"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoined, And left the friendly tower behind. He turned him now from Teviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horseliehill. Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman way*. XXVII. A moment now he slacked his speed, For many a league his prey could spy; * An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire. Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, 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. XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine To ancient Riddel's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chesnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow; Above the foaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; For he was barded* from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail; Stemmed a midnight torrent's force. The warrior's very plume, I say, Was daggled by the dashing spray; Yet, through good heart, and our Ladye's grace, At length he gained the landing place. XXX. Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon+; For on his soul the slaughter red * Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutered with defensive armour. + Halidon-hill, on which the battle of Melrose was fought. Of that unhallowed morn arose, When first the Scott and Car were foes; When royal James beheld the fray, Prize to the victor of the day; When Home and Douglas, in the van, XXXI. In bitter mood he spurred fast, And soon the hated heath was past; Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran: *Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church. The sound, upon the fitful gale, In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp, whose magic tone Is wakened by the winds alone. But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall. HERE paused the harp; and with its swell And, gazing timid on the crowd, Had done his hand and harp some wrong. |