Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,
Waited the beck of the warders ten;
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,2
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow,
And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow ;3
A hundred more fed free in stall.
Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.
Why do these steeds stand ready dight ?4
Why watch these warriors, armed, by night?—
They watch, to hear the blood-hound baying:
They watch, to hear the war-horn braying;
To see St. George's red cross streaming,
To see the midnight beacon gleaming:
They watch, against Southern force and guile;
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers,5
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,
From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry
Such is the custom of Branksome Hall.-6
Many a valiant knight is here;
But he, the chieftain of them all,7
His sword hangs rusting on the wall,
Beside his broken spear.
In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier
The warlike foresters had bent;
And many a flower, and many a tear,
Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent:
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier
The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear!
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,
Had locked the source of softer woe;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow;
Until, amid his sorrowing clan,
Her son lisped from the nurse's knee"And if I live to be a man,8
My father's death revenged shall be !"
Then fast the mother's tears did seek
To dew the infant's kindling cheek.-
All loose her negligent attire,
All loose her golden hair,
Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire,
And wept in wild despair.
But not alone the bitter tear
Had filial grief supplied;
For hopeless love, and anxious fear,
Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother's altered eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,
With Car in arms had stood,9
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran
All purple with their blood;
And well she knew her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.
Of noble race the Ladye came;
Her father was a clerk of fame,
Of Bethune's line of Picardie:
He learned the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea. 10
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,11
And listens to a heavy sound,
That moans the mossy turrets round.
The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,
And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.12
"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 viewest the stars,
When shall cease these feudal jars?
What shall be the maiden's fate?
Who shall be the maiden's mate?"
"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll,13
In utter darkness round the pole;
The Northern Bear lowers black and grim;
Orion's studded belt is dim;
Twinkling faint, and distant far,
Shimmers through mist each planet star: 14
Ill may I read their high decree!
But no kind influence deign they shower 15
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower,
Till pride be quelled, and love be free."-
The Ladye raised her stately head,
And her heart throbbed high with pride:16 "Your mountains shall bend,
And your streams ascend,
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!"
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.
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: 18
Then from amid the armèd train,
She called to her, William of Deloraine.19
A stark moss-trooping Scott was he,20
As e'er couched Border lance by knee:
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.
"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the wightest steed; 21
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile 22
Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the Father well from me;
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
Say that the fated hour is come,
To win the treasure of the tomb:
For this will be St. Michael's night,23
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the Cross, of bloody red,
Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.
What he gives thee, see thou keep; 24
Stay not thou for food or sleep:
Be it scroll, or be it book,
Into it, Knight, thou must not look;
If thou readest thou art lorn!25
Better hadst thou ne'er been born."-
"O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed,
Which drinks of the Teviot clear;
Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say,
"Again will I be here:
And safer by none may thy errand be done,
Than, noble dame, by me;
Letter nor line know I never a one,
Were't my neck-verse at Hairibee." 26
Soon in his saddle sat he fast,
And soon the steep descent he passed;
Soon crossed the sounding barbican,27
And soon the Teviot side he won.
When Hawick he passed, had curfew rung;
Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.28
The sound, upon the fitful gale,
In solemn wise did rise and fail,29
Like that wild harp whose magic tone 30
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.
THE aged Monk leads the way to the chancel of the Abbey. In the centre of the east oriel window there is a figure of St. Michael brandishing his Cross of Red. The moonlight striking through this casts a blood-red reflection on the paved floor, and thus marks the stone which covers the Wizard's grave. The Warrior removes this stone with a bar of iron, and a wondrous light streams out of the grave. In terror Deloraine takes from the cold hand of the Wizard his Mighty Book, and replaces the stone. As they leave the chancel, they hear fiendish sobs and unearthly laughter. The Monk returns to his cell, and is found dead at noon. Deloraine returns to Branksome, with the Mystic Book pressed to his bosom.
At daybreak, Margaret glides stealthily down the secret stair of her tower, and meets her lover, Lord Cranstoun, in the hawthorn wood. His page, an elvish Dwarf, warns his master of the approach of some one, and the lovers hurriedly part. Margaret hastens back to her tower. The Baron remounts his steed, and rides eastward through
If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.1
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; 2
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave:
Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,3
Was never scene so sad and fair!—
Short halt did Deloraine make there; 1
Little recked he of the scene so fair.
He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barrèd aventayle,5
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle :
"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me;
Says, that the fated hour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb."-
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffened limbs he reared;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.
Now, slow and faint, he led the way,
Where, cloistered round, the garden lay;
The pillared arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead."
By a steel-clenched postern door,
They entered now the chancel tall;
The darkened roof rose high aloof
On pillars lofty and light and small :
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone;
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphant Michael brandished.
The moonbeam kissed the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.
They sate them down on a marble stone,—
(A Scottish monarch slept below ;) 8
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone:-
I was not always a man of woe;
For Paynim countries I have trod,9
And fought beneath the Cross of God.
In these far climes, it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott.10
When Michael lay on his dying bed,
His conscience was awakened:
He bethought him of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign to come with speed:
I was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
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