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 On foaming steed, in full career, Should shiver in the course : But he, the jovial Harper, taught 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 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 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, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn That love, true love, should be forgot, 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, His place, his power, his memory die: And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar, And Hepburn's mingled banners come, By mutual inroads, mutual blows, Down the steep mountain glittering Without a threat, without a frown, 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 And how the Ladye pray'd them That all would stay the fight to see, To taste of Branksome cheer. Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, Were England's noble Lords forgot. Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 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, Had dyed with gore the green : 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, Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran, 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, All in her lonely bower apart, In broken sleep she lay : Betimes from silken couch she rose; 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 For all the vassalage : But O! what magic's quaint disguise Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes! She started from her seat; C |