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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 Teviotside! For this fair prize I've fought and won: And to the ladye led her son.

But well she thought, ere midnight came,
Of that strange page the pride to tame,
From his foul hands the book to save,
And send it back to Michael's grave.
Needs not to tell each tender word
'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's lord ;
Now how she told of former woes,
And how her bosom fell and rose,
While he and Musgrave bandied blows.-
Needs not these lovers' joys to tell ;
One day, fair maids, you'll know them well.


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. Me list not tell what words were made, What Douglas, Home, and Howard said

-For Howard was a generous foeAnd how the clan united pray'd,

The ladye would the feud forego, And deign to bless the nuptial hour Of Cranstoun's lord and Teviot's flower.

William of Deloraine, some chance
Had waken'd from his deathlike trance ;

And taught that, in the listed plain,
Another, in his arms and shield,
Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield,

Under the name of Deloraine.
Hence, to the field, unarm'd, he ran,
And hence his presence scared the clan,
Who held him for some fleeting wraith,*
And not a man of blood and breath.

Not much this new ally he loved,
Yet, when he saw what hap had proved,

He greeted him right heartilie:
He would not waken old debate,
For he was void of rancorous hate,

Though rude, and scant of courtesy.
In raids he spilt but seldorn 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,

When on dead Musgrave he look'd down;
Grief darkend on his rugged brow,

Though half disguised with a frown; And thus, while sorrow bent his head, His foeman's epitaph he made.


She look'd to river, look'd to hill,

Thought on the spirit's prophesy,
Then broke her silence stern and still,

“ Not you, but fate, has vanquish'd me; Their influence kindly stars may shower On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,

For pride is quell'd, and love is free.” She took fair Margaret by the hand, Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand;

That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave she:-
“ As I am true to thee and thine,
Do thou be true to me and mine!

This clasp of love our bond shall be,
For this is your betrothing day,
And all these noble lords shall stay,

To grace it with their company.

XXIX. “Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy; For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slewest 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 snafle, spur, and speart Thou wert the best to follow gear. 'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind, To see how thou the chase couldst wind,

XXVII. All as they left the listed plain, Much of the story she did gain : How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, And of his page, and of the book Which from the wounded knight he took ; And how he sought her castle high, That morn by help of gramarye ; How, in Sir William's armour dight, Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, He took on him the single fight. But half his tale he left unsaid, And linger'd till he join'd the maid. Cared not the ladye to betray Her mystic arts in view of day;

* The spectral apparition of a living person. + The lands that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, ine snafle, spur, and spear.

Poly-Albion, song xiii.

Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way,

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, And with the bugle rouse the fray!

Unwert, unhonour'd, and unsung.
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again.”—


O Caledonia ! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child !
So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Were bowning back to Cumberland.

Land of the mountain and the flood, They raised brave Musgrave from the field, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand And laid him on his bloody shield ;

Can e'er untie the filial band, On levell’d lances four and four,

That knits me to thy rugged strand ! By turns, the noble burden bore.

Still, as I view each well known scene, Before, at times, upon the gale,

Think what is now, and what hath been, Was heard the minstrel's plaintive wail;

Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Behind, four priests, in sable stole,

Sole friends thy woods and streams are left, Sung requiem for the warrior's soul:

And thus I love them better still, Around, the horsemen slowly rode;

Even in extremity of ill. With trailing pikes the snearmen trode ;

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, And thus the gallant knight they bore,

Though none should guide iny feeble way; Through Liddesdale, to Leven's shore ;

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Thence to Holme Coltrame's losty nave,

Although it chill my wither'd cheek; And laid him in his father's grave.

Still lay my head by Teviot's stone,

Though there, forgotten and alone, The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the song,

The bard may draw his parting groan.
The mimic march of death prolong;

Now seems it far, and now anear,
Now meets, and now eludes the ear;

Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome Hall Now seems some mountain side to sweep,

The minstrels came, at festive call : Now faintly dies in valley deep;

Trooping they came, from near and far, Seems now as if the minstrel's wail,

The jovial priests of mirth and war; Now the sad requiem loads the gale:

Alike for feast and fight prepared, Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,

Battle and banquet both they shared. Rung the full choir in choral stave.

Of late, before each martial clan, After due pause, they bade him tell,

They blew their death-note in the van, Why he who touch'd the harp so well,

But now, for every merry mate, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil,

Rose the portcullis’ iron grate; Wander a poor and thankless soil,

They sound the pipe, they strike the string, When the more generous southern land

They dance, they revel, and they sing, Would well requite his skilful hand.

Till the rude turrets shake and ring. The aged harper, howsoe'er

IV. His only friend, his harp, was dear,

Me lists not at this tide declare Liked not to hear it rank'd so high

The splendour of the spousal rite, Above his flowing poesy ;

How muster'd in the chapel fair Less liked he still that scornful jeer

Both maid and matron, squire and knight; Misprized the land he loved so dear;

Me lists not tell of owches rare, High was the sound, as thus again

Of mantles green, and braided hair, The bard resumed his minstrel strain.

And kirtles furr'd with miniver;

Wbat plumage waved the altar round,
Canto Vi.

How spurs, and ringing chainlets sound:

And hard it were for bard to speak

The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek; BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,

That lovely hue which comes and flies,
Who never to himself hath said,

As awe and shame alternate rise.
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,

v. As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

Some bards have sung, the ladye high
From wandering on a foreign strand ?

Chapel or altar came not nigh;
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
For him no minstrel's raptures swell;

So much she fear'd each holy place.
High though his titles, proud his name,

False slanders these ;-I trust right well, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

She wrought not by forbidden spell; Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

For mighty words and signs have power The wretch, concentred all in self,

O’er sprites in planetary hour: Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

Yet scarce I praise their venturous part, And, doubly dying, shall go down

Who tamper with such dangerous art:

But this for faithful truth I say,

The ladye by the altar stood,
Of sable velvet her array,

And on her head a crimson hood,
With pearls embroider'd and entwined,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined ;
A merlin sat upon her wrist,
Held by a leash of silken twist.

VI. The spousal rites were ended soon: 'Twas now the merry of noon, And in the lofty arched hall Was spread the gorgeous festival. Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Marshall'd the rank of every guest; Pages, with ready blade, were there, The mighty meal to carve and share: O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane, And princely peacock's gilded train, And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, And cygnet from St. Mary's wave; O'er ptarmigan and venison, The priest had spoke his benison; Then rose the riot and the din, Above, beneath, without, within ! For, from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery ; Their changing bowls old warriors quaff’d, Loudly they spoke, and loudly laughd; Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild, To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam, The clamour join'd, with whistling scream, And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells, In concert with the staghounds' yells. Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine, Their tasks the busy sewers ply, And all is mirth and revelry.

But ever from that time, 'twas said,
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery,
Where many a yeoman,

bold and free,
Revell d as merrily and well
As those that sat in lordly selle.
Wat Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-braes ;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merrry men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
“ A deep carouse to yon fair bride!"
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foam'd forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale,
While shout the riders every one,
Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan,
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,
When in the cleuch the buck was ta’en.

The wily page, with vengeful thought,

Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew,
And swore,

it should be dearly bought, That ever he the arrow drew. First, he the yeoman did molest, With bitter gibe and taunting jest; Told how he fled at Solway strife, And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife: Then, shunning still his powerful arm, At unawares he wrought him harm; From trencher stole his choicest cheer, Dash'd from his lips his can of beer; Then, to his knee sly creeping on, With bodkin pierced him to the bone; The venom'd wound, and festering joint, Long after rued that bodkin's point. The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd, And board and flagons overturn'd, Riot and clamour wild began; Back to the hall the urchin ran; Took in a darkling nook his post, And grinn'd, and mutter'd, “ Lost! lost! lost!”


VII. The goblin page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy ; Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, And now in humour highly crossid, About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthil ; A hot and haughty Rutherford, Whom men call’a Dickon Draw-the-sword. He took it on the page's saye, Hunthil had driven these steeds away. Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose: Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit bis glove and shook his head. A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd in blood, His bosom gored with many a wound, Was by a woodman's lyme-dog sound; Unknown the manner of his death, Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath ;

By this, the dame, lest farther fray
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the minstrels tune their lay.
And first stept forth old Albert Græme,
The minstrel of that ancient name:
Was none who struck the harp so well,
Within the Land Debateable;
Well friended, too, his hardy kin,
Whoever lost were sure to win ;
They sought the beeves, that made their brotn,
In Scotland and in England both.
In homely guise, as nature bade,
His simple song the Borderer said.



It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall.)

And she would marry a Scottish knight,

For love will still be lord of all. Blithly they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall, But they were sad ere day was done,

Though love was still the lord of all; Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall: Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

For ire that love was lord of all.
For she had lands, both meadow and lea,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he swore her death, ere he would see

A Scottish knight the lord of all!

When Surrey of the deathless lay,

Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ! Regardless of the tyrant's frown, His harp called wrath and vengeance down. He left, for Naworth's iron towers, Windsor's green glades, and courtly bowers, And, fåithful to his patron's name, With Howard still Fitztraver came; Lord William's foremost favourite he, And chief of all his minstrelsy.



That wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,

For love was still the lord of all.

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall; So perish all, would true love part,

That love may still be lord of all. And then he took the cross divine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he died for her sake in Palestine,

So love was still the lord of all. Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) Pray for their souls who died for love,

For love shall still be lord of all !

As ended Albert's simple lay,

Arose a bard of loftier port;
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay,

Renown'd in haughty Henry's court:
There rung thy harp unrivall’d long,
Fitztraver of the silver song!
The gentle Surrey loved his lyre-

Who has not heard of Surrey's fame? His was the hero's soul of fire,

And his, the bard's immortal name,
And his was love exalted high
By all the glow of chivalry.

'Twas All-soul's eve, and Surrey's heart beat high

He heard the midnight bell with anxious start, Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh,

When wise Cornelius promised, by his art, To show to him the ladye of his heart,

Albeit betwixt them roar'd the ocean grim; Yet so the sage had hight to play his part,

That he should see her form in life and limb, And mark, if still she loved, and still she thought of him.

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye,

To which the wizard led the gallant knight,
Save that before a mirror, huge and high,

A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering light On mystic implements of magic might;

On cross, and character, and talisman, And almagest, and altar,—nothing bright;

For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
As watch-light by the bed of some departing man.

But soon, within that mirror huge and high,

Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam ;
And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan spy,

Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream ; Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem

To form a lordly and a lofty room, Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom, And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.

Fair all the pageant—but how passing fair

The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind!
O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair,

Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined;
All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined,

And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine
Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul to find :-

That favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line, That fair and lovely form, the Ladye Geraldine.

Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely form,

And swept the goodly vision all away-
So royal envy roll’d the murky storm

O'er my beloved master's glorious day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay

On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,

They sought together, climes afar,

And oft within some olive grove,
When evening came, with twinkling star,

They sung of Surrey's absent love. His step th’Italian peasant stay'd,

And deem'd, that spirits from on high, Round where some hermit saint was laid,

Were breathing heavenly melody So sweet did harp and voice combine, To praise the name of Geraldine.

XV. Fitztraver! O what tongue may say

The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,

The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine, Rest thee in castle Ravensheuch, The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine ! Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

“ The blackening wave is edged with white;

To inch* and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the water sprite,

Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. “ Last night the gifted seer did view

A wet shroud swathe a ladye gay ; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch :

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?" “ 'Tis not because lord Lindesa y's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle hall. 66 'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide,

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.”

XXI. Both Scots, and Southern chiefs prolong Applauses of Fitztraver's song: These hated Henry's name as death, And those still held the ancient faith. Then, from his seat with lofty air, Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair; St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home Had with that lord to battle come. Harold was born where restless seas Howl round the storm-swept Orcades; Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ; Still nods their palace to its fall, Thy pride and sorrow fair Kirkwall! Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave, As if grim Odin rode her wave; And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale, And throbbing heart, the struggling sail; For all of wonderful and wild Had rapture for the lonely child.

XXII. And much of wild and wonderful In these rude isles mighty Fancy cull; For thither came, in times afar, Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, The Norseman, traind to spoil and blood, Skill'd to prepare the raven's food; Kings of the main their leaders brave, Their barks the dragons of the wave. And there in many a stormy vale, The scald had told his wondrous tale, And many a Runic column high Had witness'd grim idolatry. And thus had Harold, in bis youth, Learn'd many a saga's rhyme uncouth,Of that sea-snake tremendous curld, Whose monstrous circle girds the world : of those dread Maids; whose hideous yell Maddens the battle's bloody swell: Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom By the pale-death like of the tomb, Ransack'd the graves of warriors old, Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' hold, Waked the deaf tomb with war’s alarms, And bade the dead arise to arms! With war and wonder all on flame, To Roslin's bowers young Harold came, Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, He learn'd a milder minstrelsy ; Yet something of the northern spell Mix'd with the softer numbers well.

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen : 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire, that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie; Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheath'd in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale: Shone every pillar foliage bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle :
Each one the holy vault doth hold-

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.



So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,

A wondrous shade involved them all;
It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog;

Of no eclipse had sages told ;
And yet, as it came on a pace,

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. “ Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew !

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!

* Inch, Isle.

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