Helaid his left palm on an oaken beam, For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, His right upon her hand

From pleasure's lighter scenes, The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

canst turn, For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. To draw oblivion's pall aside,

And mark the long-forgotten urn. The sable score of fingers four Remains on that board impress'd;

Then, noble maid! at thy command, And for evermore that lady wore

Again the crumbled halls shall rise;

Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand, A covering on her wrist.

The past returns—the present flies.

Where with the rock's wood cover'd There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,

side Ne'er looks upon the sun;

Were blended late the ruins green, There is a monk in Melrose tower,

Rise turrets in fantastic pride, He speaketh word to none;

And feudal banners flaunt between. That nun who ne'er beholds the day, Where the rude torrent's brawling

That monk who speaks to noneThat nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, Was shagg'd with thorn and tangThat monk the bold Baron.

ling sloe, The ashler buttress braves its force,

And ramparts frown in’battled row. 'Tis night: the shade of keep and spire

Obscurely dance on Evan's stream; CADYOW CASTLE.

And on the wave the warder's fire

Is chequering the moonlight beam.

Fades slow theirlight—the east is grey; LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

The weary warder leaves his tower;

Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds WHEN princely Hamilton's abode

bay, Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, And merry hunters quit the bower. The song went round, thegoblet flow'd. The drawbridge falls—they hurry And revel sped the laughing hours.

· out

Clatters each plank and swinging Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,

chain, And echoed light the dancer's bound, As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout As mirth and music cheer'd the hall.

Urge the shy steed, and slack the

rein. But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,

First of his troop the Chief' rode on; And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er, His shouting merry-men throng Thrill to the music of the shade,

behind; Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.

The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind. Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame You bid me tell a minstrel tale,

1 The head of the family of Ilamilton, at this period,

was James, Earl of Arran, Duke of Chatelherault in And tune my harp of Border frame France, and first peer of the Scottish realm. In 1560 On the wild banks of Evandale.

he was appointed by Queen Mary her lieutenant. general in Scotland.



From the thick copse the roebucks Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his bound,

place, The startled red-deer scuds the Still wontourwealand woe to share! plain,

Why comes he not our sport to grace? For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound Why shares he not our hunter's Has roused their mountain haunts

fare?' again.

Stern Claud replied with darkening Through the huge oaks of Evandale,

face Whose limbs a thousand years have (Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he worn,

* At merry feast or buxom chase What sullen roar comes down the No more the warrior wilt thou see,

gale And drowns the hunter's pealing ‘Few suns have set since Woodhousehorn?


Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets Mightiest of all the beasts of chase

foam, That roam in woody Caledon, When to his hearths in social glee Crashing the forest in his race,

The war-worn soldier turn'd him The Mountain Bull comes thunder

home. ing on.

•There, wan from her maternal throes, Fierce on the hunter's quiver'd band His Margaret, beautiful and mild,

He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, Spurns with black hoof and horn the And peaceful nursed her new-born sand,

child. And tosses high his mane of snow.

"O change accursed ! past are those Aim'd well the Chieftain's lance has

days; flown

False Murray's ruthless spoilers Struggling in blood the savage lies;

came, His roar is sunk in hollow groan And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, Sound, merry huntsmen! sound Ascends destruction's volumed


the pryse.

'Tis noon: against the knotted oak

The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender

smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland


• Whatsheeted phantom wanders wild, Where mountain Eske through

woodland flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy child

Oh! is it she, the pallid rose ?

Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan,
On greenwood lap all careless

Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man

That bore the name of Hamilton.

• The wilder'd traveller sees her glide,

And hears her feeble voice with awe;

,” she cries, “ on Murray's
And woe for injured Bothwell-


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He ceased; and cries of rage and grief With hackbut bent, my secret stand, Burst mingling from the kindred Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, band,

And mark'd where, mingling in his And half arose the kindling Chief,

And halfunsheathed his Arranbrand. Troop'd Scottish pikes and English

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and

• Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Rides headlong, with resistless Murder's foul minion, led the van; speed,

And clash'd their broadswords in the Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke

Drives to the leap his jaded steed, The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs Glencairn and stout Parkhead were glare,

nigh, As one some vision's sight that saw, Obsequious at their Regent's rein, Whose hands are bloody, loose his And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, hair?

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.

''Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, From gory selle, and reeling steed,

Proud Murray's plumage floated Sprung the fierce horseman with a

high; bound,

Scarce could his trampling charger And, reeking from the recent deed,

move, He dash'd his carbine on the ground.

So close the minions crowded nigh.
Sternly he spoke : ''Tis sweet to hear From the raised vizor's shade, his eye

In good greenwood the bugle blown,
But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

Dark-rolling glanced theranksalong,
To drink a tyrant's dying groan.

And his steel truncheon, waved on

high, “Your slaughter'd quarry proudly

Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. trode, At dawning morn, o'er dale and

'But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd down,

A passing shade of doubt and awe; But prouder base-born Murray rode

Some fiend was whispering in his Through old Linlithgow's crowded

breast; town.

“ Beware of injured Bothwell

From the wild Border's humbled side,
In haughty triumph marched he,

The death-shot parts! the charger
While Knox relax'd his bigot pride

springs, And smiled the traitorous pomp to

Wild rises tumult's startling roar, And Murray's plumy helmet rings

Rings on the ground, to rise no more. 'But can stern Power, with all his vaunt,

“What joy the raptured youth can feel Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare,

To hear her love the loved one tell!
The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,

Or he who broaches on his steel
Or change the purpose of Despair ? The wolf by whom his infant fell !


*But dearer to my injured eye

To see in dust proud Murray roll ; And mine was ten times trebled joy,

To hear him groan his felon soul.


• My Margaret's spectre glided near,

With pride her bleeding victim saw, And shriek'd in his death-deafen'd ear

Rememberinjured Bothwellhaugh!”

The Pope he was saying the high,

high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day,
With the power to him given, by the

saints in heaven,
To wash men's sins away.

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. Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault The Pope he was saying the blessed Spread to the wind thy banner'd

mass, tree!

And the people kneeld around, Each warrior bend his Clydesdale And from each man's soul his sins did bow!

pass, Murray is fall’n, and Scotland As he kiss'd the holy ground. free!

And all, among the crowded throng, Vaults every warrior to his steed; Was still, both limb and tongue,

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim: While, through vaulted roof and aisles
Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed ! aloof,
Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,
But, see! the minstrel vision fails And falter'd in the sound,
The glimmering spears are seen no And, when he would the chalice rear,

He dropp'd it to the ground.
The shouts of war die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. • The breath of one of evil deed

Pollutes our sacred day;
For the loud bugle, pealing high, He has no portion in our creed,
The blackbird whistles down the

No part in what I say.
And sunk in ivied ruins lie

A being, whom no blessed word The banner'd towers of Evandale, To ghostly peace can bring ;

A wretch, at whose approach abhorr’d, For Chiefs, intent on bloody deed, Recoils each holy thing. And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain,

• Up, up, unhappy ! haste, arise ! Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed, My adjuration fear! Or graceful guides the silken rein. 'I charge thee not to stop my voice,

Nor longer tarry here!'
Andlong may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids who list the ininstrel's Amid them all a pilgrim kneelid,

In gown of sackcloth grey ;
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known Far journeying from his native field,
On the fair banks of Evandale !

He first saw Rome that day.


For forty days and nights so drear, Who knows not Melville's beechy I ween he had not spoke,

grove, And, save with bread and water clear, And Roslin's rocky glen, His fast he ne'er had broke.

Dalkeith which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden ? Amid the penitential flock,

Yet never a path, from day to day, Seem'd none more bent to pray;

The pilgrim's footsteps range, But, when the Holy Father spoke,

Save by the solitary way He rose and went his way.

To Burndale's ruin'd grange. Again unto his native land

A woful place was that, I ween, His weary course he drew,

As sorrow could desire; To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, For nodding to the fall was each And Pentland's mountains blue.

crumbling wall,

And the roof was scathed with fire. His unblest feet his native seat, 'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;

It fell upon a summer's eve,

While, on Carnethy's head, Thro'woods more fair no stream more

The last faint gleams of the sun's low sweet

beams Rolls to the eastern main.

Had streak'd the grey with red; And lords to meet the pilgrim came, And the convent bell did vespers tell And vassals bent the knee; .

Newbattle's oaks among, For all ʼmid Scotland's chiefs of fame, And mingled with the solemn knell Was none more famed than he.

Our Ladye's evening song: And boldly for his country still

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, In battle he had stood,

Came slowly down the wind, Ay, even when on the banks of Till And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, Her noblest pour d their blood.

As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet,

Nor ever raised his eye, By Eske's fair streams that run,

Until he came to that dreary place, O'er airy steep, through copsewood

Which did all in ruins lie. deep, Impervious to the sun;

He gazed on the walls so scathed

with fire, There the rapt poet's step may rove With many a bitter groanAnd yield the muse the day,

And there was aware of a Gray Friar, There Beauty led by timid Love

Resting him on a stone. May shun the tell-tale ray,—

“Now, Christ thee save!' said the From that fair dome where suit is paid Gray Brother; By blast of bugle free,

"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be.' To Auchendinny's hazel glade

Butin sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, And haunted Woodhouselee.

Nor answer again made he.

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