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“ There, wan from her maternal throes,

His Margaret, beautiful and mild, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,

And peaceful nursed her new-born child.

“ O change accursed ! past are those days;

False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,

Ascends destruction's volumed flame.

“ What sheeted phantom wanders-wild,

Where mountain Eske through woodland flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy child

Oh is it she, the pallid rose ?

“ The wilder'd traveller sees her glide,

And hears her feeble voice with awe* Revenge,' she cries, on Murray's pride !

And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'"

He ceased--and cries of rage and grief

Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling Chief, * And half unsheathed his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock,

Rides headlong, with resistless speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke

Drives to the leap his jaded steed;

Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare,

As one, some vision'd sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ?

- 'Tis he! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh

From gory selle, * and reeling steed,

Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dash'd his carbine on the ground.

* Selle-Saddle. A word used by Spenser, and other ancient Sternly be spoke-“ 'Tis sweet to hear,


In good greenwood, the bugle blown; But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.

“ Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trod,

At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode

Through old Linlithgow's crowded town.

“ From the wild Border's humbled side,

In laughty triumph marched he, While Knox relax'd his bigot pride,

And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see.

“ But, can stern Power, with all his vaunt,

Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,

Or change the purpose of Despair ?

“ With hackbut bent,* my secret stand,

Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And mark’d, where, mingling in his band,

Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows.

“ Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,

Murder's foul minion, led the van ; And clash'd their broad-swords in the rear,

The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan.

“ Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,

“ Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindsay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain.

“ Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove,

Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; Scarce could his trampling charger move,

So close the minions crowded nigh.

* Hackbut bent.-Gun cocked.

“ From the raised vizor's shade, his eye,

Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high,

Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.

“ But yet his sadden'd brow confess’d

A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breast,

* Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!

“ The death-shot parts—the charger springs

Wild rises tumult's startling roar !And Murray's plumy helmet rings

-Rings on the ground, to rise no more.

“ What joy the raptured youth can feel,

To hear her love the loved one tell, Or he, who broaches on his steel

The wolf, by whom his infant fell!

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