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       X

      Margaret from hall did soon retreat,

       Despite the Dame’s reproving eye;

       Nor mark’d she as she left her seat,

       Full many a stifled sigh;

       For many a noble warrior strove

       To win the Flower of Teviot’s love,

       And many a bold ally.

       With throbbing head and anxious heart,

       All in her lonely bower apart,

       In broken sleep she lay:

       Betimes from silken couch she rose

       While yet the banner’d hosts repose,

       She view’d the dawning day:

       Of all the hundreds sunk to rest

       First woke the loveliest and the best.

       XI

      She gaz’d upon the inner court,

       Which in the tower’s tall shadow lay;

       Where coursers’ clang, and stamp, and snort

       Had rung the livelong yesterday;

       Now still as death; till stalking slow,

       The jingling spurs announc’d his tread,

       A stately warrior pass’d below;

       But when he rais’d his plumed head,

       Bless’d Mary! can it be?

       Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

       He walks through Branksome’s hostile towers

       With fearless step and free.

       She dar’d not sign, she dar’d not speak,

       Oh! if one page’s slumbers break,

       His blood the price must pay!

       Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears

       Not Margaret’s yet more precious tears,

       Shall buy his life a day.

       XII

      Yet was his hazard small; for well

       You may bethink you of the spell

       Of that sly urchin page;

       This to his lord he did impart,

       And made him seem, by glamour art,

       A knight from Hermitage.

       Unchalleng’d thus, the warder’s post,

       The court, unchalleng’d, thus he cross’d,

       For all the vassalage:

       But O! what magic’s quaint disguise

       Could blind fair Margaret s azure eyes!

       She started from her seat;

       While with surprise and fear she strove,

       And both could scarcely master love,

       Lord Henry’s at her feet.

       XIII

      Oft have I mus’d what purpose bad

       That foul malicious urchin had

       To bring this meeting round;

       For happy love’s a heavenly sight,

       And by a vile malignant sprite

       In such no joy is found;

       And oft I’ve deem’d perchance he thought

       Their erring passion might have wrought

       Sorrow, and sin, and shame;

       And death to Cranstoun’s gallant Knight

       And to the gentle ladye bright

       Disgrace and loss of fame.

       But earthly spirit could not tell

       The heart of them that lov’d so well.

       True love’s the gift which God has given

       To man alone beneath the heaven:

       It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

       Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

       It liveth not in fierce desire,

       With dead desire it doth not die;

       It is the secret sympathy,

       The silver link, the silken tie,

       Which heart to heart, and mind to mind

       In body and in soul can bind.

       Now leave we Margaret and her Knight,

       To tell you of the approaching fight.

       XIV

      Their warning blasts the bugles blew,

       The pipe’s shrill port arous’d each clan;

       In haste, the deadly strife to view,

       The trooping warriors eager ran:

       Thick round the lists their lances stood

       Like blasted pines in Ettric wood;

       To Branksome many a look they threw,

       The combatants’ approach to view,

       And bandied many a word of boast

       About the knight each favor’d most.

       XV

      Meantime, full anxious was the Dame;

       For now arose disputed claim

       Of who should fight for Deloraine,

       ‘Twixt Harden and ‘twixt Thirlestaine

       They ‘gan to reckon kin and rent,

       And frowning brow on brow was bent;

       But yet not long the strife, for, lo!

       Himself, the Knight of Deloraine,

       Strong, as it seem’d, and free from pain

       In armor sheath’d from top to toe,

       Appear’d and crav’d the combat due.

       The Dame her charm successful knew,

       And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

       XVI

      When for the lists they sought the plain,

       The stately Ladye’s silken rein

       Did noble Howard hold;

       Unarmed by her side he walk’d,

       And much, in courteous phrase, they talk’d

       Of feats of arms of old.

       Costly his garb; his Flemish ruff

       Fell o’er his doublet, shap’d of buff,

       With satin slash’d and lin’d;

       Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,

       His cloak was all of Poland fur,

       His hose with silver twin’d;

       His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,

       Hung in a broad and studded belt;

       Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still

       Call’d noble Howard, Belted Will.

       XVII

      Behind Lord Howard and the Dame,

       Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,

       Whose footcloth swept the ground:

       White was her wimple, and her veil,

       And her loose locks a chaplet pale

       Of whitest roses bound;

      

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