The running stream dissolved the spell,
And his own elvish shape he took.
Could he have had his pleasure vilde,
He had crippled the joints of the noble
child;

Or, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen :
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited;

So he but scowl'd on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;
The woodland brook he bounding cross'd,
And laugh'd, and shouted, "Lost! lost!
lost!"

And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark

Comes nigher still, and nigher: Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound, His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, And his red eye shot fire. Soon as the wilder'd child saw he, He flew at him right furiouslie. I ween you would have seen with joy The bearing of the gallant boy, When, worthy of his noble sire, His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire! He faced the blood-hound manfully, And held his little bat on high; So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid, At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,

But still in act to spring; When dash'd an archer through the glade, And when he saw the hound was stay'd, He drew his tough bow-string; But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy! Ho! shoot not, Edward-'Tis a boy!'

XVI.

The speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,
And quell'd the ban-dog's ire:
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire.
Well could he hit a fallow-deer

Five hundred feet him fro;
With hand more true, and eye more clear,
No archer bended bow.

His coal-black hair,shorn roundand close,
Set off his sun-burn'd face:
Old England's sign, St. George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;

His bugle-horn hung by his side,

All in a wolf-skin baldric tied; And his short falchion, sharp and clear, Had pierced the throat of many a deer.

XVII.

His kirtle, made of forest green,

Reach'd scantly to his knee; And, at his belt, of arrows keen

A furbish'd sheaf bore he; His buckler, scarce in breadth a span, No larger fence had he; He never counted him a man,

Would strike below the knee: His slacken'd bow was in his hand, And the leash, that was his blood-hound's band.

XVIII.

Although the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play;
And, in the shape of that young boy,
He wrought the castle much annoy.
The comrades of the young Buccleuch
He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew ;
Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew.
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire,
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire,
He lighted the match of his bandelier,*
And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer.†
It may be hardly thought or said,
The mischief that the urchin made,
Till many of the castle guess'd,
That the young Baron was possess'd!

XXII.

Well I ween the charm he held
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd ;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine.

* Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. Hackbuteer, musketeer.

*

Much she wonder'd to find him lie,

On the stone threshold stretch'd along;

She thought some spirit of the sky Had done the bold moss-trooper

wrong,

Because, despite her precept dread,
Perchance he in the Book had read;
But the broken lance in his bosom stood,
And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII.

She drew the splinter from the wound, And with a charm she stanch'd the blood;

She bade the gash be cleansed and bound:

No longer by his couch she stood; But she has ta'en the broken lance, And wash'd it from the clotted gore, And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. William of Deloraine, in trance, Whene'er she turned it round and round,

Twisted as if she gall'd his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound,

Within the course of a night and
day.

Full long she toil'd; for she did rue
Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV.

So pass'd the day-the evening fell,
'Twas near the time of curfew bell;
The air was mild, the wind was calm,
The stream was smooth, the dew was
balm;

E'en the rude watchman, on the tower,
Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour.
Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd
The hour of silence and of rest.
On the high turret sitting lone,
She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touch'd a wild note, and all between
Thought of the bower of hawthorns

green.

Her golden hair stream'd free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.

XXV.

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,
That rises slowly to her ken,
And, spreading broad its wavering light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?-
Oh! 'tis the beacon-blaze of war!
Scarce could she draw her tighten'd
breath,

For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI.

The Warder view'd it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till, at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rung around.
The blast alarm'd the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle yard,
Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly
toss'd,

Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,
Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII.

The Seneschal, whose silver hair Was redden'd by the torches' glare, Stood in the midst, with gesture proud, And issued forth his mandates loud :"On Penchryst glows a bale of fire, And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire :

Ride out, ride out,

The foe to scout!

Mount, mount for Branksome, every

man!

Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan,
That ever are true and stout-
Ye need not send to Liddesdale ;
For when they see the blazing bale,
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.-
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!
And warn the Warder of the strife.
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,
Our kin, and clan, and friends, to raise."

XXVIII.

Fair Margaret, from the turret head, Heard, far below, the coursers' tread,

Was frequent heard the changing guard, And watch-word from the sleepless ward; While, wearied by the endless din, Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within. XXXI.

The noble Dame, amid the broil,
Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheer'd the young knights, and council
sage

Held with the chiefs of riper age.
No tidings of the foe were brought,
Nor of his numbers knew they aught,
Nor what in time of truce he sought.
Some said that there were thousands

As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II.

Unlike the tide of human time,

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow,

Retains each grief, retains each crime

Its earliest course was doom'd to know; And, darker as it downward bears, Is stained with past and present tears. Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, It still reflects to Memory's eye The hour my brave, my only boy,

Fell by the side of great Dundee. Why, when the volleying musket play'd Against the bloody Highland blade, Why was not I beside him laid?— Enough he died the death of fame; Enough-he died with conquering Græme.

And, by my faith," the gate-ward said, "I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid."

V.

While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman
Entered the echoing barbican.
He led a small and shaggy nag,
That through a bog, from hag to hag, t
Could bound like any Billhope stag.
It bore his wife and children twain;
A half-clothed serf‡ was all their train;
His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd,
Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,
Laughed to her friends among the crowd.
He was of stature passing tall,
But sparely formed, and lean withal;
A batter'd morion on his brow;
A leather jack, as fence enow,
On his broad shoulders loosely hung;
A Border axe behind was slung;
His spear, six Scottish elis in length,
Seemed newly dyed with gore;
His shafts and bow, of wondrous
strength,

His hardy partner bore.

VI.

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show
The tidings of the English foe :-
"Belted Will Howard is marching here,
And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,
And all the German hackbut-men,
Who have long lain at Askerten :
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour,
And burned my little lonely tower:
The fiend receive their souls therefor!
It had not been burnt this year and more.
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright,
Served to guide me on my flight;
But I was chased the livelong night.
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus
Græme,

Fast upon my traces came,

Until I turned at Priesthaugh Scrogg,
And shot their horses in the bog,
Slew Fergus with my lance outright-
I had him long at high despite :
He drove my cows last Fastern's night.'

From fair St Mary's silver wave, From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height,

His ready lances Thirlestane brave

Array'd beneath a banner bright.
The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims,
To wreathe his shield, since royal James,
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave,
The proud distinction grateful gave,

For faith 'mid feudal jars;
What time, save Thirlestane alone,
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none

Would march to southern wars;
And hence, in fair remembrance worn,
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne;
Hence his high motto shines reveal'd—-
'Ready, aye ready," for the field.

IX.

An aged Knight, to danger steel'd,

With many a moss-trooper came on; And azure in a golden field,

The stars and crescent graced his shield,
Without the bend of Murdieston.
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood
tower,

And wide round haunted Castle-Ower;
High over Borthwick's mountain flood,
His wood-embosom'd mansion stood;
In the dark glen, so deep below,
The herds of plunder'd England low;