CANTO FIRST.

I.

THE feast was over in Branksome Tower,
And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower;
Her bower, that was guarded by word and by
spell,

Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell-
Jesu Maria, shield us well!

No living wight, save the Ladye alone.
Had dared to cross the threshold stone.

II.

The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; Knight, and page, and household squire, Loitered through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire. The stag-hounds, weary with the chase, Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race, From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.

III

VII.

Such is the custom of Branksome Hall.-
Many a valiant knight is here;

But he, the Chieftain of them all,
His sword hangs rusting on the wall,
Beside his broken spear.

Bards long shall tell

How Lord Walter fell!

When startled burghers fled, afar,
The furies of the Border war;
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden,
And heard the slogan's* deadly yell-
Then the chief of Branksome fell.

VIII.

Can piety the discord heal,

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love of blessed charity?
No! vainly to each holy shrine,

In mutual pilgrimage, they drew ;
Implored, in vain, the grace divine,

For chiefs their owns red falchions slew: While Cessford owns the rule of Car,

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughter'd chiofs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war,

Shall never, never be forgot!

IX.

In sorrow, o'er Lord Walter's bier,
The warlike foresters had bent;
And many a flower, and many a tear,

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent:
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier
The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear!
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,
Had locked the source of softer woe;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow,
Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisped from the nurse's knee"And, if I live to be a man,

My father's death revenged shall be !" Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X.

All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair,

Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, And wept in wild despair.

But not alone the bitter tear

Had filial grief supplied;

For hopeless love and anxious fear
Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother's altered eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,
With Car in arms had stood,
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran,
All purple with their blood.

And well she knew, her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.

*The war-cry, or gathering-word, of a Border clan.

And of his skill, as bards avow,
He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.

And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,

That moans the mossy turrets round.

Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,

That chafes against the scaur's* red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks?

Is it the echo from the rocks?

What may it be, the heavy sound,

That moans old Branksome's turrets round?

The Northern Bear lowers black and grim;
Orion's studded belt is dim;
Twinkling faint, and distant far,
Shimmers through mist each planet star;
Ill may I read their high decree:

But no kind influence deign they shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,
Till pride be quelled, and love be free."
XVIII.

The unearthly voices ceast,

And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast,

It died on the side of the hill.
But round Lord David's tower
The sound still floated near;

For it rung in the Ladye's bower,
And it rung in the Ladye's ear."

She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbbed high with pride: Your mountains shall bend,

And your streams ascend,

Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!"

XIX.

The Ladye sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer lay.
And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play.

A fancied moss-trooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall, right merrily,
In mimic foray* rode.

Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,
Share in his frolic-gambols bore,
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould,
Were stubborn as the steel they wore.
For the gray warriors prophesied,
How the brave boy, in future war,
Should tame the Unicorn's pride,

Exalt the Crescents and the Star.t

XX.

The Ladye forgot her purpose high
One moment, and no more;
One moment gazed with a mother's eye
As she paused at the arched door;
Then, from amid the armed train,
She called to her William of Deloraine.

XXI.

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he
As e'er couched border lance by knee:
Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
Blindfold, he knew the path to cross:
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds;
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide, or time,
Moonless midnight, or matin prime:
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's king, and Scotland's queen.

XXII.

"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the whitest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile

Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the father well from me;

Say, that the fated hour is come, And to-night he shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb :

*Foray, a predatory inroad.

† Alluding to the armorial bearings of the Scotts and Cars.

For this will be St. Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the Cross, of bloody red,

Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.

XXIII.

"What he gives thee, see thou keep; Stay not thou for food or sleep:

Be it scroll, or be it book,

Into it, knight, thou must not look; If thou readest, thou art lorn!

Better had'st thou ne'er been born."

XXIV.

"O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear;

Ere break of day," the warrior 'gan say, "Again will I be here:

And safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, noble dame, by me;

Letter nor line know I never a one,

Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee."*

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steed descent he past,
Soon crossed the sounding barbican,†
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode;
Green hazels o'r his basnet nod;
He passed the Peelt of Godiland,

And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he viewed the Moat-hill's mound,
Where Druid shades still flitted round:
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon he spurred his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark:-
"Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."
"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoined,
And left the friendly tower behind.

He turned him now from Teviotside,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,
And gained the moor at Horseliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman way.§

XXVII.

A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosened in his sheath his brand,
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlawed limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle-eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love.

*Hairibee, the place of executing the Border manraders at Carlisle. The neck-verse is the beginning of Psalm LI, Meserere mei, &c., anciently read by criminals, claiming the benefit of clergy.

+ Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of a feudal castle.

Peel, a Border tower.

§ An ancient Roman road, crossed through part of Roxburghshire.

XXVIII.

Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine
To ancient Riddel's fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come:
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chesnut steed.
In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.
XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
For he was barded from counter to tail,
And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
Stemmed a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say,
Was daggled by the dashing spray;

Yet, through good heart, and our Ladye's grace,
At length he gained the landing-place.

XXX.

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,
And sternly shook his plumed head,
As glanced his eye on Halidon;t
For on his soul the slaughter red

Of that unhallowed morn arose,
When first the Scott and Car were foes;
When royal James beheld the fray,
Prize to the victor of the day;

When Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear
Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

In bitter mood he spurred fast,
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan,
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran:
Like some tall rock, with lichens gray,
Seemed, dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he passed, had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.
The sound upon the fitful gale,

In solemn wise did rise and fail,

Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

Is wakened by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all;

He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

And sought the convent's lonely wall.

Here paused the harp; and with its swell
The Master's fire and courage fell:
Dejectedly, and low, he bowed,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seemed to seek in every eye
If they approved his minstrelsy;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age, and wandering long,
Had done his harp and hand some wrong.

The Duchess, and her daughters fair,
And every gentle ladye there,
Each after each, in due degree,
Gave praises to his melody;

His hand was true, his voice was clear,
And much they longed the rest to hear.
Encouraged thus, the aged man,
After meet rest, again began.

*Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour.

+ Halidon Hill, on which the battle of the same name was fought in 1333.

Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic Church.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray,

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave.

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

II.

Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little recked he of the scene so fair.
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate-

Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late ?"
"From Branksome I," the warrior cried;
And straight the wicket opened wide:
For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose;
And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod;
The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,*

To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

IV.

"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me;
Says, that the fated hour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb."

From sackcloth couch the monk arose,
With toil his stiffened limbs he reared;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.

V.

And strangely on the Knight looked he,

And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide,And, dar'st thou, warrior! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide!

My breast, in belt of iron bent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn; For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.
Would'st thou thy every future year

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear-
Then, daring warrior, follow me!"

VI,

"Penance, father, will I none;
Prayer know I hardly one;

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
When I ride on a Border foray:

Other prayer can I none;

So speed me my errand, and let me begone."

* Aventayle, visor of the helmet.

VII.

Again on the Knight looked the Churchman old,
And again he sighed heavily;

For he had himself been a warrior bold,
And fought in Spain and Italy.

And he thought on the days that were long since by,

When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high:

Now, slow and faint, he led the way,
Where, cloistered round, the garden lay;

The pillared arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the
dead.

VIII.

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,
Glistened with the dew of night;

Nor herb nor floweret glistened there,
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.
The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light.

IX.

By a steel-clenched postern door,
They entered now the chancel tall;
The darkened roof rose high aloof

On pillars, lofty, and light, and small;
The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ;

The corbells* were carved grotesque and grim;
And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,
Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had
bound.

X.

Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven,
Shook to the cold night wind of heaven.
Around the screened altar's pale;
And there the dying lamps did burn,
Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant chief of Otterburne,

And thine, dark Knight of Liddisdale! O fading honours of the dead!

O high ambition, lowly laid!

XI.

The moon on the cast oriel shone,
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,

In many a freakish knot, had twined;
Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Showed many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed:
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the apostate's pride,
The moon-beam kissed the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain,

XII.

They sate them down on a marble stone,
A Scottish monarch slept below;
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone:---
"I was not always a man of woe;

* Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.