A gauntlet at their feet he laid,

And thus the terms of fight he said :

"If in the lists good Musgrave's sword

Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's lord, Shall hostage for his clan remain : If Deloraine foil good Musgrave,

The boy his liberty shall have.

Howe'er it falls, the English band, Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd, In peaceful march, like men unarm'd,

Shall straight retreat to Cumberland. "——

XXXIII.

Unconscious of the near relief,

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief,

Though much the Ladye sage gainsay'd;

For though their hearts were brave and true, From Jedwood's recent sack they knew

How tardy was the Regent's aid:

And you may guess the noble Dame

Durst not the secret prescience own, Sprung from the art she might not name,

By which the coming help was known. Closed was the compact, and agreed, That lists should be inclosed with speed, Beneath the castle on a lawn:

They fix'd the morrow for the strife,
On foot, with Scottish axe and knife,
At the fourth hour from peep of dawn;

When Deloraine, from sickness freed,
Or else a champion in his stead,

Should for himself and chieftain stand,
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.

XXXIV.

I know right well, that, in their lay,

Full many minstrels sing and say,

Such combat should be made on horse,

On foaming steed, in full career,

With brand to aid, when as the spear

Should shiver in the course :

But he, the jovial Harper, taught

Me, yet a youth, how it was fought,
In guise which now I say;

He knew each ordinance and clause

Of black Lord Archibald's battle-laws,
In the old Douglas' day.

He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong,

Or call his song untrue :

For this, when they the goblet plied,

And such rude taunt had chafed his pride,

The Bard of Reull he slew.

On Teviot's side in fight they stood,

And tuneful hands were stain'd with blood;

Where still the thorn's white branches wave,

Memorial o'er his rival's grave.

7

XXXV.

Why should I tell the rigid doom,

That dragg'd my master to his tomb; How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, Wept till their eyes were dead and dim, And wrung their hands for love of him,

Who died at Jedwood Air?

He died!-his scholars, one by one,

To the cold silent grave are gone;
And I, alas! survive alone,

To muse o'er rivalries of yore,

And grieve that I shall hear no more

The strains, with envy heard before;

For, with my minstrel brethren fled,

My jealousy of song is dead.

He paused: the listening dames again
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain.

With many a word of kindly cheer,

In pity half, and half sincere,

Marvell'd the Duchess how so well

His legendary song could tell

Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;

Of feuds, whose memory was not;

Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the hare;
Of manners, long since changed and gone;
Of chiefs, who under their grey stone

So long had slept, that fickle Fame

Had blotted from her rolls their name,

And twined round some new minion's head The fading wreath for which they bled;

In sooth, 'twas strange, this Old Man's verse Could call them from their marble hearse.

The Harper smiled, well-pleased; for ne'er

Was flattery lost on poet's ear.

A simple race! they waste their toil

For the vain tribute of a smile;