Classic Poem

I

The feast was over in Branksome tower,
And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower,
Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell,
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell—
Jesu Maria, shield us well!
No living wight, save the Ladye alone,
Had dared to cross the threshold stone.

II

The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all;
 Knight and page and household squire
Loitered through the lofty hall,
 Or crowded round the ample fire:
The stag-hounds, weary with the chase,
 Lay stretched upon the rushy floor,
And urged in dreams the forest race,
 From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.

III

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame
 Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;
Nine-and-twenty squires of name
 Brought them their steeds to bower from stall;
  Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall
  Waited duteous on them all:
  They were all knights of mettle true,
  Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

IV

Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword and spur on heel;
They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day nor yet by night:
  They lay down to rest,
  With corselet laced,
Pillowed on buckler cold and hard;
  They carved at the meal
  With gloves of steel,
And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.

V

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,
Waited the beck of the warders ten;
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barded with frontlet of steel, I trow,
And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow;
A hundred more fed free in stall:—
Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.

VI

Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
Why watch these warriors armed by night?
They watch to hear the bloodhound baying;
They watch to hear the war-horn braying;
To see Saint 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.

VII

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 stanch the death-feud's enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
 Can love of blessed 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!

IX

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.

X

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.

XI

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 Padna, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame
 By feat of magic mystery;
For when in studious mood he paced
 Saint Andrew's cloistered hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced
 Upon the sunny wall!

XII

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 mossy 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?

XIII

At the sullen, moaning sound
 The ban-dogs 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!

XIV

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.

XV

RIVER SPIRIT

‘Sleep'st thou, brother?’

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT

‘Brother, nay—
On my hills the moonbeams play.
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen,
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!

XVI

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?’

XVII

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.’

XVIII

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,
 And her heart throbbed high with pride:
‘Your mountains shall bend
And your streams ascend,
 Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!’

XIX

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 gambles bore,
Albeit their hearts of rugged mold
 Were stubborn as the steel they wore.
For the gray warriors prophesied
 How the brave boy in future war
Should tame the Unicorn's pride,
 Exalt the Crescents and the Star.

XX

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.

XXI

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 Eske 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.

XXII

‘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 Saint 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 Saint 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.

XXIII

‘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

‘O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray 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;
Letter nor line know I never one,
 Were 't my neck-verse at Hairibee.’

XXV

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he passed,
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 coarser 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 Horseliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay
For many a mile the Roman way.

XXVII

A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed,
Drew saddle-girth and corselet-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 and swain shall teach the grove
Ambition is no cure for love.

XXVIII

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.

XXIX

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow:
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.

XXX

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,
 And sternly shook his plumed 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.

XXXI

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 gray,
Seemed, dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he passed had curfew rung,
Now midnight lands 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.
But when Melrose he reached 't was silence all;
He meetly stabled his steed in stall,
And sought the convent's lonely wall.

Here paused the harp; and with its swell——
The Master's fire and courage fell:
Dejectedly and low he bowed,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seemed to seek in every eye
If they approved his minstrelsy;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age and wandering long
Had done his hand and harp some wrong.
The Duchess, and her daughters fair,
And every gentle lady there,
Each after each, in due degree,
Gave praises to his melody;
His hand was true, his voice was clear,
And much they longed the rest to hear.
Encouraged thus, the aged man
After meet rest again began.