XVII.

"Lo, warrior! now, the cross of red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,
To chase the spirits that love the night;
That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 15
Until the eternal doom shall be."

Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone,
Which the bloody cross was traced upon;
He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the warrior took;

And the monk made a sign with his withered hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

With beating heart, to the task he went;
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;
With bar of iron heaved amain,

Till the toil drops fell from his brows, like rain.
It was by dint of passing strength,

That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there, to see
How the light broke forth so gloriously,
Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright;
It shone like heaven's own blessed light;
And, issuing from the tomb,
Showed the monk's cowl and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-browed warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled,

He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped him round,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;
His left hand held his book of might;
A silver cross was in his right;

The lamp was placed beside his knee:
High and majestic was his look;
At which the fellest fiends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face-

They trusted his soul had gotten grace.
XX.

Often had William of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,

And neither known remorse nor awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he owned:
His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved he stood,
And the priest prayed fervently, and loud:
With eyes averted, prayed he;
He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

But the glare of the sepulchral light,
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.
XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,
The night returned in double gloom;

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few:

And, as the knight and priest withdrew,
With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
They hardly might the postern gain.
'Tis said, as through the aisles they passed,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at midheight thread the chancel wall,
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,
And voices unlike the voice of man;
As if the fiends kept holiday,

Because these spells were brought to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

XXIII.

"Now, hie thee hence," the father said; 66 And, when we are on death-bed laid, O may our dear Ladye, and sweet Saint John, Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!" The monk returned him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bell,

The monk of Saint Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasped fast, as if still he prayed.

XXIV.

The knight breathed free in the morning wind,
And strove his hardihood to find;

He was glad when he passed the tombstones gray
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;
For the mystic book, to his bosom prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast;
And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;
He joyed to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brightened Cheviot gray,

The sun had brightened the Carter's side, And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot tide. The wild birds told their warbling tale; And awakened every flower that blows; And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain rose: And lovelier than the rose so red,

Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed,

The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

XXVI.

Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie:

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie? Why does she stop, and look often around, As she glides down the secret stair; And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound, As he rouses him up from his lair:

A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.

And, though she passes the postern alone,
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?
XXVII.

The Ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;
The Ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,
Lest his voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster-father's son;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,

To meet baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The knight and ladye fair are met,
And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.
A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall,
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:

And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,
Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken riband prest;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold,—
Where would you find the peerless fair
With Margaret of Branksome might compare!
XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy:
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow:
Ye ween to hear a melting tale
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove;
Swore, he might at her feet expire,

But never, never cease to love;

And how she blushed, and how she sighed,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid;
Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.
XXX.

Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Its lightness would my age reprove:
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold;-
i
may not, must not, sing of love.

XXXI.

Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld,
The baron's dwarf his courser held,17

And held his crested helm and spear:
That dwarf was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales were true, that of him ran

Through all the Border, far and near. 'Twas said, when the baron a hunting rode, Through Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod, He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!" And, like tennisball by racquet tost,

A leap, of thirty feet and three, Made from the gorse this elfin shape, Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was somewhit dismayed; Tis said that five good miles he rade, To rid him of his company;

But where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran four,
And the dwarf was first at the castle door.
XXXII.

Use lessens marvel, it is said:
This elfish dwarf with the baron staid;
Little he ate, and less he spoke,
Nor mingled with the menial flock:
And oft apart his arms he tossed,
And often muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!"
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,
But well lord Cranstoun served he;
And he of his service was full fain;
For once he had been ta'en or slain,
An' had it not been his ministry.
All, between Home and Hermitage,
Talked of lord Cranstoun's goblin page.
XXXIII.

For the baron went on pilgrimage,
And took with him this ellish page,

To Mary's chapel of the Lowes;
For there, beside our Lady's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,
And he would pay his vows.

But the Ladye of Branksome gathered a band
Of the best that would ride at her command;19
The trysting place was Newark Lee.
Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestane,
And thither came William of Deloraine;

They were three hundred spears and three.
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream,
Their horses prance, their lances gleam.
They came to saint Mary's lake ere day;
But the chapel was void, and the baron away.
They burned the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's goblin page.
XXXIV.

And now, in Branksome's good green wood,
As under the aged oak he stood,

The baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears;

The dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,
And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh.

Fair Margaret, through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat dove:*
The dwarf the stirrup held and rein;
Vaulted the knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.
WHILE thus he poured the lengthened tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail;
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the withered hand of age
A goblet, crowned with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop filled his eye,
Prayed God to bless the duchess long,
And all who cheered a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see,
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed;
And he, emboldened by the draught,
Looked gayly back to them, and laughed.
The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swelled his old veins, and cheered his soul;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.

*Wood-pigeon.

So thought lord Cranstoun, as I ween,
While, pondering deep the tender scene,
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green.
But the page shouted wild and shrill,-
And searce his helmet could he don,
When downward from the shady hill

A stately knight came pricking on.
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray,
Was dark with sweat, and splashed with clay:
His armour red with many a stain:
He seemed in such a weary plight,
As if he had ridden the livelong night;
For it was William of Deloraine.

IV.

But no whit weary did he seem,
When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He marked the crane on the baron's crest;1
For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern, and high,
That marked the foemen's feudal hate;
For question fierce, and proud reply,

Gave signal soon of dire debate.
Their very coursers seemed to know,
That each was other's mortal foe;

And snorted fire, when wheeled around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.
V.

In rapid round the baron bent;

He sighed a sigh, and prayed a prayer:
The prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.
Stout Deloraine nor sighed, nor prayed,
Nor saint nor ladye called to aid;

But he stooped his head, and couched his spear,
And spurred his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud
Seemed like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI.

Stern was the dint the borderer leut;
The stately baron backwards bent;
Bent backwards to his horse's tail,

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;
The tough ash spear, so stout and true
Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail,

Pierced through, like silk, the borderer's mail:
Through shield, and jack, and acton past,
Deep in his bosom, broke at last.

Still sate the warrior saddle fast,
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock,
Down went the steed, the girthing broke,
Hurled on a heap lay man and horse.
The baron onward passed his course;
Nor knew, so giddy rolled his brain,
His foe lay stretched upon the plain.
VII.

But when he reined his courser round,
And saw his foeman on the ground

Lie senseless as the bloody clay,
He bade his page to stanch the wound,
And there beside the warrior stay,
And tend him in his doubtful state,
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate.
His noble mind was inly moved
For the kinsman of the maid he loved.
"This shalt thou do without delay;
No longer here myself may stay;
Unless the swifter I speed away,
Short shrift will be at my dying day."

VIII.

Away in speed lord Cranstoun rode;
The goblin-page behind abode:

His lord's command he ne'er withstood,
Though small his pleasure to do good.
As the corslet off he took,

The dwarf espied the mighty book!
Much he marvelled, a knight of pride,
Like a book-bosomed priest should ride:2

He thought not to search or stanch the wound,
Until the secret he had found.

IX.

The iron band, the iron clasp,
Resisted long the elfin grasp;
For when the first he had undone,
It closed as he the next begun.
Those iron clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristened hand,
Till he smeared the cover o'er
With the borderer's curdled gore;
A moment then the volume spread,
And one short spell therein he read.
It had much of glamour might,3
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall,
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nutshell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,
And youth seem age, and age seem youth;-
All was delusion, nought was truth.

X.

He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buffet fell,
So fierce, it stretched him on the plain,
Beside the wounded Deloraine.

From the ground he rose dismayed,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he muttered, and no more→→→
"Man of age, thou smitest sore!".

No more the elfin page durst try
Into the wonderous book to pry;

The clasps, though smeared 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.4

• A shepherd's hut.

Unwillingly himself he addressed,
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 passed 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 welled freshly from the wound.
XII.

As he repassed 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.
Seemed 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.
XIII.

He led the boy o'er bank and fell,

Until they came to a woodland brook;
The running stream dissolved the spell,5
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 scowled on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;
The woodland brook he bounding crossed,
And laughed, and shouted "Lost! lost! lost!"
XIV.

Full sore amazed at the wonderous change,
And frightened, 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 feared to see that grisly face

Glare from some thicket on his way.
Thus, starting oft, he journeyed 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.

I ween you would have seen with joy
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,

His wet cheek glowed 'twixt fear and ire!
He faced the blood-hound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;

So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bayed,
But still in act to spring;

When dashed an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stayed,
He drew his tough bowstring:

But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy!
Ho! shoot not, Edward-'tis a boy!"

XVI.

The speaker issued from the wood,
And checked his fellow's surly mood,
And quelled 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;

With hand more true, and eye more clear,
No archer bended bow.

His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,
Set off his sun-burned face;

Old England's sign, Saint 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,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.
XVII.

His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reached scantly to his knee;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbished sheaf bore he:

His buckler scarce in breadth a span,
No larger fence had he:

He never counted him a man

Would strike below the knee;6

His slackened bow was in his hand,
And the leash, that was his blood-hound's band
XVIII.

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,
The boy strove long and violently.
"Now, by Saint 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."

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."
XXI.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seemed 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 pinched, and beat, and overthrew;
Nay, some of them he well nigh 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 scorched the hack butteer.†
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!
XXII.

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.
XXIII.

She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she stanched the blood:7
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.
Full long she toiled; for she did rue
Mishap to friend so stout and true.
XXIV.

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.

Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. Hackbutteer, musketeer.

The foe to scout!

Mount, mount, for Branksome, every man!
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,
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 warden of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin, and clan, and friends, to raise."10
XXVIII.

Fair Margaret, from the turret head,
Heard, far below, the coursers' tread,
While loud the harness rang,
As to their seats, with clamor dread,
The ready horsmen sprang;
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices, mingled notes,
And out! and out!

In hasty route,

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.