The select poetical works of Sir Walter Scott ...

Front matter

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Book -^l.

By bequest of

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 Avight, 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, Loitered through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire. The stag-hounds, weary with the chace,

Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race,

From Teviot-stone 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 mettle 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, Pillowed on buckler cold and hard ; They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.

V

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, Waited the beck of the warders ten. Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, Stood saddled in stable day and night, Barbed with frontlet of steel I trow, And with Jedwood-axe at saddle bow. A hundred more fed free in stall — Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.

VI

Why do these steeds stand ready dight? Why watch these warriors, armed, by night? They watch, to hear the blood-hound baying ; They watch, to hear the war-horn braying ; To see St George's red cross streaming, To see the midnight beacon gleaming,

They watch, against Southern force and guile, Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers, Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,

From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

VII. Such is the custom of Branksome Hall

Many a valiant knight is here ; But he, the Chieftain of them all, His sword hangs rusting on the wall,

Beside his broken spear.

Bards long shall tell, How Lord Walter fell!

When startled burghers fled afar, The furies of the Border war ; When the streets of high Dunedin Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden, And heard the slogan's* deadly yell — Then the Chief of Branksome fell.

VIII. Can piety the discord heal

Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,

Can love of blessed charity?

No ! vainly to each holy shrine,

In mutual pilgrimage, they drew; Implored, in vain, the grace divine

For chiefs, their own red falchions slew. While Cess ford owns the rule of Car,

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war,

Shall never, never be forgot!

IX

In sorrow, o'er lord Walter's bier The warlike foresters had bent And many a flower, and many a tear,

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,

Had locked the source of softer woe ; And burning pride, and high disdain,

Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisped 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.

All loose her negligent attire

All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire,

And wept in wild despair.

* The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan.

CANTO I.]

But not alone the bitter tear

Had filial grief supplied; * or hopeless love, and anxious fear,

Had lent their mingled tide • .Nor in her mother's altered eye Dared she to look for sympathy

whTr' '? ainst her fathei ' s claii, ™,^ ,? ar m arms had stood, When Mathouse burn to Melrose ran All purple with their blood.

And well she knew, her mother dread, Befo e lord Cranstoun she should 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 learned the art, that none may name,

In Padua, far beyond the sea, Men said he changed his mortal frame

Ky feat of magic mystery ; For when, in studious mood, he paced

St Andrew's cloistered hall, His form no darkening shadow traced

Upon the sunny wall !

XII. And, of his skill, as bards avow

He taught that Ladye fair, 1 ill 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 1 hat moans the mossy turrets round IsittheroarofTeviot'stide, 1 hat 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!

A U XIJI -

At the sullen, moaning sound

The ban-dogs 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!

From the sound of Teviot's tide, Chafing with the mountain's side, *rom the groan of the wind-swung oak From the sullen echo of the rock, '

tZ t G J° ic , e 0f tlie comi "g storm, The Ladye knew it well I

A«?k the n S P irit ofth * Flood that spoke And he called on the Spirit of the Fell '

XV.

River Spirit.

" Sleepcst thou, brother?"

Mountain Spirit.

On my hi„ s 57^^^ " a ^ From Craik cross to Skelfhill pen, By every nil, in every glen, P ' Merry elves, their morrice pacing To aerial minstrelsy. 1 S ' Lmerald rings on brown heath tracing Trip it deft and merrily. g '

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

* Scaur > a Precipitous bank of earth.

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

XVI.

River Spirit.

" T* aiS ° f an i m P r i s oued maiden Mix with my polluted stream ;

Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.

lell 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 faint, and distant far, Shimmers through mist each planet star:

111 may I read their high decree : But no kind influence deign they shower, °hST^S b , tlde and B raiksome's tower,

nil pride be quelled, and love be free."

™ XVIII.

The unearthly voices ceas'd,

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

It died on the side of the hill _ -out round Lord David's tower The sound still floated near ; *or it rung in the Ladye's bower, And it rung in the Ladye's ear. She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbbed high with pride a ? nr mount ains shall bend, And your streams ascend, Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride." XIX.

Ti je L adye 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 moss-trooper, the boy

The truncheon of a spear bestrode. And round the hall, right merrily

In mimic foray* rode, Even 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 gay Warriors prophesied, How the brave boy in future war, Should tame the Unicorn's pride, Lxalt the Crescent and the Star.f

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 I hen from amid the armed train, She called to her William of Delorainc.

XXI.

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he As e er couched border lance by knee ■

B S d 1°}T Y Sa H dS ' t] T U S h Tarra * »oss, -Blindfold he knew the paths across ;

I Foray, a predatory inroad.

Cf t Alluding to the armorial bearings of the Scotts and

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

[canto I.

By wily turns, "by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds ; 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 thou come to fair Tweedside ; 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 St 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; If thou readest thou art lorn! Better hadst thou ne'er been born."

XXIV.

" O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray 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 Hairibee."*

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast, And soon the steep descent he past ; Soon crossed the sounding barbican, f And soon the Teviot side he won. Eastward the wooded path he rode ; Green hazels o'er his basnet nod: He passed the Peel$ of Goldiland, And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand, Dimly he viewed the Moat-hill's mound, Where Druid shades still flitted round : In Hawick twinkled many a light; Behind him soon they set in night ; And soon he spurred 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 rejoined, And left the friendly tower behind. He turned him now from Teviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill,

* Hairibee, the place of executing- the Border Marauders at Carlisle. The neck verse is the beginning- of

j the 51st psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by cri-

I minals claiming the benefit of clergy.

| f Barbican, the defences of the outer gate of a feudal castle.

Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horseliehill ; Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman way.*

XXVII.

A moment now he slacked his speed, A moment breathed his panting steed ; Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band And loosened in the sheath his brand. On Minto-crags the moon-beams glint, Where Bamhill hewed his bed of flint; Who flung his outlawed 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.

XXVIII.

Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine To ancient Riddell's fair domain,

Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from t)ie lakes did raving come ; Each wave was crested with tawny foam,

Like the main of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,

And the water broke o'er the saddle boAv;

Above the foaming tide, I ween,

Scarce half the charger's neck was seen ;

For he was barded f from counter to tail,

And the rider was armed complete in mail ;

Never heavier man and horse

Stemmed a midnight torrent's force ;

The warrior's very plume, I say,

Was daggled by the dashing spray;

Yet, through good heart, and our Ladye's grace,

At length he gained the landing place.

XXX.

Now Bowdcn Moor the march-man Avon,

And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon;§ For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallowed morn arose, When first the Scott and Car were foes ; When royal James beheld the fray, Prize to the victor of the day ; When Home and Douglas in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

In bitter mood he spurred fast, And soon the hated heath was past ; And far beneath, in lustre wan, Old Melrose rose, and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock, with lichens gray, Seemed, dimly huge, the dark abbaye. When Hawick he passed, had curfew rung, Now midnight lauds || were in Melrose sung.

t Peel, a Border tower.

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

f Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutered with defensive armour.

§ Halidon-hill on which the battle of Melrose was i | fought.

1 1 Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church, j _ _ @

Canto Ii.] The Lay Of The Last Minstrel

The sound upon the fitful gale,

In solemn wise, did rise and fail,

Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

Is wakened by the winds alone :

But when Melrose he reached, '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 bowed, And, gazing timid on the crowd,

He seemed to seek, in every eye, If they approved his minstrelsy ; 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 Duchess 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.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moon light ;

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 ruined central tower ;

When buttress and buttress, alternately,

Seem 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 St David's ruined pile ;

And, home returning, soothly swear,

Was never scene so sad and fair!

II.

Short halt did Deloraine make there ;

Little recked 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 strait the wicket opened 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 souls' repose. III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said; The porter bent his humble head ; With torch in hand, and foot unshod, And noiseless step, the path he trod ; The arched cloysters, far and wide, Rang to the warrior's clanking stride : Till, stooping low his lofty crest, He entered 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, 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 stiffened limbs he reared; A hundred years had flung their snows

On his thin locks and floating beard.

* Aventale, visor of the helmet.

And strangely on the knight looked he,

And his blue eyes gleamed 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!"

VI.

" Penance, father, will I none ;

Prayer know I hardly one ;

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,

Save to patter an Ave Mary,

When I ride on a Border foray:

Other prayer can I none ;

So speed me my errand, and let me begone."

VII.

Again on the knight looked the churchman old,

And again he sighed heavily ; 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, When his limbs were strong, and his courage

was high: — Now, slow and faint he led the way, Where, cloistered round, the garden lay ; The pillared arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

VIII.

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, Glistened with the dew of night ; Nor herb nor floweret glistened there, But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

Then into the night he looked forth ; And red and bright the streamers' light

Were glancing in the glowing north. So had he seen in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start ; Sudden the flying jennet 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-clenched postern door, They entered now the chancel tall ?

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

[CANTO II.

The darkened roof rose high aloof

On pillars, lofty, and light, and small ; The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatro-feuille ; The corbells * were carved grotesque and grim ; And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, With base and with capital flourished around, Seemed 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!

high ambition, lowly laid!

XL

The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined : Thou wouldst 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,

Showed many a prophet and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was dyed;

Full in the midst his Cross of Red

Triumphant Michael brandished, And trampled the Apostate's pride. The moon-beam kissed 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 woe ; For Paynim countries I have trod And fought beneath the cross of God ; Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, And their iron-clang sounds strange to mine ear.

XIII

f * In these far climes, it was my lot To meet the wondrous Michael Scott j

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 ;

He bethought him of his sinful deed,

And he gave me a sign to come with speed ;

1 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 ,•

* Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring-, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.

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 his chief of Branksome's need ;

And when that need was past and o'er,

Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on St Michael's night,

When the bell tolled one, and the moon was

bright, And I dug his chamber among the dead, When the floor of the chancel was stained red, That his patron's cross might over him wave, And scare the fiends from the wizard's grave.

XVI

" It was a night of Avoe 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 tolled

one ! — I tell you, that a braver man Than William of Deloraine, good at need, Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed; Yet somewhat was he chilled 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; And the Monk made a sign with his withered

hand The grave's huge portals 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 ; Streamed 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,

Showed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale;

Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail And kissed his waving plume.

XIX

Before their eyes the Wizard lay, As if he had not been dead a day; His hoary beard in silver rolled, He seemed some seventy winters old

A palmer's amice wrapped 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.

CANTO II.]

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

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 quick, his head swam round,

When this strange scene of death he saw, Bewildered and unnerved, he stood. And the priest prayed 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 prayed, Thus unto Deloraine he said — " Now speed thee what thou hast to do, Or, warrior, we may dearly rue ; For those, thou mayest not look upon, Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!" — Then Deloraine in terror took From the cold hand the Mighty Book, With iron clasped, and with iron bound: He thought as he took it, the dead man frowned ; But the glare of the sepulchral light, Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.

XXII. When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb

The night returned in double gloom ;

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were

few; And, as the Knight and Priest Avithdrew, With Avavering steps and dizzy brain, They hardly might the postern gain. 'Tis said, as through the aisles they passed, 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 wrought 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 Ave are on death-bed laid, O may our dear Lady, and sAveet St John, Forgive our souls for the deed Ave have done!" The Monk returned him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped ; When the convent met at the noontide bell —

The Monk of St Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross Avas the body laid, With hands clasped fast, as if still he prayed.

XXIV. The knight breathed free in the morning wind

And strove his hardihood to find:

He Avas glad when he passed the tombstones grey,

Which girdle round the fair abbaye ;

For the mystic book, to his bosom prest,

Felt like a load upon his breast;

And his joints, Avith nerves of iron twined,

Shook, like the aspen leaves, in Avind,

Full fain Avas he, Avhen the daAvn of day

Began to brighten the Cheviot gray ;

He joyed to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as avcII as he might.

XXV. The sun had brightened Cheviot gray

The sun had brightened the Carter's side ; And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome's toAvers and Teviot's tide.

The Avild birds told their warbling tale,

And Avakened every flower that blows ; And peeped 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 aAvake

And don her kirtle so hastilie ; And the silken knots which in haste she Avould make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ; Why does she stop, and look often around,

As she glides doAvn the secret stair ; And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound,

As he rouses him up from his lair ; And though she passes the postern alone, Why is not the Avatchman's bugle bloAvn?

XXVII

The ladye steps in doubt and dread, Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound, Lest his voice should aAvaken the castle round ; The Avatchman's bugle is not bloAvn, For he Avas her foster father's son ; And she glides through the greenwood at daAvn

of light, To meet Baron Henry, her oAvn true knight.

XXVIII. The knight and ladye fair are met

And under the haAvthorn's boughs are set.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the haAvthorn green ;

He Avas 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 sAvelling breast

A gainst the silken ribband pressed ;

When her blue eyes their secret told,

Though shaded by her locks of gold —

Where Avould you find the peerless fair,

With Margaret of Branksome might compare ?

XXIX. And noAv, fair dames, methinks I see

You listen to my minstrelsy:

Your Avaving locks ye backward throw,

And sidelong bend your necks of snoAv: — ,

Ye ween to hear a melting tale

Of tAvo true lovers in a dale ;

And hoAv the knight, Avith tender fire, To paint his faithful passion strove ;