XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine To ancient Riddell's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come, Cresting each wave with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold mosstrooper's road. XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; Yet, through good heart, and our ladye's grace, At length he gain'd the landing place. XXX. Now Bowden moor the marchman won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon, For on his soul the slaughter red When first the Scott and Car were foes; XXXI. In bitter mood he spurred fast, Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran; In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp whose magic tone But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all; Here paused the harp; and with its swell He seem'd to seek, in every eye, If they approved his minstrelsy: * Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour. + Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church. | And, diffident of present praise, His hand was true, his voice was clear, CANTO II. I. Ir thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, II. Short halt did Deloraine make there; For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood, And lands and livings, many a rood, Had gifted the shrine for their soul's repose. III. Bold Deloraine his errand said; He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, To hail the monk of St. Mary's aisle. IV. "The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me; Says that the fated hour is come, * Aventayle, visor of the helmet. And that to-night I shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb." From sackcloth couch the monk arose, With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard. V. And strangely on the knight look'd he, With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn: For threescore years, in penance spent, My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone For knowing what should ne'er be known Wouldst thou thy every future year In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, Yet wait thy latter end with fear Then, daring warrior, follow me!" VI. "Penance, father, will I none; For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, So speed me my errand, and let me be gone." VII. Again on the knight look'd the churchman old, For he had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy. And he thought on the days that were long since by, Now, slow and faint, he led the way, The keystone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille : The corbells were carved grotesque and grim ; X. Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, Shook to the cold night wind of heaven, Around the screened altar's pale; And there the dying lamps did burn, Before thy low and lonely urn, O gallant chief of Otterburne! And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale ! O fading honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid! XI. The moon on the east oriel shone By foliaged tracery combined: Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand "Twixt poplars straight the osier wand, In many a freakish knot had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint, Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was died; And trampled the apostate's pride. XII. They sate them down on a marble stone; (A Scottish monarch slept below ;) Thus spoke the monk, in solemn tone; "I was not always a man of wo; For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the cross of God: And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, VIII. Spreading herbs, and flow'rets bright, Nor herb, nor flow'ret, glisten'd there, But was carved in the cloister'd arches as fair. So had he seen, in fair Castile, The youth in glitt❜ring squadrons start; Sudden the flying gennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart. He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light. IX. By a steel-clench'd postern door, They enter'd now the chancel tall: The darken'd roof rose high aloof On pillars, lofty, and light, and small; And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. XIII. "In these far climes, it was my lot The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! And, warrior, I could say to thee And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone; And for having but thought them my heart within, A treble penance must be done. XIV. "When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened; * Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face or mask. XIX. Before their eyes the wizard lay, Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea; The lamp was placed beside his knee: Often had William of Deloraine Rode through the battle's bloody plain, And neither known remorse nor awe; He might not endure the sight to see, XXI. And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, Thus unto Deloraine he said ; "Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, Or, warrior, we may dearly rue; For those, thou may'st not look upon, Are gathering fast round the yawning stone !". From the cold hand the mighty book, With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound; He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd: But the glare of the sepulchral light, Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. XXII. When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, And the monk made a sign with his wither'd hand, The night return'd in double gloom; The grave's huge portal to expand. XVIII. With beating heart, to the task he went; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent, Till the toil drops fell from his brows, like rain. It was by dint of passing strength, That he moved the massy stone at length. I would you had been there, to see Show'd the monk's cowl and visage pale, For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few: And, as the knight and priest withdrew, They hardly might the postern gain. 'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd, Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, And voices unlike the voice of man ; As if the fiends kept holiday, Because these spells were brought to day. I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me. XXIII. "Now, hie thee hence," the father said; "And, when we are on death-bed laid, O may our dear Ladye, and sweet Saint John, Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!" The monk return'd him to his cell, And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bell, The monk of Saint Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid, With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd XXIV. The knight breath'd free in the morning wind, He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones gray And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, XXV. The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray, Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot tide. The wild birds told their warbling tale; And awaken'd every flower that blows; And peep'd forth the violet pale, And spread her breast the mountain rose; And lovelier than the rose so red, Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed, XXVI. Why does fair Margaret so early awake, And don her kirtle so hastilie: A fairer pair were never seen To meet beneath the hawthorn green. And now, fair dames, methinks I see And how the knight, with tender fire, But never, never cease to love; XXX. Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! My harp has lost th' enchanting strain; Its lightness would my age reprove: My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are cold;I may not, must not, sing of love. XXXI. Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, And the silken knots, which in hurry she would The baron's dwarf his courser held, make, Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ? Why does she stop, and look often around, As she glides down the secret stair; And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound, As he rouses him up from his lair: And, though she passes the postern alone, Why is not the watchman's bugle blown? XXVII. The ladye steps in doubt and dread, Lest her watchful mother hear her tread; For he was her foster-father's son ; And held his crested helm and spear: That dwarf was scarce an earthly man, If the tales were true, that of him ran Through all the Border, far and near. "Twas said, when the baron a hunting rode, Through Redesdale's glen, but rarely trod, He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!" And, like a tennis-ball by racquet tost, A leap, of thirty feet and three, Made from the gorse this elfin shape, Distorted like some dwarfish ape, And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was somewhit dismay'd; 'Tis said that five good miles he rade To rid him of his company; But where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran four, And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of And the dwarf was first at the castle door. Nor mingled with the menial flock: And oft apart his arms he toss'd, *A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh. And often murmur'd, "Lost! lost! lost!" He was waspish, arch, and litherlie, But well Lord Cranstoun served he; And he of his service was full fain; For once he had been ta'en or slain, An' had it not been his ministry. All, between home and and hermitage, Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's goblin page. XXXIII. For the baron went on pilgrimage, But the ladye of Branksome gather'd a band They were three hundred spears and three. Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream, Their horses prance, their lances gleam, They came to Saint Mary's lake ere day; But the chapel was void, and the baron away. They burn'd the chapel for very rage, And cursed Lord Cranstoun's goblin page. XXXIV. And now, in Branksome's good green wood, The dwarf waves his long lean arm on high, WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen❜d tale, Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; Ere thus his tale again began. * Wood pigeon. CANTO III. I. AND said I that my limbs were old; In peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed, In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, III. So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, And scarce his hemlet could he don, A stately knight came pricking on. He scem'd in such a weary plight, IV. But no whit weary did he seem, Gave signal soon of dire debate. V. In rapid round the baron bent; He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer: The prayer was to his patron saint, The sigh was to his ladye fair. Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd, nor pray'd, Nor saint nor ladye call'd to aid; But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his spear, And spurr'd his steed to full career. The meeting of these champions proud Seem'd like the bursting thunder cloud. VI. Stern was the dint the borderer lent; The stately baron backwards bent; |