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xxx. So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band Were bowning back to Cumberland. They raised brave Musgrave from the
field, And laid him on his bloody shield; On levell'd lances, four and four, By turns, the noble burden bore. Before, at times, upon the gale, Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail ; Behind, four priests, in sable stole, Sung requiem for the warrior's soul : Around, the horsemen slowly rode; With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; And thus the gallant knight they bore, Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore; Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave, And laid him in his father's grave.
This is my own, my native land ! | Whose heart hath ne'er within him
burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
The harp's wild notes, though hush'd
the song, The mimic march of death prolong; Now seems it far, and now a-near, Now meets, and now eludes the ear; Now seems some mountain side to sweep, Now faintly dies in valley deep; Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, Now the sad requiem, loads the gale ; Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, Rung the full choir in choral stave.
After due pause, they bade him tell, Why he, who touch'd the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous Southern Land Would well requite his skilful hand.
The Aged Harper, howsoe'er His only friend, his harp, was dear, Liked not to hear it rank'd so high Above his flowing poesy : Less liked he still, that'scornful jeer Misprised the land he loved so dear; High was the sound, as thus again The Bard resumed his minstrel strain.
II. O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were
left; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble
way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek; * Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan.
III. Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome Hall The Minstrels came, at festive call; Trooping they came, from near and far, The jovial priests of mirth and war; Alike for feast and fight prepared, Battle and banquet both they shared. Of late, before each martial clan, They blew their death-note in the van,
* The preceding four lines now form the inscription on the monument of Sir Walter Scott in the market-place of Selkirk.
BREATHES there the man, with soul so Who never to himself hath said,
But now, for every merry mate,
string, They dance, they revel, and they sing, Till the rude turrets shake and ring.
The splendour of the spousal rite,
knight; Me lists not tell of owches rare, Of mantles green, and braided hair, And kirtles furr'd with miniver; What plumage waved the altar round, How spurs and ringing chainlets sound; And hard it were for bard to speak The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek; That lovely hue which comes and flies, As awe and shame alternate rise !
Some bards have sung, the Ladye high
The Ladye by the altar stood, Of sable velvet her array,
And on her head a crimson hood, With pearls embroider'd and entwined, Guarded with gold, with ermine lined A merlin sat upon her wrist, Held by a leash of silken twist.
Pages, with ready blade, were there,
mild, To ladies fair; and ladies smiled. The hooded hawks, high perch'd on
beam, The clamour join'd with whistling
scream, And flapp'd their wings, and shook
their bells, In concert with the stag-hounds' yells. Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine; Their tasks the busy sewers ply, And all is mirth and revelry.
VII. The Goblin Page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy; Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, And now in humour highly cross’d, About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill; A hot and hardy Rutherford, Whom men called Dickon Draw-the
sword. He took it on the page's saye, Hunthill had driven these steeds away. Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose: Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit his glove, and shook his head.A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, Stout Conrade, cold, and drench'd in
The spousal rites were ended soon :
His bosom gored with many a wound, Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found; Unknown the manner of his death, Gone was his brand, both sword and
sheath; But ever from that time, 'twas said, That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.
VIII. The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye Might his foul treachery espie, Now sought the castle buttery, Where many a yeoman, bold and free, Reveli'd as merrily and well As those that sat in lordly selle. Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes; And he, as by his breeding bound, To Howard's merry-men sent it round. To quit them, on the English side, Red Roland Forster loudly cried, “A deep carouse to yon fáir bride." — At every pledge, from vat and pail, Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown
ale; While shout the riders every one: Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their
clan, Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, When in the cleuch the buck was ta’en.
By this, the Dame, lest farther fray
The wily page, with vengeful thought,
Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew, And swore, it should be dearly bought
That ever he the arrow drew. First, he the yeoman did molest, With bitter gibe and taunting jest; Told, how he fied at Solway strife, And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his
wife; Then, shunning still his powerful arm, At unawares he wrought him harm; From trencher stole his choicest cheer, Dash'd from his lips his can of beer; Then, to his knee sly creeping on, With bodkin pierc'd him to the bone: The venom'd wound, and festering joint, Long after rued that bodkin's point. The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd, And board and flagons overturn'd.
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all. Blithely they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall, But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all. Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall; Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all. For she had lands, both meadow and lea, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall, And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all.
He pierced her brother to the heart,
XIV. Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle
They sought, together, climes afar, wall:
And oft, within some olive grove, So perish all would true love part, That Love may still be lord of all !
When even came with twinkling star,
They sung of Surrey's absent love. And then he took the cross divine,
His step the Italian peasant stay'd, (Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle
And deem'd that spirits from on high, wall,)
Round where some hermit saint was And died for her sake in Palestine;
laid, So Love was still the lord of all.
Were breathing heavenly melody; Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, So sweet did harp and voice combine,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) To praise the name of Geraldine. Pray for their souls who died for love,' For Love shall still be lord of all !
Fitztraver! O what tongue may say As ended Albert's simple lay,
The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, Arose a bard of loftier port;
When Surrey, of the deathless lay, For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay,
Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ? Renown'd in haughty Henry's court: Regardless of the tyrant's frown, There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, His harp call'd wrath and vengeance Fitztraver of the silver song!
down. The gentle Surrey loved his lyre He left, for Naworth's iron towers, wño has not heard of Surrey's Windsor's green glades, and courtly fame?
bowers, His was the hero's soul of fire, | And, faithful to his patron's name,
And his the bard's immortal name, | With Howard still Fitztraver came ; And his was love, exalted high
Lord William's foremost favourite he, By all the glow of chivalry.
| And chief of all his minstrelsy.
He heard the midnight bell with anxious start,
When wise Cornelius promised, by his art,
Albeit betwixt them roard the ocean grim ;
That he should see her form in life and limb,
To which the wizard led the gallant Knight,
A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering light
On cross, and character, and talisman,
For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam;
Cloudly and indistinct, as feverish dream;
To form a lordly and a lofty room,
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
Fair all the pageant-but how passing fair
The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind!
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined;
And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine,
That favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line,
And swept the goodly vision all away-
O'er my beloved Master's glorious day.
On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine,
| And watch'd, the whilst, with visage
pale, Both Scots, and Southern chiefs, prolong
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail; Applauses of Fitztraver's song ;
For all of wonderful and wild
Had rapture for the lonely child.
In these rude isles might fancy cull;
blood, Still nods their palace to its fall,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food; Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall !-- Kings of the main their leaders brave, Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland Their barks the dragons of the wave. rave,
And there, in many a stormy vale, As if grim Odin rode her wave;
The Scald had told his wondrous tale ;