THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       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;

       Grief darken’d on his rugged brow,

       Though half disguised with a frown;

       And thus, while sorrow bent his head,

       His foeman’s epitaph he made.

       XXIX

      “Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

       I ween, my deadly enemy

       For, if I slew thy brother dear,

       Thou slew’st a sister’s son to me;

       And when I lay in dungeon dark

       Of Naworth Castle, long months three,

       Till ransom’d for a thousand mark,

       Dark Musgrave, it was ‘long of thee.

       And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,

       And thou wert now alive as I,

       No mortal man should us divide,

       Till one, or both of us, did die:

       Yet, rest thee God! for well I know

       I ne’er shall find a nobler foe.

       In all the northern counties here,

       Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear,

       Thou wert the best to follow gear!

       ‘Twas pleasure, as we look’d behind,

       To see how thou the chase could’st wind,

       Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way

       And with the bugle rouse the fray!

       I’d give the lands of Deloraine

       Dark Musgrave were alive again.”

       XXX

      So mourn’d he, till Lord Dacre’s band

       Were bowning back to Cumberland.

       They rais’d brave Musgrave from the field,

       And laid him on his bloody shield;

       On levell’d lances, four and four,

       By turns, the noble burden bore.

       Before, at times, upon the gale,

       Was heard the Minstrel s plaintive wail;

       Behind, four priests, in sable stole,

       Sung requiem for the warrior’s soul:

       Around, the horsemen slowly rode;

       With trailing pikes the spearmen trode;

       And thus the gallant knight they bore

       Through Liddesdale to Leven’s shore;

       Thence to Holme Coltrame’s lofty nave,

       And laid him in his father’s grave.

       The harp’s wild notes, though hush’d the song,

       The mimic march of death prolong;

       Now seems it far, and now a-near,

       Now meets, and now eludes the ear;

       Now seems some mountainside to sweep,

       Now faintly dies in valley deep;

       Seems now as if the Minstrel’s wail,

       Now the sad requiem, loads the gale;

       Last, o’er the warrior’s closing grave,

       Rung the full choir in choral stave.