The sound, upon the fitful gale,
In solemn wise did rise and fail,
Like that wild harp whose magic tone
Is waken'd by the winds alone.
But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas
silence all:
He meetly stabled his steed in stall,
And sought the convent's lonely wall.
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alter-
nately,
Seem fram'd of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live
and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
HERE paus'd the harp; and with its And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead
The Master's fire and courage fell;
Dejectedly and low he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd to seek in every eye
If they approv'd his minstrelsy;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age and wand'ring long
Had done his hand and harp some
The Duchess and her daughters fair,
And every gentle lady there,
Each after each in due degree,
Gave praises to his melody;
His hand was true, his voice was
clear,
And much they long'd the rest to hear.
Encourag'd thus, the aged man,
After meet rest, again began.
Then go but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!
Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little reck'd 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 I,' the warrior
cried;
And straight the wicket open'd wide:
For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle
To fence the rights of fair Melrose ; And lands and livings, many a rood, Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.
Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in
And noiseless step, the path he trod :
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter'd the cell of the ancient
priest,
And each shafted oriel glimmers And lifted his barred aventayle,
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nut-shell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,
And youth seem age, and age seem
youth:
All was delusion, nought was truth.
He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buffet fell,
So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he mutter'd, and no more,
'Man of age, thou smitest sore!'
No more the Elfin Page durst try
Into the wondrous Book to pry;
The clasps, though smear'd with
Christian gore,
Shut faster than they were before.
He hid it underneath his cloak.
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;
It was not given by man alive.
Unwillingly himself he address'd,
To do his master's high behest:
He lifted up the living corse,
And laid it on the weary horse;
He led him into Branksome hall,
Before the beards of the warders all;
And each did after swear and say
There only pass'd a wain of hay.
He took him to Lord David's tower,
Even to the Ladye's secret bower;
And, but that stronger spells were
spread,
And the door might not be opened,
He had laid him on her very bed.
Whate'er he did of gramarye
Was always done maliciously;
He flung the warrior on the ground,
And the blood well'd freshly from the
As he repass'd the outer court,
He spied the fair young child at sport:
He thought to train him to the wood;
For, at a word be it understood,
He was always for ill, and never for
good.
Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the drawbridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.
He led the boy o'er bank and fell, Until they came to a woodland brook;
The running stream dissolv'd the spell,
And his own elvish shape he took. Could he have had his pleasure vilde, He had crippled the joints of the noble child;
Or, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen :
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited;
So he but scowl'd on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;
The woodland brook he bounding
cross'd,
And laugh'd, and shouted, 'Lost! lost! lost!'
Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change,
And frighten'd, as a child might be, At the wild yell and visage strange,
And the dark words of gramarye, The child, amidst the forest bower, Stood rooted like a lily flower;
And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay,
He fear'd to see that grisly face
Glare from some thicket on his
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,
And deeper in the wood is gone,-
For aye the more he sought his way,
The farther still he went astray,-
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.
His coal-black hair, shorn round and
close,
Set off his sun-burn'd face:
Old England's sign, St. George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;
His bugle-horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied;
And his short falchion, sharp and clear,
And hark! and hark! the deep- Had pierc'd the throat of many a deer.
Comes nigher still, and nigher : Bursts on the path a dark blood
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,
He flew at him right furiouslie.
His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reach'd scantly to his knee;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbish'd sheaf bore he;
His buckler, scarce in breadth a span,
No larger fence had he;
I ween you would have seen with joy He never counted him a man,
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,
His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and
He faced the blood-hound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,
But still in act to spring;
Would strike below the knee :
His slacken'd bow was in his hand,
And the leash that was his blood-
He would not do the fair child harm,
But held him with his powerful arm,
That he might neither fight nor flee;
For when the Red-Cross spied he,
When dash'd an archer through the The boy strove long and violently.
And when he saw the hound was stay'd,
He drew his tough bow-string; But a rough voice cried, 'Shoot not, hoy!
Now, by St. George,' the archer cries, 'Edward, methinks we have a prize! This boy's fair face, and courage free, Show he is come of high degree.'
Ho! shoot not, Edward; 'tis a boy!' 'Yes! I am come of high degree,
The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire:
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow-deer
Five hundred feet him fro;
For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch; And, if thou dost not set me free,
False Southron, thou shalt dearly
For Walter of Harden shall come with speed,
And William of Deloraine, good at
And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed;
With hand more truc, and eye more And, if thou dost not let me go,
Despite thy arrows and thy bow,
I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!'
'Gramercy for thy good-will, fair
boy!
My mind was never set so high;
But if thou art chief of such a clan,
And art the son of such a man,
And ever comest to thy command,
Our wardens had need to keep good
order;
My bow of yew to a hazel wand,
Thou 'lt make them work upon the
Border.
Meantime, be pleased to come with
me,
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see;
I think our work is well begun,
When we have taken thy father's son.'
Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play;
And, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew;
Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew.
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
He lighted the match of his bandelier,
And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer.
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd,
That the young Baron was possess'd!
Well I ween the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wonder'd to find him lie
Because, despite her precept dread,
Perchance he in the Book had read;
But the broken lance in his bosom
stood,
And it was earthly steel and wood.
She drew the splinter from the wound, And with a charm she stanch'd the blood;
She bade the gash be cleans'd and bound:
No longer by his couch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,
And wash'd it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o'er and o'cr.
William of Deloraine, in trance,
Whene'er she turn'd it round and
round,
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.
Then to her maidens she did say
That he should be whole man and
sound
Within the course of a night and
Full long she toil'd; for she did rue
Mishap to friend so stout and true.
So pass'd the day; the evening fell,
'Twas near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was
balm;
E'en the rude watchman on the tower
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour.
Farmore fair Margaret lov'd and bless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns
green.
On the stone threshold stretch'd Her golden hair stream'd free from
along;
She thought some spirit of the sky Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong;
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.
Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,
And, spreading broad its wavering
light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?
O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war!
Scarce could she draw her tighten'd
breath,
For well she knew the fire of death!
The Warder view'd it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river rung around.
The blast alarm'd the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly
toss'd,
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.
The Seneschal, whose silver hair
Was redden'd by the torches' glare,
Stood in the midst with gesture proud,
And issued forth his mandates loud :
'On Penchryst glows a bale of fire,
And three are kindling on Priest-
haughswire ;
Ride out, ride out,
The foe to scout!
Mount, mount for Branksome, every
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.'
Fair Margaret from the turret head
Heard, far below, the coursers' tread,
While loud the harness rung
As to their seats, with clamour dread,
The ready horsemen sprung:
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices mingled notes,
And out! and out!
In hasty route,
The horsemen gallop'd forth;
Dispersing to the south to scout,
And east, and west, and north,
To view their coming enemies,
And warn their vassals and allies.
The ready page, with hurried hand, Awaked the need-fire's slumbering brand,
And ruddy blush'd the heaven: For a sheet of flame from the turret
Wav'd like a blood-flag on the sky,
All flaring and uneven;
And soon a score of fires, I ween,
From height, and hill, and cliff, were
seen;
Each with warlike tidings fraught,
Each from each the signal caught;
Each after each they glanc'd to
sight,
As stars arise upon the night.
They gleam'd on many a dusky
tarn,
Haunted by the lonely earn;
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
That ever are true and stout;
Ye need not send to Liddesdale,
For when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the Warder of the strife.
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw
From Soltra and Dumpender Law,
And Lothian heard the Regent's
order
That all should bowne them for the
Border.
|