Soon through the latticed windows tall,

Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall,

Divided square by shafts of stone,

Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone;
Nor less the gilded rafters rang
With merry harp and beakers' clang;
And frequent, on the darkening plain,

Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,

As bands, their stragglers to regain,

Give the shrill watch-word of their clan;

And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim

Douglas or Dacre's conquering name.

IX.

Less frequent heard, and fainter still,

At length the various clamours died;

And you might hear, from Branksome hill,
No sound but Teviot's rushing tide;

Save, when the changing centinel

The challenge of his watch could tell;

And save, where, through the dark profound,

The clanging axe and hammer's sound

Rung from the nether lawn;

For many a busy hand toiled there,

Strong pales to shape, and beams to square,

The lists' dread barriers to prepare,

Against the morrow's dawn.

X.

Margaret from hall did soon retreat,

Despite the Dame's reproving eye;

Nor marked she, as she left her seat,

Full many a stifled sigh:

For many a noble warrior strove

To win the Flower of Teviot's love,

And many a bold ally.

With throbbing head and anxious heart

All in her lonely bower apart,

In broken sleep she lay:

By times, from silken couch she rose;

While yet the bannered hosts repose,
She viewed the dawning day:

Of all the hundreds sunk to rest,

First woke the loveliest and the best.

XI.

She gazed upon the inner court,

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay;

Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort,

Had rung

the live-long yesterday;

Now still as death; till, stalking slow,

The jingling spurs announced his tread,—

A stately warrior passed below;

But when he raised his plumed head

Blessed Mary! can it be?

Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

He walks through Branksome's hostile towers,

With fearless step and free.

K

She dared not sign, she dared not speak

Oh! if one page's slumbers break,

His blood the price must pay!

Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears,

Not Margaret's yet more precious tears,

Shall buy his life a day.

XII.

Yet was his hazard small; for well

You

may bethink you of the spell

Of that sly urchin Page;

This to his lord he did impart,

And made him seem, by glamour art,

A knight from Hermitage.

Unchallenged, thus, the warder's post,

The court, unchallenged, thus he crossed,

For all the vassalage:

But, O! what magic's quaint disguise

Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes!

She started from her seat;

While with surprise and fear she strove,

And both could scarcely master love

Lord Henry's at her feet.

XIII.

Oft have I mused, what

purpose bad

That foul malicious urchin had

To bring this meeting round; For happy love's a heavenly sight,

And by a vile malignant sprite

In such no joy is found:

And oft I've deemed, perchance he thought

Their erring passion might have wrought

Sorrow, and sin, and shame;

And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight,
And to the gentle Ladye bright,

Disgrace, and loss of fame.

But earthly spirit could not tell

The heart of them that loved so well;