Light forayers, first, to view the ground, Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round; Behind, in close array, and fast,
The Kendal archers, all in green, Obedient to the bugle blast,
Advancing from the wood were seen. To back and guard the archer band, Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand: A hardy race, on Irthing bred, With kirtles white, and crosses red, Array'd beneath the banner tall, That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall; And minstrels, as they march'd in order, Play'd, "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border."
Behind the English bill and bow,
The mercenaries, firm and slow,
Moved on to fight, in dark array,
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein,
Who brought the band from distant
Rhine,
And sold their blood for foreign pay. The camp their home, their law the sword,
They knew no country, own'd no lord:
They were not arm'd like England's sons,
But bore the leven-darting guns;
Buff coats, all frounced and 'broider'd
o'er,
And morsing-horns* and scarfs they
Each better knee was bared, to aid
The warriors in the escalade;
All, as they march'd, in rugged tongue,
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung.
* Powder-Hasks.
But louder still the clamour grew,
And louder still the minstrels blew,
When, from beneath the greenwood tree,
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry;
His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear,
Brought up the battle's glittering rear.
There many a youthful knight, full keen
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen ;
With favour in his crest, or glove,
Memorial of his ladye-love.
So rode they forth in fair array,
Till full their lengthen'd lines display ;
Then call'd a halt, and make a stand,
And cried, "St. George, for merry Eng-
land!"
Now every English eye, intent
On Branksome's armed towers was bent;
So near they were, that they might know |
The straining harsh of each cross-bow;
On battlement and bartizan
Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partisan;
Falcon and culver,* on each tower,
Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower;
And flashing armour frequent broke
From eddying whirls of sable smoke,
Where upon tower and turret head,
The seething pitch and molten lead
Reek'd, like a witch's cauldron red.
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall,
The wicket opes, and from the wall
Rides forth the hoary Seneschal.
Armed he rode, all save the head, His white beard o'er his breast-pla.e spread;
Unbroke by age, erect his seat,
He ruled his eager courser's gait;
Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance,
And, high curvetting, slow advance:
In sign of truce, his better hand
Display'd a peeled willow wand;
His squire, attending in the rear,
Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.t
* Ancient pieces of artillery.
A glove upon a lance was the emblem of faith among the ancient Borderers, who were wont, when any one broke his word, to expose this emblem, and proclaim him a faithless villain at the first Border meeting. This ceremony was much dreaded.
When they espied him riding out,
Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout
Sped to the front of their array,
To hear what this old knight should say.
"Ye English warden lords, of you
Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch,
Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide,
In hostile guise ye dare to ride,
With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand,
And all yon mercenary band,
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland?
My Ladye reads you swith return;
And, if but one poor straw you burn,
Or do our towers so much molest
As scare one swallow from her nest,
St. Mary! but we'll light a brand
Shail warm your hearths in Cumber-
land."-
A wrathful man was Dacre's lord,
But calmer Howard took the word:
"May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal,
To seek the castle's outward wall,
Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show
Eth why we came, and when we go."-
The message sped, the noble Dame
To the wall's outward circle came;
Each chief around lean'd on his spear,
To see the pursuivant appear.
All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd,
The lion argent deck'd his breast;
He led a boy of blooming hue-
O sight to meet a mother's view!
It was the heir of great Buccleuch.
Obeisance meet the herald made,
And thus his master's will he said :-
XXIV.
"It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords,
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords;
But yet they may not tamely see,
All through the Western Wardenry,
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride,
And burn and spoil the Border-side;
And ill beseems your rank and birth
To make your towers a flemens-firth.*
We claim from thee William of Delo-
raine,
That he may suffer march-treason pain. * An asylum for outlaws.
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even
He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven,
Harried* the lands of Richard Musgrave,
And slew his brother by dint of glaive.
Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame
These restless riders may not tame,
Either receive within thy towers
Two hundred of my master's powers,
Or straight they sound their warrison.+
And storm and spoil thy garrison:
And this fair boy, to London led,
Shall good King Edward's page be
bred."
He ceased-and loud the boy did cry,
And stretch'd his little arms on high;
Implored for aid each well-known face,
And strove to seek the Dame's embrace.
A moment changed that Ladye's cheer,
Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear;
She gazed upon the leaders round,
And dark and sad each warrior frown'd;
Then, deep within her sobbing breast
She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest;
Unalter'd and collected stood,
And thus replied, in dauntless mood:
"Say to your Lords of high emprize, Who war on women and on boys, That either William of Deloraine Will cleanse him, by oath, of marchtreason stain,
Or else he will the combat take 'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's sake. No knight in Cumberland so good, But William may count with him kin and blood.
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword, When English blood swell'd Ancram's ford;
And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight, And bare him ably in the flight,
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight. For the young heir of Branksome's line, God be his aid, and God be mine; Through me no friend shall meet his doom;
Here, while I live no foe finds room.
Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge, Take our defiance loud and high; Our slogan is their lyke-wake* dirge, Our moat, the grave where they shall lie."
Proud she look'd round, applause to claim
Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of flame;
His bugle Wat of Harden blew ; Pensils and pennons wide were flung, To heaven the Border slogan rung,
"St Mary for the young Buccleuch?" The English war-cry answered wide, And forward bent each southern spear; Each Kendal archer made a stride,
And drew the bowstring to his ear; Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown ;
But, ere a grey-goose shaft had flown, A horseman gallop'd from the rear.
"Ah! noble Lords!" he breathless said,
"What treason has your march betray'd?
What make you here, from aid so far,
Before you walls, around you war?
Your foemen triumph in the thought,
That in the toils the lion's caught.
Already on dark Ruberslaw
The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw; +
The lances, waving in his train,
Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;
And on the Liddel's northern strand,
To bar retreat to Cumberland,
Lord Maxwell ranks his merry men good,
Beneath the eagle and the rood;
And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,
Have to proud Angus come;
And all the Merse and Lauderdale
Have risen with haughty Home.
An exile from Northumberland,
In Liddesdale I've wander'd long;
But still my heart was with merry
England,
And cannot brook my country's
Lyke-wake, the watching a corpse previous
+ Weapon-schaw, the military array of a county.
And hard I've spurr'd all night to show The mustering of coming foe."
"And let them come!" fierce Dacre cried ;
"For soon yon crest, my father's pride,
That swept the shores of Judah's sea,
And waved in gales of Galilee,
From Branksome's highest towers dis-
play'd,
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid !—
Level each harquebuss on row;
Draw, merry archers, draw the bow;
Up, bill-men, to the walls and cry,
Dacre for England, win or die !"-
"Yet hear," quoth Howard, "calmly hear,
Nor deem my words the words of fear :
For who, in field or foray slack,
Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back?
But thus to risk our Border flower
In strife against a kingdom's power,
Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands
three,
Certes, were desperate policy.
Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,
Ere conscious of the advancing aid :
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine
In single fight; and, if he gain,
He gains for us; but if he's cross'd,
'Tis but a single warrior lost :
The rest, retreating as they came,
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame."
Ill could the haughty Dacre brook
His brother Warden's sage rebuke;
And yet his forward step he stay'd,
And slow and sullenly obeyed.
But ne'er again the Border side
Did these two lords in friendship ride:
And this slight discontent, men say,
Cost blood upon another day.
The pursuivant-at-arms again
Before the castle took his stand; His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain, The leaders of the Scottish band;
And he defied, in Musgrave's right,
Stout Deloraine to single fight;
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, Uaharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd, In peaceful march, like men unarm'd, Shall straight retreat to Cumberland."
Unconscious of the near relief,
The proffer pleased each Scottish chief,
Though much the Ladye sage gain-
say'd;
For though their hearts were brave and
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 enclosed 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.
I know right well, that, in their lay,
Fall 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.
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 rung 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.
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;
E'en when in age their flame expires,
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires :
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze.
Smiled, then, well-pleased, the Aged
Man,
And thus his tale continued ran.
CALL it not vain :-they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies:
Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone,
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his loved groves that breezes
sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.
Nor that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier :
The phantom Knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,
And shrieks along the battle-plain.
The chief, whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Vails not to tell each hardy clan,
From the fair Middle Marches came; The Bloody Heart blazed in the van,
Announcing Douglas, dreaded name! Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne
Their men in battle-order set; And Swinton laid the lance in rest, That tamed of yore the sparkling crest Of Clarence's Plantagenet. Nor list I say what hundreds more, From the rich Merse and Lammermore, And Tweed's fair borders to the war, Beneath the crest of old Dunbar,
And Hepburn's mingled banners come, Down the steep mountain glittering far, And shouting still, "A Home! a
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