That lady sat in mournful mood;

Looked over hill and dale;

Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,
And all down Teviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"
"Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch?"

"The Ancram Moor is red with gore,

For many a southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore
To watch our beacons well."

The lady blushed red, but nothing she said;

Nor added the Baron a word:

Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourned, and the Baron tossed

and turned,

And oft to himself he said

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep....

It cannot give up the dead!"

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was well nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

"Alas! away, away!" she cried,

"For the holy Virgin's sake!" "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake.

"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doomed to dwell.

"At our trysting-place, for a certain space,

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Had'st thou not conjured me so."

Love mastered fear her brow she crossed;
"How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"
The Vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life,

So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."

He laid his left hand on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that hand impressed;
And for evermore that lady wore
A cov'ring on her wrist.

There is a Nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun:

There is a Monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That Monk, who speaks to none
That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That Monk the bold Baron.

1

CADYOW CASTLE.

WHEN princely Hamilton's abode
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
The song went round, the goblet flowed,
And revel sped the laughing hours.

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
And echoed light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music cheered the hall.

But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er,
Thrill to the music of the shade,
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.

Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame,
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
And tune my harp, of Border frame,
On the wild banks of Evandale.

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, From pleasure's lighter scenes canst turn,

To draw oblivion's pall aside,

And mark the long-forgotten urn.

Then, noble maid! at thy command,
Again the crumbled walls shall rise;
Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand,

The past returns

the present flies.

Where with the rock's wood-covered side
Were blended late the ruin's green,
Rise turrets in fantastic pride,

And feudal banners flaunt between :

Where the rude torrent's brawling course
Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe,
The ashler buttress braves its force,
And ramparts frown in battled row.

"Tis night the shade of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream,

And on the wave the warder's fire
Is checkering the moonlight beam.

Fades slow their light; the east is gray;
The wary warder leaves his tower;
Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay,
And merry hunters quit the bower.

The draw-bridge falls they hurry out
Clatters each plank and swinging chain,
As, dashing o'er, the jovial route

Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein.

First of his troop, the Chief rode on:

His shouting merry-men throng behind; The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind.

From the thick copse the roe-bucks bound,
The startling red-deer scuds the plain;
For, the hoarse bugle's warrior sound

Has roused their mountain haunts again.