The duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.
When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk anon,

Of good earl Francis,† dead and gone,
And of earl Walter, rest him God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode:
And how full many a tale he knew
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch;
And, would the noble duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought, even yet, the sooth to speak,
That if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear,

The humble boon was soon obtained;
The Aged Minstrel audience gained.
But, when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied:
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease,
Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain—
He tried to tune his harp in vain.
The pitying duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;

He had played it to king Charles the Good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;

And much he wished, yet feared, to try
The long forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head.

But when he caught the measure wild,

The old man raised his face and smiled;
And lightened up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along:
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
"Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.

Anne, duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, repre sentative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, duke of Monmouth, who was be

headed in 1685.

+ Francis Scott, earl of Buccleuch, father to the duchess. Walter, earl of Buccleuch, grandfather to the duchess, and a celebrated warrior,

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 Teviotstone to Eskdale-moor.
III.

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame

Hung their shields in Brank some hall;2 Nine-and-twenty squires of name

Brought them their steeds from bower to stall;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall

Waited, duteous, on them all:
They were all knights of metal true,
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
Why watch these warriors, armed, by night?
They watch to hear the bloodhound baying;
They watch, to hear the warhorn braying;
To see Saint George's red cross streaming;
To see the midnight beacon gleaming;
They watch, against Southern force and guile,
Lest Scroope, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Brank some's lordly towers,
From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.4
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,6
Implored, in vain, the grace divine

For chiefs their own red falchions slew; While Cessford owns the rule of Car,7

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, 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 wo;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow;
Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisped from the nurse's kneeAnd 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 slaughtered 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,8
Would see her on her dying bed.
XI..

Of noble race the Ladye came;
Her father was a clerk of fame,

Of Bethune's line of Picardie;9

He learned the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea. 10
Men said he changed his mortal frame
By feat of magic mystery;

For when, in studious mood, he paced
Saint Andrew's cloistered hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced
Upon the sunny wall!11

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

XII.

And of his skill, as bards avow,

He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air. 12
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 turi ets roula?
XIII.

At the sullen, moaning sound,
The bandogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,

Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight
Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night,
But the night was still and clear!
XIV.

From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the windswung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
Prom the voice of the coming storm,

The Ladye knew it well!

It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,
And he called on the Spirit of the Fell

XV.

RIVER SPIRIT.

"Sleep'st thou, brother?"

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.

......" Brother, nay

On my hills the moon-beams play.
From Craig-cross to Skelfhillpen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morrice pacing,
To aerial minstrelsy,

Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
Trip it deft and merrily.
Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!"

XVI.

RIVER SPIRIT.

"Tears of an imprisoned maiden
Mix with my polluted stream;
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow laden,
Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.
Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars,
When shall cease these feudal jars?
What shall be the maiden's fate?
Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

XVII.

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. "Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll In utter darkness round the pole;

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."

Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth.

XVIII.

The unearthly voices ceased,
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 mosstrooper, 13 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 crescent, and the star. 14

XXI.

A stark mosstrooping Scott was he,
As e'er couched border lance by knee;
Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
Blindfold he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds;16
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 wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until you come to fair Tweed side;
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:
For this will be Saint Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;

Foray, a predatory inroad.

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 thou hadst ne'er been born."

XXIV.

"O swiftly can speed my dapplegray 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 Haribee."

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,

And soon the deep descent he passed,
Soon crossed the sounding barbican,†
And soon the Teviot's side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode,
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod:
He passed the Peelt of Goldiland,
And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand:
Dimly he viewed the moathill's mound,17
Where Druid shades still flitted round:
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon be spurred his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean,18

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 Teviot side,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,

And gained the moor at Horslie hill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile the Ronan way.§
XXVII.

A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosened in the sheath his brand.
On Mintocrags the moonbeams glint, 19
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.

Haribee, the place of executing the Border marauders at Carlisle. The neck-verse is the beginning of the fiftyfirst psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by criminals, claiming the benefit of clergy.

+Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of a feudal eastle. Peel, a Border tower.

An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire,

XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine To ancient Riddell's fair domain, 20

Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come,
Cresting each wave with tawny foam,

Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold mosstrooper'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,

Searce 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 marchman won,
And sternly shook his plumed head,
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon,21
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 heartblood 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;22
Like some tall rock, with lichens gray,
Rose, dimly huge, the dark abbaye.
When Hawick he passed, had curfew rung,
Now midnight laudst 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 hand and harp 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.

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

+ Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church.

Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, After meet rest, again began.

CANTO II.

I.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose ariget,
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 nig
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower:
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seemed framed of ebon and ivory:
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and diei;
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 Saint 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 1," 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 soul's repose.

Spreading herbs, and flow'rets bright,
Glistened with the dew of night;
Nor herb, nor flow'ret, glistened there,

But was carved in the cloister'd 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 gennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.6

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

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 died;
Full in the midst, his cross of red
Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the apostate's pride.
The moonbeam 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;)10
Thus spoke the monk, in solemn tone;
"I was not always a man of wo;
For Paynim countries I have trod,
And fought beneath the cross of God:
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,
And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

XIII.

"In these far climes, it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;!!
A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,12
Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame!13
Some of his skill he taught to me;
And, warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone;1s But to speak them were a deadly sin;

And for having but thought them my heart within,
A treble penance must be done.
XIV.

"When Michael lay on his dying bed,
His consience was awakened;

He bethought him of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign to come with speed;
was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
The words may not again be said,
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid:
They would rend this abbaye's massy nave,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.

XV.

"I swore to bury his mighty book,
That never mortal might therein look;
And never to tell where it was hid,
Save at the chief of Branksome's need;
And when that need was past and o'er,
Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on Saint Michael's night,
When the bell tolled one, and the moon rose
bright;

And I dug his chamber among the dead,
When the floor of the chancel was stained red,

That his patron's cross might o'er him wave,

And scare the fiends from the wizard's grave.