Of Bethune's line of Picardie:
He learned the art that none may name
In Padua, 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?

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?'

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 gambols bore,
Albeit their hearts of rugged mould
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.

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 courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

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 Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne, spy; The terrors of the robber's horn; Cliffs which for many a later year The warbling Doric reed shall hear, When some sad swain shall teach the grove Ambition is no cure for love.

ΧΧΧ.