Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Their leading staffs of steel they wield

As marshals of the mortal field;

While to each knight their care assign’d

Like vantage of the sun and wind.

Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,

In King and Queen and Warden’s name

That none, while lasts the strife,

Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,

Aid to a champion to afford,

On peril of his life;

And not a breath the silence broke,

Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke:

XIX

English Herald

“Here standeth Richard of Musgrave,

Good knight and true, and freely born,

Amends from Deloraine to crave,

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn.

He sayeth that William of Deloraine

Is traitor false by Border laws;

This with his sword he will maintain,

So help him God, and his good cause!”

XX

Scottish Herald

“Here standeth William of Deloraine,

Good knight and true, of noble strain,

Who sayeth that foul treason’s stain,

Since he bore arms, ne’er soil’d his coat;

And that, so help him God above!

He will on Musgrave’s body prove,

He lies most foully in his throat.”

Lord Dacre

“Forward, brave champions, to the fight!

Sound trumpets!”

Lord Home

“God defend the right!”

Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang,

When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang

Let loose the martial foes,

And in mid list, with shield pois’d high,

And measur’d step and wary eye,

The combatants did close.

XXI

Ill would it suit your gentle ear,

Ye lovely listeners, to hear

How to the axe the helms did sound,

And blood pour’d down from many a wound;

For desperate was the strife and long,

And either warrior fierce and strong.

But, were each dame a listening knight,

I well could tell how warriors fight!

For I have seen war’s lightning flashing,

Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing,

Seen through red blood the warhorse dashing,

And scorn’d, amid the reeling strife,

To yield a step for death or life.

XXII

‘Tis done, ‘tis done! that fatal blow

Has stretch d him on the bloody plain;

He strives to rise, brave Musgrave, no!

Thence never shalt thou rise again!

He chokes in blood! some friendly hand

Undo the visor’s barred band,

Unfix the gorget’s iron clasp,

And give him room for life to gasp!

O, bootless aid! haste, holy Friar,

Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!

Of all his guilt let him be shriven,

And smooth his path from earth to heaven!

XXIII

In haste the holy Friar sped

His naked foot was dyed with red

As through the lists he ran;

Unmindful of the shouts on high,

That hail’d the conqueror’s victory,

He rais’d the dying man;

Loose wav’d his silver beard and hair,

As o’er him he kneel’d down in prayer;

And still the crucifix on high

He holds before his darkening eye;

And still he bends an anxious ear

His faltering penitence to hear;

Still props him from the bloody sod,

Still, even when soul and body part,

Pours ghostly comfort on his heart,

And bids him trust in God.

Unheard he prays; the death pang’s o’er!

Richard of Musgrave breathes no more.

XXIV

As if exhausted in the fight,

Or musing o’er the piteous sight,

The silent victor stands;

His beaver did he not unclasp,

Mark’d not the shouts, felt not the grasp

Of gratulating hands.

When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,

Mingled with seeming terror, rise

Among the Scottish bands;

And all amid the throng’d array,

In panic haste gave open way

To a half-naked ghastly man

Who downward from the castle ran:

He cross’d the barriers at a bound,

And wild and haggard look’d around,

As dizzy, and in pain;

And all, upon the armed ground

Knew William of Deloraine!

Each ladye sprung from seat with speed;

Vaulted each marshal from his steed;

“And who art thou,” they cried,

“Who hast this battle fought and won?”

His plumed helm was soon undone,

“Cranstoun of Teviotside!

For this fair prize I’ve fought and won.”

And to the Ladye led her son.

XXV

Full oft the rescued boy she kiss’d,

And often press’d him to her breast;

For, under all her dauntless show,

Her heart had throbb’d at every blow;

Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign’d she greet,

Though low he kneeled at her feet.

Me lists not tell what words were made,

What Douglas, Home, and Howard said,

For Howard was a generous foe,

And how the clan united pray’d

The Ladye would the feud forego,

And deign to bless the nuptial hour

Of Cranstoun’s Lord and Teviot’s Flower.

XXVI

She look’d to river, look’d to hill,

Thought on the Spirit’s prophecy,

Then broke her silence stern and still,

“Not you, but Fate, has vanquish’d me;

Their influence kindly stars may shower

On Teviot’s tide and Branksome’s tower,

For pride is quell’d, and love is free.”

She took fair Margaret by the hand,

Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand;

That hand to Cranstoun’s lord gave she:

“As I am true to thee and thine,

Do thou be true to me and mine!

This clasp of love our bond shall be;

For this is your betrothing day,

And all these noble lords shall stay

To grace it with their company.”

XXVII

All as they left the listed plain

Much of the story she did gain

How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine

And of his page, and of the Book

Which from the wounded knight he took;

And how he sought her castle high,

That morn, by help of gramarye;

How, in Sir William’s armor dight,

Stolen by his page, while slept the knight,

He took on him the single fight.

But half his tale he left unsaid

And linger’d till he join’d the maid.

Car’d not the Ladye to betray

Her mystic arts in view of day;

But well she thought, ere midnight came

Of that strange page the pride to tame

From his foul hands the Book to save,

And send it back to Michael’s grave.

Needs not to tell each tender word

‘Twixt Margaret and twixt Cranstoun s lord;

Nor how she told of former woes,

And how her bosom fell and rose,

While he and Musgrave bandied blows

Needs not these lovers’ joys to tell:

One day, fair maids, you’ll know them well.

XXVIII

William of Deloraine some chance

Had waken’d from his deathlike trance;

And taught that, in the listed plain

Another, in his arms and shield

Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield

Under the name of Deloraine.

Hence to the field unarm’d he ran,

And hence his presence scar’d the clan,

Who held him for some fleeting wraith

And not a man of blood and breath.

Not much this new ally he lov’d,

Yet, when he saw what hap had prov’d

He greeted him right heartilie:

He would not waken old debate,

For he was void of rancorous hate,

Though rude, and scant of courtesy;

In raids he spilt but seldom blood,

Unless when men-at-arms withstood,

Or, as was meet, for deadly feud

He ne’er bore grudge for stalwart blow,

Ta’en in fair fight from gallant foe:

And so ‘twas seen of him, e’en now,

When on dead Musgrave he look d down;