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Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,

And shrieks along the battle-plain:

The chief, whose antique crownlet long

Still sparkled in the feudal song,

Now, from the mountain's misty throne,

Sees, in the thanedom once his own,

His ashes undistinguished lie,

His place, his power, his memory die:

His groans the lonely caverns fill,

His tears of rage impel the rill;

All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung,

Their name unknown, their praise unsung.


Scarcely the hot assault was staid,

The terms of truce were scarcely made,

When they could spy, from Branksome's towers,

The advancing march of martial powers;

Thick clouds of dust afar appeared,

And trampling steeds were faintly heard;

Bright spears, above the columns dun,

Glanced momentary to the sun;

And feudal banners fair displayed

The bands that moved to Branksome's aid.


Vails not to tell each hardy clan,

From the fair Middle Marches came; The Bloody Heart blazed in the van,

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name! Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne

Their men in battle-order set;
And Swinton laid the lance in rest,
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest

Of Clarence's Plantagenet.
Nor list I say, what hundreds more,
From the rich Merse and Lammermore,
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war,

Beneath the crest of old Dunbar,

And Hepburn's mingled banners come,

Down the steep mountain glittering far,
And shouting still, "a Home! a Home!"


Now*squire and knight, from Branksome sent,
On many a courteous message went;
To every chief and lord they paid
Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid;
And told them,—how a truce was made,
And how a day of fight was ta'en
Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine;

And how the Ladye prayed them dear,
That all would stay the fight to see,
And deign, in love and courtesy,
To taste of Branksome cheer.
Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,
Were England's noble Lords forgot;

Himself, the hoary Seneschal,
Rode forth, in seemly terms to call
Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall.
Accepted Howard, than whom knight
Was never dubbed, more bold in fight;
Nor, when from war and armour free,
More famed for stately courtesy:
But angry Dacre rather chose
In his pavilion to repose.


Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask,

How these two hostile armies met? Deeming it were no easy task

To keep the truce which here was set; Where martial spirits, all on fire, Breathed only blood and mortal ire.— By mutual inroads, mutual blows, By habit, and by nation, foes,

They met on Teviot's strand:
They met, and sate them mingled down,
Without a threat, without a frown,

As brothers meet in foreign land:
The hands, the spear that lately grasped,
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasped,

Were interchanged in greeting dear;
Visors were raised, and faces shewn,
And many a friend, to friend made known,

Partook of social cheer.
Some drove the jolly bowl about;

With dice and draughts some chased the day;
And some, with many a merry shout,
In riot, revelry, and rout,

Pursued the foot-ball play.


Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, . Or sign of war been seen,

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