Canto First.

I.

Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard;

They carv'd at the meal
With gloves of steel,

tower,

And the Ladye had gone to her secret

bower;

the helmet barr'd.

V.

and by spell,

The tables were drawn, it was idlesse

all; Knight, and page, and household squire,

Loiter'd through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire: The stag-hounds, weary with the chase,

men,

Waited the beck of the warders ten:

Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, Stood saddled in stable day and night, Barb'd with frontlet of steel, I trow, And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow; A hundred more fed free in stall : Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.

VI.

Why do these steeds stand ready dight?

Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by

night?

They watch to hear the blood-hound baying:

And urg'd, in dreams, the forest race From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.

III.

Nine and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome hall;

Nine-and-twenty squires of name Brought them their steeds to bower

from stall;

Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall Waited, duteous, on them all: They were all knights of mettle true,

Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

IV.

Ten of them were sheath'd in steel,
With belted sword, and spur on heel:
They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night:

They lay down to rest,
With corslet laced,

When the streets of high Dunedin Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden,

And heard the slogan's deadly yellThen 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 ; Implor'd in vain the grace divine

For chiefs their own red falchions slew :

While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,

Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd 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 alter'd eye Dar'd she to look for sympathy. Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, With Carr 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, Would see her on her dying bed.

XI.

Of noble race the Ladye came;

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 dropp'd nor flower nor

tear!

Of Bethune's line of Picardie : He learn'd the art that none may name,

In Padua, far beyond the sea. Men said he changed his mortal frame

By feat of magic mystery; For when, in studious mood, he pac'd St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, His form no darkening shadow trac'd Upon the sunny wall!

XII.

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.

XX.

The Ladye forgot her purpose high, One moment, and no more;

One moment gaz'd with a mother's eye,

As she paus'd at the arched door : Then from amid the armed train, She call'd to her William of Deloraine.

XXI.

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee: Through Solway sands, through Tar

ras moss,

Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds;
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 thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile

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 St. Michael's night, And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;

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 had'st thou ne'er been born.'

XXIV,

'O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey 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, Were't my neck-verse at Hairibee.'

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he past,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode,—
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod;
He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,
And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring
strand;

Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's

mound,

Where Druid shades still flitted round; In Hawick twinkled many a light;

And soon he spurr'd his courser keen Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

XXVI.

In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.