It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guessed,
That the young baron was possessed!
Well I ween, the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispelled;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wondered to find him lie,
On the stone threshold stretched along; She thought some spirit of the sky
Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong; 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 stanched the blood;
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound;
No longer by his couch she stood;
But she has ta'en the broken lance,
And washed it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.
William of Deloraine, in trance,
Whene'er she turned it round and round, Twisted, as if she galled his wound.
Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound, Within the course of a night and day.
e toiled: for she did rue
Mishap to friend so stout and true.
So passed 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,
Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touched a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.
Her golden hair streamed free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eye sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.
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?
yon red glare the western star?
O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war!
Scarce could she draw her tightened breath,
For well she knew the fire of death!
The warder viewed it blazing strong,
And blew his warnote loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rang around.
The blast alarmed the festai hall,
And startled forth the warrior's all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly tossed,
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 reddened 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 Priesthaughswire;
Ride out, ride out,
Mount, mount, for Branksome,† every man!
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,
That ever are true and stout.
Ye need not send to Liddlesdale;
For, when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.—
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the warden of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin, and clan, and friends, to raise."
+ Mount for Branksome was the gathering word of the Scotts.
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!
The horsemen galloped 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 blushed the heaven:
For a sheet of flame, from the turret high,
Waved like a bloodflag 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 glanced to sight,
As stars arise upon the night.
They gleamed on many a dusky tarn‚†
Haunted by the lonely earn;‡
Need-fire, beacon.
Earn, the Scottish eagle.
On many a cairn's* gray pyramid,
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 bownes them for the Border.
The livelong night in Branksome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel:
The castlebell, with backward clang,
Sent forth the larum peal;
Was frequent heard the heavy jar,
Where massy stone and iron bar
Were piled on echoing keep and tower,
To whelm the foe with deadly shower;
Was frequent heard the changing guard,
And watchword from the sleepless ward;
While, wearied by the endless din,
Blood-hound and ban-dog yelled within.
The noble dame, amid the broil,
Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheered the young knights, and council sage
Held with the chiefs of riper age.
No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of his numbers knew they aught,
Nor in what time the truce he sought.
Cairn, a pile of stones.
§ Bowne, make ready.
|