If thou readest, thou art lorn! Better hadst thou ne'er been born.” XXIV. "O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray 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. Soon in his saddle sate he fast, And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand, XXVI, The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark; "Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.” "For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoined, And left the friendly tower behind. He turned him now from Teviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horseliehill; Broad on the left before him lay, XXVII A moment now he slacked his speed, ·༞--- Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band, When some sad swain shall teach the grove, XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine Where Aill, from mountains freed, XXIX At the first plunge the horse sunk low, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; For he was barbed from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail; Never heavier man and horse Stemmed 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 gained the landing place. XXX Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; When first the Scott and Car were foes; When Home and Douglas, in the van, XXXI In bitter mood he spurred fast, Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp, whose magic tone Is wakened by the winds alone. But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall. And sought the convent's lonely wall. HERE paused the harp; and with its swell The Duchess, and her daughters fair. And every gentle ladye there, Each after each, in due degree, Gave praises to his melody; His hand was true, his voice was clear,, After meet rest, again began. Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, For the gay beams of lightsome day When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go-but go alone the while Then view St. David's ruined pile: And, home returning, soothly swear Was never scene so sad and fair! Short halt did Deloraine make there; The porter hurried to the gate "Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?" "From Branksome I," the warrior cried; And strait the wicket opened wide: For Branksome's chiefs had in battre stood, And lands and livings, many a rood, Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose. Bold Deloraine his errand said; To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. IV. "The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me And strangely on the Knight looked he, And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide; "And, dar'st thou, warrior! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast, in belt of iron pent, With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn; For threescore years, in penance spent, My knees those flinty stones have worn; For knowing what should ne'er be known. In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, VI. "Penance, father, will I none; Prayer know I hardly one; |