At the sullen, moaning sound,
The bandogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,
Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight
Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night;
But the night was still and clear!
From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the windswung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,
The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,
And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.
"Sleepest thou, brother!"
MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.
............................................................ "Brother, nay--
On My hills the moon beams play.
From Craik-cross to Skelfhillpen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morrice pacing,
To aerial minstrelsy,
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
Trip it deft and merrily.
Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!"
"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?"
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 quelled, and love be free."
The unearthly voices ceased,
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 throbbed high with pride
"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.
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.
* Foray, a predatory inroad.
For the gray warriors prophesied,
How the brave boy, in future war,
Should tame the unicorn's pride,
Exalt the crescents, and the star.*
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 called to her William of Deloraine.
A stark mosstrooping Scott was he,
As e'er couched Border lance by knee:
Through Solway sands, through Tarros moss;
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds;
In Eske, or Liddel, 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;
* Alluding to the armorial bearings of the Scotts and Cars.
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;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweed side;
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 to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb:
For this will be Saint 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.
"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."
"O swiftly can speed my dapplegray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear;
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