Either receive within thy towers
Two hundred of my master's powers,
Or straight they sound their warrison."
And storm and spoil thy garrison:
And this fair boy, to London led,
Shall good King Edward's page be bred."
XXV.
Ile ceased-and loud the boy did cry,
And stretch'd his little arms on high;
Implored for aid each well-known face,
And strove to seek the Dame's embrace.
A moment changed that Ladye's cheer,
Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear;
She gazed upon the leaders round,
And dark and sad each warrior frown'd;
Then, deep within her sobbing breast
She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest;
Unalter'd and collected stood,
And thus replied, in dauntless mood:
"Say to your Lords of high emprize, Who war on women and on boys,
That either William of Deloraine
Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-treason stain.
Or else he will the combat take
'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's sake.
No knight in Cumberland so good,
But William may count with him kin and blood.
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword,31
When English blood swell'd Ancram's ford;"
And, but Lord Dacre's steed was wight,
And bare him ably in the flight,
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight.
For the young heir of Branksome's line,
God be his aid, and God be mine;
Through me no friend shall meet his doom;
Here, while I live no foe finds room.
Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge,
Take our defiance loud and high;
Our slogan is their lyke-wake dirge,
Our moat, the grave where they shall lie.
Proud she look'd round, applause to claim--
Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of flame;
His bugle Wat of Harden blew ;
Pensils and pennons wide were flung,
To heaven the Border slogan rung,
"St Mary for the young Buccleuch ?"
The English war-cry answered wide,
And forward bent each southern spear;
Luke-wake, the watching a corpse previous to interment
Each Kendal archer made a stride,
And drew the bowstring to his ear; Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown;But, ere a grey-goose shaft had flown, A horseman gallop'd from the rear.
"Ah! noble Lords !" he breathless said,
"What treason has your march betray'd?
What make you here, from aid so far,
Before you walls, around you war?
Your foemen triumph in the thought,
That in the toils the lion's caught.
Already on dark Ruberslaw
The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw;"
The lances, waving in his train,
Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain;
And on the Liddel's northern strand,
To bar retreat to Cumberland,
Lord Maxwell ranks his merry men good,
Beneath the eagle and the rood;
And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,
Have to proud Angus come;
And all the Merse and Lauderdale
Have risen with haughty Home.
An exile from Northumberland,
In Liddesdale I've wander'd long ;
But still my heart was with merry England
And cannot brook my country's wrong;
And hard I've spurr'd all night to show
The mustering of coming foe."
"And let them come !" fierce Dacre cried; For soon yon crest, my father's pride, That swept the shores of Judah's sea,
And waved in gales of Galilee,
From Branksome's highest towers display'd
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid —
Level each harquebuss on row;
Draw, merry archers, draw the bow;
Up, bill-men, to the walls and cry,
Dacre for England, win or die!"-
"Yet hear," quoth Howard, "calmly hear, Nor deem my words the words of fear: For who, in field or foray slack,
Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back? 33
But thus to risk our Border flower
In strife against a kingdom's power,
Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands three,
Certes, were desperate policy.
a Weapon-schaw, the military array of a county.
Nay, take the terms the Ladye made,
Ere conscious of the advancing aid:
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine
In single fight; and, if he gain,
He gains for us; but if he's cross'd,
'Tis but a single warrior lost:
The rest, retreating as they came,
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame."
Ill could the haughty Dacre brook
His brother Warden's sage rebuke;
And yet his forward step he staid,
And slow and sullenly obeyed.
But ne'er again the Border side
Did these two lords in friendship ride;
And this slight discontent, men say,
Cost blood upon another day.
The pursuivant-at-arms again
Before the castle took his stand;
His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain,
The leaders of the Scottish band;
And he defied, in Musgrave's right,
Stout Deloraine to single fight;
A gauntlet at their feet he laid,
And thus the terms of fight he said :—
If in the lists good Musgrave's sword
Vanquish the knight of Deloraine,
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's Lord,
Shall hostage for his clan remain :
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave,
The boy his liberty shall have.
Howe'er it falls, the English band,
Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm❜d,
In peaceful mareh, like men unarm'd,
Shall straight retreat to Cumberland."
XXXIII.
Unconscious of the near relief,
The proffer pleased each Scottish chiet,
Though much the Ladye sage gainsay ȧ; For though their hearts were brave and true, From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, How tardy was the Regent's aid; And you may guess the noble Dame Durst not the secret prescience own, Sprung from the art she might not name By which the coming help was known. Josed was the compact, and agreed That lists should be enclosed with speed, Beneath the castle, on a lawn: They fix'd the morrow for the strife, On foot, with Scottish axe and knife, At the fourth hour from peep of dawn;
When Deloraine, from sickness freed,
Or else a champion in his stead,
Should for himself and chieftain stand,
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand.
I know right well, that, in their lay,
Full many minstrels sing and say,
Such combat should be made on horse,
On foaming steed, in full career,
With brand to aid, when as the spear
Should shiver in the course:
But he, the jovial harper, taught
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought,
In guise which now I say;
He knew each ordinance and clause
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws,
In the old Douglas' day.
He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong,
Or call his song untrue:
For this, when they the goblet plied,
And such rude taunt had chafed his pride,
The bard of Reull he slew.
On Teviot's side, in fight they stood,
And tuneful hands were stain'd with blood; Where still the thorn's white branches wavə, Memorial o'er his rival's grave.
Why should I tell the rigid doom,
That dragg'd my master to his tomb;
How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair,
Wept till their eyes were dead and dim,
And wrung their hands for love of him,
Who died at Jedwood Air?
He died!--his scholars, one by one,
To the cold silent grave are gone;
And I, alas! survive alone,
To muse o'er rivalries of yore,
And grieve that I shall hear no more
The strains, with envy heard before;
For, with my minstrel brethren fled,
My jealousy of song is dead.
He paused; the listening dames again
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain.
With many a word of kindly cheer,—
In pity half, and half sincere,-
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well
His legendary song could tell-
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;
Of feuds, whose memory was not;
Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the hare;
Of manners, long since changed and gone;
Of chiefs, who under their grey stone
So long had slept, that fickle Fame
Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twined round some new minion's head
The fading wreath for which they bled;
In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse
Could call them from their marble hearse.
The Harper smiled, well pleased; for ne'e> Was flattery lost on Poet's ear: A simple race! they waste their toil For the vain tribute of a smile; E'en when in age their flame expires, Her dulcet breath can fan its tires: Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, And strives to trim the short-lived blaze.
Smiled, then, well-pleased, the Aged Man. And thus his tale continued ran.
CALL it not vain :-they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies:
Who say, tall cliff, and cavern ione,
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot.
That love, true love should be forgot,
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