If thou readest, thou art lorn! Better hadst thou ne'er been born! XXIV. SWIFTLY can speed my dapple grey steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, 'Again will I be here : And safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, noble dame, by me; Letter nor line know I never a one, Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee."+ XXV. OON in his saddle sate he fast, And soon the steep descent he past, Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,+ And soon the Teviot side he won. Eastward the wooded path he rode, Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; He pass'd the Peel† of Goldiland, And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand; Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, Where Druid shades still flitted round; In Hawick twinkled many a light; XXVI. HE clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ; 66 Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.”"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd, And left the friendly tower behind. He turn'd him now from Teviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horsliehill ; Broad on the left before him lay, XXVII. MOMENT now he slack'd his speed, A moment breathed his panting steed; Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band, And loosen'd in the sheath his brand, On Minto-crags the moon-beams glint,+ Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint; Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest, The warbling Doric reed shall hear, XXVIII. NCHALLENGED, thence pass'd Delo- To ancient Riddel's fair domain. XXIX. T the first plunge the horse sunk low, Above the foaming tide, I ween, Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. The warrior's very plume, I say, Was daggled by the dashing spray; Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace, At length he gain'd the landing place. ΧΧΧ. OW Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ;† For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallow'd morn arose, Prize to the victor of the day; When Home and Douglas, in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear XXXI. N bitter mood he spurred fast, And soon the hated heath was past; And far beneath, in lustre wan, Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran :+ Like some tall rock with lichens grey, Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye. When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung, Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung. The sound, upon the fitful gale, In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp, whose magic tone Is waken'd by the winds alone. But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall. |