hus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone :"I was not always a man of woe; or Paynim countries I have trod, nd fought beneath the cross of God: ow, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,

nd their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

XIII

In these far climes it was my lot

o meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
A Wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,
Hm listed his magic wand to wave,
The bells would ring in Notre Dame!
Some of his skill he taught to me;
And, Warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of
stone.

But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.

With beating heart to the task he went ; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;

With bar of iron heaved amain,
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows,
like rain.

It was by dint of passing strength,
That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there, to see
How the light broke forth so gloriously.
Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like heaven's own blessed light,
And, issuing from the tomb,
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,

But the glare of the sepulchral light, Perchance, had dazzled the warriors sight.

XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb The night return'd in double gloom : For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;

And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, With wavering steps and dizzy brain, They hardly might the postern gain. 'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,

They heard strange noises on the blast:
And through the cloister-galleries smal'.
Which at mid-height thread the chance
wall,

Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,
And voices unlike the voice of man;
As if the fiends kept holiday,
Because these spells were brought to day
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The 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.

And 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.

Alas! 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.

Beneath 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 trode,

He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost!

lost!"

And, like tenis-ball by racket toss'd,

A leap, of thirty feet and three, Made from the gorse this elfin shape, Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd;

'Tis said that five good miles he rade, To rid him of his company;

But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four,

And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

XXXII.

Use lessens marvel, it is said:
This elfish Dwarf with the Baron staid:
Little he ate, and less he spoke,
Nor mingled with the menial flock :
And oft apart his arms he toss'd,
And often mutter'd "Lost! lost! lost!"

He was waspish, arch, and litherlie, But well Lord Cranstoun served he: And he of his service was full fain; For once he had been ta'en or slain,

An it had not been for his ministry. All between Home and Hermitage, Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page.

XXXIII.

For the Baron went on pilgrimage,
And took with him this elvish Page,
To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes:
For there, beside our Ladye's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,

And he would pay his vows. But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band

The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd; And he, embolden'd by the draught, Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd. The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul;

A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

AND said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither'd heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?—
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

II.

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

III.

So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, While, pondering deep the tender scene, He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green.

But the Page shouted wild and shrill, And scarce his helmet could he don, When downward from the shady hill A stately knight came pricking on. That warrior's steed, so dapple-grey, Was dark with sweat, and splash'd with clay;

His armour red with many a stain: He seem'd in such a weary plight, As if he had ridden the live-long night; For it was William of Deloraine.

IV.

But no whit weary did he seem, When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He mark'd the crane on the Baron's crest;

For his ready spear was in his rest. Few were the words, and stern and high,

That marked the foeman's feudal hate;

For question fierce, and proud reply, Gave signal soon of dire debate. Their very coursers seem'd to know That each was other's mortal foe, And snorted fire when wheel'd around, To give each knight his vantage-ground.

V.

In rapid round the Baron bent;

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer; The prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.
Stout Deloraine nor sighed nor pray'd,
Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid;
But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd
his spear,

And spurr'd his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI.

Stern was the dint the Borderer lent!
The stately Baron backwards bent;
Bent backwards to his horse's tail,
And his plumes went scattering on the
gale:

The tough ash spear, so stout and true,
Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's mail;

Through shield, and jack, and acton, past,
Deep in his bosom broke at last.-
Still sate the warrior, saddle-fast,
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock,
Down went the steed, the girthing broke,
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The Baron onward pass'd his course;
Nor knew-so giddy roll'd his brain—
His foe lay stretched upon the plain.

*The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion to their name, is a crane dormant, holding a stone in his foot, with an emphatic Border motto: Thou shalt want ere I want.