Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes rang, When bugle sound, and trumpet clang

Let loose the martial foes, And in ’mid list, with shield poised high, And measured step, and wary eye,

The combatants did close.

XXI. Ill would it suit your gentle ear, Ye lovely listeners, to hear How to the axe the helms did sound, And blood pour'd down from many a wound; For desperate was the strife and long, And either warrior fierce and strong. But, were each dame a listening knight, I well could tell how warriors fight; For I have seen war's lightning flashing, Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing, And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife, To yield a step for death or life.

Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still
Call'd noble Howard, belted Will.

XVII.
Bebind 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 broider'd rein.
He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight
Of warriors met for mortal fight;
But cause of terror, all unguess'd,
Was Auttering in her gentle breast,
When, in their chair 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 long'd 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 assign'd
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,
In king and queen, and warden's 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:
He sayeth, that William of Deloraine

Is traitor false by Border laws;
This with his sword he will maintain,
So help him God, and his good cause !

XX.

SCOTTISH HERALD. Here standeth William of Deloraine, Good knight, and true, of noble strain, Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain, Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his coat;

And that, so help him God above!

He will on Musgrave's body prove,
He lies most foully in his throat.

XXII. 'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow

Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain; He strives to rise-Brave Musgrave, no!

Thence never shalt thou rise again! He chokes in blood-some friendly hand Undo the visor's barred band, Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, And give him room for life to gasp ! 0, bootless aid 'S-Haste, holy friar, Haste, ere the sinner shall expire ! Of all his guilt let him be shriven, And smooth his path from earth to heaven?

XXIII. In haste the holy friar sped,

His naked foot was died with red,

As through the lists he ran :
Unmindful of the shouts on high,
That hail'd the conqueror's victory,

He raised the dying man;
Loose waved his silver beard and hair,
As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer;
And still the crucifix on high
He holds before his darkening eye;
And still he bends an anxious ear,
His faltering penitence to hear;

Still props him from the bloody sod;
Still, even when soul and body part,
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,

And bids him trust in God! Unheard he prays ;—the death-pang's o'er ! Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.

LORD DACRE, Forward, brave champions to the fight! Sound trumpets !

XXIV.
As if exhausted in the fight,
Or musing o'er the piteous sight,

The silent victor stands :
His beaver did he not unclasp,
Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp

Of gratulating hands. When, lo! strange cries of wild surprise, Mingled with seeming terror, rise

Among the Scottish bands;

LORD HOME. “God defend the right !”

And all, amid the throng'd array,
In panic haste gave open way
To a half-naked ghastly man,
Who downward from the castle ran :
He cross'd the barriers at a bound,
And wild and haggard look'd around,

As dizzy, and in pain;
And all upon the armed ground,

Knew William of Deloraine !
Each ladye sprung from seat with speed;
Vaulted each marshal from his steed;

“ And who art thou,” they cried, “Who hast this battle fought and won ?” His plumed helm was soon undone

“ Cranstoun of Teviotside! For this fair prize I've fought and won: And to the ladye led her son.

But well she thought, ere midnight came,
Of that strange page the pride to tame,
From his soul hands the book to save,
And send it back to Michael's grave.-
Needs not to tell each tender word
'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun’s lord;
Now how she told of former woes,
And how her bosom fell and rose,
While he and Musgrave bandied blows.-
Needs not these lovers' joys to tell ;
One day, fair maids, you'll know them well.

"

XXV. Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd, And often press'd him to her breast; For, under all her dauntless show, Her heart had throbb'd at every blow; Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, Though low he kneeled at her feet. Me list not tell what words were made, What Douglas, Home, and Howard said

-For Howard was a generous foeAnd how the clan united pray'd,

The ladye would the feud forego, And deign to bless the nuptial hour Of Cranstoun's lord and Teviot's flower.

XXVIII.
William of Deloraine, some chance
Had waken'd from his deathlike trance ;

And taught that, in the listed plain,
Another, in his arms and shield,
Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield,

Under the name of Deloraine.
Hence, to the field, unarm’d, he ran,
And hence his presence scared the clan,
Who held him for some fleeting wraith,*
And not a man of blood and breath.

Not much this new ally he loved,
Yet, when he saw what hap had proved,

He greeted him right heartilie :
He would not waken old debate,
For he was void of rancorous hate,

Though rude, and scant of courtesy.
In raids he spilt but seldom blood,
Unless when men at arms withstood,
Or, as was meet, for deadly feud.
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow,
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe:
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now,

When on dead Musgrave he look'd down; Grief darken’d on his rugged brow,

Though half disguised with a frown; And thus, while sorrow bent his head, His foeman's epitaph he made.

XXVI.
She look'd to river, look'd to hill,

Thought on the spirit's prophesy,
Then broke her silence stern and still, -

“Not you, but fate, has vanquish'd me; Their influence kindly stars may shower On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,

For pride is quell’d, and love is free.” She took fair Margaret by the hand, Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand; That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave

she: -
“ As I am true to thee and thine,
Do thou be true to me and mine!

This clasp of love our bond shall be,
For this is your betrothing day,
And all these noble lords shall stay,
To grace it with their company.

XXVII.
All as they left the listed plain,
Much of the story she did gain :
How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine,
And of his page, and

the book
Which from the wounded knight he took ;
And how he sought her castle high,
That morn by help of gramarye ;
How, in Sir William's armour dight,
Stolen by his page, while slept the knight,
He took on him the single fight.
But half his tale he left unsaid,
And linger'd till he join'd the maid.-
Cared not the ladye to betray
Her mystic arts in view of day;

XXIX. “Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy; For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slewest a sister's son to me; And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till ransom'd for a thousand mark,

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,

And thou wert now alive, as I, No mortal man should us divide,

Till one or both of us did die. Yet rest thee, God! for well I know I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. In all the northern counties here, Whose word is snafle, spur, and spear,t Thou wert the best to follow gear. 'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind, To see how thou the chase couldst wind,

* The spectral apparition of a living person. + The lands that over Ouse to Berwick forth do bear, Have for their blazon had, the snafle, spur, and spear.

Poly-Albion, song xili.

Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way,
And with the bugle rouse the fray!
I'd give the lands of Deloraine,
Dark Musgrave were alive again."-

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwert, unhonour'd, and unsung.

XXX. So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band Were bowning back to Cumberland. They raised brave Musgrave from the field, And laid him on his bloody shield ; On leveli'd lances four and four, By turns, the noble burden bore. Before, at times, upon the gale, Was heard the minstrel's plaintive wail; Behind, four priests, in sable stole, Sung requiem for the warrior's soul: Around, the horsemen slowly rode; With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; And thus the gallant knight they bore, Through Liddesdale, to Leven's shore; Thence to Holme Coltrame's losty nave, And laid him in his father's grave.

II. Ó Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand! Still, as I view each well known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams are left : And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot's stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan.

The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the song,
The mimic march of death prolong;
Now seems it far, and now anear,
Now meets, and now eludes the ear;
Now seems some mountain side to sweep,
Now faintly dies in valley deep;
Seems now as if the minstrel's wail,
Now the sad requiem loads the gale:
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave,
Rung the full choir in choral stave.
After due pause, they bade him tell,
Why he who touch'd the harp so well,
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil,
Wander a poor and thankless soil,
When the more generous southern land
Would well requite his skilful hand.

The aged harper, howsoe'er
His only friend, his harp, was dear,
Liked not to hear it rank'd so high
Above his flowing poesy ;
Less liked he still that scornful jeer
Misprized the land he loved so dear;
High was the sound, as thus again
The bard resumed his minstrel strain.

III. Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome Hall The minstrels came, at festive call: Trooping they came, from near and far, The jovial priests of mirth and war; Alike for feast and fight prepared, Battle and banquet both they shared. Of late, before each martial clan, They blew their death-note in the van, But now, for every merry mate, Rose the portcullis' iron grate; They sound the pipe, they strike the string, They dance, they revel, and they sing, Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

IV. Me lists not at this tide declare The splendour of the spousal rite, How muster'd in the chapel fair Both maid and matron, squire and knight; Me lists not tell of owches rare, Of mantles green, and braided hair, And kirtles furr'd with miniver; What plumage waved the altar round, How spurs, and ringing chainlets sound: And hard it were for bard to speak The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek; That lovely hue which comes and flies, As awe and shame alternate rise.

CANTO VI.

V.

1. BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land !
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel's raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

Some bards have sung, the ladye high
Chapel or altar came not nigh;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
So much she fear'd each holy place.
False slanders these ;-I trust right well,
She wrought not by forbidden spell;
For mighty words and signs have power
O'er sprites in planetary hour:
Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,
Who tamper with such dangerous art:

But this for faithful truth I say,

The ladye by the altar stood,
Of sable velvet her array,

And on her head a crimson hood,
With pearls embroider'd and entwined,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined ;
A merlin sat upon her wrist,
Held by a leash of silken twist.

VI. The spousal rites were ended soon: 'Twas now the merry of noon, And in the lofty arched hall Was spread the gorgeous festival. Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Marshall'd the rank of every guest; Pages, with ready blade, were there, The mighty meal to carve and share: O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane, And princely peacock's gilded train, And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, And cygnet from St. Mary's wave; O’er ptarmigan and venison, The priest had spoke his benison; Then rose the riot and the din, Above, beneath, without, within ! For, from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery; Their changing bowls old warriors quaff?d, Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd; Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild, To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam, The clamour join'd, with whistling scream, And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells, In concert with the staghounds' yells. Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine, Their tasks the busy sewers ply, And all is mirth and revelry.

VII. The goblin page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy; Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, And now in humour highly cross'd, About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthil ; A hot and haughty Rutherford, Whom men call's Dickon Draw-the-sword. He took it on the page's saye, Hunthil had driven these steeds away. Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose: Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit his glove and shook his head. A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd in blood, His bosom gored with many a wound, Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found; Unknown the manner of his death, Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath ;

But ever from that time, 'twas said,
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

VIII.
The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery,
Where many a yeoman, bold and free,
Reveli'd as merrily and well
As those that sat in lordly selle.
Wat Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-braes;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merrry men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
“ A deep carouse to yon fair bride!"
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foam'd forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale,
While shout the riders every one,
Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan,
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,
When in the cleuch the buck was ta’en.

IX
The wily page, with vengeful thought,

Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew,
And swore, it should be dearly bought,

That ever he the arrow drew. First, he the yeoman did molest, With bitter gibe and taunting jest ; Told how he fled at Solway strise, And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife: Then, shunning still his powerful arm, At unawares he wrought him harm; From trencher stole his choicest cheer, Dash'd from his lips his can of beer ; Then, to his knee sly creeping on, With bodkin pierced him to the bone; The venom'd wound, and festering joint, Long after rued that bodkin's point. The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd, And board and flagons overturn'd, Riot and clamour wild began; Back to the hall the urchin ran; Took in a darkling nook his post, And grinn'd, and mutter'd,“ Lost! lost! lost !”

X. By this, the dame, lest farther fray Should mar the concord of the day, Had bid the minstrels tune their lay. And first stept forth old Albert Græme, The minstrel of that ancient name: Was none who struck the harp so well, Within the Land Debateable; Well friended, too, his hardy kin, Whoever lost were sure to win; They sought the beeves, that made their broth, In Scotland and in England both. In homely guise, as nature bade, His simple song the Borderer said.

XI.

ALBERT GRÆME. It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)