Of Bethune's line of Picardie: He learned the art that none may name, In Padua, far beyond the sea. Men said, he changed his mortal frame, By feat of magic mystery; For when, in studious mood he paced St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, His form no darkening shadow traced Upon the sunny wall!
And of his skill, as bards avow,
He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,
That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,
That chafes against the scaur's red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,
That moans old Branksome's turrets
round?
At the sullen, moaning sound,
The ban-dogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,
Loud whoops the startled owl. In the hall, both squire and knight
Swore that a storm was near, And looked forth to view the night; But the night was still and clear!
From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the wind-swung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,
The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,
And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.
RIVER SPIRIT.
"Sleep'st thou, brother?"
The Ladye sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer lay,
And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play.
A fancied most-trooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall right merrily,
In mimic foray rode.
Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,
Share in his frolic gambols bore, Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould, Were stubborn as the steel they wore. for the grey warriors prophesied, How the brave boy, in future war, hould tame the Unicorn's pride, Exalt the Crescent and the Star.
The Ladye forgot her purpose high,
One moment, and no more;
ine moment gazed with a mother's eye,
As she paused at the arched door:
hen, from amid the armed train,
he call'd to her William of Deloraine.
stark moss-trooping Scott was he, is e'er couch'd Border lance by knee; Through Solway sands, through Tarras
lindfold, he knew the paths to cross; ly wily turns, by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds; n Eske or Liddel, fords were none, But he would ride them, one by one; Alke to him was time or tide, December's snow, or July's pride; Alike to him was tide or time, Moonless midnight, or matin prime: steady of heart, and stout of hand, is ever drove prey from Cumberland; five times outlawed had he been, By England's King, and Scotland's Queen.
Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile
Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the Father well from me;
Say that the fated hour is come, And to-night he shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb : For this will be St. Michael's night, And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the Cross, of bloody red, Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.
Soon 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 Peelt 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;
Behind him soon they set in night;
*Barbican, the defence of an outer gate of a feudal castle.
A 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 moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the
grove,
Ambition is no cure for love!
Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.
At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
* An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.
For he was barded from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
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 gained the landing place.
Now 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,
When first the Scott and Carr were foes;
When royal James beheld the fray,
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
Reck'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.
In 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.
HERE paused the harp; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell ;
Barded, or barbed,-applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour.
An ancient seat of the Kerrs of Cessford, now demolished.
Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic Church.
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd to seek, in every eye,
If they approved his minstrelsy;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age, and wand'ring long,
Had done his hand and harp some wrong.
The Duchess and her daughters fair,
And every gentle lady there,
Each after each, in due degree,
Gave praises to his melody;
His hand was true, his voice was clear,
And much they longed the rest to hear,
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,
After meet rest, again began.
A 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 moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could
spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the
grove,
Ambition is no cure for love!
Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.
At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
* An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.
For he was barded* from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
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 gained the landing place.
Now 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,
When first the Scott and Carr were foes;
When royal James beheld the fray,
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
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.
In 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.
HERE paused the harp; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell;
Barded, or barbed,-applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour.
An ancient seat of the Kerrs of Cessford, now demolished.
Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholie Church.
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