Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;

And rivers teach their rushing wave

To murmur dirges round his grave.

II.

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail

Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song,
And, with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.

The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,

From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear

Upon the gentle minstrel's bier :

The phantom knight, his glory fled,

Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead;

Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,

And shrieks along the battle-plain :

The chief, whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,

Now, from the mountain's misty throne,

Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undisinguished lie,

His place, his power, his memory die:

His groans the lonely caverns fill,

His tears of rage impel the rill

All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung,

Their name unknown, their praise unsung.

III.

Scarcely the hot assault was staid,

The terms of truce were scarcely made,

When they could spy, from Branksome's towers,

The advancing march of martial powers;

Thick clouds of dust afar appeared,

And trampling steeds were faintly heard ;

Bright spears, above the columns dun,

Glanced momentary to the sun;

And feudal banners fair displayed

The bands that moved to Branksome's aid.

IV.

Vails not to tell each hardy clan,

From the fair Middle Marches came;

The Bloody Heart blazed in the van,
Announcing Douglas, dreaded name!

Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn,
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne
Their men in battle-order set;

And Swinton laid the lance in rest,

That tamed, of yore, the sparkling crest

Of Clarence's Plantagenet.

Nor list I say what hundreds more,

From the rich Merse and Lammermore,

And Tweed's fair borders, to the war,

Beneath the crest of old Dunbar,

And Hepburn's mingled banners come, Down the steep mountain glittering far, And shouting still," A Home! a Home!'

V.

Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent,

On

many a courteous message went;

To every chief and lord they paid

Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid ;

And told them,-how a truce was made,
And how a day of fight was ta'en

'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine;

And how the Ladye prayed them dear,

That all would stay the fight to see,
And deign, in love and courtesy,

To taste of Branksome cheer.

Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot,

Were England's noble Lords forgot;

Κ

Himself, the hoary Seneschal,

Rode forth, in seemly terms to call Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. Accepted Howard, than whom knight Was never dubbed, more bold in fight; Nor, when from war and armour free, More famed for stately courtesy:

But angry Dacre rather chose

In his pavilion to repose.

VI.

Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask,

How these two hostile armies met? Deeming it were no easy task

To keep the truce which here was set;

Where martial spirits, all on fire,

Breathed only blood and mortal ire.

By mutual inroads, mutual blows,

By habit, and by nation, foes,