warden of the strife.-
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,

Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.»-(10)
XXVIII.

Fair Margaret, from the turret-head,
Beard, far below, the coursers' tread,
While loud the harness rang,

As to their seats, with clamour dread,
The ready horsemen sprang;
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices, mingled notes,
And out! and out!

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XXIX.

The ready page, with hurried hand,
Awaked the need-fire's3 slumbering brand,
And ruddy blush'd the heaven;

For a sheet of flame, from the turret high,
Waved like a blood-flag on the sky,

All flaring and uneven.

And soon a score of fires, I ween,

From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen;
Each with warlike tidings fraught;
Each from each the signal caught;
Lach after each they glanced to sight,
As stars arise upon the night.

They gleam'd on many a dusky tarn,4
Haunted by the lonely earn;5
(many a cairn's gray pyramid,

Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid; (11)
Thigh Dunedin the blazes saw,

from Soltra and Dumpender Law;

'k, Leacon-fagot.

Jaat for Branksome was the gathering word of the Scotts.

Seed-fire, beacon.

Tora, a mountain lake.

Lars, a Scottish eagle. Cara, a pile of stones.

And Lothian heard the regent's order,

That all should bowne' them for the Border.

ΧΧΧ.

The livelong night in Branksome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel;
The castle-bell, with backward clang,
Sent forth the larum peal;
Was frequent heard the heavy jar,
Where massy stone and iron har
Were piled on echoing keep and tower,
To whelm the foe with deadly shower;
Was frequent heard the changing guard,
And watchword from the sleepless ward;
While, wearied by the endless dia,
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within.

1

ΧΧΧΙ.

The noble dame, amid the broil,

Shared the gray seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheer'd the young knights, and council sage
Held with the chiefs of riper age.

No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of his numbers knew they aught,
Nor in what time the truce he sought.
Some said, that there were thousands ten,
And others ween'd that it was nought
But Leven Claus, or Tynedale men,
Who came to gather in black-mail;2
And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen.
So pass'd the anxious night away,
And welcome was the peep of day.

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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 hilf
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.

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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.

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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.

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