Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still Call'd noble Howard, belted Will.
Behind Lord Howard and the dame,
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,
Whose foot-cloth swept the ground;
White was her wimple and her veil,
And her loose locks a chaplet pale
Of whitest roses bound.
The lordly Angus, by her side,
In courtesy to cheer her tried;
Without his aid her hand in vain
Had strove to guide her broider'd rein.
He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror, all unguess'd,
Was fluttering in her gentle breast,
When, in their chair of crimson placed,
The dame and she the barriers graced.
XVIII.
Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch,
An English knight led forth to view;
Scarce rued the boy his present plight,
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,
And not a breath the silence broke,
Till thus the alternate heralds spoke :-
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!
Here stan eth 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.
Forward, brave champions to the fight! Sound trumpets !
Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang, When bugle sound, and trumpet clang
Let loose the martial foes,
And in 'mid list, with shield poised high, And measured step, and wary eye,
The combatants did close.
Ill would it suit your gentle ear,
Ye lovely listeners, to hear
How to the axe the helms did sound,
And blood pour'd down from many a wound;
For desperate was the strife and long,
And either warrior fierce and strong.
But, were each dame a listening 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.
'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, Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, And give him room for life to gasp! O, bootless aid!-Haste, holy friar, Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! Of all his guilt let him be shriven, And smooth his path from earth to heaven?
In haste the holy friar sped,-
His naked foot was died with red,
As through the lists he ran :
Unmindful of the shouts on high,
That hail'd the conqueror's victory,
He raised the dying man;
Loose waved his silver beard and hair,
As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer;
And still the crucifix on high
He holds before his darkening eye;
And still he bends an anxious ear,
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!
Unheard he prays;-the death-pang's o'er! Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.
As if exhausted in the fight,
Or musing o'er the piteous sight,
The silent victor stands: 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 Teviotside!
For this fair prize I've fought and won:"And to the ladye led her son.
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 foe-
And 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.
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.
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;
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.
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 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,
When on dead Musgrave he 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.
"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 spear,t
Thou wert the best to follow gear.
'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind,
To see how thou the chase couldst wind,
The spectral apparition of a living person. †The lands that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear. Poly-Albion, song xiii.
Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."—
So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band
Were bowning back to Cumberland.
They raised brave Musgrave from the field,
And laid him on his bloody shield;
On levell'd lances four and four,
By turns, the noble burden bore.
Before, at times, upon the gale,
Was heard the minstrel's plaintive wail;
Behind, four priests, in sable stole,
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul:
Around, the horsemen slowly rode;
With trailing pikes the earmen trode;
And thus the gallant knight they bore,
Through Liddesdale, to Leven's shore;
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave,
And laid him in his father's grave.
The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the song,
The mimic march of death prolong;
Now seems it far, and now anear,
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.
The aged harper, howsoe'er
His only friend, his harp, was dear,
Liked not to hear it rank'd so high
Above his flowing poesy;
Less liked he still that scornful jeer
Misprized the land he loved so dear;
High was the sound, as thus again
The bard resumed his minstrel strain.
BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel's raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,
That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Still, as I view each well known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams are left
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot's stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.
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.
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 laugh'd;
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.
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 cross'd,
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'd 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 his 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 found;
Unknown the manner of his death,
Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath;
But ever from that time, 'twas said,
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.
VIII.
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!"
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.
ALBERT GRÆME.
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!
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.
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.
Fitztraver! O what tongue may say The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,
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, faithful to his patron's name,
With Howard still Fitztraver came;
Lord William's foremost favourite he,
And chief of all his minstrelsy.
'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 awaySo 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,
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