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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,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;
They sound the pipe, they strike the

string, They dance, they revel, and they sing, Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendour of the spousal rite,
How muster'd in the chapel fair
Both maid and matron, squire and

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
Chapel or altar came not nigh;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
So much she fear'd each holy place.
False slanders these :- I trust right

She wrought not by forbidden spell;
For mighty words and signs have power
O'er sprites in planetary hour :
Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,
Who tamper with such dangerous art,
But this for faithful truth I say,

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,
The mighty meal to carve and share :
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane,
And princely peacock's gilded train,
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave,
And cygnet from St Mary's wave;
O'er ptarmigan and venison,
The priest had spoke his benison.
Then rose the riot and the din,
Above, beneath, without, within !
For, from the lofty balcony,
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery :
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd,
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd;
Whisper'd young knights, in tone more

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 :
'Twas now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshall'd the rank of every guest;

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.

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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
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay.
And first stept forth old Albert Grame,
The Minstrel of that ancient name:
Was none who struck the harp so well,
Within the Land Debateable;
Well friended, too, his hardy kin,
Whoever lost, were sure to win;
They sought the beeves that made their

In Scotland and in England both.
In homely guise, as nature bade,
His simple song the Borderer said.

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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.


It was an English ladye bright,

(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.

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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 !

xv. XIII.

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.

'Twas All-soul's eve, and Surrey's heart beat high ;

He heard the midnight bell with anxious start,
Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh,

When wise Cornelius promised, by his art,
To show to him the ladye of his heart,

Albeit betwixt them roard the ocean grim ;
Yet so the sage had hight to play his part,

That he should see her form in life and limb,
And mark, if still she loved, and still she thought of him.

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye,

To which the wizard led the gallant Knight,
Save that before a mirror, huge and high,

A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering light
On mystic implements of magic might :

On cross, and character, and talisman,
And almagest, and altar, nothing bright:

For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
As watchlight by the bed of some departing man.

But soon, within that mirror huge and high,

Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam;
And forms upon its breast the Earl 'gan spy,

Cloudly and indistinct, as feverish dream;
Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem

To form a lordly and a lofty room,
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.

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Fair all the pageant-but how passing fair

The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind!
O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair,

Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined;
All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined,

And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine,
Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul to find :-

That favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line,
That fair and lovely form, the Lady Geraldine.

Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely form,

And swept the goodly vision all away-
So royal envy roll'd the murky storm

O'er my beloved Master's glorious day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay

On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,

The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine,
The murder's Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine ! ..

| 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
These hated Henry's name as death,

Had rapture for the lonely child.
And those still held the ancient faith. -
Then, from his seat, with lofty air,

Rose Harold, bard of brave St Clair;
St Clair, who, feasting high at Home, And much of wild and wonderful
Had with that lord to battle come.

In these rude isles might fancy cull;
Harold was born where restless seas For thither came, in times afar,
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades; Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war,
Where erst St Clairs held princely sway The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ;-

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 ;

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