of that sly urchin page;

This to his lord he did impart,

And made him seem, by glamour art,

A knight from Hermitage: Tallenged, thus, the warder's post,

court, unchallenged, thus he cross'd, For all the vassalage:

lut, 0! what magic's quaint disguise Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes! She started from her seat;

Whele with surprise and fear she strove, And both could scarcely master loveLord Henry's at her feet.

XIII.

Oft have I mused, what purpose bad
That vile 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 deem'd, 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;

has the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, body and in soul can bind.

Jew leave we Margaret and her knight, 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 Ettrick wood; To Branksome many a look they threw, The combatants' approach to view, And bandied many a word of boast, About the knight each favour'd most.

XV.

Heantime full anxious was the dame;
For now arose disputed claim,
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
Twist Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane;
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 seem'd, and free from pain,

A martial piece of music adapted to the bagpipes.

In armour sheath'd from top to toe, Appear'd, and craved the combat due. The dame her charm successful knew,' And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

XVI.

When for the lists they sought the plain,
The stately Ladye's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;
Unarmed by her side he walk'd,
And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd
Of feats of arms of old.

Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,
With satin slash'd and lined;
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,
His cloak was all of Poland fur;

His hose with silver twined:
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,
Hung in a broad and studded belt;
Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still
Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will.

XVII.

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 chairs 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,

On peril of his life;

And not a breath the silence broke, Till thus the alternate heralds spoke:

XIX.

ENGLISH HERALD.

Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,
Good knight and true, and freely born,

1 See p. 12, Stanza 23.

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.

XXIV.

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 Teviot side!

For this fair prize I 've fought and won,» And to the Ladye led her son.

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 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.

XXVI.

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

Thought on the Spirits' prophecy, 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 « 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.>>

XXVII.

All as they left the listed plain,

Inch 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; Nor 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.

XXVIII.

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 rau,
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 't was 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.

For, if I slew thy brother dear,
Thou slew'st 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, snaffle, spur, and spear,1
Thou wert the best to follow gear.

T was pleasure, as we look'd behind,
To see how thou the chase couldst wind,
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray; (8)
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again.»-

XXX.

So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band
Were bowning back to Cumberland.
They raised bravé 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 spearmen 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 a-near,
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.

Liked not to hear it rank'd so high
Above his flowing poesy;

Less liked he still, that scornful jeer
Misprised the land he loved so dear,
High was the sound, as thus again
The bard resumed his minstrel strain.

CANTO VI.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, (1)
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 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.

II.

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 stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.

III.

Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome-hall
The minstrels came, at festive call;
Trooping they came, from near and far,
The jovial priests of mirth and war:
Alike for feast and fight prepared,
Battle and banquet both they shared.
Of late, before each martial clan,
They blew their death-note in the van,
But now, for every merry mate,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;

They sound the pipe, they strike the string,
They dance, they revel, and they sing,
Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

The spousal rites were ended soon;
'T was now the merry hour 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, (4)
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, (5)
And cygnet from St Mary's wave, (6)
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 clanging 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 stag-hounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry.

C

V1.

The goblin-page, omitting still

Ne opportunity of ill,

rove now, while blood ran hot and high, Troase debate and jealousy;

To Courad, lord of Wolfenstein,

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 Hunthill; (7) A bet and hardy Rutherford,

Whom men call Diccon Draw-the-sword.

He took it on the page's saye,

Benthill had driven these steeds away.

Thes Howard, Home, and Douglas rose,
The kindling discord to compose:
Stern Rutherford right little said,

But bit his glove, and shook his head.-(8)
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;
Coknown the manner of his death,

Gene was his brand, both sword and sheath;
But ever from that time, 't was said,
That Diccon wore a Cologne blade.

VIU.

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,
Bevell'd as merrily and well
As those that sat in lordly selle.
Watt Tialion, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braés; (9)
And he, as by his breeding bound,
Howard's merry-men sent it round.
lo quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,

A deep carouse to yon fair bride!>>

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!»>

X.

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: (11)
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 broth
In Scotland and in England both.

In homely guise, as nature bade,

His simple song the Borderer said.

XI.

ALBERT GREME.

It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) (12) And she would marry, a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely 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!

XII.

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 you 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!