Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace, At length he gained the landing place. XXX. Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ; For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallowed morn arose, When first the Scott and Car were foes; When royal James beheld the fray, Prize to the victor of the day; When Home and Douglas, in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, XXXI. In bitter mood he spurred fast, And soon the hated heath was past; And far beneath, in lustre wan, Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp, whose magic tone Is wakened by the winds alone. But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall. HERE paused the harp; and with its swell And gazing timid on the crowd, He seemed to seek, in every eye, If they approved his minstrelsy; And how old age, and wandering long, The Duchess, and her daughters fair, Each after each, in due degree, Gave praises to his melody; His hand was true, his voice was clear, |