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 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 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.
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.
Me lists not at this tide declare The splendour of the spousal rite, How muster'd in the chapel fair
Both maid and matron, squire and knight;
Me lists not tell of owches rare,
Of mantles green, and braided hair,
And kirtles furr'd with miniver;
What plumage waved the altar round,
How spurs, and ringing chainlets sound:
And hard it were for bard to speak
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek;
That lovely hue which comes and flies
As awe and shame alternate rise.
Some bards have sung, the ladye high
Chapel or altar came not nigh;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
So much she fear'd each holy place.
False slanders these ;-I trust right well,
She wrought not by forbidden spell;
For mighty words and signs have power
O'er sprites in planetary hour:
Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,
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.
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 brota,
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,)
The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine, The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine!
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.
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, train'd 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 his youth,
Learn'd many a saga's rhyme uncouth,-
Of that sea-snake tremendous curl'd,
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 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!
Rest thee in castle Ravensheuch,
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 Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle hall.
«"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." 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 fairSo 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 apace,
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