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Perchance, had dazzled the warrior’s sight.

       XXII

      When the huge stone sunk o’er the tomb,

       The night return’d in double gloom;

       For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;

       And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew,

       With wavering steps and dizzy brain,

       They hardly might the postern gain.

       ‘Tis said, as through the aisles they pass’d,

       They heard strange noises on the blast:

       And through the cloister-galleries small,

       Which at mid-height thread the cancel wall,

       Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,

       And voices unlike the voice of man;

       As if the fiends kept holiday,

       Because these spells were brought to day.

       I cannot tell how the truth may be;

       I say the tale as ‘twas said to me.

       XXIII

      “Now, hie thee hence,” the Father said,

       “And when we are on deathbed laid,

       O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

       Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!”

       The Monk return’d him to his cell,

       And many a prayer and penance sped;

       When the convent met at the noontide bell,

       The Monk of St. Mary’s aisle was dead!

       Before the cross was the body laid,

       With hands clasp’d fast, as if still he pray’d.

       XXIV

      The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

       And strove his hardihood to find:

       He was glad when he pass’d the tombstones grey,

       Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

       For the mistic Book, to his bosom prest,

       Felt like a load upon his breast;

       And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,

       Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.

       Full fain was he when the dawn of day

       Began to brighten Cheviot grey;

       He joy’d to see the cheerful light,

       And he said Ave Mary, as well he might.

       XXV

      The sun had brighten’d Cheviot grey,

       The sun had brighten’d the Carter’s side;

       And soon beneath the rising day

       Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot’s tide.

       The wild birds told their warbling tale,

       And waken’d every flower that blows;

       And peeped forth the violet pale,

       And spread her breast the mountain rose.

       And lovelier than the rose so red,

       Yet paler than the violet pale,

       She early left her sleepless bed,

       The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

       XXVI

      Why does fair Margarent so early awake?

       And don her kirtle so hastilie;

       And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,

       Why tremble her slender fingers to tie;

       Why does she stop, and look often around,

       As she glides down the secret stair;

       And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound,

       As he rouses him up from his lair;

       And, though she passes the postern alone,

       Why is not the watchman’s bugle blown?

       XXVII

      The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

       Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

       The lady caresses the rough bloodhound,

       Lest his voice should waken the castle round,

       The watchman’s bugle is not blown,

       For he was her foster-father’s son;

       And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light

       To meet Baron Henry her own true knight.

       XXVIII

      The Knight and ladye fair are met,

       And under the hawthorn’s boughs are set.

       A fairer pair were never seen

       To meet beneath the hawthorn green.

       He was stately, and young, and tall;

       Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:

       And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,

       Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

       When the half sigh her swelling breast

       Against the silken ribbon prest;

       When her blue eyes their secret told,

       Though shaded by her locks of gold,

       Where whould you find the peerless fair,

       With Margarent of Branksome might compare!

       XXIX

      And now, fair dames, methinks I see

       You listen to my minstrelsy;

       Your waving locks ye backward throw,

       And sidelong bend your necks of snow;

       Ye ween to hear a melting tale,

       Of two true lovers in a dale;

       And how the Knight, with tender fire,

       To paint his faithful passion strove;

       Swore he might at her feet expire,

       But never, never, cease to love;

       And how she blush’d, and how she sigh’d.

       And, half consenting, half denied,

       And said that she would die a maid;

       Yet, might the bloody feud be stay’d,

       Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,

       Margaret of Branksome’s choice should be.

       XXX

      Alas! fair dames, you hopes are vain!

       My harp has lost the enchanting strain;

       Its lightness would my age reprove;

       My hairs are grey, my limbs are old,

       My heart is dead, my veins are cold:

       I may not, must not, sing of love.

       XXXI

      Beneath an oak, moss’d o’er by eld,

       The Baron’s Dwarf his courser held,

       And held his crested helm and spear:

       That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man,

       If the tales were true that of him ran

       Through all the Border far and near.

       ‘Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode,

      

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