O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John, Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"The Monk return'd him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bell The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

XXIV.

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind, And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones gray,
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast;

And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;

He joy'd to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray,

The sun had brighten'd the Carter's1 side; And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide.2

1 A mountain on the Border of England, above Jedburgh. 'How lovely and exhilarating is the fresh cool morning

The wild birds told their warbling tale,
And waken'd every flower that blows;
And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain rose. And lovelier than the rose so red,

Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed, The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

XXVI.

Why does fair Margaret so early awake,1

And don her kirtle so hastilie;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie;
Why does she stop, and look often around,
As she glides down the secret stair;
And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound,
As he rouses him up from his lair;

And, though she passes the postern alone,
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?

XXVII.

The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

Lest her watchful mother hear her tread:

landscape which relieves the mind after the horrors of the spell-guarded tomb! - Anna Seward.

1 How true, sweet, and original, is this description of Margaret the trembling haste with which she attires herself, descends, and speeds to the bower! - Anna Seward.

The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round; The watchman's bugle is not blown,

For he was her foster-father's son;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The Knight and ladye fair are met,
And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,
Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest;

When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold

Where would you find the peerless fair,

With Margaret of Branksome might compare!

XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;

Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow:

Ye ween to hear a melting tale,
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,

To paint his faithful passion strove; Swore he might at her feet expire,

But never, never cease to love;

And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid;
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.

XXX.

Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Its lightness would my age reprove:
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold:
may not, must not, sing of love.

I

XXXI.

Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,
The Baron's Dwarf his courser held,1

And held his crested helm and spear:
That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran

Through all the Border, far and near. 'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod,

1 See Appendix, Note S.

He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!"
And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd,

A leap, of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorse this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee.
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd;
"Tis said that five good miles he rade,

To rid him of his company;

But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four, And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

XXXII.

Use lessens marvel, it is said:

This elfish Dwarf with the Baron staid;

Little he ate, and less he spoke,

Nor mingled with the menial flock:
And oft apart his arms he toss'd,

And often mutter'd "Lost! lost! lost!"
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,1
But well Lord Cranstoun served he:

1The idea of the imp domesticating himself with the first person he met, and subjecting himself to that one's authority, is perfectly consonant to old opinions. Ben Jonson, in his play of The Devil is an Ass, has founded the leading incident of that comedy upon this article of the popular creed. A fiend, styled Pug, is ambitious of figuring in the world, and petitions his superior for permission to exhibit himself upon earth. The devil grants him a day-rule, but clogs it with this condition :

"Satan-Only thus more, I bind you

To serve the first man that you meet; and him