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And thus, while sorrow bent his head,
His foeman's epitaph he made.

XXIX.

"Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy, For if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slewest a sister's son to me;
And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three,
Till, ransomed for a thousand mark,
Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee.
And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,
And thou wert now alive, as I,
No mortal man should us divide,
Till one, or both of us, did die :
Yet, rest thee God! for well I know,
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe!
In all the northern counties here,
Whose words is, Snafle, spur, and spear,"
Thou wert the best to follow gear;
'Twas pleasure as we looked behind,

To see how thou the chase couldst wind,

*The lands, that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear.

Polyalbion, Song xxxiii,

Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."

XXX.

So mourned he, till lord Dacre's band Were bowning back to Cumberland. They raised brave Musgrave from the field, And laid him on his bloody shield; On levelled lances, four and four, By turns, the noble burden bore. Before, at times, upon the gale, 'Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail; Behind, four priests, in sable stole, Sung requiem for the warrior's soul; Around, the horsemen slowly rode; With trailing pikes the spearmen trod; And thus the gallant knight they bore, Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore, Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave, And laid him in his father's grave.

The harp's wild notes, though hushed the song, The mimic march of death prolong;

Now seems it far, and now a-near,

Now meets, and now eludes the ear;
Now seems some mountain's side to sweep,
Now faintly dies in valley deep;
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail,
Now the sad requiem loads the gale;
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,
Rung the full choir in choral stave.

After due pause they bade him tell, Why he, who touched the harp so well, Should thus, with ill rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hand.

The aged harper, howsoe'er

His only friend, his harp, was dear,
Liked not to hear it ranked so high
Above his flowing poesy ;

Less liked he still that scornful jeer
Misprized the land he loved so dear;
High was the sound, as thus again
The bard resumed his minstrel strain.

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO SIXTH.

I.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair reknown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

II.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,

That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Still, as I view each well known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seem as, to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,

Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettricke break,
Although it chill my withered cheek ;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone,
Though there forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.

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