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II.

The sound, upon the fitful gale, When the cold light's uncertain shower In solemn wise did rise and fail, Streams on the ruin'd central tower; Like that wild harp whose magic tone When buttress and buttress, alterIs waken’d by the winds alone.

nately, But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas Seem fram'd of ebon and ivory; silence all :

When silver edges the imagery, He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And the scrolls that teach thee to live And sought the convent's lonely wall. and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead HERE paus’d the harp; and with its

man's grave, swell The Master's fire and courage fell;

Then go—but go alone the while

Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; Dejectedly and low he bow'd, And, gazing timid on the crowd,

And, home returning, soothly swear,

Was never scene so sad and fair ! He seem'd to seek in every eye If they approv'd his minstrelsy ; And, diffident of present praise, Short halt did Deloraine make there; Somewhat he spoke of former days,

Little reck'd he of the scene so fair: And how old age and wand'ring long With dagger's hilt, on the wicket Had done his hand and harp some

strong, wrong.

He struck full loud, and struck full The Duchess and her daughters fair,

long. And every gentle lady there,

The porter hurried to the gateEach after each in due degree, * Who knocks so loud, and knocks so Gave praises to his melody;

late?' His hand was true, his voice was

From Branksome I,' the warrior clear,

cried; And much they long'd the rest to hear.

And straight the wicket open'd wide : Encourag'd thus, the aged man,

For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle After meet rest, again began.

stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose;
And lands and livings, many a rood,
Had gifted the shrine for their souls'

repose.
Canto Second.

III.
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, aright,

And noiseless step, the path he trod : Go visit it by the pale moonlight; The arched cloister, far and wide, For the gay beams of lightsome day Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. Till, stooping low his lofty crest, When the broken arches are black in He enter'd the cell of the ancient night,

priest, And each shafted oriel glimmers And lifted his barred aventayle, white;

To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

I.

XII.

The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Secm tapestry in lordly hall ;

As he repass'd the outer court,
A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, He spied the fair young child at sport:
A sheeling scem a palace large, He thought to train him to the wood;
And youth seem age, and age seem For, at a word be it understood,
youth:

He was always for ill, and never for All was delusion, nought was truth.

good.

Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay x.

Led him forth to the woods to play ; He had not read another spell, On the drawbridge the warders stout When on his cheek a buffet fell, Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain

xu. Beside the wounded Deloraine. From the ground he rose dismay'd,

He led the boy o'er bank and fell, And shook his huge and matted head;

Until they came to a woodland One word he mutter'd, and no more,

brook; "Man of age, thou smitest sore!'

The running stream dissolv'd the No more the Elfin Page durst try

spell, Into the wondrous Book to pry;

And his own elvish shape he took. The clasps, though smear'd with

Could he have had his pleasure vilde, Christian gore,

He had crippled the joints of the

noble child; Shut faster than they were before. He hid it underneath his cloak.

Or, with his fingers long and lean, Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, But his awful mother he had in dread,

Had strangled him in fiendish spleen : I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;

And also his power was limited; It was not given by man alive.

So he but scowl'd on the startled child,

And darted through the forest wild; Unwillingly himself he address'd,

The woodland brook he bounding To do his master's high behest :

cross'd, He lifted up the living corse,

And laugh'd, and shouted, 'Lost ! And laid it on the wcary horse;

lost ! lost!' He led him into Branksome hall, Before the beards of the warders all; | Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous And each did after swear and say

change, There only pass'd a wain of hay. And frighten'd, as a child might be, He took him to Lord David's tower, At the wild yell and visage strange, Even to the Ladye's secret bower; And the dark words of gramarye, And, but that stronger spells were The child, amidst the forest bower, spread,

Stood rooted like a lily flower ; And the door might not be opened, And when at length, with trembling He had laid him on her very bed.

pace, Whate'er he did of gramarye

He sought to find where BrankWas always done maliciously ;

some lay, He flung the warrior on the ground, lle fear'd to see that grisly face And the blood well’d freshly from the Glare from some thicket on his wound.

way.

XI.

XIV.

XV.

Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on, His coal-black hair, shorn round and And deeper in the wood is gone,

close, For aye the more he sought his way, Set off his sun-burn'd face : The farther still he went astray,

Old England's sign, St. George's cross, Until he heard the mountains round His barret-cap did grace; Ring to the baying of a hound. His bugle-horn hung by his side,

All in a wolf-skin baldric tied ;

And his short falchion, sharpand clear, And hark! and hark! the deep- Had pierc'd the throat of many a deer. mouth'd bark

XVII.
Comes nigher still, and nigher :
Bursts on the path a dark blood- His kirtle, made of forest green,
hound;

Reach'd scantly to his knec;
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, And, at his belt, of arrows keen
And his red eye shot fire.

A furbish'd sheaf bore he; Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,

His buckler, scarce in breadth a span, He flew at him right furiouslie.

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,

Would strike below the knee :
When, worthy of his noble sire,

His slacken'd bow was in his hand, His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and And the leash that was his bloodire!

hound's band. He faced the blood-hound manfully,

XVIII. And held his little bat on high ;

He would not do the fair child harm, So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,

But held him with his powerful arm, At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd, That he might neither fight nor flee; But still in act to spring;

For when the Red-Cross spied he, When dash'd an archer through the The boy strove long and violently, glade,

Now, by St. George,'thcarcher cries, And when he saw the hound was

Edward, methinks we have a prize! stay'd,

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This boy's fair face, and courage free, He drew his tough bow-string ; Show he is come of high degree.' But a rough voice cried, 'Shoot not,

XIX. hoy! Ho! shoot not, Edward; 'tis a boy!''Yes! I am come of high degree,

For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch;

And, if thou dost not set me free, The speaker issued from the wood, False Southron, thou shalt dearly And check d his fellow's surly mood,

rue ! And quell'd the ban-dog's ire : For Walter of Harden shall come with He was an English yeoman good,

speed, And born in Lancashire.

And William of Deloraine, good at Well could he hit a fallow-deer

need, Five hundred feet him fro;

And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed; With hand more true, and eye more And, if thou dost not let me go, clear,

Despite thy arrows and thy bow, No archer bended bow.

I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!'

XVI.

XX.

XXIII.

Because, despite her precept dread, Gramercy for thy good-will, fair

Perchance he in the Book had read; boy!

But the broken lance in his bosom My mind was never set so high;

stood, But if thou art chief of such a clan,

And it was earthly steel and wood. And art the son of such a man, And ever comest to thy command,

She drew the splinter from the wound, Our wardens had need to keep good

And with a charm she stanch'd the order;

blood; My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

She bade the gash be cleans'd and Thou 'lt make them work upon the

bound : Border.

No longer by his couch she stood; Meantime, be pleased to come with

But she has ta'en the broken lance, me,

And wash'd it from the clotted gore, For good Lord Dacre shalt thou sce;

And salved the splinter o'erand o'cr. I think our work is well begun,

William of Deloraine, in trance, When we have taken thy father's son.'

Whenc'er she turn'd it round and XXI.

round,

Twisted as if she gall’d his wound. Although the child was led away,

Then to her maidens she did say In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,

That he should be whole man and For so the Dwarf his part did play;

sound And, in the shape of that young boy,

Within the course of a night and He wrought the castle much annoy.

day. The comrades of the young Buccleuch Full long she toild; for she did rue He pinch’d, and beat, and overthrew; Mishap to friend so stout and true. Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew. He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire, And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire, So pass'd the day; the evening fell, He lighted the match of his bandelier, 'Twas near the time of curfew bell; And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer. The air was mild, the wind was calm, It may be hardly thought or said, The stream was smooth, the dew was The mischief that the urchin made,

balm; Till many of the castle guess’d, E'en the rude watchman on the tower That the young Baron was possess'd! Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour.

Farmore fair Margaret lov'd and bless'd

The hour of silence and of rest. Well I ween the charm he held On the high turret sitting lone, The noble Ladye had soon dispellid; She waked at times the lute's soft tone; But she was deeply busied then Touch'd a wild note, and all between To tend the wounded Deloraine. Thought of the bower of hawthorns Much she wonder'd to find him lic

green. On the stone threshold stretch'd | Her golden hair stream'd free from along;

band, She thought some spirit of the sky Her fair cheek rested on her hand, Had done the bold moss-trooper | Her blue cyes sought the west afar, wrong;

For lovers love the western star.

XXIV.

XXII.

XXV.

light,

Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.' That rises slowly to her ken,

XXVIII. And, spreading broad its wavering

Fair Margaret from the turret head Shakes its loose tresses on the night? | Heard, far below, the coursers' tread, Is yon red glare the western star?

While loud the harness rung O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war! As to their seats, with clamour dread, Scarce could she draw her tighten'd The ready horsemen sprung: breath,

And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, For well she knew the fire of death! And leaders' voices mingled notes,

And out! and out! xxvi.

In hasty route, The Warder view'd it blazing strong, The horsemen gallop'd forth ; And blew his war-note loud and long, Dispersing to the south to scout, Till, at the high and haughty sound, And cast, and west, and north, Rock, wood, and river rung around. To view their coming enemies, The blast alarmid the festal hall, And warn their vassals and allies. And startled forth the warriors all; Far downward, in the castle-yard,

ΧΧΙΧ. . Full many a torch and cresset glared ; | The ready page, with hurried hand, And helms and plumes, confusedly Awaked the need-fire's slumbering toss'd,

brand, Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost; And ruddy blush'd the heaven: And spears in wild disorder shook, For a sheet of flame from the turret Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

high

Wav'd like a blood-flag on the sky, XXVII,

All flaring and uneven; The Seneschal, whose silver hair And soon a score of fires, I ween, Was redden'd by the torches' glare, From height, and hill, and cliff, were Stood in the midst with gesture proud, seen ; And issued forth his mandates loud : Each with warlike tidings fraught, • On Penchryst glows a bale of fire, Each from each the signal caught; And three are kindling on Priest- Each after each they glanc'd to haughswire ;

sight,
Ride out, ride out,

As stars arise upon the night.
The foe to scout !

They gleam'd on many a dusky Mount, mount for Branksome, every

tarn, man!

Haunted by the lonely earn; Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone On many a cairn's grey pyramid, clan,

Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid That ever are true and stout; Till high Dunedin the blazes saw Ye need not send to Liddesdale, From Soltra and Dumpender Law, For when they see the blazing bale, And Lothian heard the Regent's Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.

order Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life ! That all should bowne them for the And warn the Warder of the strife.

Border.

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