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 stanched 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 washed 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 galled 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 toiled, for she did rue Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So passed the day- the evening fell,
'T was 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
Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone,
Touched a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.
Her golden hair streamed free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.

And spears in wild disorder shook, Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII.

The seneschal, whose silver hair
Was reddened by the torches' glare,
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud,
And issued forth his mandates loud:
On Penchryst glows a bale of fire,
And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire:
Ride out, ride out,

The foe to scout!
Mount, mount for Branksome, every man!
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,
That ever are true and stout.
Ye need not send to Liddesdale,
For when they see the blazing bale
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life,
And warn the warden of the strife!
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin and clan and friends to raise !'

XXVIII.

Fair Margaret from the turret head
Heard far below the coursers' tread,
While loud the harness rung,
As to their seats with clamor dread
The ready horsemen sprung:
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats,
And leaders' voices, mingled notes,
And out! and out!
In hasty rout,

The horsemen galloped forth;
Dispersing to the south to scout,

And east, and west, and north, To view their coming enemies. And warn their vassals and allies.

XXIX.

The ready page with hurried hand Awaked the need-fire's slumbering brand,

And ruddy blushed the heaven; For a sheet of flame from the turret high Waved like a blood-flag on the sky,

All flaring and uneven.

And soon a score of fires, I ween,
From height and hill and cliff were seen.
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 gleamed on many a dusky tarn,
Haunted by the lonely earn;
On many a cairn's gray 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.

The noble dame, amid the broil,
Shared the gray seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile,
Cheered 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 weened 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 passed 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 stooped his head,
And busied himself the strings withal,
To hide the tear that fain would fali.
In solemn measure, soft and slow,
Arose a father's notes of woe.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

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 willowed shore; Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hill, All, all is peaceful, all is still,

As if thy waves, since time was born, Since first they rolled upon the Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor startled 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 doomed to know, And, darker as it downward bears, Is stained with past and present tears. Low as that tide has ebbed 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 played 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.

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 Saint Barnabright They sieged him a whole summer night, But fled at morning; well they knew, In vain he never twanged 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 't will 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-browed,
Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,
Laughed to her friends among the crowd.

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 crossed 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.
Barnyard 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 turned 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.'

VII.

Now weary scouts from Liddesdale,
Fast hurrying in, confirmed the tale;
As far as they could judge by ken,
Three hours would bring to Teviot's strand
Three thousand armed Englishmen.

Meanwhile, full many a warlike band,
From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade,
Came in, their chief's defence to aid.
There was saddling and mounting in haste,
There was pricking o'er moor and lea;
He that was last at the trysting-place
Was but lightly held of his gay ladye.

VIII.

From fair Saint Mary's silver wave,
From dreary Gamescleuch's dusky height,
His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Arrayed beneath a banner bright.
The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims
To wreathe his shield, since royal James,
Encamped 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 revealed,
Ready, aye ready,' for the field.

IX.

An aged knight, to danger steeled,
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-embosomed mansion stood;
In the dark glen, so deep below,
The herds of plundered England low,
His bold retainers' daily food,

And bought with danger, blows, and blood.
Marauding chief! his sole delight

The vassals were warlike and fierce and rude;

High of heart and haughty of word,
Little they recked of a tame liege-lord.
The earl into fair Eskdale came,
Homage and seigniory to claim:

Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought. Saying, Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought.'

'Dear to me is my bonny white steed,
Oft has he helped me at pinch of need:
Lord and earl though thou be, I trow,
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.'
Word on word gave fuel to fire,

Till so high blazed the Beattison's ire.

The moonlight raid, the morning fight;
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms
In youth might tame his rage for arms;
And still in age he spurned at rest,
And still his brows the helmet pressed,
Albeit the blanched locks below
Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow.
Five stately warriors drew the sword

Before their father's band;

A braver knight than Harden's lord
Ne'er belted on a brand.

X.

Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band,

Came trooping down the Todshawhill; By the sword they won their land,

And by the sword they hold it still. Hearken, Ladye, to the tale How thy sires won fair Eskdale. Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair, The Beattisons were his vassals there. The earl was gentle and mild of mood,

But that the earl the flight had ta'en,
The vassals there their lord had slain.
Sore he plied both whip and spur,
As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir:
And it fell down a weary weight,
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate.

XI.

The earl was a wrathful man to see,
Full fain avenged would he be.
In haste to Branksome's lord he spoke,
Saying, 'Take these traitors to thy yoke:
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold.
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and hold:
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man!
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone,
For he lent me his horse to escape upon.'
A glad man then was Branksome bold,
Down he flung him the purse of gold;
To Eskdale soon he spurred amain,
And with him five hundred riders has ta'en.