And you may guess the noble Dame Durst not the secret prescience

own,

Sprung from the art she might not

name,

By which the coming help was known.

Clos'd was the compact, and agreed That lists should be enclos'd with speed,

Beneath the castle, on a lawn: They fix'd the morrow for the strife, On foot, with Scottish axe and knife, At the fourth hour from peep of dawn;

When Deloraine, from sickness freed, Or else a champion in his stead, Should for himself and chieftain stand Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.

XXXIV.

I know right well, that, in their lay, Full many minstrels sing and say,

Such combat should be made on
horse,

On foaming steed, in full career,
With brand to aid, when as the spear

Should shiver in the course :

But he, the jovial Harper, taught
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought,
In guise which now I say;
He knew each ordinance and clause
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws,
In the old Douglas' day.
Hebrook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong,

Or call his song untrue:

For this, when they the goblet plied, And such rude taunt had chaf'd his pride,

The Bard of Reull he slew.

On Teviot's side, in fight they stood, And tuneful hands were stain'd with

blood;

Where still the thorn's white branches

wave,

Memorial o'er his rival's grave.

XXXV.

Why should I tell the rigid doom That dragg'd my master to his tomb; How Ousenam's maidens tore their

hair,

Wept till their eyes were dead and dim,

And wrung their hands for love of him,

Who died at Jedwood Air? He died!-his scholars, one by one, To the cold silent grave are gone; And I, alas! survive alone, To muse o'er rivalries of yore, And grieve that I shall hear no more The strains, with envy heard before; For, with my minstrel brethren fled, My jealousy of song is dead.

He paused the listening dames again
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain.
With many a word of kindly cheer,
In pity half, and half sincere,
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well
His legendary song could tell
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;
Of feuds, whose memory was not;
Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the
hare;

Of manners, long since chang'd and gone;

Of chiefs, who under their grey stone So long had slept, that fickle Fame Had blotted from her rolls their name, And twin'd round some new minion's head

The fading wreath for which they bled; In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's

verse

Could call them from their marble hearse.

The Harper smil'd, well-pleas'd;

for ne'er

Was flattery lost on poet's ear:

A simple race! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile;
E'en when in age their flame expires,
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires:
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,
And strives to trim the short-liv'd
blaze.

Smil'd then, well pleas'd, the aged

man,

And thus his tale continued ran.

Canto Fifth.

I.

CALL it not vain; they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies :
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his lov'd groves that breezes
sigh,

And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.

II.

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Liv'd in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her
lot,

That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the

tear

Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier :

The phantom Knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead;

Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,

And shrieks along the battle-plain. The Chief, whose antique crownlet long

Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now, from the mountain's misty throne,
Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguish'd lie,

His place, his power, his memory die:
His groans the lonely caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rill:
All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung,
Their name unknown, their praise un-
sung.

And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar,

And Hepburn's mingled banners

come,

far,

And shouting still, 'A Home! a

Home!'

V.

Now squire and knight, from Brank

some sent,

On many a courteous message went; To every chief and lord they paid Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid;

And told them,-how a truce was made,

And how a day of fight was ta'en
'Twixt Musgrave and stout Delo-
raine;

And how the Ladye pray'd them
dear,

That all would stay the fight to see,
And deign, in love and courtesy,

To taste of Branksome cheer. Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,

Were England's noble Lords forgot.
Himself, the hoary Seneschal

Rode forth, in seemly terms to call
Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall.
Accepted Howard, than whom knight
Was never dubb'd, more bold in fight;
Nor, when from war and armour free,
More fam'd for stately courtesy:
But angry Dacre rather chose
In his pavilion to repose.

VI.

Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask How these two hostile armies met? Deeming it were no easy task

To keep the truce which here was

set;

Where martial spirits, all on fire, Breathed only blood and mortal ire.

As brothers meet in foreign land: The hands the spear that lately grasp'd,

Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd,

Were interchang'd in greeting dear; Visors were raised, and faces shown, And many a friend, to friend made known,

Partook of social cheer.

Some drove the jolly bowl about; With dice and draughts some chas'd the day;

And some, with many a merry shout, In riot, revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play.

VII.

Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,
Or sign of war been seen,
Those bands so fair together rang'd,
Those hands, so frankly interchang'd,

Had dyed with gore the green :
The merry shout by Teviot-side
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,

And in the groan of death; And whingers, now in friendship bare The social meal to part and share,

Twixt truce and war, such sudden Had found a bloody sheath. change

Was not infrequent, nor held strange, In the old Border-day:

But yet on Branksome's towers and

town,

In peaceful merriment, sunk down The sun's declining ray.

VIII.

The blithsome signs of wassel gay Decay'd not with the dying day : Soon through the lattic'd windows

tall

Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall,

Divided square by shafts of stone,
Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone;
Nor less the gilded rafters rang
With merry harp and beakers' clang:
And frequent, on the darkening
plain,

Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,
As bands, their stragglers to regain,
Give the shrill watchword of their

clan;

And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim

Douglas or Dacre's conquering name.

IX.

Less frequent heard, and fainter still, At length the various clamours died:

And you might hear, from Branksome hill,

No sound but Teviot's rushing tide; Save when the changing sentinel The challenge of his watch could tell;

And save where, through the dark profound,

The clanging axe and hammer's

sound

Rung from the nether lawn; For many a busy hand toil'd there, Strong pales to shape, and beams to

square,

The lists' dread barriers to prepare Against the morrow's dawn.

X.

Margaret from hall did soon retreat,
Despite the Dame's reproving eye;
Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat,
Full many a stifled sigh;
For many a noble warrior strove
To win the Flower of Teviot's love,
And many a bold ally.
With throbbing head and anxious
heart,

All in her lonely bower apart,

In broken sleep she lay :

Betimes from silken couch she rose;
While yet the banner'd hosts repose,
She view'd the dawning day:
Of all the hundreds sunk to rest,
First woke the loveliest and the best.

XI.

She gaz'd upon the inner court,

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay;

Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort

Had rung the livelong yesterday; Now still as death; till stalking slowThe jingling spurs announc'd his tread

A stately warrior pass'd below; But when he rais'd his plumed head

Bless'd Mary! can it be? Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, He walks through Branksome's hostile towers

With fearless step and free. She dar'd not sign, she dar'd not speak

Oh! if one page's slumbers break,

His blood the price must pay ! Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, Not Margaret's yet more precious tears,

Shall buy his life a day.

XII.

Yet was his hazard small; for well
You may bethink you of the spell
Of that sly urchin page;
This to his lord he did impart,
And made him seem, by glamour art,
A knight from Hermitage.
Unchalleng'd thus, the warder's post,
The court, unchalleng'd, thus he
cross'd,

For all the vassalage :

But O! what magic's quaint disguise Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes! She started from her seat;

C