XIV.

From the sound of Teviot's tide,

Chafing with the mountain's side,

From the groan of the wind-swung oak, From the sullen echo of the rock,

From the voice of the coming storm,

The Ladye knew it well!

It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke, And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.

XV.

River Spirit.

"Sleep'st thou, brother!"

Mountain Spirit.

-"Brother, nay

On my hills the moon-beams play.

From Craik-cross to Skelf hill-pen,

By every rill, in every glen,

Merry elves their morrice pacing,

To aërial minstrelsy,

Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,

Trip it deft and merrily.

Up, and mark their nimble feet!

Up, and list their music sweet!"

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XVI.

River Spirit.

"Tears of an imprisoned maiden
Mix with my polluted stream;
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden,
Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.
Tell me, thou, who viewest the stars,

When shall cease these feudal jars ?

What shall be the maiden's fate?

Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

XVII.

Mountain Spirit.

"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll,

In utter darkness round the pole;

The Northern Bear lowers black and grim ;

Orion's studded belt is dim:

While Cessford owns the rule of Car,

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar,

The havoc of the feudal war,

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 dropped nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow;

Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisped from the nurse's knee

Then fast the mother's tears did seek

To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X.

All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair,

Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered 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 altered eye

Dared she to look for sympathy,

Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,

With Car 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;

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.

Men said, he changed his mortal frame

By feat of magic mystery;

For when, in studious mood, he paced

St Andrew's cloistered hall,

His form no darkening shadow traced

Upon the sunny wall!

XII.

And of his skill, as bards avow,

He taught that Ladye fair,

Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.

And now she sits in secret bower,

In old Lord David's western tower,.