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And her heart throbbed high with pride :
Your mountains shall bend,
And your streams ascend,
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!'
The Ladye sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer lay, And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play. A fancied moss-trooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall right merrily,
In mimic foray rode.
Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,
Share in his frolic gambols bore,
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould,
Were stubborn as the steel they wore. For the grey warriors prophesied,
How the brave boy, in future war, Should tame the Unicorn's pride,
Exalt the Crescent and the Star.
The Ladye forgot her purpose high,
One moment, and no more;
One moment gazed with a mother's eye,
As she paused at the arched door:
Then, from amid the armed train,
She called to her William of Deloraine.
A stark moss-trooping Scott was he,
As e'er couched Border lance by knee:
Through Solway Sands, through Tarras Moss,
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds;
In Esk or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight, or matin prime:
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's king, and Scotland's queen.
“Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile
Seek thou the monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the father well from me;
Say that the fated hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb:
For this will be St. Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the cross, of bloody red,
Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.
•What he gives thee, see thou keep,
Stay not thou for food or sleep:
Be it scroll, or be it book,
Into it, knight, thou must not look:
If thou readest, thou art lorn!
Better hadst thou ne'er been born!'
XXIV. 'Oh swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed,
Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day,' the warrior 'gan say,
'Again will I be here: And safer by none may thy errand be done,
Than, noble dame, by me;
Leiter nor line know I never a one,
Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee.'
xxv. Soon in his saddle sate he fast, And soon the deep descent he past, Soon crossed the sounding barbican, And soon the Teviot side he won. Eastward the wooded path he rode, Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; He passed the peel of Goldiland, And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand; Dimly he viewed the moat-hill's mound, Where Druid shades still flitted round; In Hawick twinkled many a light; Behind him soon they set in night; And soon he spurred his courser keen Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.
XXVI. The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark: 'Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.' 'For Branksome, ho!' the knight rejoined, And left the friendly tower behind. He turned him now from Teviotside,
And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride,
And gained the moor at Horsliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman way.
A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosened in the sheath his brand,
On Minto Crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint ;
Who flung his outlawed limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy.
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love!
Unchallenged, thence passed Deloraine,
To ancient Riddel's fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.
At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
For he was barded from counter to tail,
And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
Stemmed a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say,
Was daggled by the dashing spray;
Yet, through good heart, and our Ladye's grace,
At length he gained the landing place.
Now Bowden Moor the March-man won,
And sternly shook his plumèd head,
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ;
For on his soul the slaughter red
Of that unhallowed morn arose,
When first the Scott and Carr were foes;
When royal James beheld the fray,
Prize to the victor of the day,
When Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear
Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear.
In bitter mood he spurred fast.
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan;
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran,
Like some tall rock with lichens grey,
Seemed dimly huge the dark abbaye.
When Hawick he passed had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.
The sound, upon the fitful gale,
In solemn wise did rise and fail,
Like that wild harp, whose magic tone
Is wakened by the winds alone.