While with surprise and fear she strove, And both could scarcely master love, Lord Henry 's at her feet. XIII. Oft have I mus'd what purpose bad To bring this meeting round; In such no joy is found; And oft I've deem'd perchance he thought Their erring passion might have wrought Sorrow, and sin, and shame; And to the gentle ladye bright To man alone beneath the heaven: Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; It liveth not in fierce desire, With dead desire it doth not die; It is the secret sympathy, In body and in soul can bind. Now leave we Margaret and her Knight, To tell you of the approaching fight. XIV. Their warning blasts the bugles blew, The pipe's shrill port arous'd each clan; In haste, the deadly strife to view, The trooping warriors eager ran : Thick round the lists their lances stood, Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood; To Branksome many a look they threw, The combatants' approach to view, And bandied many a word of boast About the knight each favour'd most. XV. Meantime full anxious was the Dame; For now arose disputed claim Of who should fight for Deloraine, 'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestaine They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, And frowning brow on brow was bent; But yet not long the strife--for, lo! Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, Strong, as it seem'd, and free from pain, In armour sheath'd from top to toe, Appear'd and crav'd the combat due. The Dame her charm successful knew, And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. XVI. When for the lists they sought the plain, The stately Ladye's silken rein Did noble Howard hold; Of feats of arms of old. His hose with silver twin'd; still Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will, So much he long'd to see the fight. Within the lists, in knightly pride, High Home and haughty Dacre ride; Their leading staffs of steel they wield As marshals of the mortal field; While to each knight their care assign'd Like vantage of the sun and wind. Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim, In King and Queen and Warden's name, That none, while lasts the strife, Should dare, by look, or sign, or word, Aid to a champion to afford, On peril of his life; And not a breath the silence broke, Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke : XIX. ENGLISH HERALD. 'Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, Good knight and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave, For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. He sayeth that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws; This with his sword he will maintain, So help him God, and his good cause!' XX. SCOTTISH HERALD. 'Here standeth William of Deloraine, Good knight and true, of noble strain, Who sayeth that foul treason's stain, Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his coat; And that, so help him God above! He will on Musgrave's body prove, He lies most foully in his throat.' LORD DACRE. Forward, brave champions, to the fight! Sound trumpets!' LORD HOME. But, were each dame a listening Unheard he prays; the death pang's knight, I well could tell how warriors fight! For I have seen war's lightning flashing, Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing, And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife, To yield a step for death or life. XXII. 'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain; He strives to rise-brave Musgrave, no! Thence never shalt thou rise again! He chokes in blood! some friendly hand Undo the visor's barred band, XXIII. In haste the holy Friar sped; He rais'd the dying man; And still the crucifix on high He holds before his darkening eye; And still he bends an anxious car His faltering penitence to hear; Still props him from the bloody sod, Still, even when soul and body part, Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, And bids him trust in God o'er ! Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. XXIV. As if exhausted in the fight, Or musing o'er the piteous sight, His beaver did he not unclasp, Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp Of gratulating hands. When lo strange cries of wild surprise, Mingled with seeming terror, rise Among the Scottish bands; And all, amid the throng'd array, In panic haste gave open way To a half-naked ghastly man Who downward from the castle ran : He cross'd the barriers at a bound, And wild and haggard look'd around, As dizzy, and in pain; And all, upon the armed ground, Knew William of Deloraine ! Each ladye sprung from seat with speed; Vaulted each marshal from his steed; 'And who art thou,' they cried, 'Who hast this battle fought and won?' His plumed helm was soon undone— 'Cranstoun of Teviot-side! For this fair prize I've fought and won; ' And to the Ladye led her son. XXV. Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd, And often press'd him to her breast; For, under all her dauntless show, Her heart had throbb'd at every blow; Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, Though low he kneeled at her feet. In raids he spilt but seldom blood, Unless when men-at-arms withstood, Or, as was meet, for deadly feud. He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe: And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now, So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band Were bowning back to Cumberland. And laid him on his bloody shield; When on dead Musgrave he❘ By turns, the noble burden bore. look'd down; Grief darken'd on his rugged brow, Though half disguised with a frown; And thus, while sorrow bent his head, His foeman's epitaph he made. XXIX. 'Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here! I ween, my deadly enemy; For, if I slew thy brother dear, Thou slew'st a sister's son to me; And when I lay in dungeon dark Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till ransom'd for a thousand mark, Dark Musgrave, it was 'long of thee. And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried, And thou wert now alive, as I, No mortal man should us divide, Till one, or both of us, did die : Yet, rest thee God! for well I know I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. In all the northern counties here, Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, Thou wert the best to follow gear! 'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind, To see how thou the chase could'st wind, Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, And with the bugle rouse the fray! I'd give the lands of Deloraine, Dark Musgrave were alive again.' the song, The mimic march of death prolong; Now seems it far, and now a-near, Now meets, and now eludes the ear; Now seems some mountain side to sweep, Now faintly dies in valley deep; Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, Now the sad requiem, loads the gale; Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, Rung the full choir in choral stave. After due pause, they bade him tell, Why he, who touch'd the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous Southern land Would well requite his skilful hand. |