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True love's the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven.

It is not Fantasy's hot fire,

Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

With dead desire it doth not die;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,

In body and in soul can bind.

Now leave we Margaret and her Knight,

To tell you of the approaching fight.

XIV.

Their warning blast the bugles blew,

The pipe's shrill port* aroused each clan;

In haste, the deadly strife to view,

The trooping warriors eager ran :

Thick round the lists their lances stood,
Like blasted pines in Ettricke wood;

* A martial piece of music, adapted to the bagpipes.

To Branksome many a look they threw,

The combatants' approach to view,

And bandied many a word of boast,

About the knight each favoured most.

XV.

Meantime full anxious was the Dame;

For now arose disputed claim,

Of who should fight for Deloraine,

'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestaine : They 'gan to reckon kin and rent,

And frowning brow on brow was bent; But yet not long the strife-for, lo! Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain, In armour sheathed from top to toe, Appeared, and craved the combat due. The Dame her charm successful knew *,

And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

* See p. 90. Stanza XXIII.

XVI.

When for the lists they sought the plain,

The stately Ladye's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;

Unarmed by her side he walked,

And much, in courteous phrase, they talked

Of feats of arms of old.

Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff

Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,
With satin slashed, and lined;

Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,

His cloak was all of Poland fur,

His hose with silver twined;

His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,

Hung in a broad and studded belt;

Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still

Called noble Howard, Belted Will.

XVII.

Behind Lord Howard and the Dame,

Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,

Whose foot-cloth swept the ground;

White was her wimple, and her veil,

And her loose locks a chaplet pale

Of whitest roses bound;

The lordly Angus, by her side,
In courtesy to cheer her tried;
Without his aid, her hand in vain

Had strove to guide her broidered rein.
He deemed, she shuddered at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;

But cause of terror, all unguessed,

Was fluttering in her gentle breast,

When, in their chairs of crimson placed,

The Dame and she the barriers graced.

XVIII.

Prize of the field, the

young

Buccleuch

An English knight led forth to view;

Scarce rued the boy his present plight, So much he longed to see the fight.

Within the lists, in knightly pride,

High Home and haughty Dacre ride;
Their leading staffs of steel they wield,
As marshals of the mortal field;

While to each knight their care assigned
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,

In king and queen, and wardens' name,`
That none, while lasts the strife,
Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,

Aid to a champion to afford,

On peril of his life;

And not a breath the silence broke,

Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke :

XIX.

ENGLISH HERALD.

Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,

Good knight and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave,

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn.

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