““And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not

sound,

And rushes shall be strewed on the stair;

So, by the black rood-stone', and by holy St. John,

I conjure thee, my love, to be there!"

666 Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,

Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,
And my footstep he would know."

""O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east ;
For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en;

And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a knight that is slain.”-

'He turned him around, and grimly he frowned; Then he laughed right scornfully

"He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, May as well say mass for me:

""At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, In thy chamber will I be."—

With that he was gone, and my lady left alone,

And no more did I see.'

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,
From the dark to the blood-red high;

'Now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,
For, by Mary, he shall die!'—

'His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light; His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,

And his crest was a branch of the yew.'—

The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity.

'Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,

Loud dost thou lie to me!

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,
All under the Eildon-tree 1.'-

'Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!

For I heard her name his name;

And that lady bright, she called the knight,

Sir Richard of Coldinghame.'

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,

From high blood-red to pale—

'The grave is deep and dark—and the corpse is stiff and stark— So I may not trust thy tale.

'Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,

And Eildon slopes to the plain,

Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,
That gay gallant was slain.

'The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drowned the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!'

He passed the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate,
And he mounted the narrow stair

To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait,
He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood;

Looked over hill and vale ;

Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,

And all down Teviotdale.

1 Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three conical summits, immediately above the town of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a magnificent monastery.. Eildon-tree is said to be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered his prophecies.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!'—
'Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch?'-

'The Ancram Moor is red with gore, For many a Southron fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore

To watch our beacons well.'

The lady blushed red, but nothing she said;

Nor added the Baron a word;

Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair,
And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourned, and the Baron tossed and turned, And oft to himself he said

'The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep... It cannot give up the dead!'

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was wellnigh done,

When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair
By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there-
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

'Alas! away, away!' she cried,

'For the holy Virgin's sake! —

'Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake.

'By Eildon-tree, for long nights three,

In bloody grave have I lain ;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,
But lady, they are said in vain.

'By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height For a space is doomed to dwell.

'At our trysting-place, for a certain space

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Hadst thou not conjured me so.'

Love mastered fear-her brow she crossed;
'How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost?'—
The Vision shook his head!

'Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life,

So bid my lord believe;

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive.'

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand;

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a Nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun :

There is a Monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That Monk, who speaks to none-
That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That Monk the bold Baron.

EDMUND'S SONG.

[From Rokeby.]

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.

And as I rode by Dalton-hall.
Beneath the turrets high.

A Maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily,—

Chorus.

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.'—

'If, maiden, thou would'st wend with me, To leave both tower and town,

Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down :

And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed,
As blithe as Queen of May.'-

Chorus.

Yet sung she, 'Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.

'I read you, by your bugle-horn,
And by your palfrey good,

I read you for a ranger sworn,
To keep the king's greenwood.'-