The running stream dissolved the spell,
And his own elvish shape he took.
Could he have had his pleasure vilde,
He had crippled the joints of the noble
child;

, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen :
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited;

So he but scowl'd on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;
The woodland brook he bounding cross'd,
And laugh'd, and shouted, "Lost! lost!
lost!"

XIV.

Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change, And frighten'd as a child might be, At the wild yell and visage strange,

And the dark words of gramarye, The child, amidst the forest bower, Stood rooted like a lily flower;

And when at length, with trembling pace,

He sought to find where Branksome lay,

He fear'd to see that grisly face,

Glare from some thicket on his way. Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on, And deeper in the wood is gone,For ave the more he sought his way, The farther still he went astray,Until he heard the mountains round Ring to the baying of a hound.

XV.

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark

Comes nigher still, and nigher:
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound,
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he,
He flew at him right furiouslie.
Iween you would have seen with joy
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,
His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire!
He faced the blood-hound man fully,
And held his little bat on high;

So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,

But still in act to spring; When dash'd an archer through the glade, And when he saw the hound was stay'd, He drew his tough bow-string; But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy! Ho! shoot not, Edward-'Tis a boy!"

XVI.

The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire:
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow-deer

Five hundred feet him fro;
With hand more true, and eye more clear,
No archer bended bow.

His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,
Set off his sun-burn'd face:
Old England's sign, St. George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;

His bugle-horn hung by his side,

All in a wolf-skin baldric tied; And his short falchion, sharp and clear, Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

And, if thou dost not set me free,

False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue! For Walter of Harden shall come with speed,

And William of Deloraine, good at need,
And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed;
And, if thou dost not let me go,
Despite thy arrows, and thy bow,
I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!"—

XX.

Gramercy, for thy good-will, fair boy! My mind was never set so high; But if thou art chief of such a clan, And art the son of such a man, And ever comest to thy command, Our wardens had need to keep good order;

My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

Thou'lt make them work upon the
Border.

Meantime, be pleased to come with me,
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see;
I think our work is well begun,
When we have taken thy father's son.'

XXI.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play;
And, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew ;
Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew.
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
He lighted the match of his bandelier,*
And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer. †
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd,
That the young Baron was possess'd!

XXII.

Well I ween the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.

* Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. ↑ Hackbuteer, musketeer.

Much she wonder'd to find him lie,

On the stone threshold stretch'd

along;

She thought some spirit of the sky Had done the bold moss-trooper

wrong,

Because, despite her precept dread,
Perchance he in the Book had read;
But the broken lance in his bosom stood,
And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII.

She drew the splinter from the wound, And with a charm she stanch'd the blood;

She bade the gash be cleansed and bound:

No longer by his couch she stood; But she has ta'en the broken lance, And wash'd it from the clotted gore, And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. William of Deloraine, in trance,

Whene'er she turned it round and round,

Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound,

Within the course of a night and

day.

Full long she toil'd; for she did rue Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So pass'd the day-the evening fell,
'Twas near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was
balm ;

E'en the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns

green.

Her golden hair stream'd free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.

XXV.

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,
And, spreading broad its wavering light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?-
Oh! 'tis the beacon-blaze of war!

Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath,

For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI.

The Warder view'd it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rung around.
The blast alarm'd the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly
toss'd,

Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

Each with warlike tidings fraught;
Each from each the signal caught;
Each after each they glanced to sight,
As stars arise upon the night.
They gleam'd on many a dusky tarn,†
Haunted by the lonely earn;
On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw,
From Soltra and Dumpender Law;
And Lothian heard the Regent's order,
That all should bowne § them for the
Border.

XXX.

The livelong night in Branksome rang
The ceaseless sound of steel;
The castle-bell, with backward clang,
Sent forth the larum peal:
Was frequent heard the heavy jar,
Where massy stone and iron bar
Were piled on echoing keep and tower,
To whelm the foe with deadly shower;

Need-fire, beacon.

+ Tarn, a mountain lake. 1 Earn, a Scottish eagle. § Bowne, make ready.

Was frequent heard the changing guard, And watch-word from the sleepless ward; While, wearied by the endless din, Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within.

XXXI.

The noble Dame, amid the broil,
Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheer'd the young knights, and council
sage

Held with the chiefs of riper age.
No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of his numbers knew they aught,
Nor what in time of truce he sought.
Some said that there were thousands
ten;

And others ween'd that it was nought

But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, Who came to gather in black mail; And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen. So pass'd the anxious night away, And welcome was the peep of day.

CEASED the high sound-the listening throng

Applaud the Master of the Song;
And marvel much, in helpless age,
So hard should be his pilgrimage.
Had he no friend-no daughter dear,
His wandering toil to share and cheer;
No son to be his father's stay,
And guide him on the rugged way?
"Ay, once he had-but he was dead!"
Upon the harp he stoop'd his head,
And busied himself the strings withal,
To hide the tear, that fain would fall.
In solemn measure, soft and slow,
Arose a father's notes of woe.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
No longer steel-clad warriors ride

Along thy wild and willow'd shore; Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, All, all is peaceful, all is still,

* Protection money exacted by freebooters.

As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II.

Unlike the tide of human time,

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow,

Retains each grief, retains each crime

Its earliest course was doom'd to know; And, darker as it downward bears, Is stained with past and present tears. Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, It still reflects to Memory's eye The hour my brave, my only boy,

Fell by the side of great Dundee. Why, when the volleying musket play'd Against the bloody Highland blade, Why was not I beside him laid?— Enough he died the death of fame; Enough-he died with conquering Græme.

III.

Now over Border dale and fell,

Full wide and far was terror spread; For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, The peasant left his lowly shed. The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent

Beneath the peel's rude battlement; And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear, While ready warriors seiz'd the spear. From Branksome's towers, the watchman's eye

Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, Which, curling in the rising sun, Show'd southern ravage was begun.

IV.

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried— "Prepare ye all for blows and blood! Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side, Comes wading through the flood. Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock

At his lone gate, and prove the lock; It was but last St. Barnabright They sieged him a whole summer night, But fled at morning; well they knew In vain he never twang'd the yew. Right sharp has been the evening shower That drove him from his Liddel tower;

And, by my faith," the gate-ward said, ! "I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid.”

V.

While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman Entered the echoing barbican. He led a small and shaggy nag, That through a bog, from hag to hag, † Could bound like any Billhope stag. It bore his wife and children twain ; A half-clothed serf‡ was all their train ; His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd, Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, Laughed to her friends among the crowd. He was of stature passing tall, But sparely formed, and lean withal; | A batter'd morion on his brow; A leather jack, as fence enow, On his broad shoulders loosely hung; A Border axe behind was slung; His spear, six Scottish ells in length, Seemed newly dyed with gore; His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength,

His hardy partner bore.

VI.

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show
The tidings of the English foe :-
"Belted Will Howard is marching here,
And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,
And all the German hackbut-men,
Who have long lain at Askerten :
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour,
And burned my little lonely tower:
The fiend receive their souls therefor!
It had not been burnt this year and more.
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright,
Served to guide me on my flight;
But I was chased the livelong night.
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus
Græme,

Fast upon my traces came,
Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg,
And shot their horses in the bog,
Slew Fergus with my lance outright-
I had him long at high despite :
He drove my cows last Fastern's night."

* An inroad commanded by the Warden in person.

+ The broken ground in a bog. Bondsman.

From fair St Mary's silver wave, From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,

His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Array'd beneath a banner bright.
The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims,
To wreathe his shield, since royal James,
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave,
The proud distinction grateful gave,

For faith 'mid feudal jars ;
What time, save Thirlestane alone,
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none

Would march to southern wars ;
And hence, in fair remembrance worn,
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne;
Hence his high motto shines reveal'd—
'Ready, aye ready," for the field.

IX.

An aged Knight, to danger steel'd,
With many a moss-trooper came on;
And azure in a golden field,
The stars and crescent graced his shield,
Without the bend of Murdieston.
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood
tower,

And wide round haunted Castle-Ower;
High over Borthwick's mountain flood,
His wood-embosom'd mansion stood;
In the dark glen, so deep below,
The herds of plunder'd England low;