LITMIR.BIZ

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From Craikcross to Skelfhill-pen,

       By every rill, in every glen,

       Merry elves their morris pacing,

       To aerial minstrelry

       Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,

       Trip it deft and merrily.

       Up, and mark their nimble feet!

       Up, and list their music sweet!”

       XVI

      River Spirit

       “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?”

       XVII

      Mountain Spirit

       “Arthur’s slow wain his course doth roll

       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;

       Ill may I read their high decree!

       But no kind influence deign they shower

       On Teviot’s tide, and Branksome’s tower,

       Till pride be quell’d, and love be free.”

       XVIII

      The unearthly voices ceast,

       And the heavy sound was still;

       It died on the river’s breast,

       It died on the side of the hill.

       But round Lord David’s tower

       The sound still floated near;

       For it rung in the Ladye’s bower,

       And it rung in the Ladye’s ear.

       She raised her stately head,

       And her heart throbb’d high with pride:

       “Your mountains shall bend,

       And your streams ascend,

       Ere Margaret be our foeman’s bride!”

       XIX

      The Lady 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 mosstrooper, 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 grey warriors prophesied,

       How the brave boy, in future war,

       Should tame the Unicorn’s pride,

       Exalt the Crescent 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 call’d to her William of Deloraine.

       XXI

      A stark mosstrooping Scott was he,

       As e’er couch’d 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 Liddell, 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 be 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 St. Mary’s aisle.

       Greet the Father well from me;

       Say that the fated hour is come,

       And tonight he shall watch with thee,

       To win the treasure of the tomb.

       For this will be St. 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.

       XXIII

      “What he gives thee, see thou keep;

       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!

       Better hadst thou ne’er been born.”

       XXIV

      “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,

       Wer’t my neck-verse at Hairibee.”

       XXV

      Soon in his saddle sate he fast,

       And soon the steep descent he past,

       Soon cross’d 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 cross’d old Borthwick’s roaring strand;

       Dimly he view’d the Moat-hill’s mound,

       Where Druid shades still flitted round;

      

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