Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

And many a friend, to friend made known,

Partook of social cheer.

Some drove the jolly bowl about;

With dice and draughts some chas’d the day;

And some, with many a merry shout,

In riot revelry, and rout,

Pursued the football play.

VII

Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,

Or sign of war been seen,

Those bands so fair together rang’d,

Those hands, so frankly interchang’d,

Had dyed with gore the green:

The merry shout by Teviotside

Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide,

And in the groan of death;

And whingers, now in friendship bare

The social meal to part and share,

Had found a bloody sheath.

‘Twixt truce and war, such sudden change

Was not infrequent, nor held strange,

In the old Border-day:

But yet on Branksome’s towers and town,

In peaceful merriment, sunk down

The sun’s declining ray.

VIII

The blithsome signs of wassel gay

Decay’d not with the dying day:

Soon through the lattic’d windows tall

Of lofty Branksome’s lordly hall,

Divided square by shafts of stone,

Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone

Nor less the gilded rafters rang

With merry harp and beakers’ clang:

And frequent, on the darkening plain,

Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,

As bands, their stragglers to regain

Give the shrill watchword of their clan;

And revellers, o’er their bowls, proclaim

Douglas or Dacre’s conquering name.

IX

Less frequent heard, and fainter still

At length the various clamors died:

And you might hear, from Branksome hill

No sound but Teviot’s rushing tide;

Save when the changing sentinel

The challenge of his watch could tell;

And save where, through the dark profound,

The clanging axe and hammer’s sound

Rung from the nether lawn;

For many a busy hand toil’d there,

Strong pales to shape, and beams to square,

The lists’ dread barriers to prepare

Against the morrow’s dawn.

X

Margaret from hall did soon retreat,

Despite the Dame’s reproving eye;

Nor mark’d she as she left her seat,

Full many a stifled sigh;

For many a noble warrior strove

To win the Flower of Teviot’s love,

And many a bold ally.

With throbbing head and anxious heart,

All in her lonely bower apart,

In broken sleep she lay:

Betimes from silken couch she rose

While yet the banner’d hosts repose,

She view’d the dawning day:

Of all the hundreds sunk to rest

First woke the loveliest and the best.

XI

She gaz’d upon the inner court,

Which in the tower’s tall shadow lay;

Where coursers’ clang, and stamp, and snort

Had rung the livelong yesterday;

Now still as death; till stalking slow,

The jingling spurs announc’d his tread,

A stately warrior pass’d below;

But when he rais’d his plumed head,

Bless’d Mary! can it be?

Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers,

He walks through Branksome’s hostile towers

With fearless step and free.

She dar’d not sign, she dar’d not speak,

Oh! if one page’s slumbers break,

His blood the price must pay!

Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears

Not Margaret’s yet more precious tears,

Shall buy his life a day.

XII

Yet was his hazard small; for well

You may bethink you of the spell

Of that sly urchin page;

This to his lord he did impart,

And made him seem, by glamour art,

A knight from Hermitage.

Unchalleng’d thus, the warder’s post,

The court, unchalleng’d, thus he cross’d,

For all the vassalage:

But O! what magic’s quaint disguise

Could blind fair Margaret s azure eyes!

She started from her seat;

While with surprise and fear she strove,

And both could scarcely master love,

Lord Henry’s at her feet.

XIII

Oft have I mus’d what purpose bad

That foul malicious urchin had

To bring this meeting round;

For happy love’s a heavenly sight,

And by a vile malignant sprite

In such no joy is found;

And oft I’ve deem’d perchance he thought

Their erring passion might have wrought

Sorrow, and sin, and shame;

And death to Cranstoun’s gallant Knight

And to the gentle ladye bright

Disgrace and loss of fame.

But earthly spirit could not tell

The heart of them that lov’d so well.

True love’s the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven:

It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

With dead desire it doth not die;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind

In body and in soul can bind.

Now leave we Margaret and her Knight,

To tell you of the approaching fight.

XIV

Their warning blasts the bugles blew,

The pipe’s shrill port arous’d each clan;

In haste, the deadly strife to view,

The trooping warriors eager ran:

Thick round the lists their lances stood

Like blasted pines in Ettric wood;

To Branksome many a look they threw,

The combatants’ approach to view,

And bandied many a word of boast

About the knight each favor’d most.

XV

Meantime, full anxious was the Dame;

For now arose disputed claim

Of who should fight for Deloraine,

‘Twixt Harden and ‘twixt Thirlestaine

They ‘gan to reckon kin and rent,

And frowning brow on brow was bent;

But yet not long the strife, for, lo!

Himself, the Knight of Deloraine,

Strong, as it seem’d, and free from pain

In armor sheath’d from top to toe,

Appear’d and crav’d the combat due.

The Dame her charm successful knew,

And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

XVI

When for the lists they sought the plain,

The stately Ladye’s silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;

Unarmed by her side he walk’d,

And much, in courteous phrase, they talk’d

Of feats of arms of old.

Costly his garb; his Flemish ruff

Fell o’er his doublet, shap’d of buff,

With satin slash’d and lin’d;

Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,

His cloak was all of Poland fur,

His hose with silver twin’d;

His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,

Hung in a broad and studded belt;

Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still

Call’d noble Howard, Belted Will.

XVII

Behind Lord Howard and the Dame,

Fair Margaret on her palfrey came,

Whose footcloth swept the ground:

White was her wimple, and her veil,

And her loose locks a chaplet pale

Of whitest roses bound;

The lordly Angus, by her side,

In courtesy to cheer her tried;

Without his aid, her hand in vain

Had strove to guide her broider’d rein.

He deem’d she shudder’d at the sight

Of warriors met for mortal fight;

But cause of terror, all unguess’d,

Was fluttering in her gentle breast,

When, in their chairs of crimson plac’d,

The Dame and she the barriers grac’d.

XVIII

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch,

An English knight led forth to view;

Scarce rued the boy his present plight,

So much he long’d to see the fight.

Within the lists, in knightly pride,

High Home and haughty Dacre ride;