How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, Wept till their eyes were dead and dim, And wrung their hands for love of him,

Who died at Jedwood Air?

He died!-His scholars, one by one,
To the cold silent grave are gone;
And 1, alas! survive alone,
To muse o'er rivalries of yore,
And grieve that I shall hear no more
The strains, with envy heard before;
For, with my minstrel brethren fled,
My jealousy of song is dead.

He paused: the listening dames again
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain;
With many a word of kindly cheer,-
In pity half, and half sincere,-
Marvelled the duchess how so well
His legendary song could tell,-
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;
Of feuds, whose memory was not;
Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the hare;
Of manners, long since changed and gone;
Of chiefs, who under their gray stone
So long had slept, that fickle Fame

Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twined round some new minion's head
The fading wreath for which they bled;
In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse
Could call them from their marble hearse.
The Harper smiled, well pleased; for ne'er
Was flattery lost on poet's ear.
A simple race! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile;
E'en when in age their flame expires,
Her duleet breath can fan its fires:
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze.
Smiled then, well pleased, the Aged Man,
And thus his tale continued ran,

CANTO Y. I.

CALL it not vain:-they do not err,
Who say, that, when the Poet dies,
Mate Nature mourns her worshipper,

And celebrates his obsequies;
Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone,
For the departed bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.
II.

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle minstrel's bier:
The phantom knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead;

IV.

Vails not to tell each hardy clan,

From the fair Middle Marches came;
The Bloody Heart! blazed in the van,

Announcing Douglas' dreaded name!
Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn,
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne
Their men in battle-order set;
And Swinton3 laid the lance in rest,
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest
Of Clarence's Plantagenet.

Nor lists I say what hundreds more,
From the rich Merse and Lammermore,
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war,
Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar,

And Hepburn's mingled banners come,
Down the steep mountain glittering far,
And shouting still, "a Home! a Home!"4

V.

Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent,
On many a courteous message went;
To every chief and lord they paid
Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid;
And told them,-how a truce was made,
And how a day of fight was ta'en
"Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine;
And how the Ladye prayed them dear,
That all would stay the fight to see,
And deign, in love and courtesy,

To taste of Branksome cheer.
Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,
Were England's noble lords forgot;
Himself, the hoary seneschal,

Rode forth, in seemly terms to call
Those gallant foes to Branksome hall.
Accepted Howard, than whom knight
Was never dubbed more bold in fight;
Nor, when from war and armour free,
More famed for stately courtesy.
But angry Dacre rather chose
In his pavilion to repose.

VI.

Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask, How these two hostile armies met? Deeming it were no easy task

To keep the truce which here was set; Where martial spirits, all on fire, Breathed only blood and mortal ire.

By mutual inroads, mutual blows,
By habit, and by nation, foes,

They met on Teviot's strand:
They met, and sate them mingled down,
Without a threat, without a frown,

As brothers meet in foreign land:
The hands, the spear that lately grasped,
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasped,

Were interchanged in greeting dear;
Visors were raised, and faces shown,
And many a friend, to friend made known,
Partook of social cheer.

Some drove the jolly bowl about;

With dice and draughts some chased the day; And some, with many a merry shout, In riot, revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play.5

VII.

Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,
Or sign of war been seen,

Those bands, so fair together ranged,
Those hands, so frankly interchanged,
Had died with gore the green.
The merry shout by Teviot side
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,
And in the groan of death;

And whingers, now in friendship bare,
The social meal to part and share,

Had found a bloody sheath.
"Twixt truce and war, such sudden change
Was not infrequent, nor held strange,
In the old Border-day;6

But yet on Branksome's towers and town,
In peaceful merriment, sunk down
The sun's declining ray.

VIII.
The blithsome signs of wassel gay
Decayed not with the dying day;
Soon through the latticed windows tall
Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall,
Divided square by shafts of stone,
Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone;
Nor less the gilded rafters rang
With merry harp and beakers' clang:
And frequent, on the darkening plain,
Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,
As bands, their stragglers to regain,

Give the shrill watchword of their clan;7
And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim
Douglas or Dacre's conquering name.
IX.

Less frequent heard, and fainter still,

At length, the various clamours died; And you might hear, from Branksome hill, No sound but Teviot's rushing tide; Save, when the changing sentinel The challenge of his watch could tell; And save, where, through the dark profound, The clanging axe and hammer's sound Rung from the nether lawn; For many a busy hand toiled there, Strong pales to shape, and beams to square, The lists' dread barriers to prepare Against the morrow's dawn.

X.

Margaret from hall did soon retreat, Despite the Dame's reproving eye; Nor marked she, as she left her seat, Full many a stifled sigh:

A sort of knife, or poniard.

For many a noble warrior strove
To win the flower of Teviot's love,
And many a bold ally.-
With throbbing head and anxious heart,
All in her lonely bower apart,

In broken sleep she lay;

By times, from silken couch she rose;
While yet the bannered hosts repose,
She viewed the dawning day:

Of all the hundreds sunk to rest,
First woke the loveliest and the best.
XI.

She gazed upon the inner court,

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay;
Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort,
Had rung the live-long yesterday;
Now still as death; till, stalking slow,-
The jingling spurs announced his tread,-
A stately warrior passed below;

But when he raised his plumed head
Blessed Mary! can it be?-
Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

He walks through Branksome's hostile towers,
With fearless step and free.
She dared not sign, she dared not speak-
Oh! if one page's slumbers break,

His blood the price must pay!
Not all the pearls queen Mary wears,
Not Margaret's yet more precious tears,
Shall buy his life a day."

XII.

Yet was his hazard small; for well
You may bethink you of the spell
Of that sly urchin page;
This to his lord he did impart,
And made him seem, by glamour art,
A knight from hermitage.
Unchallenged, thus, the warder's post,
The court, unchallenged, thus he crossed,
For all the vassalage:

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

While with surprise and fear she strove, And both could scarcely master love→ Lord Henry's at her feet.

XIII.

Oft have 1 mused, what purpose bad
That foul 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 deemed, 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;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

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

Now leave we Margaret and her knight,
To 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 favoured most.
XV.

Meantime full anxious was the dame;
For now arose disputed claim,
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
Twixt 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 seemed, and free from pain,

In armour sheathed from top to toe,
Appeared, 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 lady's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;

Unarmed by her side he walked,

And much, in courteous phrase, they talked
Of feats of arms of old.*

Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,
With satin slashed, 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 broidered rein.
He deemed she suddered at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror, all unguessed,
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 longed to see the fight.
Within the lists, in knightly pride,

A martial piece of music, adapted to the bagpipes, +See p. 11. Stanza XXIII,

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 assigned
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.

Ill would it suit your gentle ear,
Ye lovely listeners, to hear

How to the axe the helms did sound,
And blood poured 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 scorned, amid the reeling strife,
To yield a step for death or life.

XXII.

'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow

Has stretched 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!

XXII.

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 hailed the conqueror's victory,
He raised the dying man;

Loose waved his silver beard and hair,
As o'er him he kneeled 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. XXIV.

As if exhausted in the fight,

Or musing o'er the piteous sight,

The silent victor stands:
His beaver did he not unclasp,

Marked 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 crossed the barriers at a bound,
And wild and haggard looked 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 kissed,
And often pressed him to her breast;
For, under all her dauntless show,
Her heart had throbbed at every blow;
Yet not lord Cranstoun deigned 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 prayed,

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

XXVI.

She looked to river, looked to hill,

Thought on the spirit's prophesy,
Then broke her silence stern and still,-
"Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me;
Their influence kindly stars may shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,

For pride is quelled, 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.
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 lingered till he joined 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 Iord;
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 wakened 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, unarmed, 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 looked down;
Grief darkened on his rugged brow,
Though half disguised with a frown;
And thus, while sorrow bent his head,
His foeman's epitaph he made.

XXIX.

"Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here! 1 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 ransomed for a thousand mark,
Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee.

The spectral apparition of a living person.

And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,

And thou wert now alive, as 1,
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,*
Thou wert the best to follow gear.
Twas pleasure, as we looked behind,
To see how thou the chase couldst wind,
Cheer the dark blood-hounds on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again.
XXX.

So mourned 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 levelled 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 hushed 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 touched 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 ranked 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.

CANTO VI.

I.
BEATHES 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 burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?

The lands that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear. Poly-Albion, Song xiii.

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, unhonoured, 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 withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot's stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.

III.

Not scorned 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.

IV.

Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendour of the spousal rite, How mustered 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 furred 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.

V.
Some bards have sung, the ladye high
Chapel or altar came not nigh;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
So much she feared each holy place.
False slanders these;-1 trust right well,
She wrought not by forbidden spell;2
For mighty words and signs have power
O'er sprites in planetary hour:
Yet scarce 1 praise their venturous part,
Who tamper with such dangerous art: