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He bethought him of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign to come with speed;
I was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
The words may not again be said,
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid:
They would rend this abbaye's massy nave,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.

XV.

"I swore to bury his mighty book, That never mortal might therein look; And never to tell where it was hid, Save at the chief of Branksome's need; And when that need was past and o'er, Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on Saint Michael's night,
When the bell tolled one, and the moon rose bright;
And I dug his chamber among the dead,
When the floor of the chancel was stain'd red,
That his patron's cross might o'er him wave,
And scare the fiends from the wizard's grave.

XVI.

"It was a night of wo and dread,
When Michael in the tomb I laid!
Strange sounds along the chancel past;
The banners waved without a blast:"—
-Still spoke the monk, when the bell toll'd one.
I tell you, that a braver man
Than William of Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;

Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII.

"Lo, warrior! now, the cross of red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night;
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
Until the eternal doom shall be."

Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone,

Which the bloody cross was traced upon;

He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the warrior took;

XIX.

Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;
His left hand held his book of might;
A silver cross was in his right;

The lamp was placed beside his knee:
High and majestic was his look;
At which the fellest fiends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face-
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.
XX.

Often had William of Deloraine

Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,

And neither known remorse nor awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd:
His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood,
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:
With eyes averted, prayed he;

He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

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 !"Then Deloraine, in terror, took

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,
With bar of iron heaved amain,

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
How the light broke forth so gloriously,
Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright;
It shone like heaven's own blessed light;
And, issuing from the tomb,

Show'd the monk's cowl and visage pale,
Danced on the dark brow'd warrior's mail,
And kiss'd his waving plume.

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were

few:

And, as the knight and priest withdrew,

With wavering steps and dizzy brain,

They hardly might the postern gain.

'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall
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,
And strove his hardihood to find;

He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones gray
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;
For the mystic book, to his bosom prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast;

And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;
He joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray,
The sun had brighten'd the Carter's* side,
And soon beneath the rising day

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,
The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

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.
He was stately, and young, and tall,
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid
Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken riband prest;

When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold,-
Where would you find the peerless fair
With Margaret of Branksome might compare!
XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy:
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow :
Ye ween to hear a melting tale
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove;
Swore he might at her feet expire,

But never, never cease to love;
And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid;
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be

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;
The ladye caresses the rough bloodhound,
Lest his voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster-father's son;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,

To meet baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The knight and ladye fair are met,

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.

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 the dwarf was first at the castle door.

XXXII.

Use lessens marvel, it is said:

This elfish dwarf with the baron staid;

Little he ate, and less he spoke,

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,
And took with him this elfish page,
To Mary's chapel of the Lowes;
For there, beside our lady's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,

And he would pay his vows.

But the ladye of Branksome gather'd a band
Of the best that would ride at her command;
The trysting place was Newark Lee.
Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestane,
And thither came William of Deloraine;

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,
As under the aged oak he stood,
The baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears;

The dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,
And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh.
Fair Margaret, through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat dove ;*
The dwarf the stirrup held and rein;
Vaulted the knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen❜d tale,
The minstrel's voice began to fail;
Full slyly smiled the observient page,
And gave the wither'd hand of age
A goblet, crown'd with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye,
Pray'd God to bless the dutchess long,
And all who cheer'd a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see,
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the minstrel quaff'd;
And he, embolden'd by the draught,
Look'd gayly back to them and laugh'd.
The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

* Wood pigeon.

CANTO III. I.

AND said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither'd heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream,

So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love's very name, Nor wake my harp to notes of flame!

II.

In peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed, In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

III.

So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,
While pondering deep the tender scene,
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green.
But the page shouted wild and shrill,-

And scarce his hemlet could he don,
When downward from the shady hill

A stately knight came pricking on. That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, Was dark with sweat, and splash'd with clay: His armour red with many a stain: He seem'd in such a weary plight, As if he had ridden the livelong night; For it was William of Deloraine.

IV.

But no whit weary did he seem,
When, dancing in the sunny beam,
He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest;
For his ready spear was in his rest.
Few were the words, and stern, and high,
That mark'd the foeman's feudal hate;
For question fierce, and proud reply,

Gave signal soon of dire debate.
Their very coursers seem'd to know,
That each was other's mortal foe;
And snorted fire, when wheel'd around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.
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;

Bent backwards to his horse's tail,

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;
The tough ash spear, so stout and true,
Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail,

Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's mail:
Through shield, and jack, and acton past,
Deep in his bosom, broke at last.
Still sate the warrior saddle fast,
Till stumbling in the mortal shock,

Down went the steed, the girthing broke,
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The baron onward pass'd his course;
Nor knew, so giddy roll'd his brain,
His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain.

VII.

But when he rein'd his courser round, And saw his foeman on the ground

Lie senseless as the bloody clay,
He bade his page to staunch the wound,
And there beside the warrior stay,
And tend him in his doubtful state,
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate.
His noble mind was inly moved

For the kinsman of the maid he loved.
"This shalt thou do without delay;
No longer here myself may stay;
Unless the swifter I speed away,
Short shrift will be at my dying day."

VIII.

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;
The goblin page behind abode :

His lord's commands he ne'er withstood,
Though small his pleasure to do good.
As the corslet off he took,

The dwarf espied the mighty book!
Much he marvell'd, a knight of pride,
Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride:

He thought not to search or stanch the wound,
Until the secret he had found.

IX.

The iron band, the iron clasp,
Resisted long the elfin grasp;
For when the first he had undone,
It closed as he the next begun.
Those iron clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristen'd hand,
Till he smear'd the cover o'er
With the Borderer's curdled gore;
A moment then the volume spread,
And one short spell therein he read.
It had much of glamour might,
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall,
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nutshell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,

And youth seem age, and age seem youth;—
All was delusion, naught was truth.

X.

He had not read another spell,

When on his cheek a buffet fell,

A shepherd's hut.

So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain,
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he mutter'd, and no more-
"Man of age, thou smitest sore !"—
No more the elfin page durst try

Into the wondrous book to pry;

The clasps, though smear'd with Christian gore,
Shut faster than they were before.

He hid it underneath his cloak.-
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;

It was not given by man alive.
XL
Unwillingly himself he address'd,
To do his master's high behest:
He lifted up the living corse,
And laid it on the weary horse;
He led him into Branksome hall,
Before the beards of the warders all;
And each did after swear and say,
There only pass'd a wain of hay.

He took him to Lord David's tower,
E'en to the ladye's secret bower:

And, but that stronger spells were spread,
And the door might not be opened,
He laid him on her very bed.

Whate'er he did of

gramarye,* Was always done maliciously; He flung the warrior on the ground, And the blood well'd freshly from the wound. XII.

As he repass'd the outer court,

He spied the fair young child at sport;
He thought to train him to the wood;
For, at a word, be it understood,
He was always for ill, and never for good.
Seem'd to the boy some comrade gay,
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the drawbridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.
XIII.

He led the boy o'er bank and fell,

Until they came to a woodland brook; The running stream dissolved the spell, And his own elvish shape he took. Could he have had his pleasure vilde, He had crippled the joints of the noble child; Or, with his finger long and lean, Had strangled him in fiendish spleen: But his awful mother he had in dread, And also his power was limited: So he but scowl'd on the startled child, And darted through the forest wild; The woodland brook he bounding cross'd, And laugh'd, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!

XIV.

Full sore amazed at the wondrous change,
And frighten'd, as a child might be,
At the wild yell, and visage strange,
And the dark words of gramarye,

• Magic.

The child, amidst the forest bower,
Stood rooted like a lily flower;

And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay,
He fear'd to see that grisly face

Glare from some thicket on his way.
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,
And deeper in the wood is gone,—
For aye the more he sought his way,
The farther still he went astray,
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.

XV.

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher;
Bursts on the path a dark bloodhound,
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.

Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,
He flew at him right furiouslie.

I ween, you would have seen with joy
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,

His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire!
He faced the bloodhound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,

But still in act to spring;

When dash'd an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stay'd,

He drew his tough bowstring:

But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy!
Ho! shoot not, Edward-'tis a boy!"

XVI.

The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire;
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow deer,

Five hundred feet him fro;

With hand more true, and eye more clear, No archer bended bow.

His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,
Set off his sunburn'd face;

Old England's sign, Saint George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;
His bugle-horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied:

And his short falchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

XVII.

His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reach'd scantly to his knee;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbish'd sheaf bore he:

His buckler scarce in breadth a span,

No larger fence had he:

He never counted him a man

Would strike below the knee;

His slacken'd bow was in his hand,

And the leash, that was his bloodhound's band.

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"Gramercy, for thy good will, fair boy!
My mind was never set so high;
But if thou art chief of such a clan,
And art the son of such a man,
And ever comest to thy command,

Our wardens had need to keep good order:

My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

Thou'lt make them work upon the border.
Meantime be pleased to come with me,
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see.

I think our work is well begun,
When we have taken thy father's son."

XXI.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the dwarf his part did play ;
And, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew ;
Nay, some of them he well nigh slew.
He tore dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
He lighted the match of his bandelier,*
And wofully scorch'd the hackbutteer ;t
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd,
That the young baron was possess'd!
XXII.

Well, I ween, the charm he held
The noble ladye had soon dispell'd:
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.
Much she wonder'd to find him lie,
On the stone threshold stretch'd along;
She thought some spirit of the sky
Had done the bold mosstrooper wrong:

* Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition.

+ Hackbutteer, musketeer.

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