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 to-night 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-gray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear;

Ere break of day," the warrior' gan say,

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 crossed 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 crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he viewed the Moat-hill's mound,
Where Druid shades still flitted round:

In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night :

And soon he spurred his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ;

66

Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."

“For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoined,

And left the friendly tower behind.

He turned him now from Teviotside,

And, guided by the tinkling rill,

Northward the dark ascent did ride,

And gained the moor at Horseliehill;

C

Broad on the left before him lay,

For many a mile, the Roman way.

XXVII.

A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosened in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlawed limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,

The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,

Ambition is no cure for love.

XXVIII.

Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine

To ancient Riddel's fair domain,

Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam,

Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,

Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow; Above the foaming tide, I ween,

Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;

For he was barded from counter to tail,

And the rider was armed complete in mail;

Never heavier man and horse

Stemmed a midnight torrent's force.

The warrior's very plume, I say,

Was daggled by the dashing spray ;