The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott - Walter Scott

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In courtesy to cheer her tried;

       Without his aid, her hand in vain

       Had strove to guide her broider’d rein.

       He deem’d she shudder’d at the sight

       Of warriors met for mortal fight;

       But cause of terror, all unguess’d,

       Was fluttering in her gentle breast,

       When, in their chairs of crimson plac’d,

       The Dame and she the barriers grac’d.

       XVIII

      Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch,

       An English knight led forth to view;

       Scarce rued the boy his present plight,

       So much he long’d to see the fight.

       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 assign’d

       Like vantage of the sun and wind.

       Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,

       In King and Queen and Warden’s 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 soil’d his coat;

       And that, so help him God above!

       He will on Musgrave’s body prove,

       He lies 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 pois’d high,

       And measur’d 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 pour’d 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 warhorse dashing,

       And scorn’d, amid the reeling strife,

       To yield a step for death or life.

       XXII

      ‘Tis done, ‘tis done! that fatal blow

       Has stretch d 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 hail’d the conqueror’s victory,

       He rais’d the dying man;

       Loose wav’d his silver beard and hair,

       As o’er him he kneel’d down in prayer;

       And still the crucifix on high

       He holds before his darkening eye;

       And still he bends an anxious ear

       His faltering 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,

       Mark’d not the shouts, felt not the grasp

       Of gratulating hands.

       When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,

       Mingled with seeming terror, rise

       Among the Scottish bands;

       And all amid the throng’d array,

       In panic haste gave open way

       To a half-naked ghastly man

       Who downward from the castle ran:

       He cross’d the barriers at a bound,

       And wild and haggard look’d around,

       As dizzy, and in pain;

       And all, upon the armed ground

       Knew William of Deloraine!

       Each ladye sprung from seat with speed;

       Vaulted each marshal from his steed;

       “And who art thou,” they cried,

       “Who hast this

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