In broken sleep she lay :

By times, from silken couch she rose;
While yet the bannered hosts repose,
She viewed the dawning day:

Of all the hundreds sunk to rest,

First woke the loveliest and the best.

XI.

She gazed upon the inner court,

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay;

Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort, Had rung the live-long yesterday;

Now still as death; till, stalking slow,

The jingling spurs announced his tread,—

A stately warrior passed below;

But when he raised his plumed head

Blessed Mary! can it be?—

Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

He walks through Branksome's hostile towers,

With fearless step and free.

She dared not sign, she dared 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.

Unchallenged, thus, the warder's post,

The court, unchallenged, thus he crossed,

For all the vassalage:

But, O! what magic's quaint disguise

Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes !

She started from her seat;

While with surprise and fear she strove,

And both could scarcely master love—

Lord Henry's at her feet.

XIII.

Oft have I mused, what purpose bad

That foul malicious urchin had

To bring this meeting round;

For happy love's a heavenly sight,

And by a vile malignant sprite

In such no joy is found;

And oft I've deemed, perchance he thought

Their erring passion might have wrought

Sorrow, and sin, and shame;

And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, And to the gentle Ladye bright,

Disgrace, and loss of fame.

But earthly spirit could not tell

The heart of them that loved so well.

True love's the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven.

It is not fantasy's hot fire,

Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

With dead desire it doth not die;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,

In body and in soul can bind.

Now leave we Margaret and her Knight,

To tell you of the approaching fight.

XIV.

Their warning blast the bugles blew,

The pipe's shrill port* aroused 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 Ettricke wood;

* A martial piece of music, adapted to the bagpipes.

To Branksome many a look they threw,

The combatants' approach to view,

And bandied many a word of boast,

About the knight each favoured 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 seemed, and free from pain, In armour sheathed from top to toe, Appeared, and craved the combat due. The Dame her charm successful knew,*

And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

* See p. 90. Stanza XXIII.