Within the lists, in knightly pride,

High Home and haughty Dacre ride;
Their leading staffs of steel they wield,
As marshals of the mortal field;
While to each knight their care assigned
Like vantage of the sun and wind.
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,
In king and queen, and wardens' name,
That none, while lasts the strife,
Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,

Aid to a champion to afford,

On peril of his life;

And not a breath the silence broke,

Till thus the alternate heralds spoke :

XIX.

ENGLISH HERALD.

Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,

Good knight and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave,

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn.

He sayeth, that William of Deloraine

Is traitor false by Border laws;

This with his sword he will maintain,

So help him God, and his good cause!

XX.

SCOTTISH HERALD.

Here standeth William of Deloraine,

Good knight and true, of noble strain,

Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain,

Since he bore arms, ne'er soiled his coat;

And that, so help him God above,

He will on Musgrave's body prove,

He lyes most foully in his throat.

LORD DACRE.

Forward, brave champions, to the fight!

Sound trumpets!

LORD HOME.

"God defend the right !"

Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang,

When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang

Let loose the martial foes,

And in mid list, with shield poised high,

And measured step and wary eye,

The combatants did close.

XXI.

Ill would it suit your gentle ear,

Ye lovely listeners, to hear

How to the axe the helms did sound,

And blood poured down from many a wound;

For desperate was the strife, and long,

And either warrior fierce and strong.
But, were each dame a listening knight,

I well could tell how warriors fight;
For I have seen war's lightning flashing,

Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing,

Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing,

And scorned, amid the reeling strife,

To yield a step for death or life.

XXII.

'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow

Has stretched him on the bloody plain;
He strives to rise-Brave Musgrave, no!
Thence never shalt thou rise again!
He chokes in blood-some friendly hand
Undo the visor's barred band,
Unfix the gorget's iron clasp,

And give him room for life to gasp!—
O, bootless aid!-haste, holy Friar,

Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!

Of all his guilt let him be shriven,

And smooth his path from earth to heaven!

XXIII.

In haste the holy Friar sped ;--

His naked foot was dyed with red,

As through the lists he ran;

Unmindful of the shouts on high,

That hailed the conqueror's victory,

He raised the dying man;

Loose waved his silver beard and hair,

As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer;
And still the crucifix on high

He holds before his darkening eye;

And still he bends an anxious ear,

His faultering penitence to hear;

Still props him from the bloody sod,

Still, even when soul and body part,

Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,

And bids him trust in God!

Unheard he prays;-the death-pang's o'er !-

Richard of Musgrave breathes no more,

XXIV.

As if exhausted in the fight,

Or musing o'er the piteous sight,

The silent victor stands;

His beaver did he not unclasp,

Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp

Of gratulating hands.