It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;
He had play'd it to King Charles the good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try
The long forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.

But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face and smiled;
And lighten'd up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along:
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
"Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.

CANTO I I.

THE feast was over in Branksome tower,
And the ladye had gone to her secret bower;

Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell,
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell-

Jesu Maria, shield us well!

No living wight, save the ladye alone,
Had dared to cross the threshold stone.

II.

The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; Knight, and page, and household squire, Loiter'd through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire; The stag hounds, weary with the chase, Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race, From Teviotstone to Eskdale-moor.

III.

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame

Hung their shields in Branksome hall;
Nine-and-twenty squires of name

Brought them their steeds from bower to stall;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall
Waited duteous on them all:

They were all knights of metal true,
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

IV.

Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword, and spur on heel:
They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night:
They lay down to rest,
With corslet laced,

Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard;

They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,

And they drank the red wine through the helmet

barr'd.

Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee"And if I live to be a man,

My father's death revenged shall be!" Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X.

All loose her negligent attire,
All loose her golden hair,

Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire,
And wept in wild despair.
But not alone the bitter tear

Had filial grief supplied;

For hopeless love, and anxious fear,
Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother's alter'd eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,
With car in arms had stood,
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran
All purple with their blood;

And well she knew, her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she would wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.

XI.

Of noble race the ladye came;
Her father was a clerk of fame,

Of Bethune's line of Picardie;

He learn'd the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame

By feat of magic mystery;

For when, in studious mood, he paced
Saint Andrew's cloister'd hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced
Upon the sunny wall!

XII.

And of his skill, as bards avoW,
He taught that ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,

That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,

That chafes against the scaur's* red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks ?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,

That moans old Branksome's turrets round?

XIII.

At the sullen moaning sound,
The bandogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,

Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight
Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night,
But the night was still and clear!

* Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth.

XIV.

From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the windswung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,

The lady knew it well!

It was the spirit of the flood that spoke, And he call'd on the spirit of the fell.

XV.

RIVER SPIRIT.

"Sleep'st thou, brother?"

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.

"Brother, nay

On my hills the moonbeams play.
From Craig-cross to Skelfhillpen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morrice pacing,
To aërial minstrelsy,

Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
Trip it deft and merrily.

Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!"

XVI.

RIVER SPIRIT.

"Tears of an imprison'd maiden
Mix with my polluted stream;
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow laden,

Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.
Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars,
When shall cease these feudal jars,
What shall be the maiden's fate?
Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

XVII.

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.

Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll In utter darkness round the pole; The northern bear lowers black and grim; Orion's studded belt is dim: Twinkling faiut, and distant far, Shimmers through mist each planet star; Ill may I read their high decree! But no kind influence deign they shower On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower, Till pride be quell'd, and love be free." XVIII.

The unearthly voices ceased,

And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast,

It died on the side of the hill, But round Lord David's tower

The sound still floated near; For it rung in the ladye's bower, And it rung in the ladye's ear.

She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbb'd high with pride:"Your mountains shall bend,

And your streams ascend,

Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!

XIX.

The ladye sought the lofty hall,

Where many a bold retainer lay,

And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play,
A fancied mosstrooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall, right merrily,

In mimic foray* rode.

E'en bearded knights, in arms grown old, Share in his frolic gambols bore, Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould,

Were stubborn as the steel they wore. For the gray warriors prophesied,

How the brave boy, in future war, Should tame the unicorn's pride, Exalt the crescent and the star.

XX.

The ladye forgot her purpose high,
One moment, and no more;

One moment gazed with a mother's eye,
As she paused at the arched door;
Then, from amid the armed train,
She call'd to her William of Deloraine.

XXI.

A stark mosstrooping Scott was he,
As e'er couch'd border lance by knee;
Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
Blindfold he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds;
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight, or matin prime:
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's king, and Scotland's queen.

XXII.

"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need
Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until you come to fair Tweed side;
And in Melrose's holy pile
Seek thou the monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the father well from me;

Say that the fated hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb :

For this will be Saint Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the cross of bloody red,

Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.

XXIII.

"What he gives thee, see thou keep; Stay not thou for food or sleep;

Be it scroll, or be it book,

Into it, knight, thou must not look;

* Foray, a predatory inroad.

If thou readest, thou art lorn!

Better thou hadst ne'er been born."

XXIV.

"O swiftly can speed my dapplegray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day," the warrior 'gan say,

"Again will I be here:

And safer by none may thy errand be done,
Than, noble dame, by me;

Letter nor line know I never a one,
Wer't my neck-verse at Haribee."*

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the deep descent he pass'd,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,t
And soon the Teviot's side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode,
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod:
He pass'd the peelt of Goldiland,

And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he view'd the moathill's mound,
Where Druid shades still flitted round:
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon he spurr'd his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;-
"Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."
"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd,
And left the friendly tower behind.

He turn'd him now from Teviot side,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,

And gain'd the moor at Horslie hill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile the Roman way.§

XXVII.

A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Mintocrags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
'Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye,
For many a league, his prey could spy;
Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love.

*Haribee, the place of executing the Border marauders at Carlisle. The neck-verse is the beginning of the fifty. first psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by criminals, claiming the benefit of clergy.

+ Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of a feudal castle.

Peel, a Border tower.

§ An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.

In bitter mood he spurred fast,
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan,
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran;
Like some tall rock, with lichens gray,
Rose, dimly huge, the dark abbaye.
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds† were in Melrose sung.
The sound upon the fitful gale

In solemn wise did rise and fail,
Like that wild harp whose magic tone
Is waken'd by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all;
He meetly stabled his steed in stall,
And sought the convent's lonely wall.

Here paused the harp; and with its swell
The master's fire and courage fell:
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
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,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age, and wandering long,
Had done his hand and harp some wrong.
The dutchess and her daughters fair,
And every gentle ladye there,
Each after each, in due degree,
Gave praises to his melody;

His hand was true, his voice was clear,
And much they longed the rest to hear.
Encouraged thus, the aged man,
After meet rest, again began.

CANTO II. I.

Ir thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower:
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem'd framed of ebon and ivory:

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view Saint David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

II.

Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little reck'd he of the scene so fair:
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate-
"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"
"From Branksome I," the warrior cried;
And straight the wicket open'd wide:

For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their soul's repose.
III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod ;
The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,*

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, And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide; "And, darest thou, warrior! seek to see

What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast, in belt of iron pent,

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!"

Now, slow and faint, he led the way,

Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay:

The pillard arches were over their head,

The keystone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille :
The corbells were carved grotesque and grim ;
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourish'd around,
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.
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
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

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;
Full in the midst, his cross of red
Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the apostate's pride.
The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

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:

VIII.

Spreading herbs, and flow'rets bright,
Glisten'd with the dew of night;
Nor herb, nor flow'ret, glisten'd there,

But was carved in the cloister'd arches as fair.
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he look'd forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.

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
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,
Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame !
Some of his skill he taught to me;

And, warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone;
But to speak them were a deadly sin;

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.