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They watch, to hear the bloodhound baying:
They watch, to hear the war-horn braying:
To see St. George's red cross streaming,
To see the midnight beacon gleaming :
They watch, against Southern force and guile,
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers,

Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,
From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

Such is the custom of Branksome Hall.

Many a valiant knight is here;
But he, the chieftain of them all,
His sword hangs rusting on the wall,

Beside his broken spear.
Bards long shall tell
How Lord Walter fell!
When startled burghers fled, afar,
The furies of the Border war;
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden,
And heard the slogan's deadly yell-
Then the Chief of Branksome fell.

VIII. Can piety the discord heal,

Or staunch the death-feud's enmity ? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,

Can love of blessèd charity? No! vainly to each holy shrine,

In mutual pilgrimage, they drew; Implored, in vain, the grace divine

For chiefs their own red falchions slew : While Cessford owns the rule of Carr,

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war,

Shall never, never be forgot!

In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier

The warlike foresters had bent;
And many a flower, and many a tear,

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,

Had locked the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain,

Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisped from the nurse's knee"And if I live to be a man,

My father's death revenged shall be!' Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek.


All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire,

And wept in wild despair,
But not alone the bitter tear

Had filial grief supplied ;
For hopeless love, and anxious fear,

Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother's altered eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,

With Carr in arms had stood,
When Mathouse Burn to Melrose ran

All purple with their blood;
And well she knew her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.

Of noble race the Ladye came,
Her father was a clerk of fame,

Of Bethune's line of Picardie :
He learned the art that none may name,

In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame,

By feat of magic mystery;
For when in studious mood he paced

St. Andrew's cloistered hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced

Upon the sunny wall !

And of his skill, as bards avow,

He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow

The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,
That moans the inossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide.
That chafes against the scaur's red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,
That moans old Branksome's turrets round?

At the sullen, moaning sound,

The bandogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,

Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall both squire and knight

Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night;

But the night was still and clear!

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From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the wind-swung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,

The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,

And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.


RIVER SPIRIT. 'Sleep'st thou, brother?' MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.

Brother, nay-
On my hills the moonbeams play.
From Craikcross 10 Skelfhillpen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morris pacing,

To aërial minstrelsy,
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,

Trip it deft and merrily.
Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!'.


RIVER SPIRIT. *Tears of an imprisoned maiden

Mix with my polluted stream; Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden,

Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, When shall cease these feudal jars ? What shall be the maiden's fate? Who shall be the maiden's mate?'


MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. *Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, In utter darkness, round the pole; The Northern Bear lowers black and grim; Orion's studded belt is dim; Twinkling faint, and distant far, Shimmers through mist each planet star;

Ill may I read their high decree! But no kind influence deign they shower On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower,

Till pride be quelled, and love be free.'

The unearthly voices ceased,

And the heavy sound was still;
It died on the river's breast,

It died on the side of the hill. But round Lord David's tower

The sound still floated near; For it rung in the Ladye's bower,

And it rung in the Ladye's ear. She raised her stately head,

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