I cannot tell how the truth may be ;

I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

66

XXIII.

OW, hie thee hence," the Father said, "And when we are on death-bed laid, O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John, Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"The Monk return'd him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped ; When 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.

HE Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find ;

He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey,

Which girdle round the fair Abbaye ;
For the Mystic Book, to his bosom prest,
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 grey;

He joy'd to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might

XXV.

'HE sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey, The sun had brighten'd the Carter's + side; And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale,
And waken'd every flower that blows;
And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain rose.
And lovelier than the rose so red,
Yet paler than the violet pale,
She early left her sleepless bed,
The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

XXVI.

HY does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ; Why does she stop, and look often around, As she glides down the secret stair ; And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound,

As he rouses him up from his lair;

And, though she passes the postern alone, Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?

XXVII.

HE ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread

The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,
Lest his voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,

For he was her foster-father's son ;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,

To meet Baron Henry, her own true Knight.

XXVIII.

HE Knight and ladye fair are met,

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall :
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,
Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest ;

When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might compare!

XXIX.

ND now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;

Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow :
Ye ween to hear a melting tale,
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove ;
Swore he might at her feet expire,
But never, never cease to love;

And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd,
And, half consenting, half denied,

And said that she would die a maid ;—
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.

XXX.

LAS! fair dames, your hopes are vain! My harp has lost the enchanting strain ; Its lightness would my age reprove: My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are cold: I may not, must not, sing of love.

XXXI.

ENEATH an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,

The Baron's Dwarf his courser held, And held his crested helm and spear; That Dwarf was scarce 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 Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod.

He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!"