So rode they forth in fair array, Till full their lengthened lines display; Then called a halt, and made a stand, And cried, "St George, for merry England!" XVII. Now every English eye, intent, On Branksome's armed towers was bent; The straining harsh of each cross-bow; Gleamed axe, and spear, and partizan ; Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower; * Ancient pieces of artillery. While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, The wicket opes, and from the wall Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. XVIII. Armed he rode, all save the head, His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread; Unbroke by age, erect his seat, He ruled his eager courser's gait; Forced him, with chastened fire, to prance, And, high curvetting, slow advance : His squire, attending in the rear, Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout Sped to the front of their array, To hear what this old knight should say. XIX. "Ye English warden lords, of you Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, Why, 'gainst the truce of Border-tide, In hostile guise ye dare to ride, With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand, And all yon mercenary band, Upon the bounds of fair Scotland ? My Ladye reads swith return; you And, if but one poor straw you burn, Or do our towers so much molest, As scare one swallow from her nest, St Mary! but we'll light a brand, Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland." XX. A wrathful man was Dacre's lord, But calmer Howard took the word: May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal, To seek the castle's outward wall; Our pursuivant-at-arms shall shew, Both why we came, and when we go." The message sped, the noble Dame To the walls' outward circle came; Each chief around leaned on his spear, To see the pursuivant appear. All in Lord Howard's livery dressed, The lion argent decked his breast; He led a boy of blooming hue- And thus his master's will he said. XXI. "It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, 'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords; But yet they may not tamely see, All through the western wardenry, Your law-contemning kinsmen ride, And burn and spoil the Border-side; And ill beseems your rank and birth To make your towers a flemens-firth *. We claim from thee William of Deloraine, That he may suffer march-treason pain†: It was but last St Cuthbert's even He pricked to Stapleton on Ļeven, Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave, は And slew his brother by dint of glaive. Then, since a lone and widowed Dame These restless riders may not tame, Either receive within thy towers Two hundred of my master's powers, Or straight they sound their warison ||, And this fair boy, to London led, Shall good King Edward's page be bred." * An asylum for outlaws. † Plundered. Border treason. Note of assault. |