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Of noble race the Ladye came;Her father was a clerk of fame,
Of Bethune's line of Picardie: He learned the art, that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea.
By feat of magic mystery;
St Andrew's cloistered hall,
And of his skill, as bards avow,
He taught that Ladye fair,
The viewless forms of air.
And listens to a heavy sound,
That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,
That chafes against the scaur's* red side I
Is it the wind, that swings the oaks?Is it the echo from the rocks?What may it be, the heavy sound, That moans old Branksome's turrets round:
At the sullen, moaning sound,
The ban-dogs bay and howl; And, from the turrets round,
Loud whoops the startled owl.
Swore that a storm was near,
But the night was still and clear!
* Scaur, a precipitous bank of eartk.
From the sound of Teviot's tide,
The Ladye knew it well!
And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.
"Sleep'st thou, brother!"
—" Brother, nay—
To aerial minstrelsy,
Up, and mark their nimble feet!
"Tears of an imprisoned maiden
Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.
"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll,
Twinkling faint, and distant far,
111 may I read their high decree!
XVIII. The unearthly voices ceast,
And the heavy sound was still;
It died on the side of the hill.—
And her heart throbbed high with pride:— "Your mountains shall bend, And your streams ascend,
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride J"