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The falling gauntlet quits the rein,

Down drops the casque of steel, The cuirass leaves his shrinking side,

The spur his gory heel.
The eyes desert the naked skull,

The mouldering flesh the bone,
Till Helen's lily arms entwine

A ghastly skeleton.

Warriors from the breach of danger

Pluck no longer laurels there; They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

1797.

THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN

The furious barb snorts fire and foam,

And with a fearful bound Dissolves at once in empty air,

And leaves her on the ground.

yew

Half seen by fits, by fits half heard,

Pale spectres flit along, Wheel round the maid in dismal dance,

And howl the funeral song ; “Een when the heart's with anguish

cleft
Revere the doom of Heaven,
Her soul is from her body reft;
Her spirit be forgiven!”

1795. 1796.

THE VIOLET See Lockhart's life of Scott, Vol I, Chapter 8, and the Century Magazine, July, 1899. The violet in her green-wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels

mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen or copse or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclin

ing; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through watery lustre

shining.

THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with

day,

IIe spurred his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky

way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch

His banner broad to rear ;
He went not 'gainst the English yew

To lift the Scottish spear.
Yet his plate-jack was braced and his

helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel

sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. The baron returned in three days' space

And his looks were sad and sour; And weary was his courser's pace

As he reached his rocky tower. He came not from where Ancrara Moor

Ran red with English blood ; Where the Douglas true and the bold

Buccleuch 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. Yet was bis helmet hacked and hewed,

His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagger with blood im

brued, But it was not English gore. He lighted the Chapellage,

He held him close and still ; And he whistled thrice for his little

foot-page, His name was English Will. "Come thou hither, my little foot-page,

Come hither to my knee ; Though thou art young and tender of

age, I think thou art true to me.

The summer sun that dew shall dry

Ere yet the day be past its morrow, For longer in my false love's eye Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

1797. 1810.

TO A LADY

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL

Take these flowers which, purple wav

ing, On the ruined rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving,

Rome's imperial standards flew,

“Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have

been, What did thy lady do ?”

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• My lady, each night, sought the lonely

light That burns on the wild Watchfold ; For from height to beight the beacons

bright Of the English foemen told. “ The bittern clamored from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill ; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross

To the eiry Beacon Hill. "I watched her-steps, and silent came

Where she sat her on a stone ;No watchman stood by the dreary

flame, It burned all alone. “ The second night I kept her in sight

Till to the fire she came, And, by Mary's might! an armed

knight Stood by the lonely flame. “ And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there; But the rain fell fast and loud blew the

blast, And I heard not what they were. “The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watched the secret pair

On the lonesome Beacon Hill. “ And I heard her name the midnight

hour, And name this holy eve; And say, "Come this night to thy

lady's bower; Ask no bold baron's leave. “He lifts his spear with the bold Buc

cleuch ; His lady is all alone ; The door she 'll undo to her knight so

true On the eve of good Saint John.' :* I cannot come; I must not come ;

I dare not come to thee: On the eve of Saint John I must wan

der alone : In thy bower I may not be.' • • Now, out on thee, faint-hearted

knight! Thou shouldst not say me nay; For the eve is sweet, and when lovers

meet Is worth the whole summer's day,

" • And I'll chain the blood-hound, and

the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strewed on tlie

stair; So, by the black rood-stone and by

holy Saint John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there!' "Though the blood-hound be mute and

the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not

blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the

chamber to the east, And my footstep he would know.' "• O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to

the east, For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say mass, till three days do

pass, For the soul of a knight that is

slayne.' He turned him around and grimly he

frowned Then he laughed right scornfullyHe who says the mass-rite for the soul

of that knight May as well say mass for me : "• At the lone midnight hour when bad

spirits have power In thy chamber will I be. With that he was gone and my lady left

alone, And no more did I see."

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for me,

Yet hear but my word, my noble lord !

For I heard her name his name; And that lady bright, she called the

knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame." The bold baron's brow then changed, I

trow, From high blood-red to paleThe grave is deep and dark-and the

corpse is stiff and starkSo I may not trust thy tale. " Where fair Tweed flows round holy

Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago by some secret foe

That gay gallant was slain. “The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drowned the

name; For the Dryburgh bells ring and the

white monks do sing For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!” He passed the court-gate and he oped the

tower-gate, And he mounted the narrow stair To the bartizan-seat where, with maids

that on her wait, He found his lady fair. That lady sat in mournful mood;

Looked over hill and vale; Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's

wood, And all down Teviotdale. “Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright !”

“Now hail, thou baron true! What news, what news, from Ancram

fight? What news from the bold Buccleuch !” “ The Ancram moor is red with gore,

For many a Southern fell; And Buccleuch has charged us evermore

To watch our beacons well." The lady blushed red, but nothing she

said : Nor added the baron a word : Then she stepped down the stair to her

chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron

tossed and turned, And oft to himself he said,

“The worms around him creep, and his

bloody grave is deepIt cannot give up the dead ! " It was near the ringing of matin-bell,

The night was well-nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that baron fell,

On the eve of good Saint John. The lady looked through the chamber

fair, By the light of a dying flame ; And she was aware of a knight stood

there Sir Richard of Coldinghame! " Alas! away, away!" she cried,

“For the holy Virgin's sake! “Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side ;

But; lady, he will not awake. “By Eildon-tree for long nights three

In bloody grave have I lain ; The mass and the death-prayer are said

But, lady, they are said in vain. "By the baron's brand, near Tweed's fair

strand, Most foully slain I fell ; And my restless sprite on the beacon's

height For a space is doomed to dwell. At our trysting-place, for a certain

space, I must wander to and fro; But I had not had power to come to thy

bower Hadst thou not conjured me so." Love mastered fear-her brow she

crossed; “How, Richard, hast thou sped ? And art thou saved or art thou lost ?"

The vision shook his head !
“Who spilleth life shall forfeit life :

So bid thy lord believe :
That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."
He laid his left palm on an oaken beam

His right upon her hand;
The lady shrunk and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.
The sable score of fingers four

Remains on that board impressed ; And forevermore that lady wore

A covering on her wrist.

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Mightiest of all the beasts of chase

That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race,

The Mountain Bull comes thundering

on.

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst

turn, To draw oblivion's pall aside

And mark the long-forgotten urn. Then, noble maid ! at thy command

Again the crumbled halls shall rise ; Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand,

The past returns-the present flies. Where with the rock's wood-covered side

Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride

And feudal banners flaunt between : Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagged with thorn and tangling

sloe, The ashler buttress braves its force

And ramparts frown in battled row. 'Tis night-the shade of keep and spire

Obscurely dance on Evan's stream; And on the wave the warder's fire

Is checkering the moonlight beam.

Fierce on the hunter's quivered band

He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, Spurns with black hoof and horn the

sand, And tosses high his mane of snow. Aimed well the chieftain's lance has

flown; Struggling in blood the savage lies ; His roar is sunk in hollow groanSound, merry huntsmen! sound the

pryse ! 'Tis noon-against the knotted oak

The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender

smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland

cheer.

Proudly the chieftain marked his clan,

On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet missed his eye the boldest man

That bore the name of Hamilton.

“Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place.

Still wont our wealand woe to share ? Why comes he not our sport to grace?

Why shares he not our hunter's fare?”

Stern Claud replied with darkening

faceGray Paisley's hauglity lord was he"At merry feast or buxom chase

No more the warrior wilt thou see.

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 dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke—“' 'Tis sweet to hear

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

To drivk a tyrant's dying groan. “Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode

At dawning morn o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode Through old Linlithgow's crowded

town,

“ Few suns have set since Woodhouselee Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets

foam, When to his hearths in social glee The war-worn soldier turned him

home.

“ From the wild Border's humbled side,

In baughty triumph marched he, While Knox relaxed his bigot pride

And smiled the traitorous pomp to see

“But can stern Power, with all bis 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 marked where mingling in his band Trooped Scottish pipes and English

bows.

“ Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,

Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clashed their broadswords in tho

rear

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. "Ochange 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 wood

land flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy child

O! is it she, the pallid rose ? “ The wildered traveller sees her glide,

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

pride! And for injured Bothwell

haugh!"" He ceased--and cries of rage and grief

Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling chief,

And lialf 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 eyeballs

glare, As one some visioned sight that saw

The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.

woe

“Glencairn and stout Parkhead were

nigh, Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. “Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated

high ; Scarce could his trampling charger move,

So close the minions crowded nigh.

* From the raised vizor's shade his eye,

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

Seemed marshalling the iron tlırong.

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