The Maid of Elvar, A Poem :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Maid of Elvar, A Poem

In Twelve Parts. By Allan Cunningham

Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842)

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THE MAID OF ELVAR.

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“The native legends of thy land rehearse.”
Collins.

TO WILSON DOBIE WILSON, ESQ. This Poem, IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS FRIEND, THE AUTHOR.

THE MAID OF ELVAR.

PART FIRST.

I

I sing a song of other times. Between
Two thrones was shared the rule of this broad Isle,
And nobles round the cradle of our queen
Dealt Scotland 'mongst them like a conqueror's spoil:
Corn sown in dread, was reap'd with bloody toil;
Fair maidens sat not by the Tweed and flung
Their ringlets o'er their white necks with a smile;
Nor with bright glances and a witching tongue,
Songs steep'd in pastoral love, or chivalrous ardour sung.

II

Woe, woe was ours. Chief drew his sword on chief:
Religion with her relique and her brand,
Made strife between our bosom-bones, and grief
And lawless joy abounded in the land;
Our glass of glory sank nigh its last sand:
Rank with its treason, priesthood with its craft,
Turned Scotland's war-lance to a willow-wand.
Knee-deep in Tweed stood England with her shaft,
And whiles she menaced war, and whiles in scorn she laught.

III

“Go, go,” said England's king,—“Go, Ralph Latoun,
With all thy merry men, and pennon broad,
And bill and brand; to Scotland make thee boune:
Bow and begone,—ye know the ready road,
Go find a grave beneath the northern sod,
Or win an earldom.” Swiftly from his knee
He rose, and soon his foot, with iron shod,
Was in the stirrup: loudly shouted he,
“Come, England's conquering sons, to Scotland come with me!”

IV

They mustered, marched: in Scotland every tower
Sent up a sudden light, on every hill
A beacon burned; each glen an armed power
Sent gleaming forth as it sends forth its rill:
Spears shook, swords flashed, war-axes shone, and still
The pipe called loud and louder; all aghast
Young mothers started from their slumbers: shrill
They shrieked to hear the war-horse rushing past,
And prayed, and wept, and prayed, and clasped their babies fast.

V

The invaders came, nor stayed for haunted Dryfe,
Nor yet for silver Annan: through the wood
Of fair Dalswinton swift they marched to strife;
Short while to gaze on Nith's pure stream they stood;
Their barbed steeds went flashing through her flood.
First of the foremost shouted Ralph Latoun,
“An English sword ne'er rusts with Scottish blood!—
Tame these proud Maxwells—on them, by Mahoun
We'll break their spears like reeds, and tread their eagles down!”

VI

Sternly he spoke, as sternly did he ride
O'er Nithsdale's strength, till heap'd like new-mown hay
Her Maxwells and Kirkpatricks, side by side,
Gory and gashed beneath their coursers lay,
Their looks in death wore still the wish to slay:
Amidst them stood the victor freshly gilt
With warfare's dread emblazonry; full gay
He looked around and kissed his falchion's hilt,
And said,—“Blood has been shed, but more must yet be spilt,

VII

“Before I win thee, with thy bowers and halls,
Romantic Nithsdale: every glen and brook,
Thy mountains from whose tops the eagle calls,
Down to thy deepest dell and fairy nook,
Shall taste of blood.” His golden casque he took,
And waved it glittering; on his brow the steam
He gladly fanned, and out his tresses shook,
Then eyed his martial shadow in the stream,
And looked of Nith's green vale lord in his own esteem.

VIII

He looked a warrior bold and leader free,
As e'er drove prey on either side of Sark,
For lordly looked and lordly limbed was he,—
A frame of iron, a right arm long and stark,
A rough loud voice, a visage somedele dark,
A heart which rose as danger rose, and ne'er
Sunk save in peace; like to the merry lark
He sang when beacons burned, and bugles clear
Bade England draw her shaft, for Scotland grasped her spear.

IX

His soldiers shouted, and then hailed him lord
Of Nith's green vale; for lordships then were got,
As kingdoms now, by the sharp spear and sword,
The bearded arrow and the culver's shot,—
And cities sacked, and limbs stretched out to rot.
His soldiers shouted, and then trumpets twain
Awoke a blast so thrillingly; I wot
The rocky Molach, Creehope's caves were fain,
When that dread blast grew dumb and waked them not again.

X

By a lone stream which hath from man no name,
And joins the Nith where Blackwood stands embower'd
In ancient woods, there sat young Eustace Græme;
His grass-green mantle by his mother flower'd,
Unclasped was all with night-dews dropt and shower'd;
A shining pipe beside him lay, and nigh
His hunting-spear leant 'gainst an oak, and cower'd
Two chase dogs bloody mouthed, that seemed to eye
A dead deer and the burn that ran in silver by.

XI

They lapt the water, and then couched, while he
Took up his pipe, and woke a gladsome air.
The bird that slumbered on the greenwood tree,
The fox, the wild roe in her secret lair,
Were rapt; meanwhile his long and glittering hair
Lay on his shoulders like a sunbeam bright;
He raised his brow to heaven, the hand of care
Had touched it with no sadness, and the light
Of his two eyes o'er all shone, as stars shine in night.

XII

He heard the war note; up his ivory horn
He snatched and blew; the sound small, shrill and clear,
Up Blackwood brook, up Closeburn glen, was borne;
And at the well-known call, with sword and spear
A hundred youths came like the bounding deer.
“What wouldst thou, Eustace?” asked the eager band.
“He who loves Scotland,” Eustace said, “must bear
A resolute heart and a determined hand,
For Ralph Latoun is come to win and keep the land.”

XIII

Away they went, the sun had sunk, the moon
O'er Tinwald-hill was in her wakening flush;
Away they went, to green Dalswinton soon
They came; there war had made a bloody crush.
O'er slaughter'd men Nith's current with a gush
Flowed, crimsoning all her silver. “Warily peer,”
Said Eustace, “through each tangled brake and bush,
Bared be each sword, be ready every spear!”
A step or two he took, and whispered, “He is here!”

XIV

There like an eagle which upon twin-lambs
Had fallen and feasted, grim the victor sate,
Bedappled o'er with blood; between his palms
He held fruit in his casque and silent ate.
His conquering comrades all with mirth elate,
Drank to their Earl of Nithsdale; others twined
A chaplet for his brow, nor deemed that fate
Had in her book a sterner judgment signed;
And some sat carolling loud, and gave care to the wind.

XV

Forth stept young Eustace. “Ralph Latoun, if thou
Desirest to reign, some blood hast thou to spill,
Before the golden honour binds thy brow.”
Rain down the wind, fire on a heathery hill,
Or Solway when with man it works its will,
Ne'er rushed more fierce, than now with lance and sword,
The Scot rushed on the Southron; evening still
Woke with the clamour, through the Nith's deep ford,
Flew many an English steed that owned no rider lord.

XVI

The ground was mossy, thick and dark the grove
Spread wide, with louring boughs and briar and broom;
There England's practised squadrons vainly strove
To form in line and gain good charging room.
To peasant's blows stooped many a knight his plume,
Yet in the fray they bore them firm and well,—
Till with their blood the grass began to swoom;
Some bled, some sank, some in the gory selle
Fought wounded sore; yet one bled not, nor fled, nor fell,—

XVII

'Twas Ralph Latoun. With sure hand and quick eye
Flew Eustace round him, as the eagle flies
Around a wolf; with sharp beak and fierce cry
He smites him down, assails him in the rise,
Then claps his wings and threats him from the skies.
So Eustace fought, nor lacked he of the sleight,
Which they have most who are both wight and wise;
He added sleight to speed, and both to might,
And wheeled and turned, and struck and sorely prest the knight.

XVIII

He pressed him sorely. “Youth,” thus said Latoun,
“Thou art a bold and brave one; thou art here
Lost unto daring deeds and fame: yon moon
That o'er green Skiddaw hangs so round and clear,
Shines on my tower by Solway side, and dear
Shalt thou be there to me, while spurs of gold
Be sure thou'lt win them in thy first career;
And beauteous dames, for beauty loves the bold,
Will bless thee with their love.” Word neither warm nor cold

XIX

Spake the proud youth; his stature seemed to wax
And fiercer grew his mood; he moved not now,
As one who shunned by sleight, or spear, or axe,
With gleaming eyes, and with a blood flushed brow,
Thrust upon thrust he made, and blow on blow:
As well against a tower of steel or brass
He might have struck; though a red drop or so
To his fierce thrusts stained here and there the grass,
Sir Ralph turned short his steed, and sought the Nith to pass.

XX

Full twenty lances met his bosom: back
He turned and waving right and left his blade
Spurred and was lost in darkness; evening black
Lent him the greenwood and the cloud for shade.
He plunged into a long and winding glade
With herbs and scented flowers wove green and soft;
High verdant walls the polished hollies made;
And oaks and elms rich ceilings formed aloft—
Through which a sweet wind came, and glowing stars looked oft.

XXI

Away he rode. The ring-doves sat in pairs
And started when they saw his armour gleam:—
Away he rode, the wild deer from their lairs
Sprang up and gazed, while from Dalgonar stream
The heron uttered his discordant scream:
The maid and lover by the trysting-tree,
Saw this armed vision burst upon their dream,
And thought of war; morn's light on hill and lea
Showed Criffel's cloven crown, and the wide Solway sea.

XXII

Beneath him flowed the deep and swelling sea,
Dimpling and glittering like ten thousand glasses;
Around him lay tower, town, and stream, and tree,
And knolls and woodlands in their bright green masses:
The silken canna whitened all the mosses;
Men's hoary heads shone in the dewy light;
And merry songs from Criffel's lovesome lasses,
Filled all the vale and climbed the woody height
Where stood Sir Ralph Latoun; his heart swelled with the sight.

XXIII

“All that wide scene of loveliness was mine
An hour ago,—moor, mountain, glen, and brake
On which yon sun takes such delight to shine,
As if it glittered for the landscape's sake:
But let it go, no heavier moan I'll make,
The earth hath other earldoms. My fair steed
From battle broil no more thou'lt bring me back,—
There, thou art free, with ragged colts go feed,”—
Said Ralph Latoun: away it neighed o'er moor and mead.

XXIV

“And thou good corslet, which my bosom fenced
From France's javelin and from Scotland's sword,—
Off which the Genoese cloth-yard arrows glanced,
I now unclasp thee, shield some luckier lord:”—
And leaving thus his mail upon the sward;
With helm on head, a steel blade at his thigh,
To seek some fishing-skiff and leap on board,
And homewards o'er the Solway's waters fly,
Was now his wish: when as he walked 'tween wet and dry,

XXV

He came unto a small and pleasant bay—
A crescent-bay half garlanded with trees,
Which scented all the air; whose blossoms gay
Were rife with birds, and musical with bees;
And danced in beauty in the seaward breeze;
While o'er the grove ascended Elvar Tower,
A mark by land, a beacon on the seas—
With fruit trees crowned, and gardens hung in flower,
Dropt round with fairy knolls and many an elfin bower.

XXVI

Even as he stood, there came from Elvar Hall
A peerless one, with handmaids hemmed about—
Fair Sybil Lesley, lovesome, straight and tall,
Sweet as a lily ere the bloom bursts out:
A seaman looked and scarce suppressed a shout—
A shepherd saw her and looked down with awe;
Even Ralph Latoun, a warrior tried and stout,
Seemed moved somewhat when he this vision saw,
Which with the rising sun came down the greenwood shaw.

XXVII

Fair Sybil comes: the flowers which scent her feet
Bloom for her sake alone; the polished shells
Raise as she touches them a sound as sweet
And musical as the breeze breath'd on bells;
Her hand waves love, and her dark eyes rain spells,
Her mouth, men might mistake it for the rose
Whose opening lips afar the wild bee smells:
Her hair down gushing in an armful flows,
And floods her ivory neck, and glitters as she goes.

XXVIII

There calmly while the sea-surge at his side
Sang 'mid the shells and leaped upon the sands,
Dipping his fingers in the swelling tide,
And cleansing blood alike from brow and hands,
Sir Ralph Latoun before young Sybil stands.
“Stranger,” she said, “o'er Solway's dread sand-bars
The storm oft drives us men of foreign lands,
Who trust in fickle winds and faithless stars—
But we wage war with none on whom the tempest wars.”

XXIX

“Nor seas nor sands do I blame, gentle one,—
Nor stars nor storms have made me thus bereft;
I come from fields where shafts and lances shone,
And death his hand glued to his falchion heft,
And casques alike of knave and noble cleft—
Steeds of their riders eased ran wild and free,
And I sole relic of war's rage am left—
What says the minstrel—‘Lady rue on me,
Thine own poor knight.’” He bowed, and gave the grass his knee.

XXX

Her colour changed, and with her little foot
She stamped the ground, and said, “False knight, begone,
I know thee now. Thy person and thy suit
I scorn as dust doomed to be trampled on—
Away!” A horn hung at her golden zone,
She wound it thrice, and all the sounds which slept
In cliff and cavern answered every one—
Away the sound by Elvar turrets swept,
The warder loud replied, and up ten warriors leapt.

XXXI

Sir Ralph stared on her. For one moment's space
The man seems fled, and nought but fiend is there,—
Hell in his heart, and fury in his face,
Twining like adders seems his curling hair;
His brows sink o'er his eye-balls, but the glare
Of fury sparkles through his black eye-lashes.
He smiles and half his willing blade makes bare—
Then in the sheath the weapon quick he dashes
And flies, and as he flies the water round him flashes.

XXXII

Beside him lay a small and nimble skiff,
Which through the surge could swim like the sea-mew;
In it he bounded from a jutting cliff,
And snapt like straw the mooring chain in two:
He stretched its wings forth to the winds and flew—
And when a stone cast from the shore, he cried,
“I'll come again in bridal trim to woo,
And Criffel-hill shall sink in Solway-tide,
If, lady fair, I fail to pay thee for this pride.”

XXXIII

He spoke, and laid against the surge's sway
The skiff's slim side; the sole sail, half resigned
Unto the breeze, felt all its force; away
It bounding goes, and snores with sea and wind,
'Till Scotland's brown hills far are left behind.
Proud looked the lady—prouder was her word,
“I'll live a slave unto the humblest hind,
Or with my life's blood stain my father's sword,
Before that Ralph Latoun is Sybil Lesley's lord.

XXXIV

I know him brave as is his well-tried brand—
A counsellor subtle and a leader proved—
With wisdom fitting for a king's right hand,
Firm in resolve, nor from his purpose moved—
Then what lacks he to render him beloved?
He woo'd and won a gentle heart—and more,
He trampled it to dust: yet unreproved
He cumbers earth.” And sighing sad and sore
For sorrows not her own, she walked along the shore.

XXXV

Now o'er the land flew tidings far and wide,
“A battle has been struck: at first full sore
It went for Scotland; England vowed to ride
Triumphant from the Tweed to Solway shore;
Her chief has fled, her conquering days are o'er.”
So spoke the courtly scroll: another lay
By hinds was sung. “For Ralph Latoun no more
Let maids grow pale, or mothers weep and pray,
His helmet plume is soiled; his sword no more shall slay.

XXXVI

His war-steed's running riderless; the steel
Which fenced his breast lies rusting in the mire—
Nor hath his conqueror gold spurs on his heel:
A good sharp sword, and a wild warbling lyre
Which pours forth song as heaven pours forth its fire,
Are his sole portion: how can Eustace Græme
Have more? the whole earth hath no glories higher
Than peace of heart and happiness at hame,—
The poet's deathless praise—the saviour hero's name.”

XXXVII

So sung they, while with his companions brave
Homeward hied Eustace Græme by stream and tree.
Some spoil he had; a gold casque and a glaive
Hafted with gold, and rough with diamonds, he
Won them from Selby in stark jeopardie:
And for his mother, what he prized the most,
A mantle richly flowered and curiouslie
O'erwrought with some historic painter's boast,
Of Scotland's Thistle trode down by a Southron host.

XXXVIII

Much mirth was theirs—war was no wonder then;
Dread fled with danger, and the cottage cocks,
The shepherd's war-pipe, called the sons of men
When morning's wheel threw bright dew from its spokes,
To pastures green to lead again their flocks:
The horn of harvest followed with its call;
Fast moved the sickle and swift rose the shocks,
Behind the reapers like a golden wall—
Gravely the farmer smiled, by turns approving all.

XXXIX

The ripe corn waved in lone Dalgonar glen,
That, with its bosom basking in the sun,
Lies like a bird; the hum of working men
Joins with the sound of streams that southward run,
With fragrant holms atween; then mix in one
Beside a church, and round two ancient towers
Form a deep fosse. Here sire is heired by son,
And war comes never: ancle deep in flowers
In summer walk its dames among the sunny bowers.

XL

Upon the morn of which I sing, its church
Sent holy sounds into the brightening air,
And men with hoary haffets sought its porch,
And ancient dames and damsels passing fair;
The melody of hymns, the voice of prayer,
Rose high to heaven for our afflicted land.
Miles Græme knelt down, and sad his snowy hair
He stroked, and prayed, that God's own helping hand
Would Scotland and his Son shield from the Southron brand.

XLI

He rose, and homeward by the slumbering stream
Walked with the morn-dew glistening on his shoon.
The sun was up, and his outbursting beam
Touched tower and tree and pasture hills aboon;
The stars were quenched, and vanished was the moon;
Loud lowed the herds and the glad partridge' cry
Made corn-fields musical as groves at noon:
Birds left the perch, bee following bee hummed by,
And gladness reigned on earth and brightness claimed the sky.

XLII

“Song to the bird,” he said, “bloom to the bough,
Fruits to the earth, and fragrance to the morn,
Flowers to the bee, to Winter sleet and snow,
To Spring her lilies in the sunshine born:
To Summer berries, and to Autumn corn,—
Fowls to the air, fish to the silent stream,
Speed to the roebuck, echoes to the horn,
Motion to water, light to the moonbeam,
To Age sad doubts and cares—to Youth his golden dream:—

XLIII

“To Youth his short and sunny dream—alas!
How bitter, bitter must the wakening be.—”
Just then, descending through the woody pass
Which joins the valley with the uplands, he
Saw Eustace Græme with all his comrades free—
Men came and gazed and left the corn unreap'd,
Gray Miles for gladness was nigh fit to flee;
He cried, “God bless thee!” high his old heart leapt,
He tried to run—for joy he could not—but he wept.

XLIV

He wept, but 'twas with gladness and great joy,
For dearer far than conquerors' trophies, hame
Came his sole child, his heart's delight—his boy.
He stretch'd his arms and faintly named his name,
And said, “Hast thou come from a field of fame?
How went the fight? a warrior stout and fell
Is Ralph Latoun—a spirit like the flame
That mounts and burns—I mind his father well—
O I have much to ask, and thou hast much to tell.”

XLV

“Aye, thou mayest die, Miles Græme, as soon's thou wilt,
Thy happy day is come,” John Lorburne said,
“For ne'er was stout hand laid on weapon hilt
With such good will as our young leader laid.
Lord Selby tried the sharpness of his blade;
From Ralph Latoun he made the red blood rain.
With Eustace Græme and the good saints to aid
We won green Nithsdale to our Queen again.”
He spoke and gladdened all—an hundred hearts were fain,

XLVI

And as he ceased they shouted. Shout on shout
Made all the glen of green Dalgonar ring;
Fast from their homes, as from their hives gush out
The bees when on them bursts the blooming spring,
Men start forth first, and high their bonnets fling—
Dames follow, glad in all men's joys to share;
The foot of dowie care has found a wing,
And gray fourscore roused from its dreamy lair
Comes forth to swell the joy and fill with song the air.

XLVII

And plucking holly boughs and pulling flowers,
The maids and matrons forth to greet him go.
Upon his head so thick the fragrant showers
Fall, that Eupheme his mother scarce can know
The son for whom she dreed the birthtime throe.
Her joy found every form but that of words,
Her breast could scarce contain her heart's o'erflow—
She murmured low, “The praise be all the Lord's
And good Saint Bride's, that saved thee from the Southron swords.”

XLVIII

No gentle oath a peasant swore. “Saint Bride!
Believe her not! no more in gods of stone
Shall I put trust; amid the battle's tide
I called on her, for fierce Latoun rushed on
And would have sped me, when a nobler one
Than any saint of metal, stone, or tree,
Stopt the dread Southron—Eustace Græme alone,
Henceforth sole saint to Simon Burn shall be.”
He laughed, and threescore youths laughed louder still than he.

XLIX

“Mock not the saints, my children, said the dame,
Though now to mock them men so fiercely preach—
But humble be of heart, kneel at the name
Of holy things; far far beyond the reach
Of our blind knowledge, God sits high to teach
With pest, war, thunder, lessons dread and deep;
We are but scattered pebbles on the beach,
O'er which eternity's dread waters sweep.”
A bandsman sighed, and said, “Aye, as we sow we reap.”

L

She spoke, whom all revered. Home, home they go
Rejoicing with great joy: the land is freed
By native yalour from a foreign foe.
Now reap and plow in peace, and sow the seed,
And let the minstrels give to merit meed,
Sage matrons said: meanwhile with ear and eye
On gladsome youth, they kept sagacious heed,
And paused, and said, amid their grave employ,
“Let meek-eyed Holiness aye fill the cups of Joy.”

PART SECOND.

I

I sing of days in which brave deeds of arms
And deeds of song went hand in hand; our kings
Heroic feelings had and owned the charms
Of minstrel lore—they loved the magic strings
More than the sceptre: still their kingdom rings
With their gay musings and their harpings high.
To noble deeds fair poesie lends wings;
She lifts them up from grovelling earth to sky,
And bids them sit in light, and live and never die.

II

Our queen sat on her nurse's knee, and strife
Was 'mongst our nobles; still a deed so brave
As that wrought at Dalswinton, warmed to life
Feelings which faction froze up like the grave.
The spear once more had foiled the bill and glaive;
Herds to their flocks, and hinds at plough and harrow,
From Solway smooth to Pentland's stormy wave,
Up classic Tweed and down romantic Yarrow,
Sung how the Scottish lance had foiled the English arrow.

III

'Twas sung on uplands where the Tweed and Clyde
And silver Annan flow, three slender rills;
'Twas sung far inland, where the mountains hide
Their heads in heaven; 'twas sung on pasture hills
Where his rude pipe the hind with music fills:
'Twas sung in isle and bay with sea-foam blanched—
Sung where Latoun with all his swords and bills
Stood by the Border, while his wrath unstaunched
Was like the levin-bolt red burning to be launched.

IV

Sir Ralph Latoun sat by the Sark; beneath
His mailed foot fast flowed the gentle river;
His helm lay on the grass, and in its sheath
Slept his sharp sword, which limbs could shred and sever;
A thousand polished shafts lay in the quiver,
A thousand war-horse bridled, barded, ready,
Neighed; and a thousand warriors by them ever,
Swore loud by saint, and vowed by gentle lady,
To ride from Nith to Dee; their gathering word was “Steady.”

V

He sat by Sark: towards the heat of noon,
A Scottish maiden sought the river's brim,
And sat and sang: “Ken ye Sir Ralph Latoun,
Who came with fetters for us, neck and limb,
A warrior gruesome in his looks, and grim,
The flower of all King Harry's chivalrie?
A peasant's spear proved all too sharp for him—
He left his bravest in their blood, and free
His steed spurred till he foamed, and cursed the north countree.

VI

“Now should you know him, say to him, proud knight,
The Scottish bards with harpstring and with rhyme,
To sing a Fitte in honour of thy flight,
Are called from eastern and from western clime;
Come learn from them before to-morrow's prime,
How small a sum eternal shame will buy;
Come hear thy name in brightness to all time,
Embalmed as amber closes in a fly.”
She sang and went: but still the silver river by

VII

Sate Ralph Latoun; amid his chiefs he smiled,
And said, “The maiden sings both loud and clear,
Her merry voice yet through the woodland wild
Sends its sarcastic chorus to mine ear.”
He snatched in haste his helmet and his spear,
Leaped in his selle, and loudly did he hollo,—
“Those who would fain the minstrels' harpings hear,
Mount, and my banner o'er the Border follow—
I'll tame these ballad bards, by Chaucer and Apollo!”

VIII

That morn a hind came to Dalgonar glen,
And said, “Ye reap and sweat and sleep, and so
Time moves along: shut from the ways of men,
Little ye see, and less still do you know.
There stands a tower where Solway waters flow,
Called Elvar, and there dwells a lovely dame;
And she has vowed with gold to bind the brow
Of him, who sings best how our spears did tame
The pride of Ralph Latoun—now mark me, Eustace Græme,

IX

“The minstrel strife's to-morrow.” He is gone
To take his tidings east, west, south, and north.
By pure Dalgonar, Eustace sat alone,
And sighed, and said, “This green and gladsome earth
Has given me neither land nor lofty birth;
Fame knows me not by either deed or word:
Then shall I to the poet-strife go forth,
'Mongst golden-mantled minstrels; me, the lord
But of an ivory pipe and a well-tempered sword?”

X

So by the river Eustace sat, and took
Drink from the stream, and from the wild tree fruit;
Nor e'er before was shadowed in the brook
A fairer figure or a fleeter foot;
His bright looks spoke e'en though his lips were mute,
And when he talked, his voice was sweeter far
Than song of lark, or sound of harp or lute.
Straight as a rush, and pure as morning star
He shone; sweet song he loved far more than strife and war.

XI

He bathed his temples white, and lightly placed
His plumed bonnet on his shining brow;
And on his limbs his buskins tighter laced.
Forth from his pouch an ivory pipe he drew,
And on the breeze some charmed notes he threw;
Then down the glen he bounded like a roe:
He leapt one brook, another waded through,
And like a sunbeam o'er the mountain, lo!
As swift, and scarce less bright, see the enthusiast go.

XII

He with his spirit as he went communed—
“I go—for surely it is sweet to hear
The harp to songs of inspiration tuned
By some bold minstrel, soldier, priest, and seer;
And her of Elvar, men, too, far and near,
Report so passing lovely, none may look
On her but love. Poor Eustace, slender fear
Of thee! what high-born damsel e'er forsook
Her golden hall to grace a peasant's clay-built nook?”

XIII

Dalgonar glen he leaves behind, and Dee
Glimmers before him, dark and deep and loud,
Lifting his voice and calling on the sea;
Threive his broad banner 'gainst the sun hangs proud;
Above the eagle mingles with the cloud;
The heath below the moor-cock's bosom brushes;
Old Criffel mountain from his morning shroud,
Touched with the sun-beam into glory rushes,
While like a maiden's cheek the heaven above him blushes.

XIV

He clomb up Falconhill, and distant down
Looked on a valley strewn with herb and flower,
Close girdled in with uplands high and brown,
Deep fenced with groves and many a holly bower:
High in the middle rose an ancient tower,
Round which a stream kept singing in its flowing;
Upon the whole the sun burst, and a shower
Of radiance fell; tower, stream, and tree were glowing,
And wild birds' carollings mixed with the milch cows' lowing.

XV

But other sights and other sounds were there:
Poets and harpers, raven-locked or hoary,
Sat mantled proud amid the sunny air,
To sounds divine to add inspired story,
And sing of heroes' deeds, of patriot glory—
And Scotland saved from thraldom. All about
Stood warriors famed in many a border foray:
The Herries, Halliday, the Maxwell stout,
With sandalled bedesmen bald, all silent and devout.

XVI

The minstrel strife called forth ten thousand feet.
Ae sent her maids demure and meek as nuns,
And moorland Annan sent her damsels sweet;
Romantic Nith poured forth her stately sons;
And men who dwell where haunted Cluden runs,
That morning treading on the unsunned dews,
Came with their looks all bright as summer suns;
Mute on the far-seen Solway much they muse,
Her bosom white with foam and sunshine and sea mews.

XVII

The men were there too of the rocky Orr,
With those who sing along the pastoral Dee;
They came from lake and stream, and vale and shore,
The inland mountain, and the greenwood tree.
It was a proud sight, Eustace thought, to see
Maidens and youths in many a lusty throng,
All in the sunshine mirthsome as the bee,
And like the bee too as they streamed along
Raising a joyous din, and humming many a song.

XVIII

He stood and gazed, and heard the distant sound
Come softened into music up the brae,
And saw snow-white pavilions pitched around,
With banners borne in many a bloody fray;
White dancing plumes and streamers glancing gay;
And while he held his hand above his brow,
A visor'd rider on a gallant gray,
In cloak and helm, rode from the greenwood bough;
He stayed where Eustace stood. Meek were his words and low.

XIX

“Good morrow to thee, gentle youth—the corn
Lacks reapers sorely, come these men to reap?
They seem too many for the hound and horn;
Or come they for some good man's death to weep?
Perchance the birth-time of a saint they keep?
Or are disposed to eat and drink and dance;
Or list some preacher with his doctrines deep,
From dark Geneva or from changeful France,
Preach Rome and relics down?” A wary look askance

XX

He gave the youth, who threw on him again
A glance like the gore-falcon's, quick and sharp.
“They come not here,” he said, “to reap ripe grain,
Nor dance nor drink, nor hear the gospellers carp
'Gainst Rome and relics, nor to list them warp
God's Word to some dark purpose: they are here
To list poured out unto the lute and harp,
Inspired words fit for a warrior's ear,
How men fight for their country, scorning flight and fear.”

XXI

Loud laughed the rider: “Thou the minstrel's skill
Lovest much I hear; now by my hope of spurs,
I'd leifer hear the fox howl on the hill,
The croak of toads, the cry of beaten curs,
Eat thistle heads, dine on unbuttered burs.”
He said, he bowed, he gave his horse the rein,
And pricking freely o'er the grassy furs,
He looked on no one, nor of speech seemed fain—
He stopt where minstrels stood, and tents filled all the plain.

XXII

And leaping from his wearied courser said,
“A stranger I to mark your minstrel sleight
Am come, and in this masquing trim arrayed
I wish to bide; perchance, ere fall of night,
My hand may give some measure of its might.
A warrior I less skilled in harps than swords,
Yet led here by the poet's blessed light,
I fain would bide.” A minstrel all his chords
Touched, saying, “Sir, abide;” nor waiting other words,

XXIII

The stranger staid. The summer flowers with bees
Ne'er swarmed more populous than the lonesome glen;
The swelling hillocks and the lofty trees
Are covered less with grass and leaves than men;
For one staid dame I wot are damsels ten,
With gladsome eyes, white hands, and sunny brows;
The brook clear shadows all their shapes agen;
Pure as it runs its tranquil course, it glows
With eyes like new-found stars, and cheeks like odorous rose.

XXIV

He stood, and far and wide with falcon-glance
Surveyed the glen. “To sing my flight and shame
These minstrels come,” he muttered; “it may chance
Their tongues and harps may find a sadder theme:
He dies who names of Ralph Latoun the name.”
More had he said, when shout arose on shout,
For bards, the sons of Scotland and of fame,
Touching their harp-strings as they moved the foot,
In grass-green mantles gemmed, stood up, and gazed about.

XXV

Proudly they gazed, and well might they be proud.
Their honours were of God, and not of kings;
Heroes had throbbed, and belted earls had bowed,
Charm'd with the sorcery of their thrilling strings:
To words of earth they added heavenly wings.
Their scorn, too, like the canker-worm had bitten
Cowards to the core; fierce as the venomed stings
Of serpents were the words which they had written,
When stirred into just wrath to smite when they were smitten.

XXVI

Bards' scorn cuts sharper than a two-edged sword,
Their wit's more dangerous than a flying arrow;
Their taunt taints blood as doth the hangman's cord;
O, how the pinched penurious soul they harrow,
And pour their liquid hell-fire through his marrow.
But for heroic souls the immortals will
A blessing twice, as they have blessed the Yarrow—
More bright than all earth's rivers runs the rill,
And conscious winds its way in fame by holm and hill.

XXVII

Each stream sent forth its poet: classic Tweed,
Thy bard with Border glories came inspired;
Old Yarrow's poet from his elfin reed
Breathed magic notes untiring and untired.—
With pastoral splendour Annan's bard came fired;
And he of Ayr breathed from his burning core
Love's passion and pure pathos; while attired
As martial songsters, they of Dee and Orr
Laid fingers on the strings new cleansed from battle gore.

XXVIII

Nith sent no minstrel, she had none: alas!
Thou gentle stream, such joy was never thine—
Sun-bright and beauteous to the Solway pass,
Meekly and mute, no poet's magic line
Makes thee among immortal rivers shine:
Flow on, flow on, in many a loop and link,
For all of thee except thy song's divine—
Flow on, flow on; the gowans on thy brink
There's one will no more pull, nor of thy waters drink.

XXIX

Flow on, flow on, sweet stream; yon herald's tongue
To other business calls, else had I now
A song of thee and of thy daughters sung—
Thy daughters dark of eye and bright of brow—
And made thee in poetic radiance flow
Up with the fairest. Hearken; he doth call
The sons of song the gentle Muse to woo—
And see, the minstrels rise up and let fall
Their right hands on their harps—now listen one and all.

XXX

“Hear me, ye men,” aloud the herald said,
“Who weave the martial Muses' weft and warp—
Sing ye how Scotland quelled proud England's raid,
Smote her barbed steeds, and broke her arrows sharp;
Sing one by one—come carp, my minstrels, carp—
Though come from Caithness, Bellenden or Belvar—
Whoso sings sweetest to the lute or harp
Be he knight, squire, or shepherd, ditcher, delver,
His is this golden gift from our Fair Maid of Elvar.”

XXXI

Fame, fame—thou warrior's wish, thou poet's thought,
Thou bright delusion; like the rainbow thou
Glitterest, yet none may touch thee: thing of nought,
Star-high with heaven's own brightness on thy brow,
Blazoned and glorious I beheld thee grow—
Vision, begone,—for I am none of thine.
Of all that fills my heart and fancy now,
From dull oblivion not one word or line
Wilt thou touch with thy light and render it divine.

XXXII

Even be it so. I sing not for thy smiles—
I sing to keep down sighs and ease the smart
Of care and sadness, and the daily toils
Which crush my soul and trample on my heart.
Far mighter spirits of the inspired art
Are mute and nameless, and the muse in grief
Calls from the eastern to the western airt,
On tale, tradition, ballad, song, and chief
On Thee, to give their names one passage bright and brief.

XXXIII

She calls in vain: like to a shooting star
Their storied rhymes shone brightly in their birth,
And shot a dazzling lustre near and far;
Then darkened, died, as all things else of earth.—
On with our Tale.—The songs by fauld and firth
Have ceased; the sun a level light is shooting;
There is much more of gladsomeness than mirth,
And gentle clap of hand, and gentler shouting,
Where o'er their ancient harps the rival bards are louting.

XXXIV

O'er rival harps they lean and smile. Meantime,
Close to the pasture mountains sinks the sun;
On Dee's green groves, and Solway's cliffs sublime
He spills his liquid lustre; rivulets run
So bright, their glory seems but new begun.
Forth comes the herald, and aloud he cries,—
“Six bards have sung, and has the muse no son
Besides, will sing for Lady Sybil's prize;
Ye bards of Nith and Ae, arise, my children, rise.”

XXXV

He called, none answered. On a green knoll, hemmed
With broom as with a garland, graceful stood
Two fair hand-maidens: curling and ungemmed
Their locks fell o'er their shoulders in a flood.
Upon them, bright of eye and staid of mood,
Men looked, but looked not long: beside them there
Sat one so lovely, peasants rough and rude,
From her white foot glanced to her jewelled hair
Awe-struck, for seldom dame so meek, so mild, so fair

XXXVI

As Sybil Lesley blest their eyes. The moon,
That through a snowy cloud casts down her light
In chastened glory from the heaven aboon,
Looks all more lovely in the shepherd's sight;
So look'd that lady through her veil of white,
Which from her forehead to her small foot stream'd;
Nor glanced her eyes, nor shone her brow less bright:
It veiled her beauty nought, whate'er she deemed;
Through all her loveliness like to the moonlight beamed.

XXXVII

To her the herald went, bowed low, and laid
The chaplet at her feet, and said, “O thou,
Discreet as beauteous; wilt thou, peerless maid,
This chaplet on the worthiest bard bestow,
And place it with thy white hands on the brow
Of him whose song is sweetest: on my knee,
With looking on thy loveliness, I vow
My heart and soul are fluttered so, from me
All skill in verse has flown;—I think on only thee.”

XXXVIII

Her bright brow darkened a small space: she smiled,
And while the chaplet glittered at her feet,
She heard a man say, “Eustace Græme, my child,
Be ruled by gray hairs; list to words discreet:
Strive for the prize; thou hast a voice more sweet
Than thrush or laverock, and thy song's divine.”
She heard again a softer tongue entreat,
“Sing, Eustace Græme; sing but one glowing line,
And may I ne'er be wed but that bright wreath is thine.”

XXXIX

She through her veil looked for a space, and there
She saw a form such as she ne'er had seen;
A peasant surely, yet of such an air
As spoke high nobleness of soul: his mien
Was modest, and his garb a deep sea-green.
Just then his bonnet from his brow he took,
And shook his glossy ringlets back: I ween
That lady read in his enthusiast look
Of bards and heroes thoughts as clear as in a book.

XL

She read aright. For though to pastures green
He drove his flocks in summer time, and took
Them from the mountains when the frost came keen,
To warm and sunward lairs by bank and brook;
Though sword, scythe, plowshare, and the sharp reaphook,
He knew them all; his chief, his soul's delight,
Was pondering deep on Nature's mystic book;
On elves, and fays, and shapes which haunt the night,
He mused, and limned their looks by Fancy's wizard light.

XLI

“Eustace,” she said, and from a veil of snow
Drew forth a whiter hand, and waved it. Bright
And thick as dew-drops on the lily, glow
The jewels upon her fingers round and white.
He looked, he bowed, and crimsoning with delight,
Stood full before her. With a meek regard
She said, “Go thou, and try the poet's flight—
A golden chaplet is a rich reward—
Trust Nature's strength and try—be bold, or be no Bard.

XLII

“Lady,” said Eustace, “such thing may not be;
I was an humble warrior in the hour
That wrought this land's redemption—so for me
The chaplet shines not; nor is mine the power
To charm with martial themes: in lady's bower
My rustic harp-string never yet hath rung:
For, like the lark, my muse the daisy's flower
Loves best, and by lone fairy fountains flung
Sings of domestic love in her rude country tongue.”

XLIII

On him she gazed, and said, “Art thou the youth
Whom barons name not, but to whose swift sword
And promptitude of soul we owe, that south
Proud England turned her horse at Fleuchar-ford?
If thou art he, fair Holyrood, no lord”—
Away turned Eustace, brow and bosom glowing.
“Lady,” quoth one, “'tis Scripture every word—
But praise on him is lost—'tis next to sowing
Corn on the Solway—see, his heart is nigh the flowing.

XLIV

“With maids he's softer than the cloud in March;
But had you seen him, lady, in his ire,
When like one born of thunder he did march,
And struck men down as stubble sinks in fire—
Yet that same right hand deftly wakes the lyre—
Besides, fair one, he hath a tongue could wile
The laverock from the cloud.” Another sire
Said, “What man lives 'tween Criffel and Carlisle
Can form a sweeter song, or sing it so?” Meanwhile

XLV

The lady Sybil smiled, and said, “For me
The rudest sough of nature hath a charm;
Her voice untamed, untutored, frank, and free,
Comes from the heart and comes forth wild and warm.
Sing what thou wilt—let no vain fears alarm
Thy spirit, take this sculptured harp and try
Its strength—a bard can work its strings no harm;”
He bowed—he took the harp with downcast eye,
Unclasped his mantle green and laid his bonnet by.

XLVI

“Lady,” he said, “since 'tis thy will, I fain
Would chaunt no old tradition, but a new
And tender story, which men's tears like rain
Has frequent brought: our shepherds vouch it true—
Indeed, my sire both son and mother knew,
And saw the final tragedy: but hear;
I sing not for that chaplet bright, I woo
Song for its own sweet sake; I'd rather wear
The polished holly bough gemmed red with clusters clear.”

PART THIRD.

I

He touched the harp, and thus he sung. “There stood,
Where Closeburn cushats bask them in the sun,
A little cottage nigh the Castle-wood,
Thatched o'er with heath, and built of polished stone;
Fair as a snow-wreath in the sun it shone
Amid its garden; there was odorous store
Of bloom for bees; both bank and brae were sown
With glowing foxgloves and with gowans hoar;
A trout-stream shot through all, and sang beside the door.

II

“There dwelt a widow with her only son,
A boy of sixteen summers old or so,
And William was his name: how she would run
And toil in autumn's warmth and winter's snow,
To warm a hearth where crickets seldom now,
For joy of warmth, make melody; yet she
Wrought with a smile maternal on her brow;—
Her love of him was deeper than the sea,
And stronger, too, than death—if love can stronger be.

III

“All winter-long the snowy wool she twined,
In spring-time span white flax, in summer clear
Turned the green grass swathe to the drying wind;
In autumn 'neath the ripe and golden ear
Her sickle gleamed. Meanwhile her William dear
In beauty brightened, as in height he grew;
In books and learning he found no compeer,
And many a maiden's wish and sigh he drew,
Ere on his tresses dropt his seventeenth summer's dew.

IV

“But war arose in Scotland—civil war;
Serf warred with chief, and father warred with son,
The church too warred with all: her evil star
That rules o'er sinking realms shone like the sun—
Her lights waxed dim and died out one by one—
Woe o'er the land hung like a funeral pall;
The sword the bold could brave, the coward shun,
But famine followed fast and fell on all—
Pale lips cried oft for food which came not at their call.

V

“In her poor home the widow sat and prayed
For man and beast, and for the troubled land;
When there came rustling through the greenwood glade
A cruel chief—with him a spoiler band;
Oaths on each tongue and weapons in each hand.
He looked on her, and springing from his selle,
Cried, ‘Come, old witch! else this conjuring brand
Shall help our need, and serve us for a spell—
So bring forth food and drink, spite all the hags of hell.’

VI

“She brought them meat and drink. ‘Dame, well and warm
You seem to live.’ Quoth she, ‘This lone abode
Is all I have, beside the threefold charm,
My milch-cow, and my garden, and my God!—
My husband lies beneath the churchyard sod,—
Save my son William, there lives nought to cheer
And lighten life of its most grievous load.’
She turned aside, and but half hid a tear,
Which started with the thought of him she loved so dear.

VII

“The leader smiled. Beneath his horse's hoof
Her garden greens down he triumphant trod;
Then snapt his pistol 'neath the thatch—the roof
Flashed up to heaven, and vale and mountain glowed;
The milch-cow rushed into the glare and lowed:
He strikes his spear right through her sides.—Lo, see!
He gives the weeping widow one gay nod,
Then spurs his charger o'er the lilied lea—
Laughs back upon the fire, and whistles in his glee.

VIII

“Home William came; he raised his mother, lo!
He vows, while down the hot tears pour like rain,
Revenge both deep and measureless, and so
He dries his tears: the widow is right fain
To see him rear for her a house again,
Where with her bible and her gown of gray,
She rules, she smiles, and O, but she is vain,
And blesses him—will gladness last for aye?
That night to the dread wars he wildly ran away.

IX

“From Tinwald-top on Nith he turned his eyes—
Ah! ne'er again, save in some troubled dream,
To him will those fruit groves and tow'rs arise;
The distant rushings of his native stream
Seem mourning o'er some melancholy theme.
The war trump calls, and, answering to the strain,
His young heart leaps and beats, his dark eyes gleam;
This is the path to vengeance—o'er the main
He sails, and plows the sand upon the shore of Spain.

X

“The Spanish gentle kneels and tells his beads,
And jewelled o'er sits smiling many a dame,
To see stern England's arrows, France's steeds,
And Scotland's lances, set Castile on flame.
Loud drum and trumpet call to mortal game;
Thick in the smoke the plumes and pennons dance,
As Victory, like a strumpet, went and came.
They likened it unto some gay romance,
Where spears were broke, blood spilt, for lady's glove and glance.

XI

“A field is won. The warriors on the grass
Sit thick; the wine, the wit, and jest abound;
They toast their country, kindred, wife, or lass.
Some sing vociferous to the bagpipe's sound,
Or talk of gallant deed, or ghastly wound,
Or chargers running wild and riderless.
There William sat among them on the ground,
The stains of battle cleansing from his dress,—
For well the youth had borne him in the bloody press.

XII

“And while they sat and talked of war-deeds bold,
‘All that is nought,’ cried one of mark and rank,
‘To what I did—nor is the story old—
To a witch dame who dwelt on sweet Nithbank.
Her God, her milch-cow, and her green kale rank,
Were her sole friends; I thought them friends so odd,
I rose and played her an unsonsie prank:
I burnt her cottage, killed her cow, and trod
Her green kale down, and bade her try and live on God.’

XIII

“‘Dost thou not rue—not rue that cruel deed?’
‘Sayest thou so, stripling,’ cried the chief, on flame,
‘And “thou” too! take a buffet for thy meed.’
He struck—the youth rose—forth his broadsword came—
‘Remorseless fiend!—that was my mother's hame.’
A clansman ran, his battle-blade he drew—
‘Now on all manhood everlasting shame!’—
Far from his hand the half drained goblet flew,
‘Stand back, my noble lad, I'll give this debt its due.’

XIV

“Young William's eyes gleamed in the starting dew—
‘It may not be—so give the sheath thy blade;
My mother's wrongs doth from my claymore sue
For debts of blood that shall to-night be paid.’
Aback the warrior stood, and scarce obeyed,
Ere gleamed the sharp swords in each eager hand,
Nor mail nor fence the sad youth's weapon stayed;
Deep in his enemy's bosom sank his brand,
He dropt, groaned, grasped the dust, and spurned the bloody sand.

XV

“While he lay weltering in death's withering throes,
Clamouring and drumming with his heels the sod,
William said sighing, ‘Hadst thou rued her woes,
I would have left thy punishment to God;’
Then in the sheath thrust back his claymore broad.
Some one the story told to good lord Græme;
Both rank and friendship he at once bestowed
Upon the youth. Swift to his mother came
The news; she sang for joy—and happy was her hame.

XVI

“One night—'twas when a second field was won—
The troops their thirst in wild carousal quenched;
Around them mourn the maimed; the dying groan,
One called on God, while his life's blood unstaunched
Flowed fast; one washed him all with gore bedrenched;
In quest of gold some trod o'er wounded men;
Others prayed fervent, battle-toiled and blanched
With loss of blood; the gaunt wolf in her den
Growled glad, her mouth was red with the life's blood of men.

XVII

“Sad and apart he sate. On Nith's sweet vale
A gladsome yet a troubled glance he threw;
Again each cottage, tower, and turret pale,
And stream that wimpled glen or greenwood through,
Came with his mother and her home to view,
And mingled with the faint unceasing wail
Of wounded men; which of the scenes were true
He scarce could reckon: all around the dale,
Turned to the silver moon lay many a fair form pale.

XVIII

“Sudden the trees as with a tremor shook,
And like the rush of water came a sound;
The green knoll trembled where he sat; awoke
He scarcely deemed himself. Up from the ground
He rose, for brightness covered all the mound;
And to him from the midmost glory came,
His father's spirit, robed with radiance round;
He fell upon his face, and thrice his frame
Felt an immortal touch, and thrice he heard his name.

XIX

“The vision vanished: unto God he prayed
To soothe his heart for death's approaching pang;
His blooming face to the cold earth he laid—
That instant, rush of steeds and trumpet clang,
And cannon peal, to which towers rocked and rang,
Came fierce and fiercer through the midnight air.
Lo! see his mother Nith's lone groves among—
Her soul is with her son; thick in her hair
The cold dew shines; her eye is sick with woe and care.

XX

“Silent she sat beneath the ample shade
Of Closeburn oak, whose antiquated bole
Had register of rustic loves been made,
And amorous breathings of the pastoral soul;
'Neath it the print of many a pilgrim's sole
Had in the times of fast and vigil been:
Beneath its boughs Nith's lucid current stole,
From silver dark'ning to demurer green;
Doves roosting in the top were 'mid the moonshine seen.

XXI

“Mute dropt the wind, and silent slept the wave,
Wide shook the woods and yet no blast was there;
The flood fowl quailed, nor dared a plume to lave;
The dun doe lay and trembled in her lair;
Dread tongues were given unto the dewy air;
A strange illumination kindled all.
She gazed, awe struck with the portentous glare,
When of her name she thought she heard a call,
And saw a pale hand wave her from a funeral pall.

XXII

“Close by her side a shining vision stood,
In shape and look her son, but more divine
Than living thing, who said, ‘The salt sea flood
With blood of foes waxed ruddier than the wine;
And oh! I thought how soon 'neath Closeburn pine
We twain should meet. Alas! the God aboon
Decreed it different; my heart's blood the brine
Dyes—see! beyond yon round and darkening moon,
Mother, my dwelling is! and I shall see thee soon.’

XXIII

“Forth her two arms to clasp him close she threw—
The phantom gave one feeble cry and sad,
And swifter than a shooting star withdrew,
And as it vanished so the moonlight fled;
The moorflame sole burned on the mountain head.
From that hour forth by haunted streams and deep
She wandered ay, and made green woods her bed;
Sweet peace of mind and heaven's refreshing sleep
Were her's no more, and soon she ceased to wail and weep.”

XXIV

So Eustace sung, and as he ceased, the sun
Behind the mountain's summit slowly sank:
Crows came in clouds down from the moorlands dun,
And darkened all the pine-trees, rank on rank:
The homeward milch-cows at the fountains drank;
Swains dropt the sickle, hinds unloosed the car—
The twin hares sported on the clover-bank,
And with the shepherd o'er the upland far,
Came out the round pale moon, and star succeeding star.

XXV

Star followed star, though yet day's golden light
Upon the hills and headlands faintly stream'd;
To their own pine the twin-doves took their flight;
From crag and cliff the clamorous seamews screamed;
In glade and glen the cottage windows gleam'd;
Larks left the cloud, for flight the grey owl sat;
The founts and lakes up silver radiance steamed;
Winging his twilight journey, hummed the gnat—
The drowsy beetle droned, and skimmed the wavering bat.

XXVI

When Eustace ceased he sought away to go—
But from the knoll-heads and the holly bowers,
There came upon him like the drifting snow,
Green plaited wreaths, while garlands of ripe flowers
O'er him by white hands shaken were in showers;
And ever and on there came a gladsome shout—
“Where is a warrior and a bard like ours?
Go, minstrels, break the harp and burn the lute,
And in the strife of song for evermore be mute.”

XXVII

There with the golden chaplet in her hand,
And her long ringlets reaching nigh her feet—
Did the young veiled Sybil Lesley stand;
Beside her two handmaidens, grave, discreet,
Mute, hearkening to the strain so sadly sweet—
Of that true tale her cheek took every hue,
Her heart smote sore against her side, and beat
Till it was heard—her large eyes, bright and blue,
Flowed with the tender strain, and dewed her white veil through.

XXVIII

She said, “Young bard, while woods grow green, and while
Flowers bloom in summer, waters fill the Dee;
Birds sing, fish swim, and maids on mankind smile,
And heath has honey for the murmuring bee;
So long shall men delight in naming thee,
In palace, cottage, tower—on stream and lake;
Far as that brook's exceeded by yon sea—
So doth thy song surpass all others; take
This golden chain, and say you wear it for my sake.”

XXIX

Around his neck the long and linked gold,
Warm with her own white bosom's heat, she hung;
“The bold in song may be in all things bold,”
She said, and back her flowing veil she flung.
I've seen the looks of which blest poets sung—
The faces monarchs knelt to: I have known
The loveliness from dreams and visions sprung—
But she transcended all—fair Sybil shone
Like to a new-found star, all lovely and alone.

XXX

He knelt, and as he knelt she turned away,
And like a sun-beam down the vale she flew
With all men's praises with her: twilight gray
Descended glad, and o'er her beauty threw
A veil sedate, dipt in the scented dew—
The grass o'er which her painted mantle swept,
Seemed proud to be so touched; nor rein she drew,
Nor glanced behind, but sometimes sighed, and kept
Her way to Elvar Hall, where Solway's waters slept.

XXXI

Now the whole multitude dissolved like snow.
Each separate glen received its people back,
The murmuring brooks, which from the uplands flow,
Showed in their streams their children's shadows black:
Along the moorlands' brown sheep-trodden track,
Maiden and swain hath homeward made them boune.
By Orr's wild fountains, through a woody slack
Young Eustace hied, and hoped Dalgonar soon—
'Twas now the hour when earth has light from sun and moon.

XXXII

And there were many pleasant sounds abroad,
The tinkling streams, the folded wethers bae—
A courser neighed, and up a stranger rode,
The visored rider of my second lay.
He bade good e'en, and said, “Nay, minstrel, nay,
Draw not thy sword; more meet for such soft hand
Is harp or lute—I have one word to say,”—
He louted low, and touching thus his brand,
Said, “We shall meet again—youth, dost thou understand.”

XXXIII

“I understand thee passing well, Sir Knight,
And know thee, also.” “Proud hind, sayest thou so!
I came with far less will to talk than fight,
And I brought with me hands could work much woe:
Though I'm called Scourge of Scotland, peasant, know
'Tis only with her plumed and helmed I war,
Not surely when she feels the poet-glow,
And sings of mother's love—deeds when her star
Shone bright. I'd give my hand did thine not smell of tar.”

XXXIV

Loud laughed young Eustace. “Sweet's the smell of tar,
And beauteous is the fleece, and fair to see
The pasture mountains to the western star
Joining their summits, white as far's the e'e
Can mark, with mute sheep grazing—so to me
The trade of shepherd's dear: but know, proud Knight,
No English eagles build aboon the Dee,
Nor on the Nith; we shepherds have the sleight
To prune their soaring wings, and mar their venturous flight.

XXXV

“And this I add, moreover, ye have said
To work us woe ye came; in yonder glen,
For thy three hundred horse, with southern blade,
There shine four hundred lances; so, God-den,
Well armed and wary will ye find us when
Ye come with trump and banner.” Swift away
As speeds the falcon in its flight amain
He Nithward rode, nor spared his bonnie gray.
“Now, Eustace, who is he, yon visored man, I pray?”

XXXVI

A dame enquired. “On Sybil much he looked,
And much on thee: the dove beside the hawk
Shrinks as she shrank from his rude glance; rebuked
He seemed 'neath thee.” Another dame the talk
Took up, and spoke thus on her homeward walk:
“Ah! Sybil's sweet: can sweetness e'er dissemble—
The unsunned lily on its slender stalk,
When breezes rise and silver dews assemble,
Shakes, as thy song shook her, and put her in a tremble.

XXXVII

“Then rushed back to her cheek the blood, as wine
Sets all the crystal goblet in a glow,—
How her two eyes seemed drinking out of thine
Love's luscious venom, while her bosom's snow
Swelled till it snapt the silken lace in two.
Ah! love's mute symptoms, I can read them weel,
The bright eyes which say aye when lips say no,
The low delicious tremor which maids feel
When arms of those they love around them softly steal.”

XXXVIII

With talk like this all weariness they wiled
Away, and stole some long miles from the road;
Lads spoke, maids listened, and, approving, smiled—
All that was lovely seemed to be abroad:
Dews lay like diamonds showered on every sod;
Rills murmured music, torrents rushed less rude:
The sky above was brightness,—brighter glowed
The arched heaven, where mirrored in the flood
Lay mingled all her stars, with mountain, tower, and wood.

XXXIX

But down an eerie and a rugged way
Rode Ralph Latoun; through Ruthwell's pine-trees dark
He spurred: the desolate bat and owlet gray
Skimmed round; he heard the stealthy weasel's chark;
The lonely glowworm kindled up its spark;
Stars flashed and darted wildly through the night:
Men saw on Solway sea the spectre bark;
A maiden shrieked—for lo! a dismal sight—
A corse in a kirkyard that held a burial light.

XL

He held right onward; soon the darkness sank,
Forth burst the mild moon: 'neath her ray he rode
Through a green valley, down a river bank,
Along a fragrant and a fairy road.
His foaming coarser soft and softer trod,
And neighed, for there a massive tower and gray
Hung o'er the river, dimpling, deep, and broad:
Before the gate, right in the middle way,
Stood a stone cross, round which the weary pilgrims pray.

XLI

The scene at once flashed on the Knight; he knew
The stubborn tower, from which a stalwart band,
When late he harried Annan valley, threw,
Against his squadrons, battle-axe and brand;
Their blood ran rife adown the river sand,
While on their tower he cast devouring flame.
Now as he o'er his forehead held his hand,
He thought a light from that dark ruin came,
And in the light he heard a dread voice name his name.

XLII

He drew his sword, and 'gainst a scorched door
Struck with his mailed foot; straightway it burst:
There grim and gruesome, on the crumbling floor
Sat a dark Shape; a shape more dread, accurst,
Was ne'er from sinning to perdition thrust;
An iron-bound book lay opened at his feet—
Of all its words he had but read the first;
Till on his brow huge drops of bloody sweat
Sprung out in agony;—his dolorous breast he beat,

XLIII

And sinking deep his sharp teeth in his arm,
He read and gnawed. Sir Ralph before him stood;
The sight of baptised thing wrought like a charm—
Mild beamed his eyes; he sobered down his mood,
And from his black lips wiped the foam and blood,
And smiled, and shut, well pleased, the iron-bound book;
Then motioned with his hands; his body rude
Was straightway clothed, and there were odours shook:
None of the fiend remained, save his unhallowed look.

XLIV

“O welcome, Ralph Latoun: thou'rt come at last,
Much like a sleuth hound 'neath the huntsman's lash;
I've wearied much for thee—now that is past—”
And as he spoke his eyes began to flash
For very glee; his teeth went gnash on gnash.
He smiled a bitter smile, then gently laid
His garment back, and shewed a cruel gash
But newly healed, as if a two-edged blade
Through all his bosom bones a sheer descent had made.

XLV

“The love of blood,” he said, “and lust of power
Have wrought my ruin; they are working thine;
I fell from glory, in an evil hour,
When front to front forms evil faced divine—
But one by one into hell's scorching brine
Ambition's godless progeny were dashed;
The heaven glowed red with many an angry sign—
From God's right hand the living thunder flashed,
And wronged me beyond cure”—his iron teeth he gnashed.

XLVI

“No might of hell this rankling wound could cure;
Green earth I sought; by darksome glen and stream,
By lonesome hill and unfrequented bower,
Five thousand years beneath the wan moonbeam
I roved and moaned.” A fierce unearthly gleam
Flashed in his eyes; he writhed him like a worm;
And from his nostrils gushed a burning steam;
His elf-locks shook like rushes in a storm—
All hell seemed in his thoughts—thus spake again the Form.

XLVII

“One eve amid the sweet and dewy cold
I stood upon a mountain head, and broad
Earth lay below me, and wide ocean rolled—
Serenest heaven above me lustrous glowed;
Tears came; the sight my spirit touched and awed;
An angel sudden stood by me, and said,
‘Bless'd be these tears—I come to thee from God—
Be whole.’ His minist'ring hand he on me laid—
I smiled, who never smiled—the immortal pang was staid.

XLVIII

“The pang was staid, but a more cureless pain
Shot through me—one for which earth hath no word—
Malice and hatred, envy and disdain
Are sweeter than the mercy of the Lord;
The torturer's rack, the tyrant's cruel cord,
Hot pincers, boiling oil, and, worse than all,
Revenge's kindness, and faith's fiery sword,
Detraction's venom, mockery's bitter gall,
The pity of the vile, the critic's venomed scrawl,

XLIX

“Are all endurable, nay, are endured
By that poor worm which God made last—called man;
But there's a wound that never can be cured,
Far hotter than hell's wrath or heaven's dread ban;
A wound which counts ten thousand years a span,
Given by God's tender mercy. Oh, for me
Fires without end and darkness without dawn—
The linked thunder, hell's hot liquid sea—
The thrones of opening heaven where I no more shall be.

L

“Though smitten sore and in this dungeon chained,
And doomed my body thus to gnaw and tear;
It is a pleasant thing to be ordained
To live 'mongst men and feast on woe and fear,
See hatred grow 'tween friends long tried and dear,
And thirst of glory change to thirst of blood.
So warrior hail, be glad and of good cheer,
For thou wert born to tame the fiery mood
Of many a haughty Scot, by valley, hill and flood.

LI

“But glory hath its limits. Now thy plume
Dances unscathed amid the culverins' smoke.
Around thee warriors fall, war-horses fume,
Guns gleam, swords glitter, men with lances flock;
Yet comest thou harmless from the bloody shock.
So now look with me o'er the Solway brine;
Thy tower sits like an erne's nest on a rock—
The casements all with bridal torches shine,
And cheeks of wedding guests are ruddier than their wine—

LII

“And there is mirth amongst the maidens all,
Bedward they glance and trim the torches bright.
But where is he the lord of that proud hall?
The priest is there, the bride-maids all in white
Come red as roses on their tiptoes light.
The smile, the titter, reign o'er them by turns—
Lo! to the bridegroom comes at dead of night
An armed man. Behold how dimly burns
The wedding light, like lamps in cold sepulchral urns.

LIII

“Hark, there is screaming 'mongst the maidens—now
Laces are cut and slackened many a sash.
Amazed, they like a falling torrent go
To where the Solway waters foam and dash:
And lo! the bridegroom; fast, from thrust and gash,
His life's blood reddens all the shuddering water—
Go, Ralph Latoun, bid swords and axes flash;
Spare neither boy nor man, nor dame nor daughter,
For brief be sure's the space which God gives thee for slaughter.”

LIV

“Sir Goblin,” cried he, “Then I've much to do;
Revenge to take, ambition's race to run,
A land to conquer—a proud dame to woo.”
He said, and as he said uprose the sun
And chased far from his path the vapours dun.
He sat and mused, and gave his steed a check,
Till, like a spider, his frail web he spun;
Nor thought that Fate's iron foot was on his neck,
Or, if he thought, I ween full little did he reck.

PART FOURTH.

I

O'er Criffel top the sun sank red and bright,
The mist curled round the mountain thin and gray;
Full on the sea the moon her level light
Threw in long lines on Siddick beach and bay;
The meanest star which gems the milky way
Shone with increase of lustre: clear as noon
Were seen the sea-mews, rocked on waves alway:
On earth below, in radiant heaven aboon,
Nought spoke save silver streams, and nought moved but the moon.

II

The weary labourers to the harvest horn
Come merrily homeward down the Elvar-brook,
That day beneath the golden-bearded corn
Full deftly had they moved the reaping-hook:
Old men behind walked numbering every stook;
But when they came where rocks the firth o'er-tower,
Upon the full tide's loveliness to look;
They stood, they graver grew—the sober hour
Of night, and the wild sea, o'er rudest minds have power.

III

Beyond them streamed the lights of Elvar-hall,
'Mongst fruit-tree groves and ranks of cedar trees—
Before them rushed a ship whose twin masts tall,
With snow-white sails, stooped forward in the breeze,
And creaked and quivered; o'er the foaming seas
It danced and wantoned, streamer'd all in pride,
Like colt unbridled on its native leas.
The burnished prow cut swift in twain the tide,
And threw the frying brine in furrows from each side.

IV

Her loosened pennon, fluttering free and far,
Waved high in air, as soars the summer-lark,
Danced with the wind, and streamed to every star;
While bounding forward on its shadow dark,
Through haunts of sea-gulls flew the fearless bark;
Far, far behind rose Skiddaw, shone Saint Bee—
It was a sight worth musing on, to mark
Man's frail work breasting so the billows free,
And like a thing of life walk on the swallowing sea.

V

And had it been a living thing, and not
Hewn by the axe, and shaped by man's right hand,
It had not moved more dauntlessly; it shot
Alike past sunken rocks and sucking sand;
Lo! now it lifts its wings to fly to land,
Nor heeds, where piled in many a warning heap,
The wreck of ships lie cumbering all the strand—
It leaves and clears them all—the whirlpool deep
And mermaid rocks it shuns, which oft make mothers weep.

VI

Still stood the hinds on Siddick headland gray,
At this bold bark all wondering, and all mute—
But, roused at once, rung cliff and bight and bay,
Unto their startling and repeated shout—
“Ho! stand more seaward—put your helm about!
Rocks lurk in foam—Lot's-wife lies on the lee!
Some fiend's on board! what mariners could shoot
O'er Robin-rigg! —lo! past the Needle-e'e
She dances like a cork—where bark should never be!”

VII

John Corson locked; his tresses thin and hoar
The snows of seventy winters wore and seven:
O'er Nature's mysteries much he loved to pore,
And in her aspect read the will of heaven.
“The fiend,” he said, “of darkness and wild levin
Makes forms, and this is one of his dread ships!
It comes to tell of men to judgment given,
By flood, by field, by tempest, and eclipse.”
He paused, and a short prayer came muttered from his lips.

VIII

“It is the spectre-ship; each sign I know,”
He said; “no mariner trims a sheet or sail,
Its freight is human misery and woe,
Sorrows unnumbered, and diseases pale;
It taints with pest, for three long leagues, the gale;
I saw it fashioned once: 'neath the moon-flame
I heard a shout, and then I heard a hail,
When down to Solway came an ancient dame,
One whom we know and fear: I name no evil name.

IX

“East-ward she looked—then from her foot took she
Her shoe and launched it on the shuddering wave;
Like to a beaten baby moaned the sea—
The heaven above in darkness matched the grave:
First rose a mist, the mist a whirlwind clave,
Then from the middle darkness started out
A goodly shallop manned and masted brave;
On board stept the enchantress fell and stout,
On man on beast and bird she dealt her spells about.

X

“The first spell fell on fish; in streams and lakes
The trout and salmon lay, and gasped for life.
The second fell on beasts; cows at the stake
And sheep on moorlands, where the gorcock's rife,
Moaned like things lying 'neath the butcher's knife;
The third spell fell on man: a bridegroom blythe
Fled forth the chamber from his bedded wife—”
A matron with a visage like a scythe,
Cried, “Sirs! I mind him weel, his name was Hugh Forsythe.

XI

“His mother's name was Girzie Kingan, kin
To umwhile Kingan's of the Kittle-naket;
And his wife also was a bairn of sin,
A giggling hempie glib of tongue and glaiket;
Before she was a wedded dame she traiket
With young Barcloye.—See! darker far than pitch,
Yon black cloud pours, like pouring from a bucket—
Her grandame too—ye mind her weel—a witch,
As sure as ever rode through Sanquhar on a switch.”

XII

Even while she spoke, a dark cloud through the beams
Of the bright moon shower'd down its thunderous drops;
From cloud to cloud glanced thick and fast the gleams
Of levin kindling all the mountain tops.
Yet not for that the venturous shallop stops;
But runs, and catches as it runs, the breeze,
To surge and shower drip all its sails and ropes:
Shoreward it swings, its bowsprit 'mongst the trees
Shoots sudden—lo! a sight the marvelling peasant sees.

XIII

The shallop lately moved by magic, now
Sends to its decks full fifty men in mail;
Swords in each hand, and helmets on each brow,
On shore they leap; no bugle to the gale
Their coming speaks. Each reaper's cheek grew pale
As straight to Elvar-hall the invaders wound
Their swift and silent way; around them sail
The scared and clamouring rooks—no other sound,
No not one whispered word, awoke the woodlands round.

XIV

And he who leads them points with his sheathed sword
To Elvar-tower: in Elvar as they go—
Of some sweet song they hear at times a word,
Which mixing with the fountains in their flow,
Lends to the woods a tone of mirth or woe;
Then of the dance they hear the lively din,
And see the casements all with candles glow:
The dame who dwells that fairy-hall within,
Hath this night twenty years breathed in a world of sin.

XV

There is no want of gladness and great mirth;
The harper with a merrier hand the strings
Sweeps, and the pride of blood and lordly birth
Is slumbering with all other slumbering things.
Loud joy hath lost its feet and found its wings;
Where Lady Sybil dances in the hall
The old men gaze, young men lean round in rings;
The portraits of her lineage on the wall
Seem touched with sudden life, rejoicing one and all.

XVI

And she hath called to mind an Interlude
Or rustic play, where Waste makes war on Thrift.
Forth to the floor there steps a peasant shrewd,
Who of each national drollery knows the drift.
With lighted torch he sings and dances swift;
Soon by his side a maiden o'er the floor
Moves grave, and scarce her foot at first can lift;
She bears a distaff in her hand, and sure
Draws out the thrifty thread, and sings a song demure.

XVII

Thrift dances as she sings, and all her strain
Is of domestic gladness, fire-side bliss,
And household rule; nor thought loose, light or vain,
Stains her pure vision of meek happiness;
Religion's comforts, wedlock's holy kiss,
The white web bleached by maiden's whiter hand,
The lisping children in their homespun dress,
The wealth which gathers 'neath Thrift's magic wand,
The fame of a chaste life amid a virtuous land.

XVIII

Waste danced, and sang a free strain and a light;
Of young Joy's foot which gaily out can measure
Life's weary way; of Love, whose fingers white
Strew all youth's way with fresh flowers plucked from pleasure;
And Laughter loud, who never yet found leisure
To pause and think; and Merriment, who coins
The tears of sadness into current treasure;
And Wantonness, his hot lips moist with wines,
And Pleasure ever gay, with loose ungirded loins.

XIX

They danced with many an antique touch and turn,
And like wild levin flashed and flew about;
Waste with his torch strove aye the roke to burn,
While Thrift as nimble as the starting trout,
When slacks the sharp shower and the sun shines out,
Turned, wheeled, and flew—and there rose such a clamour:
“O well done, Thrift!” the hoary-headed shout;
While young men's tongues rung sharp as a steel hammer—
“Waste, well done, Waste! now nought will save the roke but glamour.”

XX

And whether Thrift had conquered or had lost
May not be known: for tramp succeeding tramp,
With ready swords above their plumage tost,
And words attuned to a marauder's camp,
Their corslets glancing bright to torch and lamp,
Came fifty warriors, and came Ralph Latoun.
He on the threshold stood and gave a stamp,—
Then took one step into that gay saloon—
Three damsels shrieked, three wept, and three fell in a swoon.

XXI

Up Sybil rose, nor did she shriek or swoon,
But her cheek roses like the lily grew—
For as she looked, she knew him Ralph Latoun—
Her heart throbbed most her silken lace in two.
Her maids all round like fluttered ring-doves flew,
Nigh her the fierce knight comes, then sudden stands.
Some of her old retainers, staunch and true,
Have armed, while his, with steel blades in their hands,
Bear looks which promise quick to work their lord's commands.

XXII

Her stature waxes and her eye expands,
Her glowing neck seems ivory wet with wine;
There is heroic motion in her hands,
Around her head her tresses seem to twine,
God through her breathes an ardour all divine.
She waved her hand,—“What is your boon, Sir Knight,
The land you breathe in and this tower are mine.”
He smiled and said, “The tide is in its height,
And I have said and sworn thou sailest with me to-night.”

XXIII

“Oh weak,” she said, “nor yet so weak as vile;
Shame to thy knighthood and thy martial fame!
In the wide circuit of fair Britain's isle
No man save thee would work an orphan shame:
The lowest hind who owns a nameless name
Would scorn a deed so base.” He stayed no more,
But sheathed his sword and sprang to seize the dame;
Old John of Raes, with tresses thin and hoar,
Clung round his mailed knees—he dragged him o'er the floor.

XXIV

And his right hand had reached her, when the dame
Who acted Thrift, clapt to the torch her roke,
And in his face quick dashed the flashing flame;
Locks, beard, and eyebrows, crackled in the smoke.
Then from the chamber Lady Sybil broke,
And darted darkling down a secret stair,
Which met a path that led to Elvar oak;
Loud, as she went, rose shout and shriek and prayer,
For all the wrongs which wrath and vengeance work, were there.

XXV

Where is the Lady Sybil? Room and hall,
The dizzy turret and the gloomy vault
Sir Ralph seeks round, and seeks them all in vain;
At every step there is a sharp assault;
The young, the old—the feeble and the halt,
Assail with lance, sword, dagger, plowshare, club.
“For Southron lips, Scotch drink is brewed right salt,
Home to your pudding-pan, and pickling-tub—
And pipe and pot. Come ye to reave us and to rob?”

XXVI

Latoun smiled at those rude and ready words,
And through the tower flew as one wode outright;
He struck down plowshares, trampled o'er the swords
In ancient hands, and for that lady bright
Called loud and looked the way she took to flight;
He called, he looked in vain; fierce waxed his ire:
“A flaming torch I'll lend to give her light,
And guide her small feet over moor and mire—”
And stamping with his feet, cried “Fire! bring me fire!”

XXVII

It was a gentle and a lovely night,
The rain had cooled the air, stars shone serene:
When quick a pillar of upstarting light,
From Elvar-tower flashed o'er its fruit-trees green;
Sheep on the hills, ships far at sea were seen:
Broader it burst, and to the clear round moon
A grosser light united. Through the screen
Of glossy holly, fire came spouting soon,
And Siddick hill and bay shone bright as in mid-noon.

XXVIII

Men came from mountain glen, and bank, and brook,
Like winged things. To Elvar-tower they rushed;
“And who did this?” they cried, with wondering look.
All sounds save that of the red fire were hushed;
O'er tower and hall its conquering surges gushed,
And roared to heaven. They marked where armed men
Had lately been, the green sward deep was crushed
With mailed feet, and here and there the glen
Shewed where men fought and fled, then turned and fought agen.

XXIX

They tracked them to the Solway; on the sands
There men stood mourning in the fair moonshine,
And matrons called down curses, held their hands
Above; even where their footsteps met the brine,
Which gemmed the green sward with a shining line
Of wreathed shells, which fabling seamen say,
Give of the coming tide this wondrous sign,
They sough and sing in every bight and bay:
There stricken down and dead three Southron warriors lay.

XXX

“Now, why thus stand ye at the dead of night
With moistened eyes and steel-blades red and bare;
While one may count beneath yon dismal light,
The mountain flocks, and number in mid air
The startled sea-fowl shrieking here and there?”
“Aye, we may mourn until that faithless sand,
And that deep sea grow solid earth, and fair—
Fair Sybil's lost, the loveliest of the land,
She of the gentlest heart, and the most generous hand.”

XXXI

“There's balm in Gilead,” said an ancient swain;
“I saw her like a sunbeam through the air
Fly, when yon stern marauder strove in vain
To seize her; down the dark and secret stair,
I saw her bright eyes flashing, and her hair:
Now sure as God is strong, and Satan weak,
Yon reaver knight hath not our lady-fair.
Heaven's hands are ever round the good and meek,
I'll pray for her return thrice seven times a week.”

XXXII

The reaver-ship sailed from their sight, but still
They stood till darkness grew to silver gray,
And the glad sun came dancing up the hill,
In brightness clad, and like a bridegroom gay,
Thick showering gems, and gold on bank and brae;
Dew on his wings, and incense on his feet:
The mottled lark toward the milky way
Turned his grey bosom, and his proud wings beat,
And hymned and perfumed heaven with songs and earthly sweet.

XXXIII

That sun sunk on Dalgonar, glen and hill;
Tower, tree, and fountain wore a golden stain;
In busy hands the sickle glittered still,
And as it moved fast sank the bearded grain:
Each maid looked up, so did each hoary swain,
For o'er the new-shorn field a Maiden came;
Her feet the short sharp stubble filled with pain;
Weary she seemed, like one strayed far frae hame,
And no one knew her face, and no one knew her name.

XXXIV

Fair in her form as in her dress sedate,
She seemed the daughter of some rustic cot;
Downcast of eye, of meek and modest gait;
Her glossy ringlets were wound neat about
Her brow, and bound with virgin snood devout;
Her long manteel was white as Cheviot flocks,
Beneath it whiter moved her snowy foot:
Slow as she came among the yellow shocks,
Her twentieth autumn's sun was shining on her locks.

XXXV

“O reverend Sir!”—thus said the stranger maid—
No reap-hook rustled while she meekly spoke—
“Far from my home in sore distress I've strayed;
To pastures green, say, can I lead thy flock,
Or dress ripe corn, or twine the white hause-lock?
The churchyard turf on my dear mother lies;
My father sailed and perish'd.” 'Gainst a shock
She leaned, and few and bitter were her sighs,
And half she turned her round to hide her glistening eyes.

XXXVI

Her by the hand Miles Græme affectionate took—
Said, “Weep not, maiden, thou shalt with me go,
And like a daughter grace my cottage nook;
Eupheme loves eyes which are acquaint with woe.
In twining flax or fleeces white as snow,
Or pressing fragrant curd, come, show thy skill;
Or add that sweet voice, musical and low,
To tender songs which make the heart-strings thrill;
Or to the glad pipe dance, when snowy winds are shrill.”

XXXVII

She looked up ruddy as the rose of June,
And thanked him with her eyes. Horns told aloud
That day was done; stars glimmered; shearers soon
Dropt their reap-hooks, and in the crystal flood
Cooled their hot hands and brows, all toil bedewed:
Homeward they went, and as they went they sung
Of holy love, or some unholy feud;
Or told sad tales which live but on the tongue
Of hinds, and made us weep when we were soft and young.

XXXVIII

Even while he spoke, he at his open door
Arrived, and o'er the threshold led the maid;
A peat fire sparkled on the smooth stone floor,
And round the house a twinkling twilight made;
Which first the form and then the thrift display'd
Of his Eupheme, who toiled that she might tell
How with her wheels her husband she arrayed
For kirk or fair: she looked up—she knew well
It was a stranger's foot that on the threshold fell.

XXXIX

She smiled a welcome as she looked, and met
A look all loveliness. “Eupheme, I say,
Haste thee, and sweetest of all sweet things get,
For this young thing hath walked a weary way;
God's hand hath taen her kindred all away—
She goes unfriended through this world alone.”
“O welcome to me as the light of day,”
The matron said; “cheer thee, thou beauteous one,
Old eyes like mine should weep”—nor made she farther moan.

XL

The stranger maid her mantle clasp unloosed,
Shed back her flowing locks of darkest stain,
Bared her round fingers long and white, composed
Her swelling bosom, where a pleasant pain
Fled and returned with double throb again;
With neat and ready hand Eupheme her cheer
Placed on the board: cakes of the sifted grain,
Curds quenched in fragrant cream, and pure and clear
The honey from the comb, and breg-wort, sweetest beer.

XLI

Eupheme now bade the stranger one draw near;
Miles bared his brow and the small banquet blest—
A sound unwonted to that maiden's ear,
But yet most welcome; she could scarcely taste
The cream and curd; the breg-wort cup she kiss'd,
And passed it meekly to the cottage dame,
While the frank farmer drank her health and prest—
“Come cheer thy heart, and think thyself at hame—
The friendless foot is dear to all who bear my name.

XLII

“Cheer thee, my child,”—'twas thus his converse ran—
“The lowly are happier than the lofty far;
Rank wars with rank, and wealth works woe to man;
Blood is no stay; relationship no bar
With peers and princes when they long for war.
Far better he who, in a low estate,
Scorns fickle fortune, trusts no treacherous star—
Turns from the way which leads to glory's gate,
And with humility is conqueror of his fate.

XLIII

“Cheer thee, my child; no armed men in mail
Bruise down our gowans with a gory foot;
War's horn ne'er waked the echoes of this vale,
It is so lonesome—here the drum is mute.
The reapers' horns, the shepherd's pipe and flute,
Alone are heard our homes and halls among,
Save when the song in many a linked bout
Of melting melody, from one as young,
But not so fair as thee, comes mended from the tongue.”

XLIV

The maiden heard a light foot on the floor,
And sidelong looked, and there before her stood
Young Eustace Græme: far from the pasture moor
He came; the fragrance of the dale and wood
Was scenting all his garments green and good.
A sudden flush when he the maiden saw,
Burned through his temples, kindled up his blood;
His stifling breath waxed nigh too tight to draw,
He bowed, and silent stood in wonderment and awe.

XLV

The father smiled, the mother smiled. Now why
Are her eyes downcast and his white brow glowing?
Say, have they vowed while heaven was witness by
With all her radiant lights like fountains flowing,
To love while water runs and woods are growing,
And stars glowed conscious of the compact pure?
They never woo'd, nor, love for love bestowing,
Met with the moonshine in the green-wood bow'r,
Nor looked and sighed, and looked and drank love by the hour,

XLVI

Yet they have met. Though not fools of the flock,
On whom love like the tiger gives one bound,
And then the heart is rent—a thunderstroke
That makes men dust before they hear the sound;
A shaft that leaves dark venom in the wound;
A frost that all the buds of manhood nips;
A sea of passion in which true love's drowned;
A demon strangling virtue in his grips;
A day when reason's sun is quenched in dread eclipse.

XLVII

True gentle love is like the summer dew,
Which falls around when all is still and hush;
And falls unseen until its bright drops strew
With odours, herb and flower, and bank, and bush.
O love, when womanhood is in the flush,
And man's a young and an unspotted thing!
His first breathed word and her half conscious blush,
Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring—
The first hour of true love is worth our worshipping.

XLVIII

“Now, Eustace, harken—take thou heed, my son,”
Said good Miles Græme, “there sits a comely child,
Sent here of heaven: I found her wandering lone,
A motherless lamb, cast on a moorland wild—
Pure is our home, preserve it undefiled;
Be thou a brother to her night and morn—
I would not have mine ancient honour soiled—
(Though fallen our house our honour's yet unshorn),
Better mine only child had been this hour unborn.”

LXIX

“Husband,” said mild Eupheme, “what words have crost
Thy lips about this only child of thine?
I am not prone to make a mother's boast,
Thou knowest; yet when has he shown mark or sign
From which we lack of reverence might divine
For truth and virtue: if he weakness ever
Shows, 'tis when pouring forth the minstrel's line,
Vain verse and light comes rushing like a river;
Yet his hand has been light—shall I be thankless?—never.”

L

“Our God is good,” Miles said, “once and alway,
The gift of song is his best gift, and thou,
Should'st honour it: the poet with his lay,
Eternal sunshine sheds round honour's brow—
But of this maid let our discourse be now;
More of her lineage I would gladly hear.”
Composed he looked, and smoothed his locks of snow
O'er his high brow and backward from his ear,
And moved his ancient seat the stranger maiden near.

PART FIFTH.

I

“Alas, good Sir!”—and while she spoke, she pass'd
Long round white fingers o'er a whiter brow,
And back her dark and clustering tresses cast—
“An orphan's tale is ay a tale of woe.
Where the wild waves of the wide Solway flow
Far up the Dee, beside an aged wood,
There dwelt my sire; our windows threw their glow
Upon the tide, so nigh the sea we stood;
A rock rose high behind, where eagles scream'd for food.

II

My father lived where he was born; he loved
His native land too well away to roam;
A frugal man was he and unreproved,
Who sought his food amid the ocean foam,
And on the hills—he had a heartsome home,
Thick swarmed his sheep and loudly lowed his kine.
Men said that in his courtship high he clomb.
He won the daughter of an ancient line,
And she was Sybil called—and all her name is mine.

III

Her name, no more. When on this head of mine
Ten summers had their dews and fragrance shook—
One morn—the raven on a blasted pine
Croaked, and the gray owl hooted from an oak—
I might have known that they of evil spoke.
Men say that strange tongues ran up Solway shore—
I know not—but the angry ocean broke
His chains and burst into our sea-side bow'r,
And there my mother died.” She paused, and spoke no more

IV

For some few moments space. “Midnight her rain
Shed on my father often while he wept,
And many a morn-beam dried it up again,
As homeward from my mother's grave he crept:
He never smiled, ate little, less he slept,
But chief he loved along the lonely shore
To walk, and while the surge his slow foot swept,
He chid it for his love and wept. The roar
Of Solway-sea he dared when it was foaming o'er.

V

“His shallop then he launched and reckless rode,
With the rough storm in dread companionship;
Or when the sweet eve sent her stars abroad,
Oft on the prow of a night-foundered ship
He watched—while, with my finger on my lip,
I lurked beside him; on the moon and sea
He gazed—from his distracted tongue would slip
The name of her he loved so tenderlie—
Also he sometimes grew so madly fond of me,

VI

“That, while the rain beat and the whirlwind sung,
He to the shore my trembling footsteps took,
And bade me pray, while on the waves he flung
His fearless shallop. Ah! at last forsook
By heaven, he through the soughing surges strook.
Then rose the tempest, loud the ocean vast
Howled all through cavern'd Colvend, till it shook
The pines like reeds, and flashing red and fast
From heaven the burning fire was on the billows cast.

VII

‘He went who ne'er returned. Beyond the Dee,
And left sole heiress of an ancient line;
Lived a young dame who pity took on me;
When seventeen summers I could reckon mine
She clung to me as doth the tendrilled vine,
Nor counted kindred, riches, rent or birth.
With her came joy as gladness comes with wine.
Though oft I looked upon the foaming firth
My father never came, and grief gave way to mirth.

VIII

“I lived with her, who like a queen did reign
O'er five broad parishes from side to side;
Proud waxed her heart, she carried grew and vain.
An ancient priest a sermon preached on pride,
And instanced her in robes of crimson dyed;
And peasant dames, grown in experience gray,
Sighed for her fame, when titled lovers tried
With smiles, nods, shreds of wit, laced garments gay,
And oaths from Holyrood, to wile her heart away.

IX

“Far different thoughts were nourished in her breast;
To me she spoke—I heard with wonderment—
‘I am in love; a youth lives in the west,
Obscurely born—but not to proud descent,
Are lofty souls and leading spirits lent
Alone. I see fair written in his look
Such inborn nobleness, true hardiment,
As clear as e'er was printed in a book—
Swains say the sweetest corn is in the ragged stook.

X

“‘Attired as a bond-maiden will I go
To my love's land, and near him I'll remain;
Spin wool and flax, bleach webs as white as snow,
Ted the fresh hay, and reap the golden grain:
Close round the heart of my elected swain,
I'll twine my thoughts, and gently win my way;
And should his soul be of the purest strain,
I will at once my birth and rank display—
Nay, Sybil, do not smile, my name is ne'er said nay:

XI

“‘My famed ancestress, who did Carrick sway,
Won thus a lord, who gave to Scotland's throne
The great king Robert.’ Saying so, away
She went at eve, and ere the morning shone,
O'er many a hill and hollow had she gone,
Or with her white feet marked the rivulet sand;
Till on a pastoral mount she stood alone,
Shed back her dewy ringlets with her hand,
And with the morning sun looked on her true love's land.

XII

“While thus she went to read her riddle, all
Her menials wantoned through the livelong night,
And to it added day. In vain I call
To stay lascivious sounds and chamberings light;
My soul grows sick, and saddens with the sight.
My humble garments all I gladly gather,
And with the morning star commence my flight
Through glens of grass, o'er hills of blooming heather,
Till lone Dalgonar smiles, where dwells my second father.”

XIII

Grave looked Miles Græme, his words were soft and mild;
“Be cheerful, Sybil; sorrow not, young maid,
Be comforted: live with us as our child,
Beneath our roof none dare make thee afraid.
Light is our work, and heartsome is our trade;
Corn yields us food, the chrystal well yields wine,
And when for thee the bridal feast is made,
Twelve ewes, two cows, and gowns of Lincome twine,
And mantles white as pure Dalgonar's swans are thine.”

XIV

“Cast sadness from thee, like an ill-made gown,”
Said douce Eupheme, “this is no desert rude,
Where song and dance and mirth are never known;
Where beauty dies that never has been woo'd,
Nor loveliness unsung here sad of mood,
Pines for the minstrel honour; list and hear
Bairns' tongues as blythe as birds in budding wood—
And those who love a home and husband dear,
And sweet domestic peace, will find such blessings here.”

XV

Fair Sybil's heart was cheered. Now faint and low,
The hearth fire glimmered; far into the west
The moon sank down. Man's drowsy eyelids show
'Tis now the hour of sweet and silent rest:
Young Sybil's hand Eupheme sedately prest,
And to a little chamber made her boune;
The walls in whitest livery were drest,
High swelled a bed hung round with Hawick-brown,
Where clothes of Cheviot-fleece were laid o'er canna's down.

XVI

Eupheme sighed sore, and spread the white sheets down;
“Ah! she who plucked for me this fragrant bed,
To heaven with half my happiness has flown;
God has our house in wrath admonished:
Two lovely shoots from our sad tree are shred,
One daughter fair I've lost—one darling boy:—
Sound be thy slumber, till the sunbeam shed
His golden light, and wakes the earth to joy,
The wild birds to their work, and man to his employ.”

XVII

So spoke she, and while speaking left the maid,
Who like a lily in the winds of spring,
This way, now that, her beauteous head she swayed,
And slow perused and ponder'd o'er each thing.
There hung a helm plumed with a heron's wing;
Above a pastoral harp of magic tone,
Fingers had lately waked to words each string;
There hung the braided corn: and there alone,
A short and sheathed sword wreathed round with holly shone.

XVIII

There, too, a bow hung with its sinew slack,
And arrows nine, plumed from the goose-wing gray,
A spoil won perilous from an archer's back
Of Lancashire, on Bannock's bloody day.
And there lay music; many a lyric lay,
Yet sung by cottage dames and maids of rank.
She looked, she read, sighed, stript her green array,
And like a rose amid a lily-bank,
Prest down the snowy sheets and deep in slumber sank.

XIX

She slept, and there was visioned in her sleep,
A hill:—above its summit sang the lark;
She strove to climb it: ocean wide and deep
Gaped for her feet, where swam a sable bark,
Manned with dread shapes, whose aspects doure and dark,
Mocked God's bright image; huge and grim they grew;
Quenched all the lights of heaven, save one small spark,
Then seized her—laughing to the bark they drew
Her, shuddering, shrieking: ocean kindled as they flew.

XX

And she was carried to a castle bright;
A voice said “Sybil, here's thy blythe bridegroom.”
She shrieked, she prayed; at once the bridal light
Was quenched, and changed to midnight's funeral gloom;
She saw swords flash, and many a dancing plume
Roll on before her, while around her fell
Increase of darkness, like the hour of doom:
She felt herself as chained by charm and spell—
When one to win her came she knew, and loved right well.

XXI

Right through the darkness down to ocean flood
He bore her soon; the deep and troubled sea
Rolled red before her like a surge of blood,
And wet her feet—she felt it touch her knee.
She started—waking from her terrors, she
Let through the room the midnight's dewy air;
The gentle air, so odorous, fresh, and free,
Her bosom cooled: she spread her palms, and there
Knelt humble, and to God confessed herself in prayer.

XXII

“God of my fathers—thou who didst upraise
Their hearts, and touched them with heroic fire,
And madest their deeds the subject of high praise,
Their daughters' beauty charm the poet's lyre—
Confirm me in the right—my mind inspire
With godliness and grace and virtuous might
To win this maiden venture. Heavenly sire,
Chase darkness from me; let me live in light,
And take these visions dread from thy weak servant's sight.”

XXIII

Even while she prayed, her spirit waxed more meek
'Mid snow-white sheets her whiter limbs she threw;
A moonbeam came, and on her glowing cheek
Dropt bright as proud of her diviner hue.
Sweet sleep its golden mantle o'er her threw;
And there she lay, as innocent and mild
As unfledged dove or daisy born in dew:
Fair dreams descending chased off visions wild,
She stretched in sleep her hand, and on the shadows smiled.

XXIV

Day dawned. The laverock from his wing the showers
Shook 'neath the day-star as he warbled forth;
Flocks shone with dew; the small birds from the bowers
Sent joyous carollings o'er the brightening earth;
Flocks rose, and lowing, joined the general mirth;
Tower top and tree to kindle had begun;
The cottage smoke went streaming to the north;
To harvest horns rung vale and upland dun,
And forth young Sybil came, and rose the spotless sun.

XXV

Amid the clear and dewy air she stands;
To her comes Eustace Græme—her hand he took:
“Nay, I'm thy brother.—Sybil, these soft hands
Need gentler labour than the reaping hook;
But let us climb the bank and pass the brook,
And on yon sunny hill together stand,
That I may show thee every fairy nook,
Each tower and stream of thy elected land—
The spots where minstrels mused, and warriors drew the brand.”

XXVI

Vale of Dalgonar, dear art thou to me!
Dearer than day-light to the sick at heart;
Hills rise atween us and wide rolls the sea,
Only to prove how passing dear thou art:
'Tis with my feet not with my heart ye part.
Dear are your fairy dales and flowery downs,
Your woods, your streams where silver fishes dart;
Your martyrs' graves, your cots, your towers, your towns,
Gray sires and matrons grave, with their long mourning gowns.

XXVII

And fair, O vale! thou didst to Sybil look,
What time the west wind wafted from afar
The shepherd's song, and from the rustling stook
The farm-lad whistling filled his tumbler car;
Flies swarmed—among them leaped the mottled par,
The sun dried up the dew, and loud and clear
Horns rung on Campel and horns rung on Scaur;
Men stooped them to their tasks, and far and near
Hands moved, and sickles shone beneath the ripened ear.

XXVIII

Hall looked o'er hall and cot o'er cot arose;
Hill towered o'er hill, green brae succeeded brae;
Wood waved o'er wood, and white as winter snows
On knolls around the shepherd's hirsels lay.
The village smoke curled in long wreaths away,
The scent of herbs and flowers filled all the breeze;
The black cocks crowed upon the mountains gray,
The flocks came lowing forth to lawns and leas,
And tongues of busy bairns hummed thick as swarming bees.

XXIX

A hedge of hawthorn, mixed with holly, swept
Around each garden, screening every cot;
Among them all a bleaching rivulet crept,
Where webs lay white as lily without spot.
The parish kirk, through reverend elms remote,
Stood 'midst its grave stones, row succeeding row;
O'er all the distant city's steeples shot;
Bright in the sun, the Solway slept below,
Where sailors charmed the wind, yet still their ships swam slow.

XXX

In secret wise young Sybil's dark eye glanced
Upon Miles' dwelling, sheltered, trim and neat;
The burn with chrystal-running waters danced,
And in the sun-beam dimpled past the gate:
Here, twenty years and more, he held his seat
Reverenced for wisdom; his proverbial fame
Made him the patriarchal magistrate;
His word the wildest spirit straight could tame,
'Twas deemed a kind of spell to name in feuds his name.

XXXI

From Scottish land he was a wanderer long,
Had Heshbon hill, Sinai, and Carmel trod—
With eastern shepherds had he joined in song,
At altars bowed with palm-branch unto God:
Blood to the lips in battle had he rode,
With good Lord Maxwell in poor Scotland's right;
In civil wars, too, he had seen the sod
Red wet with gore, and right o'ercome by might,
And freedom's holy star quenched in ambition's night.

XXXII

Stript of his proud inheritance, he cared
Not who was king, or triumphed in the land;
Brave Holyrood, and all its glittering guard,
Seemed less to him than did a grain of sand.
The shepherd's crook, more than proud knighthood's brand
He prized, and in Dalgonar glen he took
Health by the left, and Peace by the right hand;
More than red wine loved he the murmuring brook,
And deemed himself unknown and blotted from the book

XXXIII

Of Scotland and her chivalry. “Now look,
Fair Sybil,” said he, Eustace Græme, “and mark
O'er many a farm-house, many a ranked stook,
Our pastoral country's upland barrier dark,
Where flocks graze numerous and the sheep dogs bark;
Along yon moorland brown with heather bells,
There swarm the honey-bees and sings the lark;
While grouse, which summer saw burst from their shells,
Rough-footed run o'er knowes where moss-bees build their cells.

XXXIV

“Nor deem, because it wants the cowslipped knolls,
The white swans grazing the flower-bordered flood,
The lily beds which scent the naked soles
Of pilgrims, with the scallop-shell and rood,
That it is desolate utterly and rude:
The brackeny dells, the music of the rills,
The skipping lambs—e'en the wild solitude—
The chrystal tarn where herons droop their bills,
The mute unchanging glory of the eternal hills:

XXXV

“Mute, save for music of the many bees,
And dead, save for the plover and the snipe;
Such scenes and sounds would thee, young maiden, please,
And all those souls escaped from Mammon's gripe.
To pluck blae berries luscious, black and ripe;
To reap the snowy fleece with sharpen'd shears,
To dance—to listen to the shepherd's pipe,
To drink his tales in with delighted ears
The deeds of other days, and thoughts of other years.

XXXVI

“All these are lovely, and I've proved them all.
Or is thy heart touched and delighted more
With the glad farmer when he strews his hall
With rushes, and, like Ceres self of yore,
The corn-crowned maiden ushers o'er the floor;
With shout and clap of hand, and sound of horn,
And dames behind upon her ringlets pour
All odorous things, as thick as dews at morn,
To honour her whose hand cut the last stalk of corn,

XXXVII

“And brought in Plenty. Rather with the crowd
Would'st thou cast care aside, and mock at want,
And on the barn-floor raise a din so loud
Of dancing, as a timorous dame would daunt;
Men rub their hands, maids part their lips and pant;
Music amongst them falls like spark on powder.
The rapt musician lays his cheek aslaunt,
His best bow-hand more skilful grows, and louder,
Old men leap up and shout, “Saint Andrew bless thee, Crouder!”

XXXVIII

“Or blyther still: when gay in wedding weeds,
Joy in all hearts and laughter on all lips,
For mirth the bridal-train scarce sit their steeds,
While like the May-sun 'scaping from eclipse,
The maidens shine; his bride the bridegroom grips,
The practised priest, and dames demure come flocking,
She hangs her head like lily when it drips
With summer-dew; she, blushing, throws the stocking,—
Dames think of caudle-cups and joyous cradle rocking.

XXXIX

“Or when the storm falls thick and fast from heaven,
And furr and hollow all are streaked with snow,
And stars and moon sink in the drift, at even
Bright lamp and hearth-fire cast a lustrous glow,
On sires and dames, and damsels all a row;
Then household thrift, glad tale, and heartsome song,
Make the grim hours of winter smile and go;
Men whisper, maidens laugh, the tempest strong,
May rule and reign,—none care, or for the day-light long.

XL

“These, and a thousand natural joys are ours;
Yet there are sorrows which we all must heir,
Woe, sickness, death, the winter's sleet and showers,
O'erstepping March, to darken May's sweet air;
The burning droughts which strip our pastures bare—
The scorching lightning—the untimely rain,
Which rots our corn and robs the fold and share
Of half their honours: blight in growing grain,
And murrain 'mongst the flocks; these make our farmers plain.

XLI

“For finer souls are other ills, which men
Mock with much mockery; he who thirsts for fame,
Hath an eternal sorrow on him—when
Did this dread passion either 'suage or tame
This burning fever of the soul—this flame
Which seeks by song or deed of derring-do,
To win from the cold world a lasting name;
And that bright fire which burns as holy too,
Love high and nobly placed.” He turned and from his brow

XLII

Wiped off the burning drops, and sad and low,
'Twixt whispering and open speech, thus spoke
“Of love; to feel the unrequited glow,
And bow the spirit 'neath its giant yoke,
Is far more fearful than the battle shock;
Or seeking fame in fancy's splendid train:
But love's a dream, and fame is empty smoke,
Pursued: when won, what are they, light and vain:”
Horns rung aloud, men called, and rattled many a wain.

XLIII

Dry blew the wind, and warmer waxed the sun,
Full fast the pronged fork heaped the golden threaves
On car and cart, and Miles Græme had begun
To rear the round ricks with the rustling sheaves;
Sheaf following sheaf, the active peasant heaves;
Then o'er the whole, to shield from rain and snow,
Of long green broom, an odorous coat he weaves.
“See,” Eustace said, “the sun begins to glow,
And I must off to toil, for we no sluggards know.

XLIV

“The west wind rustling 'mongst the the ripened grain,
The loaded wain loud creaking o'er the lea,
Are sounds less vocal than the muses' strain,
But they are sounds made sweet by use, to me:
Yon is thy dwelling, gentle Sybil, see,
A light and pleasant task awaits thee there.”
He said, and parting with the maiden free,
He left her as the bee leaves lilies fair,
In balmy tremble, shining 'mid the morning air.

XLV

And who is she? said many a bondsman gray,
And who is she? said many a reaping mate?
A dame who ne'er had good of one to say,
Cried “Cummers, have ye heard of Souple Kate,
John Rosebro's daughter of Lochmaben-gate,
Wha made young Edie Cubin staid and steady,
Cast his work-tools o'er Cluden brig elate,
With thoughts of marrying her a landed lady!
Lady of two loose shanks; she ruined sackless Edie.”

XLVI

“Rise with the sun and fair be as the rose,
Wake with the moon, and be as primrose pale,”
Said good Eupheme, when she saw Sybil; “those
Who keep that precept, maiden, never fail
To be wives virtuous, and mothers hale:
Now take this wool—and finer, maiden, mind,
Ne'er drank the dew on hills of Annerdale;
And take this fleece of raven-black, entwined
With skill, the twain will make a plaid of rarest kind,

XLVII

For my ae' son, against the winter snow.”
Young Sybil bared her arms, her tresses wound
Above her brow, laid out the wool, and lo!
Like swarming bees the big wheel sends a sound,
And there came yarn like satin smooth and round:
E'en while the damsel plies her pleasant task,
She sings of love that knows no let nor bound,—
Love that speaks every tongue, wears every mask,
And fills the heart with joy, as sweet wine fills the flask.

XLVIII

“Song sweetens toil,” Eupheme said, “and thy song
I love; yet love much more to see thee pull
The even thread, round, shining, smooth and strong;
There's not a lass 'tween Cosincon and Mull,
But who would gladly spin such beauteous wool,
And sing as sings the laverock; did she know
'Twas for my son, like swan in summer pool,
Full proudly would she crest her bosom snow,
And, Sybil, sing like thee, with temples all a-glow.”

PART SIXTH.

I

I fear this song hath fallen on evil times;
Small honour now awaits a humble lyre:
Each ear is filled with proud and lofty rhymes
Of lords and learning, bright with classic fire;
The natural step and matronly attire
Of Scotland's peasant muse is much too staid.
She loves from courts and castles to retire;
And with her wild pipe seated on her plaid,
To chaunt such songs as please the simple shepherd maid.

II

I trow 'tis not ordained the rustic muse,
A barefoot maiden 'mongst the blossomed broom,
To braid with classic wreaths her snooded brows;
And plain that Scotland is too scant of room
To give free flight to her high soaring plume,
And breadth to the wide glory of her mind;
An humbler duty is the muse's doom:
One maiden's love, the deeds of a young hind,
To sit and artless pour o'er Albyn's hills of wind.

III

Sweet sang young Sybil, and sweet smiled Eupheme,
And every song there were kind words between;
Till nigh the hill the sun's bright border came,
And poured its fire slaunt on the summit green:
On every field were busy labourers seen,—
On every road there rolled the tumbler-car;
Whips smacked, steeds snorted, fast the pitchforks sheen
Moved, and the corn-ricks, 'neath the twilight star,
Rose fast, and harvest-horns rung o'er the hills afar.

IV

Sweet was such sound to those who toiled since morn,
Maids hung their sickles in the standing stook,
And from their ringlets plucked the bearded corn;
Or from their hands the stinging nettles took,
And laved their foreheads in the running brook,
And gave their hot necks to the dewy air;—
The dewy air its glittering diamonds shook,
Bright and profuse amid their snooded hair,
And cooled the grass, and gemmed white feet and ancles bare.

V

The horses loosed from labour gambol round,
Drink in the streams or browze the tender grass;
Cows leave their pastures, o'er the moistened ground
Their udders drop white fragrance as they pass;
To where with milk-pail stands the bare-armed lass,
And every vale and hill and haugh pours home
Its people; nigh each farmer's door a mass
Of rustics stand; slow moving others come,
Enjoying eve's sweet air on rivulet bank, and holm.

VI

This was the last night of the week, and joy
Was in the land, both man and beast were glad;
The air was balmy, from the heavens high
The clear moon chased off every vapour sad;
The groves with rooks as thick as leafs were clad,
The honey dew the hare licked from her feet;
The shepherd freed his right arm from his maud,
His plum-tree whistle dipt in odorous weet,
And from the green-hill side sent down his ditty sweet.

VII

From earth to glowing heaven is full of joy.
Meantime within the spense young Sybil sits,
Her white hands labouring in her new employ,
Her mind seems elsewhere, see, she works by fits.
From task to task the eyedant matron flits,
Her yarn hanks reckons, cheese lays on the shelves,
Sets forth her supper table, nor demits
Till her hearth-stone might be a throne for elves,
And in the polished presses men can see themselves.

VIII

“'Tis Saturday at e'en—cease, maiden, cease
Thy thrift,” Eupheme said, “and our gladness share;
This sacred eve brings the blest morn of peace,
The day of duty and the night of prayer,
And gives that rest to which all flesh is heir;
The dumb brutes know, the wild birds hail the hour,
Rejoicing sounds fill the nocturnal air,
The bee with nectar drunk reels from the flower,
And heaven is in the breeze, and God is in the shower.

IX

“So cease thy thrift, young Sybil, and rejoice.”
And as she spoke, were heard the door within,
Her husband's first, and then her ae son's voice,
Accompanied with the low and tittering din,
Of snooded maids and bandsmen of the bin.
Pair after pair came gladsome o'er the floor,
On Sybil looked and sate—a falling pin
Had made a noise; with palms outspread, demure,
Miles prayed, God bless the food he gives the meek and poor.

X

They ate, and as they ate,—a bandsman said,—
“These seventy years I've lived by Croga-keep,
But saw I ne'er such barley in the blade;
Such heavy corn stoop to the sickle's sweep,
As thine, Miles Græme, which we to-day did reap;
And yet I mind me in that year of grace,
When stout Lord Lesley from the Solway deep,
Slew black Earl Clifford on Dalswinton chace,
Corn, heavy, ripe and long, waved white in every place.

XI

“But trampling down the ripe corn as he rode
Lord Lesley came. I think I see him now,
With sweat and dust dark dappled o'er, and broad;
A bloody sword waved o'er a bloodier brow;
Down in the lady-mead where rushes grow,
We dug six score of Southron graves. 'Twas sad
To think men trampled down God's victual so,
To mar his sacred image. It was mad,
But 'las the quiet must yield unto the bold and bad.

XII

“But, as I said, the corn that year was long—”
“Miles Græme,” a second bandsmen thus began,
“'Las for Lord Lesley; one wise, wight and strong,
Was he; we miss him from the battle's van.
But man is chaff, and fate comes with his fan;
Man is a worm that down to dust must crawl.
I heard yestre'en, the tale like wild-fire ran,
How rude sea rovers had burnt Elvar-Hall.
God's malison and mine, light on them one and all!”

XIII

“And what of Lady Sybil?” Eustace cried.
“Why this; when fire flashed o'er her castle-wall,
And red sparks rushed a mile o'er Solway side,
She bravely foiled her foes and fire and all,
And through the secret postern of her hall,
Spite of the flame which singed her silk attire,
She 'scaped; men say to Holyrood, to call
For sharp revenge. I loved her for her sire;
But now more for herself—I love her and admire.”

XIV

“Alas! how loose ye talk,” a hind exclaimed;
“Love the wild flame which fires the midnight air?
James Bryce, thy snowy locks might feel ashamed,
For what thou sayest: I grant her passing fair,
But, oh! she's not the bairn of fast and prayer;
More than a sermon, loves she the touched string
Of harp and dulcimer: with bosom bare
She loves to tinkling tunes her feet to fling;
Or bend her white neck thus, and idle ballads sing.”

XV

“You've seen her, then?” said Sybil. “Seen her, aye?
'Tis safer for to see her, than to know
So light a quean: I saw her once: she nigh
Melted my heart as summer heat melts snow;
A virgin veil fell o'er her breast and brow,
And hid all save one small and nimble foot,
Which 'neath her kirtle wantoned to and fro.
My very soul came to my lips; I put
My hands before mine eyes, my feet seemed taking root.

XVI

“I like a statue stood, with bow and hound,
The deer stood also 'neath the greenwood shaw,
Our hunters all stood motionless around,
Spell-fixed with beauty; laugh ye ane and a',
Against the deer I tried my bow to draw,—
Aye, smile young maid; I drew the shaft in vain.
She raised her veil, my right hand felt an awe
At sight of so much loveliness, a strain
Too strong I gave my bow, and snapt the loom in twain.

XVII

“And Eustace, mind'st thou that proud day, when thou
Got that linked idol round thy neck.—I swear,
I saw thee sick with Sybil's love, and bow
Beneath her sorcery; e'en the lady fair
Gazed on thee till she glowed both red and rare.
Go wed warm words unto some darling tune,
And cast them like a spell into the air;
They'll charm her as the serpent charms in June,
The proud lark from her tour amid the light of noon.”

XVIII

“Talk on, talk on,” said Eustace, “one and all,—
Talk on, talk on: I wish I had been near
When those sea-rovers fired old Elvar-hall,
And filled that lady's heart with dread and fear:
For by the hand which gave the chain, I swear,
Warm from her breast, I'd saved her or had died.
I'm but a peasant,—would I were a peer:”
He said no more, but secretly he sighed.
“Peace, peace, said good Miles Græme, why speakest thou in such pride?

XIX

“Thou art a man, and what can man be more
Than virtuous, brave, and honoured in the land?
A peasant may be all: thy sires of yore,
Have fought, and sate upon a king's right-hand.
'Tis honour greater with my ploughman band,
To till my holms, and treasure corn for food;
A plowshare's worthier than a warden's brand;
Eustace, my child, tame thy adventurous mood,
Thy father warns thee;—he has proved and found it good.”

XX

“'Tis counsel good, and cast away,” said one,
Whose tongue wove words in thick as warp and weft:
“Young man, I saw thee as the sun sank down,
And Sybil's looks were all the light was left,
Gazing as if her glance thy soul had cleft,
When she the fair chain gave thee. Seest yon moon,
Yon brilliant star? Woo them; art thou bereft
Of sense? so high yon lady shines aboon
Thee—Eustace, hope to wed proud Scotland's queen as soon.”

XXI

Young Sybil smiled, and gave her locks a toss;
“Maid, dost thou doubt the sense of what I say?
Speak—let us know thee: let us have no loss
Of female wisdom.” Sybil answered, “Nay,
The sense I doubt not, but love works its way
Alike with peasant, lord, or crowned king;
Love to the world is as the light of day,
Which shines and sheds its glory on all thing
Alike: on man, bird, beast, and lilies of the spring.

XXII

“Now, I see not why courage, conduct, worth,
The patriot's pureness, and the poet's fire,
Might not in inborn loftiness go forth,
And full of God's good gifts and strength, aspire
Above rank's idle pomp, and starred attire.
True genius is a winged thing, and flies
O'er all mean men—o'er Mammon and his mire:
And, like the lark, is doomed in light to rise,
With less of earth than heaven, a tenant of the skies.

XXIII

“Then tell me not that genius e'er can woo
Aught worthier, or aught loftier than itself.
It is a light of heaven, and cannot glow
In souls which sleep on lucre's sordid shelf,
With earth-worms vile, whose only God is self.
Were I a princess, and this isle my right,
I'd scorn the sceptred hand was soiled with pelf;
I'd love the hero bold, the patriot bright,
And deeper still the soul which soars the poet's flight.

XXIV

“I'm but a bondmaid, and can hardly reap
The round ripe grain, the fleece, or white lint twine;
Milk cows and ewes, press fragrant curd, the sheep
Tend on the hill; make cups and cupboards shine;
Reel and count yarn, my name of Sybil sign,
Sing true love ditties, battle ballads chaunt;
Yet would I rather this right hand of mine
For threescore years the bridal ring should want,
Than wed with one gross-souled—of sense and spirit scant.”

XXV

“God bless thy heart,” Hugh Wilson says, and nods
A head of hair as white as Criffel snow;
“Dalgonar lads will be but soulless clods,
Not made for use, but shaped for empty show
If they let thee unwedded from them go.
Gaze not on me,—these bright eyes pierce like swords:
Now Eustace, tell me what I fain would know,
Had yon proud Sybil, girt with knights and lords,
A face as sweet as ours, to charm thy thrilling chords?—

XXVI

“Enough,” Hugh Wilson cried, “that look's enough;
Thou art in love,—God help thee, my poor bard!
This world to poets haughty is, and rough;
To toil in song is sentence stern and hard,
And laughter and neglect its chief reward.
Thy fate a heart of flint might melt or pierce:
In love! in rhyme! was ever youth so starr'd.
Heaven's wrath is burning 'gainst thee, red and fierce,
Else why this double sorrow, both of love and verse?”

100

XXVII

“Laugh on, laugh all,” said Eustace, “earthly love
Is born in heaven, nor can the dull and gross
Feel the full gladness of the things above.
Sooner shall toad fly like the soaring goss,
Men warm them with the wild-fire in the moss;
Love is a chain, and heaven holds fast the links
Of purest gold—gray Mammon got the dross—
When laid on him whose spirit droops and sinks,
He rises more than man, and as an angel thinks.

XXVIII

“And for sweet song—the world on me hath shut
All gates to glory, save the lance and lyre;
On all high places, hath the proud not put
Their idols gross? and through fierce Moloch's fire
All men must pass who unto rank aspire.
An humbler and far sweeter task be mine,
To sit, what time the birds to roost retire,
And muse on love amid the fair moonshine,
And garlands for the locks of Scotland's daughters twine.

XXIX

“Or when war comes, and on the daisied sod
Of pastoral Nithsdale barbed horse stamp the hoof,
Is he a man who makes his fears a god,
And from the crush of battles bides aloof?
Man's god is freedom, sheathed by her in proof,
He comes in might like Nith in her o'erflow;
The growing grass upon his cottage roof,
As soon the teeth of England's steeds shall know,
As he to aught but death his plumed head will bow.”

101

XXX

“Peace, peace, my son!” the matron said, “this night
Next to the day thrice blest and holy stands;
And thou must use no language vain and light,
Of minstrel verse or work of bloody brands.
But with clean hearts and unpolluted hands,
With humbled heads, and eke far humbler prayer,
Ourselves make ready ere the morn expands
Her golden wings—so speaks a mother's care—
Sybil, and thou, my son,—to meet your God prepare.”

XXXI

She spoke whom all approved; then rose her son,
Arose each husbandman, and harvest maid;
All from the chamber issuing one by one,
Went each their way. Some to the cold earth laid
Their brows devout, and kneeling long-while prayed;
Others hummed Cowden-knowes or Pou the rashes.
Young Sybil rose, words few and meekly said
Were hers: on Eustace there fell two such flashes
From love, who sat enthroned beneath her long eye-lashes!

XXXII

They prayed, they slept, they rose. The Sabbath morn
Is sweet—all sounds save nature's voice is still;
Mute shepherd's song-pipe, mute the harvest horn;
A holier tongue is given to brook and rill.
Old men climb silently their cottage-hill,
There ruminate and look sublime abroad;
Shake from their feet as thought on thought comes still,
The dust of life's long dark and dreary road;
And rise from this gross earth, and give the day to God.

102

XXXIII

Dalgonar kirk her warning bell hath rung,
Glade, glen, and grove, sound with the solemn strain,
Wide at the summons every door is flung,
And forth devout walks many a hoary swain,
Their spouses with them; while a gayer train
Their daughters come, and gladden all the road.
Of laughing eyes, ripe lips, and ringlets vain,
And youths like lambs upon the sunny sod,
Come light of heart and foot, and seek the house of God.

XXXIV

It was a gladsome thing, up hill and glen
Upon the morn of the Lord's-day to look;
For every place poured forth its stately men,
And matrons with staid steps and holy book.
Where'er a cottage stood, or stream'd a brook,
Or rose a hall, or tower'd a castle gray,
Youth left its joys, old age its care forsook:
Meek beauty grew, and looked sedately gay,
Nor at her shadow glanced as she went on her way.

XXXV

There Eustace came as nature comes, all clad
In homely green, and much with hoary men
He came conversing, and sedately glad,
Heard stories which escaped historic pen,
To live with hinds on hill or pastoral glen;
And much they talked upon their kirk-ward way
Of ancient heroes, who by flood and fen,
Triumphed or fell to English swords a prey;
Then paused, and held their hands toward their tombstones grey.

103

XXXVI

Before them walked young Sybil, as a beam
Strayed from the sun upon creation's morn;
Pure as the daylight in the running-stream
By which she walked, sweet as a rose new born
To summer. “Eustace,” thus said John of Sorne,
“What maid is she, who goes thy mother by;
Comes she to watch the fold or reap the corn?
See, now she glances hitherward her eye,—
Aye! aye! I read her look, and understand thy sigh.”

XXXVII

“Ye read both wrong, perchance. All woe begone,
On Roodsmass eve she to my father came;”
Thus Eustace said, “and with her orphan moan
Won so his heart, that to my mother hame
He took her. Sitting by our chamber flame
I found her—while her cheeks with blushes dyed,
She told her sorrows, and she told her name:
And as she spoke, the rose and lily tried
Which best became her looks.” “Peace, peace,” the old man cried,

XXXVIII

“And heaven forgive us, if to think and speak
Of heaven's best works in pureness be a crime.”
He spoke, and passed the churchyard gate, and meek
Trod with a foot religious through the clime,
Where mortal might had closed accounts with time;
And every footstep measured kindred dust.
There poets slept 'neath unmelodious rhyme;
There misspelt prose of matron fame took trust,
The rough grave-digger's spade stood there red o'er with rust.

104

XXXIX

Filled was each seat, and thronged was every pew;
A sea of foreheads, tresses waving gray,
White necks and eyes of heaven's divinest blue
Were there. Arose the preacher up to pray:
A learned and bold man of the elder-day,
With Rome he warred and struck her idols blind
And wooed much sin and levity away
From lord and peasant, bondmaiden and hind;
And poured o'er all the strength and fulness of his mind.

XL

And well and wisely preached he in that hour
Of virtue's glory, which can never fade;
And sweetly sung the people, roof and tower
Rung with the mournful melody they made;
Their heart and soul lent matron and lent maid;
The wild were awed, the souls of sinners shook:
Her swelling bosom cambric-zoned, she laid
Fair Sybil o'er the bless'd inspired book:
Faith glowed upon her brow; heaven lightened in her look.

XLI

And there were eyes the sacred page forsook,
To gaze enraptured on the stranger fair;
Hearts with love's fever for the first time shook,
And even the preacher in his parting prayer,
Shut his dark eyes, and warned men to beware
Of beauty. 'Midst them like a star she shone,
Or a pure lily born in May-morn air,
Or rose the moment of its opening: none
Could look on her but wished to look on her alone.

105

XLII

All looked on her, save Eustace Græme, for he
Had his heart full of other love; when, tall
And fair before him Sybil rises, see
Whiter than snow she lets her white veil fall
O'er face and form, and walks forth 'mongst them all:
Eustace looked up, and looked up with a start;
He thought her sure the maid of Elvar-hall,
And love of her rushed through him like a dart;
But ere three burning throbs were numbered by his heart,

XLIII

He saw 'twas Sybil. Straight he 'gan to muse
On tales of yore, when high-born dames did pass
From tapestried halls unto the greenwood boughs,
And trimm'd their ringlets in some fountain glass;
And supt and sung with shepherd lad and lass,
To cool their bosoms kindled with love fire:
Or with the twin lambs, seated on the grass,
Twined garlands, while the birds' assembled choir
Sung over-head of love, and kept alive desire.

XLIV

Thus mused he and walked with her. Other men
Eyed Sybil, and then thought of trystings sweet
In hawthorn bower, green grove, or hazelly glen,
Or broomy braes, where fairy rivulets meet;
In stackyard trim, or garden's gay retreat,
Flower banks o'erhung with birk or odorous broom;
And as they muse, the sound of gentle feet
They fancy coming through the twilight gloom,
And see the sweet one shining in her beauty's bloom.

106

XLV

To less romantic thoughts and musings given,
Some men presume that they can charm and loose
Her door, what time the moon is dark in heaven,
And snow falls fast, and loud the wild wind blows;
To her presumptuous fancy brings them close;
And soft they whisper, drawing still more near,
Till the felt heavings of her breast of snows
Tell they are growing welcome, sweet and dear—
Thus fancy feeds them with her visionary cheer.

XLVI

Some pleasant summer pilgrimages plan
Around her dwelling, 'mongst the arbouring trees,
To woo her out ere evening work began,
White wool to comb, or press the curdling cheese;
As round the ripe rose swarm the busy bees,
So thought they round the maid to swarm, I wot,
With soft tales framed her maiden ear to please,
Concerning bridal mirth and plenished cot,
While 'gainst her spotlessness some baser 'gan to plot.

XLVII

To Jock of Cairn, thus spake he Tam of Cample,
“She has a tongue, they say, can clip like steel,—
A flowing wit which o'er men's strength can trample,
Like flooded Nith, which drowns the miller's wheel.”
To him thus Jock of Cairn made answer; “Weel,
The wittier not the wiser; but I'm saying
There's Eustace Græme, ye ken, a ringing diel
For either fighting, rhyming, courting, praying;
If they draw up, I wot, we need na gang a-maying.”

107

XLVIII

Homeward she walked, and seemed no one to note,
The green grass sweeping with her syde-gown hem,
Pure as the snow unstained by earthly spot,
Star-light in fountains, or a polished gem
Brought from afar for Scotland's diadem:
All praise her beauty and her mien admire.
Where was she born, whence comes she, what's her name?
From whence descended, dead or lives her sire?
How lady-like she looks, though in homespun attire!

XLIX

“How lady-like!” an old dame sharply spake,
Who once on Solway water had her hame,
“She looks but like herself then; for her sake
I'll say nae mair; Saint Mary shield the dame;
None of her lineage ever came to shame.
There's Miles Græme too, who in our valley fell
Like a slung stone: I ken ane who could name
The sire he sprung from; 'tis a tale to tell!
But this is not the hour such secrets chip the shell.”

109

PART SEVENTH.

I

Thus held the people conference: meantime
The mountain head the sun departing kest,
The bearded thistle gathered fast the rime,
The heron dropt his long bill on his breast,
The eve star glimmered in the misty west;
When to his door douce Miles devoutly came:
He blest the beauteous eve, his threshold prest,
And called his family nigh him each by name—
Sedate along the floor his duteous family came.

II

The lamp was lighted, floor and rafter shone;
Sheep-dogs their white breasts to the clear flame spread;
When thus Miles Græme,—“Not sacred books alone
Teach sacred things; God has his volume laid
Before us open: he who runs may read.
So list, my children, and one lesson learn
From him before you with a hoary head—
A lesson from his life; a master stern
Has sad experience been e'er since I was a bairn.

110

III

“I was self-willed, and little loved the coil
Of household pleasures, or indulgence sweet
In harmless pastimes, nor harmonious toil
To music of the merry maiden's feet;
And though I loved a beauteous one to meet
At twilight, in the grove of blossom'd thorn,
I scorned the speech of hoary men discreet;
Nor furrowed fields, nor reared green bladed corn,
Nor waked the husbandmen with my loud harvest horn.

IV

“My pleasure was to trim the battle-bark,
And dare the onset when the arrows sang;
The squadrons rushing into conflict dark,
The war steed hurrying to the trumpet twang,
The shivering lances and the claymore's clang—
These heaven my heart predestined to adore,
And these my heart have filled with many a pang,
And caused me hide on hills, coast headlands hoar,
My foot prints leaving lone on many a foreign shore.

V

“Woe reigned on earth and tempest ruled the sky,
The hour I left behind my native hill.
Alas! my sharp sword slept not at my thigh;
War blew her trumpet—I had blood to spill—
I left it reddening Clifton's moorland rill,
And pushed my shallop on the waters fast:
Up sprang a land breeze which my sails did fill.
Away I roved, companioned by the blast—
O, many a sunny shore and odorous isle I past.

111

VI

“As sank the breeze, a fair land rose in sight;
I landed, and a lodge of boughs entwined
Beside a fount where wild birds winged their flight,
Melodious carolling, while the fragrant wind
Cooled me with paradisial fannings kind.
But soon all this to dreariness was turned:
The burning sun vexed herbs of tender rind,
On parched leaves the sad grasshopper mourned,
And 'neath man's sandalled foot the forest verdure burned.

VII

“Six days I fled, and on the seventh looked down
From a steep hill; and O my heart was fain!
Groves like a wreath enclosed a rural town,
And camels, sheep, and milch cows filled the plain.
I went—a dame, with handmaids in her train,
Dandled a sweet babe in the sunny air;
She set my breast a throbbing with her strain,
For loud she sang, ‘Oh, Bothwell Bank how fair,
With all your bonnie bowers, ye make my bosom sair.’

VIII

“She shrieked out when the honoured garb she saw
Of Scotland, and my forehead calm she kest.
‘Thrice welcome badge and bearer; thus in awe
I hail ye both—be all your wishes blest,’—
She said, and then my right hand fondly prest,
And led me to a large and sumptuous room;
There laved my feet, with travel sore distrest,
Bathed my hot hands, and did my locks perfume,
And drest me all in robes pure as the rose's bloom.

112

IX

“I ate, I drank, and as my strength returned,—
‘O Scottish wanderer,’ said the blooming dame,
‘Long, long have I for home and kindred mourned;
For strange sea rovers stormed and took my hame,
And reddened the midnight billows with its flame.
Still in my ears I hear the plashing oars,
Which to destruction, not to rescue came;
Far was I swept from Scotland's cavern'd shores,
Her sounding pipes and viols, her red and ruthless wars.

X

“‘Say, rings broad Scotland now with mirth and song,
Or is the widow's wail and orphan's there?’
Ah me, I said, those that delight in wrong,
Her halls have plundered and her holms made bare:
Pest, famine, sword; the hands which never spare,
The eye which weeps not, and the heart of stone,
Have turned fair Scotland to a wild beast's lair;
A place for moralists to muse upon,
And for men's deeds to sigh and raise a dolorous moan.

XI

“Tear following tear her rosy cheeks bedewed:
Her husband sat with serious brow meantime,
While she to him in Syrian language showed
What sad mishaps befel her kindred clime.
'Twas midnight, and the moon was in her prime;
I talked till morn of civil wars and woe,
Of lordly heads hoared o'er with winter rime,
Of ancient tresses pillowed on the snow,
Whose castles ceased to smoke—their cottage cocks to crow.

113

XII

“Six moons I sojourned in this pastoral land,
I knew no sorrow, and I owned no lord;
Words from sweet lips, wine from a fair one's hand,
Were ever mine, and dainties heaped the board.
I thought on Scotland; belted on my sword:
Tears flowed profuse our parting words between.
Through desolate parts I wandered; on shipboard
I went, and ploughed the murmuring ocean green,
And on the thirtieth morn fair Scotland's hills were seen.

XIII

“I leaped ashore, and gained the greenwood bough,
Then secret hied at night o'er moor and rill;
My hair was filled, like Cheviot fleece, with dew,
Before I won a well remembered hill.
The moon rose radiant, winds were hushed and still;
A fair one came, I clasped her in my arms,
And of her ripe lips had a husband's will.
My wedded love!—the scene my breast still warms,—
Thou never wert more dear in all thy maiden charms.”

XIV

Around the neck of his delighted dame
His arm Miles threw, and took one tender kiss.
Young Sybil, seated by the clear hearth-flame,
Had seen soft visions of domestic bliss,
Yet never dream'd ought that transcended this.
In converse grave the evening past has flown,
In prayer for those heartsick and comfortless,
For her whose infant brow wore Scotland's crown;
Then found they all repose on billowy beds of down.

114

XV

Restless upon his bed young Eustace lay,
And thought aloud, “This life's a drunkard's jest,
A mystic riddle; in a cloud by day,
My father sits in rustic masquing drest;
A falcon he dropt in this plover's nest.
And here is lovely Sybil; there's some token
Of gentle birth—ah, who shall read the rest.—”
What else he thought it was so faintly spoken,
His words seemed words of one whose slumbers had been broken.

XVI

Day dawned: and then thy voice, Eupheme, was heard.
“Arise, my maidens, put your raiment on;
The frost wind's sporting with the thistle's beard—
Short is the day; grim winter comes anon.
Choose out each sullied mantle, gown, and zone,
The fleecy blanket, and the hose impure,
And where the rivulet glitters in the sun,
Go wash, and spotless render them and pure,
To keep us feal and warm in winter's frozen hour.”

XVII

She spoke, nor useless flew her words away;
Her two bondmaidens waked, and up they sprung,
Their tresses snooded, donned their gowns of gray,
And with them came sweet Sybil fair and young;
Gladsome she came, and as she came she sung;
“Love sweetens labour, and makes bondage light.”
Then on a car the garments whole they flung,
And sought the stream, for now the sun in sight
His head raised o'er the hill, and all was life and light.

115

XVIII

And soon they reached the deep and lonesome linn,
With grove o'er grove encompassed closely round;
The stream was heard and seen the woods within,
And 'mongst clear pebbles sang with ceaseless sound.
And where it issued rose a little mound,
Where stone for martyrdom memorial stood;
There the first primrose of the spring is found,
And there in summer sabbath solitude,
The pious peasants come, and walk in saddened mood.

XIX

Nor stood the white armed maidens musing long;
The sullied vesture from the car they took,
And o'er stream-burnished pebbles walked along,
And thrust them down to soften, where the brook
Wheeled silver dimpling in a sunny nook;
Then kindled fire, their cauldron placed amain,
And busy toiled; nor word exchanged or look,
Till pure and limber, freed from every stain,
The clothes all like to wreaths of new fallen snow remain.

XX

Where hazels grew with tufts of tender grass,
And floods the pebble-heaps had render'd pure,
There spread they forth, that winds might o'er them pass,
The unsullied vesture in the mid-day hour;
Then where green hollys grew and formed a bow'r,
They sat them down, while mirrored in the flood
The bright sun shone amid his heavenly tour:
Through all the linn the warm breeze came abroad,
And gently stirred the groves, and fanned the grassy sod.

116

XXI

Southward, they saw green vale and spreading wood,
The bannered castle, church, and hall, and town;
Northward, in wild magnificence, the flood
An hundred feet poured its bright waters down.
Their hours of labour o'er, the maids have flown;
They take their food, drink from the stream; within
A holly garland on a green knoll's crown,
They sing and dance, and raise a pleasant din;
Loud to their merriment remurmurs all the linn.

XXII

Slow towards them a wanderer came; he layed
Him 'neath a tree where summer lilies spring:
A dry brown crust he took from his gray plaid,
Supped water with his palm, and thus did sing.
“The plumes shall cease to shoot on falcon's wing,
The groves their odorous garments to renew,
The flowers sweet smell in summer time to fling,
The bee to hum, and hunt the honey dew,—
When fickle womenkind turn tender-souled and true.”

XXIII

“Alas!” said Sybil, “yon sad heart and brow
Have held hard contest long with woe and time;
No mischief doth he mean to us, I trow,
The hand is harmless when the tongue can rhime:
Soft of the soul are bards of every clime,
So let us cheer his heart with drink and food.
Minstrel! thy locks will catch the twilight rime;
Bare are thy feet, and thin thine ancient blood:
Come, cheer thee at our fire beside the dimpling flood.”

117

XXIV

The old man pulled his bonnet o'er his brow,
Up from the grass quick gathered all his gear,
And stared around, as stares the startled roe,
Then spoke when he perceived the maidens near.
“Lo! are ye shepherd damsels dwelling here?
Or come ye forth like me, the stars to mark,
And read in heaven of earthly woe and weir?”
“Bless thee, old man,” said Sybil, “steeve and stark
Thy frame and heart must be, gray prophet of the dark.”

XXV

“Aye, maid,” he said, with mournful voice and drear,
“From sea-girt Arran have I wandered far;
Touched by the doleful spirit of a seer,
Forsook have I my wife, my cot, my car,
To mark beneath the storm-sted moon or star,
Or evil wind, which strips the balmy grove,
Or darksome toil of elemental war;
Or read in meteors which o'er waters move,
Men's deeds, and women's wiles:—the pangs of ill-placed love.

XXVI

“For ever in my sad bewildered eye
Are blood-soaked fields and burning cities drawn;
And all such miseries, as the God on high
Predestinates to mar the pride of man.
Grave-ridges reddening all the churchyard lawn,
Of youths new risen up to manhood's might,
And women wailing noon, and night, and dawn,
With eyes to heaven, their sad and piteous plight:
Maid, wife, and widow; all in one unhappy night.

118

XXVII

“But sometimes in the visions of the night,
When war and woe have ceased my soul to stound,
Scenes of domestic glory bless my sight.
First, minstrels come, and raise a gladsome sound,
With youths and maids in bridal-ribbons crowned.
Then comes the bridegroom and the bride demure,
Her lustrous eye, aye lingering on the ground.
Thou maiden with the snood snow-white and pure,
Say, shall I see for thee the merry marriage hour?”

XXVIII

“See something for me sweet, and see it soon;”
Young Sybil said. Thus spake he. “On the floor
I see thee blooming with thy maids at noon;
There comes the priest;—lo! there's thy bridal bow'r;
The nuptial bed swells like a snow-wreath pure.
Six years roll on—behold a graver thee
With four fair sons to bless thy marriage hour.
Fair is thy home, far from the Solway sea;
And glad is thy gudeman, and blest in his degree.

XXIX

“But that sad curse 'neath which all flesh is born,
Of toil and sweat, to him will closely cling,
To pull green flax, to reap the rustling corn,
And o'er the furrowed fields the white corn fling;
And clip the fleece, and to the market bring
Earth's fruit and sell it.”—Joyful from the grass
Rose Sybil, shouting till the rocks did ring,—
“Bless thee, and will thy words all come to pass?
A husband! home! four sons!—and I an orphan lass!”

119

XXX

She laughed, cried, Praise be blest! and danced her lane,
All in a breath: the maidens said, “Be wise,
To wed is often woeful. Kate Harestane
Wished for a man, and got him: pleased her eyes,
And broke her heart; in our kirkyard she lies.”
“Aye, but” said Sybil, “her lot was the dimmer;—
A happy home! a husband! four sweet boys!
And all as true as leafs are true to timmer.
Will it this winter be—or maun I keep till simmer?”

XXXI

The moon arose, the wanderer went: the maids
Took home their spotless washing from the wave.
“Now woe to those who walk yon darksome glades,”
A bondmaid said; “to-night a vagrant knave,
Such as do wrong, and dig the midnight grave,
Or rob the church, or strip the goodman's tomb,
To us a fearful visitation gave.
Go warn the vale, and watch each lonely home,
'Tis not for prophecy so base a prophet's come.”

XXXII

She spoke as she believed. Well Sybil wist
What man he was; thus she the tale pursued.
“He was a prophet; sad and sore distrest
Was he: we cheered him with our fire and food,
And soon in sprightlier current ran his blood;
From sea-swept Arran had he wandered far,
The seer's dread spirit discomposed his mood,
And he saw visions of red ruthless war,
And heard connubial songs sung 'neath the western star.

120

XXXIII

“And may the rightful prophet's spirit speak
Inspired within him: may he prove a seer.
He told a tale that warmed me, brow and cheek,
A tale might charm off winter from the year,—
His words they came like music to my ear.
A husband, one who loves me, four fair sons
Are mine; a pleasant home and goods and gear,
Won with a sweaty brow. Such fortune stuns—
I hope his words are sooth—I wonder where he wons.”

XXXIV

While Sybil spoke, young Eustace gazed, but she
Stood all unmoved even as an image stands,
As fixed, in hue and sentiment, and free
From change as marble from the sculptor's hands.
“A seer is one who works the Lord's commands;”
Said good Miles Græme, “and did he speak of woe?
Alas! old Scotland; soon the Southron brands
Will gleam again: thy children's blood must flow:
The will of God be done, 'tis doomed and maun be so.”

XXXV

He shook his gray head sadly, and he sank
Down sighing in his old ancestral chair;
An oaken settle, once a seat of rank,
There swords and helms were carved with curious care;
The dogs a wild deer rousing in his lair;
And that armed flower, which Scotland's glory keeps.
A line of song, likewise a word of prayer,
The scythe which mows, the crooked steel that reaps,
And corn, the life of all, and fruit in clustering heaps.

121

XXXVI

There Sybil sate, like one whom some sweet dream
Had set a glowing, neck, and breast, and brow,—
The lamp and hearth fire made the rooftree gleam;
The burnished pewter bright and brighter grow,
While painted poreclain in a glittering row,
Lined all the walls which other thrift adorned;
White flax and fleece hanks like the sifted snow;
The maid too felt, as dairy-wise she turned,
Odour of milk, and cream, and butter newly churned.

XXXVII

There hung, Miles Græme, thy casque and good clay-more,
No hand irreverent dared the blade unsheath;
Each hack a history had, each mark of gore
Heroic blazon claimed, and deed of death:
'Twas wet on Bannockburn's immortal heath;
In Flodden ranks made openings long and large.
The Maxwell, Johnstone, Halliday, and Keith—
The Lowland steel cap and the Highland targe,
Had gladly sought its help to stay the Saxon charge.

XXXVIII

Now rose the latch, in came a hind, who said,
“Hugh Wilson bids thee to his harvest-home;
So come, Miles Græme, come with thy wife and maid,
And bring our Eustace, gladness will be dumb
Unless our poet and our warrior come;
And bring young Sybil—we shall lack no light,
If she but bring her eyes.” He paused to hum,
“Bid Bankhead, Braehead, Brandyburn; that's right
Foregirth and Fardenrush.” Then winged his way in night.

122

XXXIX

The farmer smiled and said, “Eupheme, now haste,
Haste thee too, Sybil, also thou, my son—
All put on fair apparel.” He said, and placed
His mantle right and his broad bonnet on—
“Hugh Wilson's kirn was won at set of sun.”
Young Sybil first stood at the old man's side;
Save native loveliness, charm there was none:
Her kirtle short, her flowing locks hung syde,
And such dark lustrous eyes what maid would wish to hide?

XL

They went, and as they wended forth their way
There came a youth, and numerous flocks had he,
Blythe were his looks, and maids said seldom nay;
He clasped fair Sybil with his right arm free:
And said, “Young maiden, try to fancy me,—
For by my farms, and they reach far and wide,—
And by my flocks, and they are fair to see,—
And by my name, and its a name of pride,—
And by the moon and stars, I wish thee for my bride.”

XLI

Thus answered she, “Alas! where wast thou born,
That thou so little knowest of woman's heart?
Thou comest to her, as thou wouldst come to corn
Ripe for the reaper. Go and try thy art
In things that suit thy wisdom,—lead a cart,
Thrash, delve, dyke, ditch; nay, tar thy hands, and try
The surgery of sheep—or, mirth apart,
Eat when thou'rt hungry, drink when thou art dry;
Do ought, do any thing, save on thy wit rely.”

123

XLII

“Nay, be not scornful, maiden: beauty comes
The fairer when in meekness, mildness drest;
Embalming her as in its own perfumes
The rose is steeped: thou knowest what suits thee best.
I hope to harry a far nobler nest,
Built on a fairer and a loftier bough.”
She laughed, “Thy fortune is right readily guessed,
With a wise look and a most resolute brow,
Thou'lt climb some sour crab tree in hopes sweet pears to pou.”

XLIII

They parted. Wintry sounds came on the ear;
The sere leaf's rustling, and the linn's deep roar,—
The wind by gusts that swept the mountain near,—
The swans descending through the night-cloud hoar,
With clang successive on the river shore,
The tender herbs to graze till dawn of morn.
Hugh Wilson now stands at his steading door,
And wide Dalgonar answers to his horn,
Which calls its maids to mirth o'er the last cut of corn.

XLIV

Quick at the summons, flocking far and wide,
Came many an aged and many a youthful pair;
Gay youths not yet in bonds of wedlock tied,
And maids who make that holy state their prayer:
The miser smiled, and half forgot his care—
The rosie widow, with her cheeks new stained
With sorrow; all and more than all were there.
Joyful old men the step of twenty feigned,
And youths ran wild as colts that never yet were reined.

124

XLV

The thatched stack-yard, the naked stubble ridge,
The sere leaves heaped, these all are certain signs
The fruitful season's o'er; the leafless hedge
With songsters' nests revealed, tell now the reins
Of rule have passed to sterner hands: in chains
The lakes are bound, the forest trees are reeling
Beneath the axe: the snowy monarch reigns
On hills, and drives the shepherd from his shealing;
And cold, like age on man, is o'er the wide land stealing.

XLVI

And yet dark winter is a happy time:
God gives the earth repose, and earth bids man
Wipe his hot brow; the poet pours his rhyme,
And mirth awakes; the dance from dark to dawn
Rings through the house till clatters every pan;
The busy curler sweeps his slippery rink,
Joy boils the pot and Pleasure fills the cann;
Devotion pours a blessing o'er the drink,
And Bondage drops her chains, nor leaves one galling link.

125

PART EIGHTH.

I

So thinks Hugh Wilson as he joyful stands,
And shouts, to see Miles Græme approaching near.
Hark to the salutation of their hands.
He whispers Eustace, and in Sybil's ear
Pours pleasure. See each window's shining clear.
The hinds already have in thought begun
To dance, and each one eyes a maiden dear,
And shakes his foot preparing for the fun—
When in walks reverend Miles, with Sybil and his son.

II

The fiddler smiled when he young Eustace saw,
And laid his left cheek to the thrilling thairm,
Then drew his best bow hand; in joy and awe
Men hearkened, and seemed touched by magic charm.
But when full inspiration moved his arm,
Maids' feet found wings, men's minds began to soar
Above the world, with all its toil and harm.
An hundred feet at once smote on the floor,
And cracked an hundred thumbs, and matrons smiled demure.

126

III

He paused: a brimming cup young Eustace brings,
The crouder takes it—drains it to a drop—
A new soul now seems sounding in the strings;
Each heart leaps light as starts the music up;
The rooftree trembles with its grassy cope,
From hole and crevice mice in wonder peep;
The hoary bandsmen nod each bonnet top,
Dance with their knees and regular measure keep,
Adown their ancient cheeks the drops of gladness dreep.

IV

Now Eustace leads the fair young Sybil out—
Her feet beat witchcraft as she heads the dance;
Lads, like a garland, hem her round about,
While love rains on them from her dark eye glance:
The maidens near her, tittering, take their stance,
And on her swan-white neck and snowy arms,
Her small and nimble feet, they look askance;
The hoary fiddler, as he listens, warms,
And draws a lustier bow, and gazes on her charms.

V

But when the music's full infection stole
Thoughout her frame, and kindled up her veins,
She shook her curls, and through her eyes her soul
Sent such a shower of rapture, all the swains
Stood gaping, as the parched flower when it rains.
She sailed along, and, like a sorceress, flung
Her own sweet spirit o'er the crouder's strains:
Her feet had language, such as hath been sung,
That spoke to every heart as plain as with a tongue.

127

VI

“Now by my fiddle and my honoured bow,
Which threescore winters have amused this land,
No foot before ere answered music so,
Her eye-glance, too, nigh marred my good bow-hand.
Now, Eustace, out of my poor eyesight stand,
That I may look upon her—there she goes,
O'er all men's hearts like Solway o'er its sand.”
So saying, he shook a head on which the snows
Of seventy winters lay; renewed the music rose.

VII

Nor did young Eustace dance unheeded. “See,”
A douce dame said, “how lightsomely he springs;
Nay, look on him; he bears o'er all the gree,
He moves along as he were borne on wings,
His nimble feet seem formed of fiddle strings;
And how he talks! dame, have ye heard the rumour?
There is a little bird as good as sings,
How he'll be wed before spring grows to summer,
On Sybil—there they sit; what think ye of it, cummer?

VIII

“What think I of it? I think nought that's good,—
I think the lassie's mad—his parents blind.
Poor simple quean, how weel she sets her snood;
He wed her? He's none of the marrying kind,—
Let her beware, although his words are kind
And sweeter than the mouth of May, and softer
Than thistle down. Now dame, bear this in mind;
Ere ten months time she will cause meickle laughter.
I think that every year our maids grow daft and dafter.”

128

IX

While thus they talked there came an ancient hind,
A stranger in these parts; he louted low
To Sybil, saying, “Ah, I call to mind
When these same locks were not like Siddick snow,
But black as plumes which on sea eagles grow;
These blessed days afar have fled from me,
But yet I'm sure, if I read right thy brow,
Thou'lt dance wer't but for Christian charity.”
She said “Aye,” with a smile had cured the sick to see.

X

She rose and danced; meanwhile the glad old man
Said, while his sole remaining locks he shook,
“Now, lady, list: where many a lithe-necked swan
In winter graze, by Clifton's moorland brook,
My cot stands, sunny in a sheltered nook,
Nigh to the hall of Lesley's honoured name—
I see, I see—I understand that look:
That flashing eye: thy father had the same.
Nay, be not wroth, 'twas not to spy thee out I came.”

XI

“Name not my name; name not my lineage—name
Nought that is mine,” she said, “nor seem to know
Me, else henceforth go find another hame.”
The old man stood and sadly smoothed his brow,
And with his fingers combed his locks of snow.
She look'd as looks a princess when she's crowned,—
And gently said, “Nay, nay, forgive me, now,”
And gave to him her fingers white and round;
“Forget we ever spake—forget I ever frowned.”

129

XII

He clapt his hands—he leaped balk high—he said,
“Now, fiddler, play a gladsome tune and fast;
This night ten years of eild aside I've laid,
Grim Care smiles on me, and then passes past.
Play up! I'll dance though I should dance my last.
Play up, I say, the gardener and his dibble,
The Gallant Græmes, or Nelly Weems.—Man, hast
Thou ne'er a new one? play me ‘trout, come nibble,’
A fisher's gallant reel—what tune wilt thou have, Sybil?”

XIII

All eyes were sparkling and all hearts were light,
Waved many a hand and bounded many a foot;
Old men of past and youths of present might
Smiled gladsome, and with whisper, smack, and shout,
Through reels in dozens swept the dames about;
The barn-roof wagged to its remotest raft:
Light, mirth and music gushed in gladness out,
Far o'er the lea: old men looked on and laugh'd,
Cried, weel done Jock and Jean, then deep of brown ale quaffed.

XIV

The barn has mirth, so has the farmer's hall;
The song and jest are held in full esteem—
For there a motly and a mirthsome throng
Good liquor better far than dancing deem,
And social talk than either; o'er the steam
Of fragrant bowls they scatter sayings sage,
And from the milk of humour skim the cream.
Age claps his hands to youth, and youth to age,
And drouth grows dryer still the more they it assuage.

130

XV

Than drink, more solid dainties load the board;
The damasked haggis large and fragrant reeking,
Black luscious puddings; unctuous collops scored;
Potatoes mashed in milk and butter, smeeking:
A singed sheep's head that puts a man past speaking,
With feet, as with a garland garnished round,
And ale that by the hearth fire long lay beeking,
Which made the corks up to the rafters bound;
With bracksha best of food on moor or mountain found.

XVI

The savour of the supper seemed to find
Its way among the dancers; lighter smote
Their feet upon the floor, and in the wind
The fiddler felt the fragrance coming hot,
His good bow-hand drew out a feeble note;
A voice cried loud, “Cease mirth, now carle and kimmer,
Music, I say, keeps naething in her pot;
No living soul has ever seen it simmer:
Come, supper loads the board, ale foams aboon the timmer.”

XVII

The crouder put his fiddle in its case
As monk would put a relic: then he slung
It o'er his shoulder, and with joyous face
Went speaking lightly as he went along.
“Long o'er the thairms my right hand have I flung,
But Sybil, lass, to-night, that foot of thine
Bewitched my bow with gallant horse-hair strung,
And filled the tight strings with a voice divine.”
Loud Grizel Grierson laughed, “Mind ye the eighty-nine:

131

XVIII

“'Twas a sad year, sore famine vexed the land,
And war, its dread twin brother, came; but never
Will man be wise; John Rodan of the Rand
Gave such a kirn—there drink ran like a river,
And dames danced daftly. Sure as God's a giver,
There danced a stranger lass with locks like lammer,
Her deevlish dark een made me grue and shiver;
And having witched the laird of Knappenhammer
She vanished—she was one framed by the fiends of glamour.”

XIX

“Aye, dame, but Sybil's formed of daintier stuff,”
Hugh Wilson said, “I'll warrant she's nae vision.
But ask our Eustace there—for he made proof
Some hour agone—it was a sweet collision,
Between their ripe lips I saw nae division.—
But here's the supper.” Soon his brow is bare:
To God all good he offers an orison,
Then cries,—“fall on, eat, drink, and dinna spare;
In good food smother woe; in amber ale drown care.”

XX

Amid the grace the haggis on the platter
Raised such a steam, the douce laird of Drumbreg
Could not endure't—his mouth was in a water.
“Ha'done, ha'done,” he said, a jocteleg,
He snatched and cut; far gushing o'er the peg
There came a reeking deluge, rich and savoury.
“Take this now, Marion; and take that now, Meg;
This is a food unknown in lands of slavery.”
Dames smiled, but dreading drops quick gathered in their bravery.

132

XXI

At the board head, like Ceres' self, a maid
Sat, crowned with braided corn, and proudly waving
Her locks, which o'er her white neck threw a shade
Like ink spilt over ivory: Nancie Caven
Men called her; and her ringlets, like the raven,
Were dear to all the youth of wide Dalgonar.
Even wooers came from Dee's wild waters raving;
From Annan some threw wistful looks upon'er,
And now e'en gray-haired men were prompt to do her honour.

XXII

For she that morn had reaped with her sharp sickle
The kirn—the latest lock of growing grain;
And saved mild Autumn from the sleety trickle
Of stormy Winter, with her snow and rain;
And she was vain—no wonder she was vain.
The board was cleared, and with a serious face,
Hugh Wilson looked, and said a “pleasant strain,
Come, let us chaunt to do this night some grace;”
He signed—and there was silence for a little space.

XXIII

The first song touched on harvest's golden joys,
The ripened corn, the reaping hook, the flail.
The second was of pleasure, such as cloys
With nature never; in a sunny dale
A rustic pair, a cottage, cow and kale.
The third song sore complained of Cupid's bow,
Of Venus and her doves—hearts ne'er were hale
From his sad arrows, and a cureless woe
That came from Chloris' eyes and Chloe's breasts of snow.

133

XXIV

“Enough, enough!” Hugh Wilson cried, “enough
Bake Venus' doves in pies; drown Chloris, Chloe.
Give me a song like thistles, sharp and rough,
Rather than silken strains so soft and showy,
Give me the heathery hill top of Glenhowie,
By fierce winds swept, where no ambrosial breathing
Of breezes come, nor nymphs with bosoms snowy,
Trip full of panting, fainting, raving, writhing—
Vain coinage of some bard, with brain in learning seething.”

XXV

The fourth song was of moorlands and of hills,
And sunny knolls where adders twine their beads;
Of lowing flocks which feed by murmuring rills;
Of shepherd maidens dancing to the reeds
Of their fond lovers, clad in pastoral weeds;
White bosomed dogs lie slumbering by the crooks,
While o'er the curds his creed some shepherd reads.
Maids sing—to which the melody of brooks
O'er pebbles simmering sweet, is as the voice of rooks.

XXVI

The fifth song was a dolorous chaunt: asleep
At first it seemed, then in a passionate tune
It sung the sea-boy on the ocean deep,
The Solway furrowing one sweet summer noon;
Musing upon a mother's welcome soon,
And carolling homewards o'er the smiling wave—
A whirlwind woke, and ere arose the moon
He waked his shrieking mother, bade her save
His sad corse from the storms by Clifton's lonely cave.

134

XXVII

The sixth song was not sorrowful; it sung
Of one who loved an evening hour to snatch
From rest, and, with a sweet and oily tongue,
Keep for some witty maid a wintry watch,
Listening to hear her cannily lift the latch;
The temptress from her staunce unseen the while,
Lets him hang there like ice-drop to the thatch,
And calls her aunt—she comes with canker'd smile,
Unbinds the big house dog, and hounds the losel vile.

XXVIII

The seventh pictured summer's gloaming hour,
When hawthorn scent filled the nocturnal air—
A fairy glen, a honeysuckle bower,
The blackbird's latest note was lingering there;
In it, as in a shrine, a modest pair
Are seated—look, and heart, and thought, the same;
One is a rural maiden, one the heir,
But of a poet's pipe and rustic hame:
They little say, look much: a meek and holy flame

XXIX

Is in their cheeks. And more had Eustace said,
For his the song, when with a wreathed bough
Of rustling holly, rose a blushing maid,
And placed it like a garland on his brow.
Its scarlet clusters did not ruddier glow
Than glowed his face; he turned him round, a kiss
Or twain he took; Hugh Wilson cried, “I vow
Parnassus ne'er had ought surpassing this,
Nor Eildon's cloven hill, where muses dwell, I wis.”

135

XXX

Young Sybil turned her head aside; men say
A sudden flush of her displeasure told,
And Eustace marked it; be that as it may,
Maids tittered, gray dames smiled, and bondsmen old
Laughed measureless, clapt hands, and shouted bold;
The cricket chirruped merrier from the nook,
The watch dog broke his bands and gambolling rolled;
Upon his tree the solitary rook
Cawed and looked down; he heard the sounding of the brook

XXXI

Grow loud and louder; straightway to the heaven
He turned, there boding dark tumultuouslie,
He saw dark cloud o'er cloud enormous driven,
And raised his wings, and straight prepared to flee.
Meanwhile down dark and dismal on the ee
Midnight in stormy majesty descended.
Mirth ceased, men drew the bonnet o'er the bree,
And maids and dames with plaids all well defended,
Went scudding 'fore the blast, and homeward warily wended.

XXXII

Ere Sybil donned her mantle wooers came,
Impatient each to guide her on her way;
When sudden at her side stood Eustace Græme,
And took her hand: the maiden said, “Nay, nay,”
Yet went; lads saw that hopeless cause had they—
The minstrel's witchingness of tongue they knew,
His hand too some had felt in lover fray—
They cursed his cleverness and slow withdrew,
While he, and Sybil fair, their homeward way pursue.

136

XXXIII

I said that night had fallen dense from heaven;
The blood-fox howling by the guarded pen,
The forest tops to sweeping breezes given,
The river rushing, which the cavern'd glen
Repaid with melancholy groan agen—
Were the sole sounds way-faring folk might hear:
“Sweet Sybil, to the hearts and souls of men
The mournful tone of Nature's tongue is dear;
E'en that fierce river's rush has music for my ear.

XXXIV

“There stands the hill on which I wont to seek
My way in verse, that I might make me known
To fame; when came the night that ends the week,
Thoughtful, not sad, I sauntered on and on,
Whiles with twin-lambs consorting; more alone
I sat—or touched with momentary fire—
Muttered wild words, till morning sought his throne,
And bade me to my homely couch retire;—
The dews all shining on my negligent attire.

XXXV

“And when the day-beam o'er the eastern steeps
Had placed his herald star on Burnswark-hill,
Close by the tomb where the dark Douglas sleeps,
And shepherds saw the Fairies by the rill
I roamed—the sun began his light to spill
On Orr's wild loch, on Greirson's castle gray;
I heard his mate the curlew summons shrill,
And larks rejoice: the cottage smoke away
Curled, and men lonely knelt, and unto God did pray.

137

XXXVI

“It was no idle rapture which I felt,
What time the earth with morning dew was sown,
And man and matron to their maker knelt,
And humbled them before the Almighty's throne;
To sit upon the sole remaining stone
Of some razed castle, and there muse on man—
Half God, half dust, and sometimes fiend, and moan,
We saw so little of the immortal plan,
And knew but like a dream how this proud world began.

XXXVII

“Now what is man, or what is woman; who
Shall tell us, Sybil? see, along the plain
The forest leafs are coursing to and fro,
Backward and forward, whirling on amain
The roused wind sweeps them: now they stay again,—
Even so is man with his impassioned feeling.”—
She looked up in his face: the coming rain
Was heard afar, and thunder distant pealing,
She looked—for now his arm around her waist was stealing.

XXXVIII

“I know not, Sybil, how it is,” he cried,
“I know not that I love thee, yet 'tis dear
To be beside thee, and I love beside
To tell thee what I feel, whilst thou thy ear
Inclinest so gently with a look sincere:
And then thy modest word of aye, or no,
Is ever right, while in that forehead clear
I read thy meaning plain as tongue can show;
I love thee not: and yet my spirit says not so.”

138

XXXIX

“Talk not so, Eustace,—Eustace, talk not so,”
Young Sybil said; “a poor bondmaiden I,
Without a home or parent, let me go;
You love the Maid of Elvar—Eustace, fye!”
She looked with some displeasure in her eye.
“Shame on thee, man, and I an orphan maid,
What would thy father say? and he is nigh.”
He answered, “Sweet one, why art thou afraid?”
A lightning flash that moment kindled all the glade.

XL

“Love her of Elvar? do I love the moon
Now hid in heaven, or do I love the star
Next her in lustre? I would woo as soon
The bright Aurora when she mounts her car;
Her rank and mine would wage continual war:
I thought her lovely and I found her kind,
The Maid of Elvar!—an eternal bar
There is atween us—dost thou deem me blind?
No! no! such high placed love is but to woo the wind

XLI

“And wed destruction.” For a little space
They spoke not, but both sighed. Without rebuke
He clasped her thus, and laying face to face,
One kiss, yea more, for kisses three he took,
While her two knees like fountain lilies shook;
And her soul's secret sat upon her lips,
And high her proud heart 'gainst her bosom strook:
They heeded not that lightning cleft to chips
A gnarled oak, and passed, and left them in eclipse.

139

XLII

“Well are you come, my children,”—said the chief,
“Soon of our home the tempest will make proof;
To-night the storm will scatter many a sheaf.”
Even as he spoke red thunder rolled aloof,
And one by one big drops plashed on the roof;
He took them ben, he barred the quivering door,
And said, “Alas! flocks that divide the hoof,
The silly sheep on mountain moss and moor
May moan, but most may man on ocean's tumbling roar.”

XLIII

The cottage cock shakes on his 'customed perch,
The windows rattle and the winds arise,
The rain comes plunging, rooks in clamorous march
Sail with the storm that darkens as it flies;
Woods roar, and wild linns echo to the skies,
Kine low, dogs whine, superior man alone
Sits thoughtful, ruminating, and his eyes
Turns up to heaven amid the mighty moan
Of Solway's fearful tide, and the dread thunder's groan.

XLIV

Down comes Dalgonar rushing red, and lifting
His voice above the thunder; Nith as loud
Calls o'er the uplands, on her bosom drifting,
Seen by the lightning flashing from the cloud—
Or by the wan moon weeping from her shroud,
The golden harvests of ten thousand hands.
In storm and tide the distant Solway proud,
Pours her long lines of waves o'er quivering sands,
Fierce as the ranked steeds rush foaming on the brands.

140

XLV

“Ah, who untouched,” said Miles, “may hear the sound
Of streams, that down our glens like torrents boil;
The rivers rushing, wild woods waving round
Their stately shafts like fencer's pliant foil.
Man! worm! creep low and stoop thee as to toil,
That flash might strike thee to a senseless clod;
The angry elements in dread turmoil,
To waste thy labours all are come abroad;
Feel even thy refuge earth rocks 'neath the foot of God.”

XLVI

The room was dark, save when the lightning came,
And then 'twas brighter than the brightest day.
Strange agitations shook young Sybil's frame,
For as she knelt by Eustace' side to pray,
Around his neck her white arm did she lay
Unconscious. Now the elemental moan
Ceased, and the storms forsook the mountains gray;
The rivulets lessened, forests ceased to groan,
The river's mighty voice was heard, and heard alone.

XLVII

Miles Græme walked forth, climbed up a knoll, and hark!
He calls his son to come and view the ground
Where late they reaped; in loud confliction dark,
Beneath Dalgonar dashed o'er moat and mound,
And midst its rushings whiles they heard the sound
Of swimming flocks, which raised a piteous wail.
To Sybil's heart there went a dismal stound:
First came a man, and then two children pale—
Of twelve alone they're left to tell the mournful tale;

141

XLVIII

How their fair cottage on Dalgonar side
Was by the river swept at once away;
How three were saved, and how nine others died
Amid the flood that made their flocks a prey:
How happy once—now who so sad as they.
“Ah! who,” cried one, “will give us clothes, or feed
The desolate, the orphan; who will lay
A good warm pillow for an old white head?”
Young Sybil wept, “I will.”—“And wilt thou do't indeed?

XLIX

“And thou, Miles Græme's poor handmaid? O, alas!
In extreme tenderness of soul you speak,
Forgetting thou'rt a desolate orphan lass;
But bless thee for thy sympathy.” His cheek
He wiped, and muttered, “'las! but I am weak.”
A token from her glittering locks took she,
And whispered in his ear: 'twas scarce a week
Had passed, when men cried to each other, “See,
John Robson works by spells—a wondrous man is he.

L

“A plenished steading! flocks on hill and lea!”
He answered all enquiries, “God is good,
And sends an angel in extremitie.”
But from that hour, when kneeling at the Rood,
He prayed for her that gave his children food;
His reverend white locks, when he ever saw
Fair Sybil at the kirk or by the wood,
Were instant bared: of douce John Robson's awe
For Miles Græme's bonnie lass, maids talked in house and ha'.

143

PART NINTH.

I

There shines a light in every tower; a light
Streams far from every cottage; from the top
Of Blackwood hill—from where the river white
Comes foaming down the moorland's heathery slope;
From ancient woods, and from the castle cope,
And from the hills that shade the vale aboon,
The murky veil of heaven is lifted up;
Bright from the parting clouds walks out the moon
With her unnumbered stars—and all is clear as noon.

II

“Thus God,” Miles Græme said, “mocks the dreams of man.
That flood the riches of a valley reaps;
The winds which now thy forehead, Sybil, fan
So gently, late tumultuous moved the deeps.
Man's Babel towers away, the High One sweeps,
Like words on snow, or signs on Solway sand;
His is the eye which slumbers not nor sleeps—
Where is the strength that 'gainst his will can stand?
Man! thy audacious head bow to his chastening hand.

144

III

“There is a voice in every flower, a tongue
In praise of God in all things; late I saw
Thee in the dance, sweet Sybil, glad the young
And cheer the old: thy charmingness did draw
Full many a sigh. But soul and heart in awe
I heard thee, when the thunder shook the plain,
Call upon God. What says the ancient saw?
The maid whom He to rule hearts did ordain,
As first in loveliness, is first to own His reign.”

IV

He looked to heaven, then did to Eustace call,
“Lo! see the thunder's fiery pen hath wrote,
As did that dread hand on the Syrian's wall,
Words full of meaning. Listen now, and note:
Of peace and war yon tokens are, I wot,
Invasions and fierce onslaughts, civil wars;
See o'er the plough and elwand darkly shot
The burning trains of two consuming stars,
And see yon armed shapes mount thunderous clouds for cars.”

V

He gazed with terror pictured on his brow,
Spoke with a hollow voice and livid cheek.
Meanwhile the rack went shifting to and fro,
Stars writhed, and rushing seemed of man to speak;
From cloud to cloud passed voices low and weak.
He looked, and cried, “Ay, now I surely see,
From Solway-flow to Pentland's northern peak,
Old Scotland, days of joy and peace to thee—
Days coming—but, my child, for neither thee nor me.”

145

VI

And all round Scotland he beheld arrayed
Nation on nation in tumultuous jar;
Bridle the steed and whet the battle blade,
And issue on the cannon from the car,
With flags unfurled and trumpets heard afar,
While tower and city blazed with furnace flames—
Where men forged tube and brand for island war—
Meanwhile the Scotts, Homes, Leslies, Maxwells, Græmes,
Held Scotland's ancient land, and her fair spotless dames.

VII

It was a dread as 'twas a glorious sight,
For one who looked on visionary time,
To see bright nations darkening into night,
And others rising from barbaric clime,
Showing their foreheads o'er the world sublime
A little while, then sinking to decay;
Leaving a trace in history or rhyme—
A broken statue wreathed with starry bay,
Or ashes in an urn. Miles from the sight away

VIII

Turned and walked homeward: moon and stars shone clear;
When with a sorrowing and a reverent air,
And Sybil at his side, the hoary seer
The threshold passed and sank into his chair:
The silver moonshine glittered in his hair.
“Come nigh, my children, for we may not sleep
Till we have God appeased with song and prayer;
So he His right hand round our homes may keep,
For many a mother's doomed o'er slaughter'd sons to weep.”

146

IX

So saying, forth he put his hand, and mute
Took God's book down; the family reverentlie
Hemmed him, like Joseph's visioned sheaves, about:
A holy light in his rapt looks had he.
He opened wide the clasped book o'er his knee—
“Now let us worship God, and in his praise
Sing that sweet pastoral song, psalm twenty-three,
‘The Lord's my shopherd.’” The clear moonbeam's rays
Seem'd radiance from his head, as loud the sacred lays

X

Arose melodious. One voice high and clear,
It seemed, save whiles a more seraphic sound,
Such sounds as poets feign and angels hear,
Went through the chamber warbling round and round,
And still its sweetness knew nor let nor bound.
Young Eustace felt its sorcery: now may grace
Be his—his gracelessness let priests expound,
If not forgive—he thought for some short space,
First on the sweet clear voice, then on the sweet fair face:

XI

And then how Sybil's seraph tongue would lend
Fresh lustre to his pure and national lays;
How fame would come, and glory without end:
His songs by damsels o'er the broomy braes
Of Scotland lilted ever and always,
By princes quoted and princesses sung.
His father ceased—said, “Let us now His praise
Read in that Prophet with the poet-tongue,
Isaiah, fifty-third.” How Eustace' soul was stung.

147

XII

“Who hath believed our report—to whom
Hath God reveal'd his strength, for he shall grow
Up as a tender plant—now see him come
A man of sorrows and acquaint with wo,
Of man rejected; bruised with stripes, and, lo!
Smitten of God, and to the slaughter led
As men do lead a lamb.” Young Sybil so
With sobbing shook, and tears so thickly shed;
Miles paused, nor to the close the melting chapter read.

XIII

“Now let us pray,” he said. Knelt every knee,
And down into the dust stooped every face;
All lights were quenched, save that which seraphs see
At night hung o'er the angels' dwelling place.
All humbly now, before the throne of grace,
He poured his spirit forth, and there was given
Much rapture to him for a little space—
Thought flashed on thought as bright and fast as levin;
Something there was of earth, but there was more of heaven.

XIV

Of heaven, there were his holy hopes: of earth,
There was his country and his glory, where
Had she a son who loved her more; whose worth,
In such a station, could with his compare;
There was his son, and such a son; and there
Was his young gentle bondmaiden, whom none
In merit matched. Young Sybil gazed; his hair
And his clear brow so in the moonshine shone,
She thought the lustre rose from his blest head alone.

148

XV

Sleep followed this; morn came, and with the morn,
Of harvest horns no more was heard the sound;
No more the reap-hook 'neath the ripened corn
Moved, while the merry song rung round and round.
The harquebus' shot, the hallooing to the hound,
The shepherd's whistle and the thrasher's flail,
All these, and other gentler sounds abound;
The ice-fringed brook scarce singing down the dale—
The gentle maidens sigh at some sad shepherd's tale.

XVI

The golden hours of the glad year are gone;
The forest's fragrant plumes are pluck'd—how short,
And stormy, too, the journey of the sun;
The vessel gladly makes her destined port;
The hares unto the green kale yards resort;
The plough lies idle in the half-drawn furrow;
The barnman's chaff comes down like snow; his sport
The hunter takes; the rabbit keeps his burrow;
And old men shake their locks, and sigh 'tis winter thorough.

XVII

That year stern Winter trod on Autumn's heel;
Snow wrapt the mountains, and the frost came next,
And laid his cold hand on the miller's wheel,
And nearly stayed it; old dames were perplext;
They deemed it witchcraft, quoted that dread text
Wherein the Lord bids Israel's king destroy
Those with familiar spirits; stirred and vexed,
They muttered, “There's the stark witch of Drumboy,
Who on the Solway side works seamen much annoy.

149

XVIII

“Even our lone glen is with her sisters swarming;
Text, horseshoe, rowan-tree, are of no avail.
Were I but king, Lord! they should have a warming,
Then we would have milk in our milking pail.”
Even as they spake there came the pattering hail.
“Speak of the de'el!—we ken who sent us thee.”
The frozen wind came roaring down the dale;
“He rides the blast! Then help the ships at sea—
Dark spirits rule the wind—O we have much to dree!”

XIX

That eve sweet Sybil by the cottage hearth
Sate, and when hail came drifting in a shower,
She sighed, “Ye little birds of song and mirth,
Where dwell ye when the north-wind strips the bower;
No pairing carol from the opening flower
Ascends at morn, or glads my heart at even;
No dew-winged laverock, in melodious tour,
Pours his sweet ditty in the ear of heaven:
The flower, the forest tree, are all to winter given.

XX

“Thou timid hare, where cowerst thou in the brake?
Thy steps are written on the snowy dale;
A long and perilous journey thou must make,
O'er moor and lea to eat thy frozen meal,
Lest swollen luxury snuff thee in the gale,
And shoot or seize thee in the narrow way.
O, come and nibble on my castle kale,
Choose fragrant shoots; at morn then scud away
To Clifton's brakeny hills, or Siddick's mountains gray.

150

XXI

“A little while in summer's bloomy prime,
Man bids thee go and propagate and shoot,
Nurse thy twin little ones on banks of thyme,
And couch 'mongst buds and berries, odorous fruit,
Roll in the dew, and lick thy scented foot,
Or bear thy bosom o'er green bladed corn,
Or eat the honeyed clover, dig the root
Of fragrant cornick—till man winds his horn,
Levels his tube, and taints with sulphury smoke the morn.

XXII

“Ah, nought is safe! no, not the sweetest thing
That glads the soul or keeps creation blythe;
Whether they fan the welkin with the wing,
Or drink the dew before the mower's scythe,
Man makes them yield to him a mournful tithe;
He robs the air, the grove, the stream, the green,
That he may feed on the delicious lythe.”
Still mused she, when the matron said, “Bedeen
Will young and old come here to hold their Halloween.

XXIII

“And Halloween it well may be; for look,
The stars are sunk in heaven, a darksome cloud
Conceals the moon, and mist conceals the brook;
The mountain's swathed up in a snowy shroud,
The flocks dismayed down from the uplands crowd.
There is an eerie murmuring in the glen,
And hear Dalgonar stream now lowne now loud;
There is no light in the abodes of men,
And what all that denotes, sweet Sybil, well ye ken?

151

XXIV

“This is the eve on which men tell ye, God
Gives to the spirits of evil might and rule;
Hags on their ragwort chariots come abroad,
Wild Will his treacherous lamp hangs o'er the pool,
And elves shoot 'mongst us shafts of wo and dool.
Alas, for him, who so forgets himself
As to mool in with fairies: Robin Roole
Of Dalmakitten, pious and fond of pelf—
Lass, have ye heard how he was trysted by an elf?”

XXV

“Aye, weel I wot that's true,” a neighbour said,
Passing the threshold.—“Rob, I kenned him weel:
He pious! 'las this world! he never prayed.
'Twas said he had a paction with the deel;
I ken he never brought an empty creel
Frae Annan water; fient ae fin of fish
Could others catch. By and attour atweel
I tell ye—do ye mind when Jess Macnish
Bore twins to him we aye called Saul the son of Kish.”

XXVI

“Hout tout,” cried one, “of shameless things will ye
Discourse, when earth's forsook by shapes of bliss;
Had ye but seen what I ae night did see,
Your words would be of modest sort I wis.
'Twas Hallowmass, and no sae far from this,
I met John Tamson of the Hempie Howe;
Daft words ensued, and he aye said a kiss,
When there came something with its locks on lowe—
I held a grip of John, and he cried Worriecowe!—”

152

XXVII

“And I cry turnip-lantern,” said a lass
As she came laughing in. The well trimmed lamp
And fire made roof and rafter gleam like glass;
Old men in iron-shod shoon came tramp on tramp,
Saying, “Peace be here!” and shook their bonnets damp.
Maids light of foot, like shadows mute came gliding,
Next douce Hugh Wilson came and gave a stamp,
And said, “Its no for pious folks abiding
The misrule in the air, and witches rudely riding.

XXVIII

“Ah Sybil, thou'rt to me a charm, a spell,
Both heavenly: dost know that poisonous rime
Will drop, the stars will sicken sore, the fell
Dread warlocks back will say the infernal rhyme,
And mounting on their invisible steeds sublime,
Take flight away as swans for Lochar mound;
While loosed from pangs in hell's hot penal clime,
As a dark exhalation from the ground,
Satan will rise and rule his grim conclave around.

XXIX

“But where's the high priest of our Hallowmass mirth?
Where's he, the poet?—where's our Eustace, where?
Say, is he putting a girdle round the earth
With elves?—or boldly in the warlock's lair,
Gathering dark knowledge in, by pith of prayer?”
“I saw him” said a maiden, “near the gloaming,”
A maiden with bright eyes and snooded hair;
“Musing and heedless but still onward roaming
Toward the Fairy-hall where the dread linn is foaming.”

153

XXX

“Preserve my child!” Eupheme cried. “Have no dread
Of Eustace,” said old Robin Riddel, “he
Is safe from spells; he wears an adder bead,
A moonlight splinter from the green row'n tree:
Now will he learn the truth, through his own ee,
Of tales I've told. See how the queen of Fairy
Rides through the Nith, Dalgonar stems, while Dee
Hears her charm'd bridles ring: nor will she tarry—
She comes to take her tithe of all maids ripe to marry.”

XXXI

Two maids grew pale, two well nigh scream'd, two smiled,
And cried, “we're no safe here, douce Robin Riddel.”
“Aye, safe as reliques are, else I'm beguiled,”
Quoth he: “these thirty years Hugh Paisley's fiddle,
Has made some of ye loup, and jink, and diddle.
These are vain words, so let us fall to wark,
But first I'll pray the prayer of Sandie Griddel;
A prayer of might from Salterness to Sarke,
'Twill give our house a guard—a sentinel in the dark.

XXXII

“Thou drudging Goblin; by thy southern name
I call thee: guardian of our flocks and corn;
Thou surest sentinel o'er the good man's hame.
O Brownie with long arms and locks unshorn,
Watch round our dwellings to the dawn of morn.
Guard us from witches, elves, the unbaptized feet
Of fairies, and with odorous cream thy horn
Shall mantle, and with meal cakes knuckled sweet.—
Come with thy shadowy flail, and keep thy watch discreet.”

154

XXXIII

Pleased with the prayer and bribe, the goblin brown
Waved his bare arms, and gave a gladsome scream;
And after midnight, when the moon was down,
'Tis said he couched him by the embers' beam,
And supped till his swart visage dropt with cream:
Then up he sprung, and shook his shadowy flail,
And round the dwelling marched. Now by the gleam
Of lamp and fire commence the song, the tale
Of deeds performed by charms; fate told by phantoms pale.

XXXIV

To prove love's constancy and wedlock's gladness,
Paired nuts are baptized, burnt—how bright they lowe;
To prove hope's strength, and save some hearts from sadness,
Kale stocks are pulled, and chips cut from the plough.
Some riddles read, or hempseed venturous sow,
While maidens three times sift the empty air,
Or pluck forth corn stalks with a doubtful brow;
Or in the cups with water foul and fair
Dip dread their hands, and seek to read their fortune there.

XXXV

There froward damsels saw with darkening eye,
The dismal sentence of a single fate:
While others scarce contained themselves for joy,
An early bridal and a frugal mate:
One saw as in a dream, her future state,
The penance stool, the stern rebuke, dismayed,
She muttering vowed all folly to abate:
Two inly cursed all spells and charms, and bade
The foul fiend seize them quick, and black avowals made.

155

XXXVI

But he who tries a more adventurous spell—
A spell men say will either kill or cure—
Steals out unnoted o'er the haunted fell,
What time the moon reigns in the witching hour,
And dips his shirt-sleeve where two rivulets pour
Their mingling waters south; then home he hies,
Hangs it before the fire, and asks the power
Of night to make his true love's form arise,
And turn the fated sleeve, as slow it reeking dries.

XXXVII

To some have come no sweet and smiling maid,
But a cold hand held shivering from a shroud;
And some have seen a gliding spectral shade,
Descend, as comes a star-beam from a cloud,
And turn the sleeve, look upward and seem proud;
Then beckon them to take the immortal road.—
And some have heard a summons dread and loud,
Enough to make the soul quit its clay load,
Saying, “Rise, ye guilty spirit—come and be judged of God!”

XXXVIII

And meikle warning had the adventurous wight,
Lest on his errand he might stay to mark
By a lone fire of hemlock glimmering bright,
A hoary hag at her unhallowed wark,
A beverage brewing fit to wile the lark
From his sweet morning carol, and compel
The hind of mind and body steeve and stark;
Forsake the powers of heaven for shapes of hell,
And wile him amorouslie with wrinkled hags to mell.

156

XXXIX

“And oh my child, put ye God's holy book
Into your bosom: even with that beware;”
A matron said: “A fiend deceitful took
A fair maid's form once, with dishevelled hair,
An azure eye, a snowy bosom bare,
And godless tongue; into Cumlongan brake
She wiled Mark Snedden to her treacherous lair,
And when his amorous thirst he sought to slake
She gave him gibbeted bones in his embrace to take.

XL

“And chief beware when comes the gloaming gray
Of Hallow-eve: hell keeps an open road,
For those who go from gospel paths astray,
Hags then to seek their palfreys come abroad,
They'll soon transform ye to a steed, and goad
Ye with the infernal spur and magic rein.
I knew a lad—he dwelt in Quarrelwood,
Was handled so; he shook the shuddering plain,
With brazen hoofs, neighed loud, and tossed a fiery mane.

XLI

“And oh, my son, shun ye the Solway sand,
Where wizards visionary vessels ride,
And moor their golden halsers to the strand;
Their silk sails spread with all a sailor's pride,
And long-haired mermaids carolling on their side
Enchanting songs of such a powerful strain,
That mortals may not choose but climb and bide,
To hear their melody. Flash o'er the main,
Fast flies the fairy bark:—home sees them ne'er again.”

157

XLII

So talked they, and the night wore on: meanwhile
Miles Græme sat gravely by the ingle side;
Near him sat Sybil, and a credulous smile
Played o'er her face as maids their fortunes tried.
Around her brow a snowy cincture tied
With silken bands; a gown of glossy gray
Covered her shape, but sought in vain to hide
Its beauty: one sighed, “Sybil, turn away
These eyes—I love no eyes that turn night into day.”

XLIII

Miles Græme now spoke, and he spoke wise and kind—
“Enough, my children, we have given to mirth,
Perchance to folly; now bear ye in mind
My counsels, and make them your rule on earth.
Man's but a child; God gives him at his birth
His genius and his passions: as he grows,
These grow and wax in stature and in girth.
My children all, I've watched ye as ye rose,
And marked your doings down.” Serene his open brows

XLIV

Show, while he bids each his own spirit follow
The way that nature leads: to one the wings
He gives of commerce; o'er the billows hollow
He bids him go, one of our merchant kings.
One from rare herbs the healing virtues wrings;
One ruminates upon the barren plain,
And golden crops and verdure o'er it flings.
He bids none go and join the Muses' train—
For much he dreads a toil so profitless and vain.

158

XLV

Upon a youth he laid his hand and cried,
“Go, go, my child; go forth, expound and preach
God's holy word: see ye turn not aside
From this grand duty; let your stern voice reach
Pride in his place, and stint not to impeach
Crowned heads for crimes and follies: see ye smite
The sensual Mammon; let your right hand stretch
O'er red ambition in his reckless might—
Great is the high priest's power to whom God's law is light.”

XLVI

Upon a second youth he laid his hand—
“Be thine the gentle and persuasive way
To rule by life of righteousness the land—
By mildness, wisdom, and by worth; thy sway
Will grow more glorious in thy latter day.
Matrons their children's children will hold up—
‘There goes the Lord's true servant, look I say:’
Thus will the wine of gladness fill thy cup.
But of another drink this youth is doomed to sup,—”

XLVII

He said, and touched a third one: “Thou wilt be
Long while a tassel at misfortune's cloak;
Like labouring emmet or the moiling bee,
Or farmer airing autumn's moistened shock,
So wilt thou work, but work in vain: the rock,
The gaping quicksand, and what none eschew,
Sickness of mind, and sorrows in a flock.
Nay, weep not, youth, ere threescore years ensue
Thou'lt shine, like Gideon's fleece, in fortune's golden dew.

159

XLVIII

And thou, my child,” a fourth he thus addressed—
“Sure some sad deed has thy forefathers done;
Now by the demon of the muse possessed,
They see their conduct punished in their son.
Of all the miseries 'neath God's blessed sun,
The bard's is that for which there's least remede;
The light may cease to shine and rivers run,
But for the follower of the Muses' creed
Sorrow will never cease, till he be dull and dead.

XLIX

“Go plow—'tis cold to turn a wintry furrow;
Go sow—'tis toilsome in the seed time sowing;
Go reap—and waken ere the clear sun skurrow;
Go mow—a sweaty task and hard is mowing;
Go herd—when winds are high and clouds are snowing;
Go sleep—sad visions watch o'er us when sleeping;
Go sail, when tempests wake, and seas are flowing;
Go weep—though some find comfort in their weeping;
But as ye wish to live, keep from the Muses' keeping—”

L

Sweet Sybil said. “Nay, to the bard is given
A daring spirit, and a soul to soar
As near as thing of earth can go to heaven;
He goes in life, and nigh the angel's door
Sends his glad voice in herald song before;
Then slow, like lark, earthward he sings again,
And from his kindled spirit and burning core,
Pours forth to gladden man his happy strain—
Ne'er call the Poet's song, light, profitless, and vain.”

161

PART TENTH.

I

More had she said, when up the door-latch rose;
All looked, and straight along the floor there came,
His grass green mantle powder'd o'er with snows,
His plumed bonnet doft, young Eustace Græme.
“Bless thee, my son, why wert thou from thy hame
On this dread night, when wild in grove and fen
Things evil roam?” Close to the clear hearth flame
He stood, and said, “God sends to hill and glen
Blest shapes to watch the ways and cheer the souls of men.”

II

“Thou hast seen something; what mean'st thou, my child?
Alas! I dreaded aye 'twould come to this.
Indeed I said that by some streamlet wild,
Where elves haunt aye, and nought that's holy is,
Some fiend would tempt thee, and there has, I wis.”
“Mother,” said Eustace, “I to-night have been
With shapes which less belonged to bale than bliss.”
“Alas!” she answered, “shapes on Halloween
Are angels, but all black and fallen ones I ween.”

162

III

“Not all,” said Eustace. “On the mountain's peak
The round moon rested; on the rivulets clear
The stars were pictured: forth I went to seek
South running waters. I no sound could hear;
A robe of brightness all the land did wear;
Mute sat the owl upon the castle wall;
Town, village, church, and tombstones bright, did rear
Their heads; the groves by clear Dalgonar all
Stood moving not a leaf. I went up to the fall—

IV

“The fairy fall; and there came such a sound,
As if that earth and heaven a song had sung;
It came as come from instruments attuned
Soft tones with music mixed of woman's tongue;
The very hills and vales with rapture rung.
I looked, and lo! before me danced a light,
And midst the light a maiden fair and young
Rode on a palfrey of the purest white,
And from her golden locks the radiance shot outright.

V

“Behind her came her riders all in green,
Bare were their heads, and o'er their shoulders rolled
Their curling ringlets, like the sunshine sheen,
Starred o'er with gems, and clasped with bars of gold.
In every hand a horn of antique mold
Breathed charmed notes upon the enamoured wind.
I gazed, and scarce my spirit in could hold;
I called the dreams of poets all to mind,
And thought them faery-folk, and thrice the cross I signed,

163

VI

“And thrice I called on God. On Croga top
They stayed, and leaping from each snowy steed,
Led them where herbage at their wish grew up,
And on the fragrant fodder fast they feed;
While from the greensward rising in their need,
A table stood, with silver feet I ween,
And dainties heaped: all sorts of odorous bread,
And wine that sparkled in the crystals sheen—
There midst her chivalry sat down the Faery Queen.

VII

“Now towards them I could not choose but go,
For willing wings seemed growing to my feet;
So on I went. May-morn, when winds are low
And lilies out, has ne'er a smell so sweet
As had that feast; yet it was scarce discreet
To look upon them. Loud an outcry rose,
‘A pinch, a pluck for mortal thing is meet!’
The queen cried, ‘Nay’—as our own Sybil does—
‘But bring him here, he's none of the good fairy's foes.

VIII

“I went; a gold cup glittered in her hand,
From which she drink of such a sort did drain,
That spill a spoonful on a barren land,
And straight it shoots up crops of yellow grain.
‘Mortal,’ she said, ‘upon an errand vain
Thou wanderest now; more meet that thou should'st ken
Why I am here with all my fairy train;
'Tis my last visit to the haunts of men,
The last time I shall look down green Dalgonar glen.

164

IX

“‘Long, mortal, long on Croga hill's green crown,
E'er since the gowan graced the velvet sod,
We've held our fairy feast, and deeply down
Within its gladdened bosom found abode;
Whence went we on our errands bright abroad,
Spreading abundance o'er the barren ground,
Giving to fruit-trees their delicious laad,
Healing sad blights or lightning's fiery wound,
And breathing balmy airs the pastoral hills around.

X

“‘The flocks wild browzing o'er the wilder hills,
Much of our care and tenderness partook,
Rich milk their ewers, a balmy burthen, fills,
And winter herbs grow for them by the brook.
Man next, a savage fierce and rude, we took,
Taught him the wool to reap, the yarn prepare
For garments; led him to a sunny nook,
Reared him a shealing, brought him wild fruits rare,
And taught immortal things to his companion fair.

XI

“‘Wild woods bore fruit, rich roots filled all the land,
To toil and labour there was little need;
Bees swarmed; and deer in many a stately band
Ranged wide the hills, and hares unnumbered breed;
The land was sown with a spontaneous seed,
All, all was there that natural man could claim
To keep him happy; even the shepherd's reed
Was prompt to soothe him when the evening came,
And his fair children sat around his shealing flame.

165

XII

“‘Dalgonar then by evening and at noon,
Lay like a maiden in a pleasant dream;
No trees were from the river's margin torn,
And vexed and hewn to swim the ocean stream;
No oxen dragged the plough's misshapen beam;
No tools of iron in earth's green bosom dear,
Had delved in search of gold's pernicious seam:
Man had not reined the steed, nor yoked the steer,
Nor whet his hook to reap the wild grain's yellow ear.

XIII

“‘Then sweetest of all things, the poet's song,
We taught to shepherds as they shut the pen;
We watched the mother in her birth-time pang,
And brought her blooming to our haunts again:
We showed ourselves amongst the sons of men.
But 'las there came a sad disastrous change;
All glorious nature men to mock began,
And by perverse inventions dread and strange,
Fettered their thoughtless feet from nature's balmy range.

XIV

“‘The earth was measured out as with a rod,
Loud to the axe-edge groaned the forest shade,
The vales and hills shorn of their honoured load,
Turned up their bosoms to the ploughman's blade:
A nauseous mixture o'er the land was laid;
Then rose, but not of God, the pampered ear,
Enclosures soon and land-marks wide were made,
And thine and mine, the bridled steed, the steer,
And petty lords arose, and princes too appear.

166

XV

“‘Then slavery came and sweat. Man bowed the head
To fellow man, who in his chariot drawn
Perchance by mortals, crushed, like to a reed,
His spirit down; then holmland and red lawn,
Grew feverish 'neath the ministrings of man;
Corn faded: herbs lay poisoned on the plains.
Grim pest, which in pollution first began,
Appeared, and rankled in man's shuddering veins,
And war unsheathed the sword upon life's poor remains.

XVI

“‘Thus usurpation o'er our green domains,
Grew wide and wider; soon our lightsome feet
Were driven from the river sides and plains;
On lonesome hills and high we sought a seat;
But here the share comes furrowing, here the sweat
Reeks on man's forehead, here the grievous moan
Of souls with slavery racked, comes when we meet
With song and with sweet instrument: the groan
Of men for their lost rights disturbs our Fairy throne.

XVII

“‘No more, no more, shall our melodious feet,
Shine in the moonlight 'mid the elfin-ring:
No more, no more, responding wide and sweet,
Shall we at midnight wake the charmed string,
Nor mortal, won so with our ministring,
Will woman's solace for our very sake
Forego. Away, where there's perpetual spring,
We fly: glad swans in pairs swim on the lake,
Sweet odours soothe our sleep, and birds sing us awake.

167

XVIII

“‘Then, mortal, of our parting cup partake.’
A cup she held with red wine welling high:—
I drank, when lo! my spirit seemed to wake
From earthly slumber, and before my eye
Stood men whom I had known, and crouding nigh,
Came maids on whom I thought the daisies bloomed.
In more than mortal brightness marched they by,
And smiled on me; I saw friends long entombed
In Solway—or to death on fields of battle doomed.

XIX

“She said, ‘Behold, these are earth's sons whom we
Saved in great peril. Farewell, we must be gone;
Farewell, sweet land, from Sanquhar to the sea.
Farewell, we leave thee to the sigh and groan;
Far in a foreign land we fix our throne,
Where neither ploughman plows, nor ditcher delves.
Farewell: we leave thee to be preyed upon
By spell and charm, and shafts of evil elves.
Farewell, men of the land—ye honour not yourselves.

XX

“‘For thee, young mortal, I shall not unbar
The door of darkness, and let in the light;
Put not your trust in spells; know there's a star
Arisen, a fair one, which will guide thee right.
All I shall say, is this; a fortune bright
Is thine, so be thy heart is strong and true:
Prepare thy sword, and gird thy baldric tight,
The Maid whom thy young spirit clings unto,
Thou'lt find her o'er the sea, beside thy deadliest foe.’

168

XXI

“She waved her hand; up all her people sprung,
And laid their thighs o'er palfreys white as snow;
Some mournful words to a sad air they sung,
Words which would charm the waters from their flow.
She said, ‘Take thou this blessed cup, and know
The wine within it shall for ever welle,
While they who drink, believe.’ And saying so
Away she went, and as she went there fell
Thick darkness o'er her path. I have no more to tell.

XXII

“But see the gift!” The wine-cup dazzling bright
He shewed: all marvel o'er the fair design.
Around the brim were sculptured doves in flight,
Beneath were bleating lambs and lowing kine,
And poet shepherds piping airs divine.
There too, the fairy flok were pictured fair,
The queen with damsels three, and minstrels nine;
While as you gazed the magic landscape rare,
Changed—still the lovely queen and all her court were there.

XXIII

Young Eustace took the cup, and reverentlie
Drank of the wine; his soul all sad before
To think his true love was beyond the sea,
Brightened at once, a bouyant look he wore.
An ancient hind whose years had reached fourscore,
Said, “Let me taste, I'm faint and fit to sink;”
He drank: “I'm made again, more, Eustace, more,”
He cried, “I'm plucked off from the grave's dread brink,
More, give me more! Now this I call celestial drink!”

169

XXIV

The moon was now high in her midnight march,
From earth to heaven was filled with purest light:
Stars thick inlaid God's hieroglyphic arch:
Wide o'er the north, Aurora wandered bright,
Shaking her radiant ringlets o'er the night.
Hugh Wilson rose and said, “The witching hour
Is gone, and homewards I must steer my flight.
Sybil! 'gainst fairy charms, and poet's power,
See ye bar not your heart.” So saying, to the door

XXV

He went, and went the others. Eustace now
Looked on sweet Sybil, saying, “Thou art pale,
Why what hath chanced to sadden so thy brow?
Have nuts burned darkly, or could'st thou not wale
One fair straight stem among six hundred kale?
Or hast thou heard sad tidings?” “Tidings, nay,”
Replied she, Sybil, “but thy wondrous tale,
Has chased all gladness from me far away.
Dost thou believe it all, now, Eustace, soothly say?”

XXVI

“Believe it? yea. Can I believe mine eyes,
Can I believe my ears, my touch, taste, smell?
That fairy cup is gold, it tells no lies.
Look on it, maiden, see the wine doth welle
For ever up as fountains in their swell:
Yet there are shadows which my heart o'ercast,
If my love lives in foeman's lands, farewell
To my delicious dreams: the past is past,
The future all is dark, and yet the die is cast.

170

XXVII

Sweet Sybil smiled. “Now I could make thee lord,
By prophecy of fortune ten times fairer,
And quite as certain as the riddling word
Of elves, in whom men say the fiend's a sharer.
A wife from foemen's lands! A story rarer
Was never framed, and sweet to thee as honey
It seems to be. Now who would be the bearer
Of such a tale for either love or money?
Bards aye will be beguiled while summer suns are sunny.”

XXVIII

“‘A wife in foemen's lands;’ these were the words
Indeed,” said Eustace, “yet they scarcely say,
That she's of foemen's blood: the cruel cords
Of fate may drag my winsome one away,
Far o'er the hills and o'er the ocean gray;
And my firm heart and my most faithful brand,
May win her back: have I not read, I pray,
This riddle wondrous well?” He touched her hand,
Whiterthan milk, and said, “Dost thou not understand?”

XXIX

She grew much paler than the lily grows,
And said, “O'er hills and over ocean wide!
Alas! alas! when will our house's woes
Cease, and the deep waves of dismay subside?”
She paused: a blush, cheek, neck, and bosom dyed;
She looked aside, “I scarce know what I say,
Alas, good cause have I to fear the tide,
Although for other's harm it swells. Away
It swept my sire—but now what was thy meaning, pray?

171

XXX

“What didst thou mean?” She gave him such a look,
As man resists not: Eustace, drawing near,
Sat at her side, her waist he chastely took
Within his arm. “I”ll make my meaning clear:
My meaning was thy meaning, Sybil dear.”
They gazed in others eyes, both sighed, and he
Said, “Trust in God: be faithful and no fear;
But perils will be vanquished, though they be
As strong as tempests are, and sterner than the sea.

XXXI

“I would not leave old Scotland's mountain gray,
Her hills, her cots, her halls, her groves of pine,
Dark though they be; yon glen, yon broomy brae,
Yon wild fox cleugh, yon eagle cliffs outline
An hour like this; this white right-hand of thine,
And of thy dark eyes such a gracious glance,
As I got now, for all beyond the line,
And all the glory gained by sword or lance,
In gallant England, Spain, or olive vales of France.”

XXXII

Unto her lips her heart came with a dance,
Her temples burned as burns a kindled coal,
While on her love she sideways threw a glance,
Bright as a ray, half open and half stole:
Yet with it came the warmth of heart and soul,
Secret his arm around her neck he slips,
Love in their hearts reigned with a chaste controul,
As in one soft entrancement touched their lips:
She blushed blood red for shame, and starting from his grips,

172

XXXIII

Said, “Now I've proved, it is not as men say:”
And her disordered ringlets shook. “I deemed,
The inspired framers of the poet's lay,
The meekest of all mortals: how I dreamed!
And yet as such the world hath them esteemed;
It was so once: perchance a ruder race
Have followed.” Her bright eyes such sorcery beamed,
And leaped her heart so 'gainst her silken lace,
That for to touch her not young Eustace wanted grace.

XXXIV

He said, “I glory in the summer's prime,
The wild birds' warbling and the wild bees' hum;
I love rough winter with her storms sublime,
The sea that scatters man's best work like scum.
I love the moonshine when the breeze is dumb,
And more to muse at gloaming when dews fall,
On minstrel exaltation yet to come.
My spirit now hath a diviner call,
One kiss of thee like this is dearer than them all.”

XXXV

With a mild meek composure on her brow,
Gently she thrust the enthusiast youth away.
“These are the idlings of thy fancy now,
Art thou oft this way, Eustace, now I pray?”
“Frequent at night, and sometimes in the day,”
Replied the bard, and more perchance had been,
But that Eupheme called from her room, “Away,
The day will dawn ere Sybil shuts her een.”
She vanished like the light that's once and no more seen.

173

XXXVI

Snow on the hill and ice upon the ford:
Time hastens on, and so too must my story:
Fire on the earth, and victuals on the board,
Grave matrons there, and hinds with heads all hoary,
And mendicants from Cumrae come, or Corrie.
Lads mending graith; maids humming at the wheel,
Miles Græme reposing in his patriarch glory:
Eupheme heed taking of both roke and reel,
And Eustace penning songs on Sybil fair and leel.

XXXVII

A rustic picture by a hand as rude,
But true to nature, for December air,
Brings so much snow, that scarce the mountain flood
Can to the ice-fringed river now repair;
The sheep are shivering in their upland lair.
Nought may the weary storm-staid wanderer ken,
As he looks down Dalgonar valley fair,
Save tower and stream, the kirk, the folding pen,
And smoke ascending from the cottages of men.

XXXVIII

For one wide expanse of untrodden snow,
In even layers or wreaths fantastic blown,
Deep mantles hill and holm and valleys low:
Labour has down both spade and mattock thrown,
The sounding flail is heard and heard alone:
Or maiden's song when winnowing in the barn.
A single star sits on the hill head lone,
The silent wild swan seeks the reedy tarn,
The ground rings like a bell from Moorkirk to Moorwharn.

174

XXXIX

Snow drifted thick, when there came to the door
A feeble knock, and eke a feeble cry:
Up Eustace rose, and started forth; before
The threshold there a mendicant did lie;
He raised him up, and low and dolorously
He plained of cold and hunger. “'Tis a sin,
My son, to keep him 'neath so cold a sky,”
Eupheme said, sorrowing, “Move him gently in.”
He came: with warmth and food he did his tale begin.

XL

“My name is Lydal: from Sark's border water
I come. I've been a soldier, and I bled
For Scotland, when by Solway Moss the slaughter
Was of her children sore: a captive led,
I passed to England; from my bonds I fled,
And fought again. Suffice it, I must wander,
And seek a crust of bread, and a straw bed.
Such blessings Scotland to her son will render,
Who ever since a boy has been her bold defender.”

XLI

“Mock not thy country, mock her not, I say!”
Miles sharply answered; “Know ye not we all
Must fight her battle on the battle day;
Glad if we win, forgotten if we fall;
If maimed, we wander, and on brethren call
For food and shelter; thou hast found them both:
A back as good as thine must take the wall.”
The soldier swore a bitter southern oath
He loved his country well, to mock her he'd be loth.

175

XLII

“Then speak with reverence, and whene'er ye speak,
Swear not.” A flush passed o'er the harden'd brow
Of Lydal, but he laughed and said, “'Tis weak
To swear, I'm told—I've heard the thing ere now;
But come, though I'm a mendicant, I trow,
'T was not for nought, on firing Carlisle wall,
I with my sword plucked from the scorching lowe
Lady and child—I heard the young thing squall,
She paid me well with gold, but red gold was not all.

XLIII

“See here's a ring, a little ring, 't would fit
A fairy's finger: now this ring ye see,
To me has brought some sorrow; little wit
It takes to guess this pretty gem must be
A dangerous thing for a poor man like me,
To bear through this wild country; I have said—
Not sworn—I'll swear no more—to give it free
Whene'er I find some gentle shepherd maid,
Whose finger it will fit.” There was some bustle made

XLIV

Between the two bondmaidens. Much they tried
To put it on: but Lydal smiled, “No! no!
It will not do; but here's a maid beside,
I guess thy daughter, with a neck like snow.
What not thy daughter or relation? So—
Well well, I reck not, let the ring but fit,—
So try it, maid: no! that's a proud word, O;
An that thou livest, thou'lt stronger grow in wit.
See: of the good red gold this is a pretty bit.”

176

XLV

Young Sybil looked on him: she knew not why
Her gentle heart went fluttering like a bird,
What time the hawk is hovering in the sky;
She knew not why, but she was sadly stirred;
It was not in his look nor yet his word;
Perchance it was that quicken'd sense which knows
Of coming danger; but not made of curd
Is woman's spirit: Sybil's strongly rose
And trampled on her fears as she would tread the snows.

XLVI

“Put up thy gold, old man; it came with blood,
And blood will follow it:” nor more said she,
But twirled her snowy distaff round: he stood
And looked upon her with a searching ee;
“Well, well: a fair maid's fancy is as free
As is the loosened arrow.” Eustace said,
“There is thy seat, and there's thy wallet, see—
Cease speech—dost see that Sybil is dismayed:”
The soldier glared, as glares the wolf upon the blade

XLVII

That's drawn to strike him. Much he seemed disposed
To give a fiery answer; but he smiled,
Sate down, his two broad palms of iron he closed
Over his knees, while on his wallets piled
He placed his head and slumbered like a child:
Yet 'neath his eyebrows, whoso looked might mark
His stealthy glances glimmering quick and wild.
Eupheme rose up; said, “Maidens, cease your wark,
Go sleep until the morn and rise up with the lark.”

177

XLVIII

They heard, and they obeyed. The wandering man
Said, “Much I needed food—more needed heat,
Now I have both—so, let me stay till dawn,
For ere the sun is three hours high, my feet
Shall, please the saints, be on the merry street
Of old Dumfries, where in the Friar's vennel
A comrade dwells—a pious man, discreet.
I'm sick of wandering; old hounds seek the kennel;
Thanks for the simmering cup, such kindness comes but sennel.”

XLIX

Ere Sybil went to slumber, close she shut
And bolted fast her chamber door, and placed
An antique chair against it: then she put
A poniard 'neath her pillow, richly chased;
And her white bosom's boddice she unlaced,
Undid her snood, and straightway down there gushed
A flood of ringlets o'er her slender waist;
She listened—all within the house was dushed,
She knelt—and prayer her bosom comforted and hushed.

L

Ere Eustace sunk in slumber, he couched low
As the lynx couches, and with ear and eye
Watched Lydal, for to him of meikle woe
His coming spoke, and yet he knew not why,—
Yet young doves know the goshawk's brood: a sigh
Was all he heard, and then a muttered prayer,
To saints, perchance, or to the God on high;
Young Eustace gave suspicion to the air,
Nor thought that woe o'er him now stretched her right arm bare.

179

PART ELEVENTH.

I

At night the snow lay on the land, and frost
Froze up the rivulets; nature's genial growth
Seemed stayed, and all creation's foyson lost;
But on the morn a wind came from the south,
As soft as that from April's primrose mouth.
Snows melted, rivers flowed, and every bird
Rejoiced in air and tree, with bounds uncouth
The very sheep showed they were deeply stirred;
Time—fourth of Mary Stuart, December twenty-third.

II

The days were short, nights long; but in those days
For house, clothes, food, man had but little toil.
Then three days' work kept him a week; his ways
They were all pleasant: turning o'er the soil,
Winnowing the corn, or when his cruse with oil
Flowed o'er, he sung and danced: in graver times
He heard the preacher thundering through the isle
'Gainst image worship, and Rome's scarlet crimes,
And whiles he solace sought in minstrel's laxer rhymes.

180

III

Then were kirn-feastings; heatings of the house,
With 'prentice loosings gay, and bridal mirth,
And that still merrier banqueting, with douce
But blythe old people, when a bairn has birth;
To-night Eupheme and Miles to Cummergirth
Have gone, for there an only son was born.
“Marvels are not uncommon on the earth,”
The father cried, “since we were wed the corn
Has been on Cummercroft just seven times sown and shorn.”

IV

Eustace and Sybil sat awhile, and spoke
Of the departing snow and coming flowers;
Eustace and Sybil sat awhile—her roke
Stayed in her hand, they talked of sunshine, showers,
Trees budding, and birds lilting in the bowers;
And speaking of the sweet and genial day,
Their looks grew softer, and the winter hours
Flew balmy o'er them, like the wings of May.
Much maidens said they looked, and little did they say.

V

“There are blest days,” said Eustace,—“days which heaven
Has heap'd with blessings, as with corn, the floor;
That day when first my father breath'd, was given
A good man to the world, for, seek it o'er,
Where is there worthier; dare I value more
That day of harvest, that most blessed day,
When Sybil came, God-guided, to our door;
Say not 'twas chance, sweet maiden, made thee stray,
If so, an angel came, and God had still his way.”

181

VI

“Oh, not in chance, and yet if God me sent,
He sent me not in love, I dread and fear,
But who can find or fathom his intent;
Be it for bliss or sorrow, I am here,
Happy, if, with my humbleness, I'm dear
To those who thus have with affections built
Me round, as with a wall: now, Eustace, hear
One word from me, nor let my words be spilt
As water on the ground; nay, speak first if thou wilt.

VII

“I read it in the tone of thy last word,
I read it in the darkening of thy look,
That thy next speech will smite like a sharp sword,
When it should come like sunshine to a brook,
To light it up.” Her in his arms he took,
And kissed her cheek—she sought her face to hide—
“No longer let God's purpose be mistook;
He sent thee here, my blessing and my pride,
Nay, turn not so from me,” for Sybil looked aside.

VIII

“Turn not away, nor thy refusing hand
Hold so; I loved thee when first hour I saw
Thee, like a strange dove flown into our land
From fowlers' snares: around thy steps was awe,
With gentleness, and purity's chaste law;
But more—that mystic sympathy of ee,
Which kindred souls, like chains of steel, can draw
Together. Now my date of bliss shall be,
Sweet Sybil, from that hour, if thou canst fancy me.”

182

IX

She looked—she wist not what to say—she blushed,
And softer in the enthusiast's claspings grew;
It was in vain she bade her heart be hushed,
Whilst he his converse did this wise pursue.
“Sweet one, thou knowest my flocks and herds are few,
A cot's my palace, peasants are my kin,
A hand for toil, a heart warm, stedfast, true;
A spirit which counts sloth a heinous sin,
Nor more have I to give, thy maiden love to win.”

X

Her beauteous face was lightened with a smile
Of that sweet sort that wiles men's hearts away.
Now, Eustace, think thee. Will continual toil
In summer's heat and winter's stormy sway,
Aye seem as heartsome as it seems to-day;
A poet with his true love at his hand,
Can cast such sunshine on life's future day,
That straight a desert flows like Judah's land,—
But toil into a snake may turn the poet's wand.”

XI

“And is the love of song a thriftless sign?”
He glowing said. “Can bards nor till nor sow?
He that loves water better than old wine,
And counts the breeze which brings the flaky snow
Gladsome as winds which fan the myrtle bough,—
And who as bright as Solway's pearls can deem
The drops which rest on worthy labour's brow,—
Is he a spirit with a cold esteem
For labour, and loves best to sail in fancy's stream?

183

XII

“No, Sybil, no: song sweetens toil, and I
Love both—to both I much of gladness owe,
And both must be my solace yet: nor sigh
Then hear of mine, nor mark me sad of brow;
The very birds seem of my heart to know,—
The soaring laverock, and the building bee,
The flowers which bloom, the hares which hirpling go—
Even silent nature, calm, and fair, and free,
Hold, like my Sybil's looks, inspired talk with me.”

XIII

“I love to hear thee speak thus,” meek she said.;
“My heart has had its warnings—visions odd,—
Eustace, I am not as thou seest, afraid;
Yet—art thou sure that no one hears us?—God
Holds over us his pride-chastising rod,
And sorrow lies before us, like a stream
Which we must pass, without or ford or road.”
“Sybil,” said Eustace, smiling, “we will swim,—
And so I spell thy warning, so I read thy dream.”

XIV

“Something I wish to say,” she said; and down
She looked, as looks the lily when it's laden
With dew—“I've heard thee, Eustace, nearly own
Ye loved another—her—that noble maiden—
One I can name not—her of Elvar.” Shading
Her face so with her hand, she gave a glance,
As gives the moon when in the clouds a-wading.
“Sybil,” he said, “need I say more than once,
I would not wed with rank: up from my humble stance

184

XV

I may not rise by wedlock: with a heart
So triply mailed in pride as mine, could I
Win honour by espousing it? Ye start—
The fount of glory, Sybil, is not dry,
And I shall have one drink before I die,
But not from marriage with her golden cup.”
Something of this, young Eustace knew not why,
Distressed the maiden, for she looked not up.
A softer tone he took—“My Sybil, let us sup

XVI

“With that good hind Simplicity—his ways
Are ways of peace. Now in Dalgonar glen
Where we pulled nuts; new built below the braes
There stands a cottage known to shepherds ken,
Those who look once, stay and look twice again;
Fruit-trees behind it raise a fragrant screen,
While in its porch, grey, venerable men
Tell old traditions; half concealed and seen
A rivulet sings, with swans that graze its margin green.

XVII

“Think that my home. Slow towards it at eve
I weary walk, and hail its window ray;
And mark the shadow of my loved one leave
Her work to watch me on my homeward way.
There with her matron grace, and gown of gray
She trims her house, makes cup and dresser shine,
And soothes and smiles my weariness away.—
Now be that loved, that wedded one—be mine,
My gentle Sybil,”—she could murmur but “I'm thine.”

185

XVIII

But in those simple words were freely given,
Heart, feeling, soul: her bright and beaming look
Told she had nought reserved which holy heaven
Desires bestowed. A foot the threshold strook,
In stept Miles Graeme, down in his wonted nook
He silent sate: while his douce spouse likewise
Appeared, and straight a beauteous web she took,
A web of wool and flax of various dyes,
And spread it forth—her shears and needle she applies,

XIX

And then to Sybil said, “Come hither—there!
Such thread, such workmanship, but seldom come
To kirk or banquet, kirn-carouse, or fair;
It has a look like violets in their bloom,—
Sure ne'er from lowland shuttle or from loom
Was web so beauteous and so silk-like seen;
'Twould grace a bride who had for her bridegroom
The first of men: nay, knowest thou whom I mean?
Sit down and sew a gown might well become a queen.”

XX

She sat: of wedded joy she tried to chaunt;
She could not, as her heart was full: the tale
Miles Graeme took up. “Let not earth's sorrows daunt
Man's heart, nor make him loose his loins, and wail
In caverns dark, and wildernesses pale;
But watch his flocks, and rear the bearded grain:
Meanwhile, let fortune out her favours deal,
As blindly as the east wind deals the rain;
Those who delight in peace, will leave her syren train,

186

XXI

“And seek the tranquil joys of life; and seek
Them when the pulse is quick and hope is high—
Seek wedded solace ere that life's bright wick
Burns nigh the socket and young feelings die.
For love hath wings, and doth for ever fly
From those who mock his generous warmth: all ye
Whose souls are linked as stars are in the sky,
Come ye, and hearken as ye come, to me.
Go! God has paired your hearts—ye blessed twain go be

XXII

“As one, and be ye happy. This fair morn
No farther gone, I leased a beauteous cot,
Where the first lily to glad May is born;
A fairy scene, where two clear streamlets trot,
And doves in pairs pant when the sun is hot.
There stray deer browze on trees by axe unshorn,
And honey-suckle round holly ties a knot
Of fragrant beauty: there on New-year's morn,
I'll place a wedded pair—I've said so, and I've sworn.”

XXIII

Sudden he rose, and unto Sybil went,
And took her hand and prest it for small space,
Then whispered, “Maiden, could'st thou be content
With him thou lovest that little cot to grace?”
How her pure blood from breast to brow did race!
She looked all ways, but not on him, and twined
Her fingers in her breast's outbursting lace.
“Fair one, my Eustace loves thee much, and blind
Are those who cannot. Maiden! call some words to mind,

187

XXIV

“And tell me an thou lovest him.” Up she rose,
And said, “If loving him be mortal sin,
I've sinned.” Nor spoke she other words than those,
Her tongue so faultered her fair lips within,
And her knees shook like wild leafs of the linn.
“Eustace, come here,” the reverend father says,
“This hand, which belted earls were blest to win,
Kiss thou and keep.” On either head he lays
His hands. “Love God—love man—each other love always,

XXV

“And heaven will give you length of happy days.”
They kissed each other. Now rose glad Eupheme,
And cried, “I'm happy: to His name be praise,
That sent thee hither: gladness never came
In such a gush, since first my own Miles Græme
I won from envious maidens. Go, get wed—
And bring fair boys, and keep a heartsome hame.”
Fair Sybil's cheeks blushed so ye might have bled
Them with a rush, the dame scarce knew what she had said.

XXVI

And yet she was a woman wise, for she
Said, “Son and husband, ere the lark is stirring,
Ride down to fair Dumfries, and see that ye
Buy bridal gear enough: the bridal fairing
Is one that must be worth my daughter's wearing.
I mean a gift given by her own gude-mother.
And see ye shame us not: we'll give't an airing
At kirk and market, who would try to smother
The beauty of our bride, we'll ne'er see such another.”

188

XXVII

They slept, they mounted, rode and bought, then took
Their horses forth to start for home again.
But ere, Dumfries, thy causeway they forsook,
The sun sank dark, the moon betoken'd rain;
Stars in the westward trailed a blazing train,
Men looked to heaven, then left the market fast;
The wind fell lowne, then wakening fresh amain,
Poured forth a bitter and a bitterer blast.
Their bonnets o'er their brows men plucked, and galloped past.

XXVIII

But fleeter than the fleetest there goes one
On a dark horse, and at each snort and bound
The rider cheers him, bids him hurry on:
The winds augment, the cedars shake around,
A dismal darkness swallows up the ground.
'Tis not the tempest which the wisest fear,
Nor yet the river with increasing sound,
Nor a sad cry which rings still in his ear
That makes young Eustace haste so in his fleet career.

XXIX

He bought his bridal gear, scarce stayed to greet
Friends whom he had not met for many a day:
Of them an old man followed down the street,
Saying, “Eustace, hearken to a head that's grey:
What says wise Solomon?”—he brake away,—
When harp in hand a minstrel came: “Now tarry,
Young bard, and listen to an ancient lay,
Sung to the grandsire of our crowned Mary.
The tune True Thomas learned in the wild land of faery.”

189

XXX

Sweet needs that song be, which can gain the heed
Of one for a dark journey mounted ready;
Sweet needs the song be, that in bridal speed
Can stay a joyous groom who loves his lady:
And sweet it was. See how the chaunt already
Hath charm'd him down; like to a child he listens,
As sweeps along by stream and forest shady
The fairy-ballad: bright his dark eye glistens—
Fair fall thee, Poesie, thou chief of earthly blessings.

XXXI

For thou dost cover man as with a cloak,
Art to his heart and soul a wondrous solace;
In glory's wheel thou art the brightest spoke:
Thou makest us smile as fortune works her follies;
When dark misluck aims her repeated vollies,
Even as a charm thy ever magic strain
Guards human nature, and the giant rallies;
The cloud departs, and all is bright again.
So thought he, Eustace, while with left hand on his rein,

XXXII

And gold in his right hand he sate. Full low
He to the minstrel bowed, and bounteous largess
Bestowed, then spurred his willing steed, and now
He flies. Meanwhile the storm her sway enlarges,
And wind and rain come with redoubled charges;
He faced the pouring sleet, the driving hail
And forked fire, as he would face the targes
Of fierce Latoun with all his men in mail,—
Full soon he gained the gorge of green Dalgonar vale.

190

XXXIII

He gained the vale, and by the lovely river
Rode swiftly forward; now his heart he fills
With Sybil's image, and his spirit ever
Dwells on her mind's perfections. O'er the hills
The moon one moment's troubled lustre spills;
He marks his home, while sudden on his mind,
There comes a cloud with sad and ominous thrills—
Those strange forebodings, dark and undefined,
Which, like the twilight tell, that night is still behind.

XXXIV

Unto his father's house he comes; he sees
No gladsome light, he hears no gladsome word,
And down he leaps, and there upon her knees,
He finds his mother: through him like a sword
Dread terror rushed. “My son, upon the Lord
Call in this sad calamity, and he
Will cause thy brided love to be restored.”
“Mother,” he cried, “where is my Sybil?” She
Held up her bleeding arms, saying, “See, my Eustace, see.

XXXV

“To-night, my child, our lighted chamber rung
To a sweet song, sung by thy own sweet bride,
When in upon us armed horsemen sprung,
And seized on Sybil: loud on thee she cried,
These feeble arms in vain to save her tried;
Round her I linked them, but the leader flung
Me like a baby from him in his pride.
As in the saddle he before her sprung,
He said, ‘Be still, my love,’ in a soft English tongue,

191

XXXVI

“Then gallopped southwards.” Eustace sudden took
His ivory horn and blew it once; the sound
Made twenty youths start up by glen and brook;
He blew it twice—a score of brands were bound
Unto a score of waists: a third time wound—
They breasted twenty steeds, and gathering fast
Before his door, all armed their chief they found.
“An English tongue! and southward gone; a cast
Dangerous and bold we'll play before this night is past.

XXXVII

“To night armed reavers from the south have come,
And harmed my mother, and borne off my bride:
By hopes in heaven and happiness at home!
By injured love and by insulted pride!
I swear green earth holds nought for me beside,
Until I win her back again. Away!
We'll find them yet ere they reach Solway side,
And woe to them—my softest word is slay.”
Forward he leant, and seemed to swallow up the way.

XXXVIII

And when they unto haunted Cluden came,
They slacked their bridles, bade their coursers drink.
Then up all armed among them said Miles Græme,
“God leads the wicked prosperous to the brink
Of dark perdition, and then lets him sink,
Even so will it be now.” A peasant spoke,
“All this last night I could not sleep nor wink;
At the dead hour a voice came crying, ‘Jock,
A wily fox has ta'en the fairest of thy flock.’”

192

XXXIX

With resolute hearts and hurrying haste they go,
The roosting doves look startled down, nor fly,
Nor moves the wild deer couched amid the snow,
So quick the fiery tumult flashes by;
Lincluden's ruins on the leftward lie;
In fair Dumfries the sound of mirth they hear,
And see her festal lights gleam to the sky;
Unto no one they spoke, till they drew near
The close piled tombstones dark of thy churchyard, Troqueer.

XL

'Midst the ranked gravestones knelt a maid, her love
Lay buried there—and there in dool and sorrow
She frequent went, and like a wounded dove
Murmured her grief on death's dark doleful furrow.
Said Eustace, “Maiden, sawest thou hurrying thorough
Six lawless riders with a lady?” Nigh
She came and pointed southward: like an arrow
They cleft the air and cleared the ground; till high
Rose Criffel's cloven head crowned with the gloomy sky.

XLI

Afar before them Solway pours her tide,
Colvend her haunted caverns dark displays,
Her lights Arbigland scatters far and wide
With Preston-hall and the grey tower of Raes;
Soon beauteous Siddick's elf and fairy braes
They pass, and still they trace along the land
New hoof-prints by the dull moon's fitful rays;
Then pause where Siddick water o'er the strand
Rolls: for they see no more the marks upon the sand.

193

XLII

Within a bay whose crescent bosom kept
The barks of Elvar, an old man was seen;
His halve-net drawing from the tide, which leapt
Retiring with its murmuring waters green;
Some sight or sound had discomposed his mien:
He stared and stammered like one much dismayed.
“O, here,” he groaned, “from eighty to eighteen
I've fished, and life out of these waters made;
But now I'll quit the craft for fiends have ta'en to trade.”

XLIII

“Father,” said Eustace, “have you seen to-night,
A Maiden borne off by six lawless men?”
“Seen what! no, truly: but I've got a fright,
I doubt I'll ne'er be John of Raes agen;
I heard a rush of horse—a shriek, and then
There came six fearful shapes down to the flood;
They whistled thrice,—scarce had they whistled, when
Right towards them a wondrous shallop stood:
A shallop never framed from God Almighty's wood,

XLIV

“But by the sleight of fiends: oh! they can work
Most marvellously; these evil shadows bore
A beauteous Maid on board, then like a cork
Away the shallop danced for England's shore,
I'd seen enough, and I could stand no more;
Now, if ye'll listen to a man gray-haired,
Cross not to-night dread Solway's waters o'er;
'Tis glamour all: I trow ye'll be ensnared.”
Down leapt they from their steeds, nor for his counsel cared.

194

XLV

Straightway the halser of a barge they loosed,
And thrust her from the shore; quick to the breeze
They spread the sail, and as they spread it, roused
The wind came seaward sweeping through the trees,
And furrowed in a gurly mood the seas.
The ancient fisherman gazed on aghast,
“I've seen wild youths, but none so wild as these,
Pursue a barge made by the fiends!” they passed
Swift seaward as he spoke—he shouted out, “Avast!

XLVI

“Ye've ta'en the Lady Sybil's barge—beware,
There's tempest in yon angry moon: I say,
Keep out of Lot's wife's lap and steer her fair
Past Robin-Rigg—so, by the saints, I may
As well talk to a stag that stands at bay.”
Young Eustace Græme, said, “Steady! lo the glare
Of that dread lightning showed me south away
The shallop flying o'er the waters—there!
I saw her tack e'en now.” At once the midnight air

XLVII

Grew thick, choked up the moon and stars, and down
A whirlwind stooped, and northward rushing threw
A furrow up, such as a fleet would drown,
And with its foam besprinkled all our crew.
A strange sail nigh to this devourer drew,
Which seized the canvas, and then whirled it round;
The yell of perishing mortals heavenward flew—
The whirlwind passed: the treacherous sea around
Smoothed its huge curls, and smiled as if it ne'er had frowned.

195

XLVIII

And there like foam upon the waters lay
One man, no more; straight from the darkened sea
Eustace he snatched him; some stern pilgrim gray,
Or palmer-monk, or anchorite looked he;
Stately he was, and stalwart seemed to be:
He shook the sea-foam from him thus, and said,
“God yet has some good work in store for me,
To save me thus so wondrously:” he laid
His broad palms o'er his breast, and inwardly he prayed.

XLIX

“Yes, God has got some work for thee. Now mark,
Young Eustace said, “and weigh well what I say:—
Sir Ralph Latoun has to his castle dark,
By force, not love, ta'en my sweet bride away;
This night we go—and heed my words, I pray—
This night we go to win her back, or leave
Our bodies to the southern birds of prey.”
The Pilgrim laid his palm on Eustace' sleeve,
And said, “Good youth, say now, how wilt thou this achieve,

L

The tower is strong, its chieftain stark.” “Yea, both,”
Replied he, Eustace. “Comrades, warily steer,
For rocks are lurking 'midst that broiling froth;
Now we have passed them: 'tween the dark and clear,
Lo! see the castle: in this haven here
We'll moor, and go ashore, and, Palmer, then,
Comes what God wills; but whoso lives shall hear
We bore us like a score of Scottishmen—”
On them the night around closed darksome as a den.

197

PART TWELFTH.

I

Grim as a wolf's throat grew the night, and fast
The waves flashed shoreward, while a thunderous cloud
Hung on huge Skiddaw, whence a curtain vast
Of darkness, fell o'er Solway like a shroud;
The fire came spouting, and the wind waxed loud:
Men met each other in the street and road,
And upward looked, and paused, and said aloud,
“What may this darkness to old England bode,
Sore famine—civil war—of Scots a fierce inroad.”

II

Proud in his tower, that on a headland stood,
Like to an erne's nest on some perilous cliff,
Sir Ralph Latoun looked o'er the Solway flood;
And as he heard the tempest wakening stiff,
He laughed, and said, “Fair fall my nimble skiff,
That 'fore the blast bore me so steeve and steady;
And, as my love would say, bide but a gliff,
Thou good firm heart, there's something making ready
To please and grace thee too,—a sweet and winsome lady.

198

III

“And thou, Hugh Lydal, hast thou given my banner
Unto the winds; and are the guests invited;
And has my Sybil got three maids to fan her,
To cool the flame my courtship hot has lighted;
And has the proud Priest of Saint-Bees alighted?
I tell thee, Lydal, I design thee honour,
Thou shalt to court, and, by the saints, be knighted,
Wer't but for that sweet inroad on Dalgonar;
She's queen of all the north, and in my heart I'll throne her.”

IV

“The banner's spread, and all the torches blazing,
Long lines of light flash o'er the darksome wave,
The sheep might all be seen on Criffel grazing,
Save that a cloud has come down like the grave:
All, all is bright; the bridal bower is brave;
The tables spread, the stair is strewn with rushes,
The gates are opened to the meanest knave,
And each calls loud as he the wine-cup crushes,
Blessings on this black hour, 'twill hide our sweet bride's blushes.”

V

The Priest alighted at the castle gate,
And said, as up the vaulted way he passed,
“This night has robed the earth in funeral state;
See there, the darkness ominous and vast,
Stands round thy castle, distant a stone's cast—
Is this the bride thou hast so boldly won?”
Adown her cheeks the bright tears trickled fast:
He took Sir Ralph aside, “Now, my fair son,
Before the church makes thee and that young creature one,

199

VI

“I must ask of thee, hast thou had consent
Of this sweet dame? she is of northern birth.”
Replied Sir Ralph. “Now, by both Tyne and Trent,
Sir Monk, thou art a man inclined to mirth;
Dost know the wild Scot otherside the firth?
Those who go there to woo from southron land
Must needs their bodies in steel harness girth:
Saint George! they else would bless them with a brand!
How I that lady won, Sir Priest, now understand.

VII

“I asked her broad lands did they wish to wed
With mine far spreading toward the Roman way?
They answered:—Priest, now hearken what they said:
Aye, willing, but there was a mulct to pay
To Mother Saint-Bees, o'er the deep Solway.”
“Now, by the holy Peter,” said the Priest,
“The wooing was done deftly: no delay
Shall happen till I make twain one at least;
So now unto the altar—then unto the feast.”

VIII

Mirth had commenced, so had the feast; the glow
Of torches and of tapers threw a stain
Upon the goblets in their red o'erflow,
By pledging hands high lifted up to drain:
The minstrel, too, was ready with his strain,
And maidens with their feet. Into the hall
The Priest came: “Children, it is not in vain
Ye drink and dance; for mortal men are all
Weighed in the balance; words God wrote on Babel's wall.

200

IX

“One little hour—one little hour, and ye
Are gone for ever, like the summer flowers:
Gone like the sunshine of the maiden's ee;
Gone like the song which gladdened all the bowers:
So dance and sing—the present hour is ours.
Now, what readest thou, fair bride, in that dark sea,
Thou lookest so serious on it: all the shores,
From Allan water round to bright Saint-Bee
Are in thick darkness wrapt: what, lady, dost thou see?”

X

“I see nought, Father: I but turn my face
To my fair country—to green Elvar side—
To that sweet land where my abiding-place
Has been—and shall be.” “Daughter, do not hide
Such feelings; they are human nature's pride.”
She heard no more: a sudden burst of levin
Showed her the Solway flashing far and wide,
And a small shallop anchoring in the haven,
Beside the castle wall. She held her hands to heaven,

XI

And said, “God help the righteous—smite the bad!”
“Daughter, in this meek frame of mind, 'twere meet,
That thou should'st to the chapel-altar: glad
The church will be espousals such to greet,
Beauty to Bravery—to the Strong the Sweet.”
“Father,” she said, “lead on; to lady's bower
I never went with half such willing feet:
There is a saye—high Elvar house shall tower,
When its last child is won even in the witching hour.”

201

XII

“Come, then, to church,” the Abbot said, “fair child.”
“Sir Monk,” the bridegroom cried, “this castle hall
Shall be my church: the chapel has been soiled
By Luther's vermin: there his blind worms crawl,
And leave their slime upon the blessed wall;
So now, good Father, wed us where we stand.”
“Sir Knight, we may not disobey the call
Of Mother Church; nay, never touch thy brand,
I stand like Skiddaw fell, or Solway's stubborn strand.”

XIII

Hugh Lydal came and said, “A holy man,
A hermit or a strolling monk, is come,
And asks for shelter till the morrow's dawn.”
“Now in good time,” Sir Ralph said, “give him room.
Father,” he said, “art thou from holy Rome,
Or from the famed Lorett? if so, decide,
And what thou sayest shall be with me a doom:
Here where I stand I wish to wed my bride;
This holy Abbot says, at the high altar side.”

XIV

“Stay,” said the Abbot, “Wanderer, who art thou
That comest in palmer's weeds with locks unshorn:
A morion better would befit thy brow;
And for those lips a warrior's battle horn.
Thou art no godly priest, I dare be sworn.”
“No priest, but godly,” thus the Palmer said,
“For I have been where our true Lord was born,
In Judah's land: in Heshbon's holy glade
I've knelt, and silent walked 'neath Carmel's sacred shade.

202

XV

I am, Sir Priest, of Scotland, and I've drunk
Of woes as full as warriors e'er drank wine;
One that I loved was in the waters sunk,
And I went mad: Sir Knight, this tale of mine
Is not for bridal speed. On Solway brine
To night a whirlwind found me and my bark;
That I was saved I hold it as a sign
God yet has work for me.” And low'ring dark,
He looked around, marked all, yet seemed no one to mark.

XVI

“Now to your question. 'Tis unholy deemed
To wed save in some sacred place, and where
Is ought so sacred in the world esteemed
As is the holy church? Fearest thou the air,
And that this maiden with the forehead fair
Will falter: ah! Sir Knight, ye little know
How willingly young maidens wander there.”
“Peace, peace,” cried Ralph Latoun, “ho! torches, ho!
And ope the chapel doors. Sweet lady, wilt thou go?”

XVII

Young Sybil rose, and standing 'midst the hall,
Shook back her wandering curls, and mournful said,
“I speak less to your lord, than to you all,
Here I, a captive, from my home conveyed,
Perforce; by force, in bridal gear arrayed,
By force ta'en to the altar, and by force
Wedded to one I cannot love, and made
A world's wonder. Have ye no remorse,
And fear ye not the Lord. Oh, many a blackened corse

203

XVIII

“This deed of thine shall make.” “Nay, daughter, nay,”
The Abbot said, “be soothed; ah, marvellous sweet
Will this be to thee ere the break of day.”
Just then came torches flashing 'mongst their feet;
The gates flew wide; they heard the big waves beat,
As down they went, for 'neath the castle rock
The chapel stood. The timbrels waked and meet
The bridal time the culverines loudly spoke—
A levin flash said twelve by the high castle clock.

XIX

Forth to the chapel altar now they pass;
Bride maids all in a smile and titter go;
Next them the bride, her brow, as in a glass,
Showed much of anguish and a heart in wo.
By her the bridegroom, with his sable brow,
And weapon at his side; men said that he
Looked wild, and aye his glance went to and fro.
Hugh Lydal walked behind, and two or three
Of his staunch comrades came, all jesting, frank, and free.

XX

The Abbot's hands are on the holy book,
The bridegroom's on the bride's; but who is he
That comes, nor comes alone? calm is his look:
'Tis Eustace Græme, and he says smilinglie,
“Sir Knight, true love is as the sunshine free—
So, Sybil, come.” Sir Ralph Latoun her hand
Drops, and his sharp sword plucks out suddenlie:
“Ho! stay her Lydal—I'll stay him.” Each brand
Was in that moment quenched, and darkness ruled the land.

204

XXI

Lydal had stayed her, but a stalwart grasp
His shoulder got; a low voice in his ear
Said, “Frozen serpent—viper—poisonous asp:”
And as each word was said a weapon clear
Was thrust and thrust. Latoun cried, “Comrades, here—
Here with your swords; there's traitors in the church.”
Even as he shouted, helm and sword and spear
Came hurrying on: right through the castle porch
Rushed many a wondering face and many a flaming torch.

XXII

Down from the church unto the shallop, see,
As flies the dove when hawks are in the air,
Flies Sybil—Eustace follows, turns, and he
Strikes as he turns, and guards her here and there.
“Spread high the sail, pluck up the anchor, fair
The wind blows o'er to Elvar; wondrous good
Is God: and see, of all rare things most rare,
Here's my sweet Sybil. Now by book and rood,
Glad is the sea to bear such beauty o'er its flood.”

XXIII

Ere good Miles Græme bore Sybil through the flood,
And set her on the deck, there came a cry
Such as the famished vulture gives for food,
Ere lambs are yeaned, and he is in the sky.
Back foot by foot, for no one thinks to fly,
Young Eustace with his comrades gain the strand.
Aloud the Palmer cries, “My gallant boy,
Thy bride is won:” and saying so, his brand
Struck down the foremost man, the boldest of the band.

205

XXIV

“She is not won yet, churles,” cried Ralph Latoun,
And down into the combat fierce he swept,
As grim death comes when he has much unmown,
And here his harvest seemed but half way reapt.
Stroke follows stroke, and blow on blow is heapt;
Some drop, some bleed, yet still the field make good,
And gain it: last of all young Eustace leapt
Into the barge, and all unskaithed he stood,
And cried, “Now, my love now, thou'rt free as Solway flood.”

XXV

“She's won, she's won!” a score of tongues replied;
“She's won, she's won!” and at the gladsome sound,
Against the surge the shallop laid her side,
And started as the deer before the hound.
Down in the surge Latoun came with a bound—
“Return, base churl, and fight me, else I'll chase
Thee far as Scotland owns an inch of ground;
Return, or else even in thy dwelling place,
I'll beat thee with a rod before thy mother's face.”

XXVI

Eustace said, “mother!” and straight on him gushed
Remembrance of her wrongs: his sword he drew,
And made the flood flash o'er him as he rushed
Back to the shore; ere well his rival knew
He stood before him. “Death between us two
Holds up his glass, and shakes his latest sand.”
The shallop back into the haven flew—
Young Eustace stood alone; he sheathed his brand,
Leaped in—pushed off—a moan was heard along the strand.

206

XXVII

A moan arose along the strand,—lo! look,
Strong help is come when help is no avail;
The life's-blood's gushing from him like a brook;
He digs the sand with each convulsive nail,
And o'er him there is heard a woman's wail:
Around him comrades hang the mournful face—
“Sir Ralph Latoun, last lord of Allondale,
Lies smitten down, even in his pride of place.
Farewell, thou sternest chief of amost venturous race.”

XXVIII

Then like a bird the dark waves breasting free,
Fast flew the shallop; as it flew, the cloud
At once was lifted up from land and sea;
The stars shone out, and glistened on each shroud;
Lone Criffel shewed her snowy forehead proud
On Siddick hills, and Siddick's lonely stream,
The sheep and star-light lay—amid the crowd
Of her deliverers, there, as in a dream,
Sat Sybil. Now the moon 'gan on the cliffs to gleam

XXIX

And showed old Elvar wood, and Elvar tower,
Not as when red with blood, and rent with fire,
It stood, what time Sir Ralph Latoun did pour
His unavailing wrath and deadly ire.
How different now! the walls have risen higher;
The turrets darkly frown and look on high;
A flag is fluttering from the topmost spire;
Below, the mounted culverins ready lie,
And warders man the walls. Long while his eager eye

207

XXX

The Pilgrim bent on Elvar; far and near
He looked—on Siddick hill, and wood, and sea,—
And then said, “Eustace—gallant youth; I ne'er
Can pay thee back the good deed done to me.
We part not here,—long from my own countree
Though I have wandered, still I'll find the power
To do some deed of gentleness to thee,
And give, perchance, thy bride a bridal dower.”
Even as he spoke, the gates were ope'd of Elvar tower.

XXXI

And forth a hoary warder came, and said,
“The Lady Sybil Lesley bids me say,
That fame already hath to her conveyed
The brave deeds wrought in distant Allonbay;
Of England's knights the flower is wede away.
So come, refresh thee in her dwelling place,
Thou with thy bride and brethren—say not nay,
She means thee and thy comrades meikle grace.
So come, that she may greet thee even face to face.”

XXXII

They went—all went: fair Sybil glanced aside
On Eustace, but his look was fixed and calm.
She glanced—men say there was a flush of pride
Came o'er her brow, as through the lanes of palm
She walked; 'twas to her fluttered spirit balm
To walk in freedom in her native groves.
'Twas where she oft had heard the evening psalm,
And minstrelsy which maidens' bosoms moves
With scenes of tender joy; proud knights, and ladies' loves.

208

XXXIII

Fair Elvar tower stood on a swelling brae,
A grove, a holly garland wreathed it round:
Swans swam within the moat, and upward lay
A thousand deer in groupes upon the ground.
“Such beauteous place on earth is nowhere found,”
The warder said, and straightway through the gate
He led them: high o'erhead the archway frowned;
Next to a hall they passed; a hall of state,
Where warriors' statues old, all ranked in order sate.

XXXIV

All ranked in order sate, while on the wall,
Of Elvar's ancient lords a long array
Were pictured nigh to breathing: stern and tall,
Bearded, and plumed, and hawk in hand stood they.
Some in the flush of youth,—some worn and grey.
There sat a lady painted nigh a river,
And at her feet a suppliant warrior lay,
Love's sweet warm breath seemed her ripe lips to sever:
She gazed on him and seemed to bid him live for ever.

XXXV

Eustace had seen, he thought, her face before,
And as he mused what lady it might be,
The sweating sewers with meat and drink good store
The table filled. “Much need of food have ye;
Perils on shore, and tempests on the sea,
Ye have endured.” Then came a snooded maid,
Who turned to Sybil, “Maiden, come with me
To Lady Lesley.” “Friends,” the Pilgrim said,
“Eat, drink and welcome: here none may make us afraid.”

209

XXXVI

Then stretching forth his shrunk hands o'er the food,
He ate as eats the wolf, though doubt and gloom
Seemed in his sun-scorched brow to stir and brood.
High o'er his head waved many a victor plume,
And weapon that in Saxon ranks made room:
He ate, then filled a cup: “Fair sir, thy name?
And art thou churle's blood?” “Amongst the broom
I watch my flocks, proud Pilgrim, and I claim
This good man for my sire; men call me Eustace Græme.”

XXXVII

“A shepherd churle! Yet what a ready hand,
And what prompt judgment!” “Pilgrim, I have told
My name and lineage, who art thou? A brand
Becomes thee more than doth the cross; for bold
Thy bearing is.” The Pilgrim answered cold,
“My name's a riddle.”—As he spoke, asunder
The gallery doors were at a signal rolled,
The trumpets told, the culverins said in thunder,
Young Sybil Lesley comes, wide Scotland's fairest wonder.

XXXVIII

She came:—a veil descending from her brow,
Unto her kirtle's golden hem, concealed
Her beauty nought,—for through it all the glow
Of cheek and bosom were alike revealed;
She seemed a lily up in crystal sealed.
Even as she came, aback her veil she cast,
And cried out “Eustace!” Drunk with love she reeled
Into his arms, and tears came flowing fast.
He clasped her, how he clasped! as if he'd clasp his last.

210

XXXIX

“Welcome,” she said, “sweet minstrel, to thy hame,
And to the bosom of thine own true love.
Long, long I strove 'tween love and maiden shame,—
But faithfulness will ever strongest prove.
Stern Ralph Latoun came here and fiercely strove
To win me: straight to thy romantic vale
I fled: the story will some poet move—
In other name I told my own true tale.
A pleasant bond-time I had in Dalgonar dale.”

XL

“Oh, Lady!” thus said Eustace, with a tone
Most exquisitely mournful—“What hast thou
In thy supreme affection to me done?
Thou art my love with brightness on thy brow,
And numbered with the loftiest here below;
Whilst I, thy peasant lord, must be the scorn
Of men. Ah, Sybil, my soul's striken through.
The noble wife—the husband meanly born,
Will be a household jest from eve to dewy morn.”

XLI

“No, no, my love,—no, no, my Eustace, no,—
Our marriage will read rank a lesson stern:
'Tis genius and true worth I wed, and who
Shall say I wed not nobly: men shall learn
From Eustace and his Sybil, to discern
'Tween God's own nobles and those soulless clods
Whom kings exalt from their corrupted kerne,
And set the wooden idols up as gods;—
If I read heaven aright, much good our love forebodes.”

211

XLII

“No, it bodes evil, and behold 'tis come!”
Replied the Palmer with a kindling look.
“Thou art my daughter: Elvar's lord's come home!”
The table as he spoke he fiercely strook,
And in each hand the lovers 'twain he took,
And thrust them wide asunder. “So I sever
Thou and that churle: now by God's holy book
I vow—as water drunk from Siddick river
Returns no more, I thus part him and thee for ever.”

XLIII

“The water drunk may come no more, but I
Return again,” said Eustace: “know, proud lord,
We have made vows, those vows are gone on high,
And we are one. 'Tis no menacing word,
And haughty look, no, nor the sharpened sword,
Shall sever me from Sybil. Threat not me
With prison, wheel, axe, claymore, or with cord;
Love laughs at them, as I laugh, lord, at thee.”
Fair Sybil with a shriek clasped her fierce father's knee.

XLIV

“Father, oh father, thou didst leave thy child,
Alone in this wide world, and evil men
With language shameless, and with purpose wild,
Came round thy orphan. Lord of Elvar, then
Who was to guard or counsel her? or when
That fierce dread knight whom thou sawest done to die,
Desired to lay thy deer in his wolf's den,
Who came to succour me? Thy daughter, I
Shall keep my vow as sure as yon sun shines on high.”

212

XLV

And saying so she stood. Her kindled brow
Glowed like a warrior's when the trumpet's pealing;
All other thoughts are banished from her now,
Save Love that, like a flooded river reeling
From bank to bank, o'erflows all meaner feeling.
“Now, mark me, Sybil,” and he touched his sword—
“Go with thy lover to his shepherd shealing;
Go watch thy sheep, and strain the milkwhite curd,
But never churle's son shall be of Elvar lord.”

XLVI

“John Lesley, Lord of Elvar,” Eustace said,
I am the offspring of an humble race,
Whose blazoned banner is the shepherd's plaid,
A sheal—a cottage, their chief dwelling-place;
But were this Holyrood, there, face to face,
To Scotland's haughtiest nobles I would say,
Thy daughter's love is but free Nature's grace;
And were such vindication needful, lay
My lance in rest 'gainst him who dared to say me nay.”

XLVII

A while on both Miles Græme looked on and smiled,
Then said to Sybil, “Is it wise to brave
Thy father thus: thou art his only child:
My son's a peasant; noble blood doth crave
Blood like itself, and Sybil might enslave
Even Scotland's mightiest.” She sharp answer made:
“Love comes and goes not like the Solway wave;
Though thou forsakest me, Sir, I'm undismayed
And firm in my resolve, come sunshine or come shade.”

213

XLVIII

“Thou art a princely lass, and for thy sake,
And that alone, I cast aside disguise;
John Lesley, Lord of Elvar, now betake
Thee to thy sword; here stands before thine eyes
No churle, but one long reckoned wight and wise;
Till, warring with thee, rank he lost and land:
Such was the regent's will—but in me dies
Hereditary hate; the shepherd's wand
With me is worthier far than is the lordly brand.”

XLIX

Even as he spoke did the Lord Elvar give
His sword unto the sheath; he scarcely tarries
Till speech is done: “Now, as I hope to live
Here and hereafter.” His stern colour varies:
“What! my old chivalrous foe, the good lord Herries!
Not know thee, man! with such good cause to mind
Thy heart and sword! Now, by the three blest Maries!
That voice, that look! I'm dull as well as blind:
Our children's faithful loves! Now, God in this is kind.

L

“O God is good, and we are but as worms
That crawl upon the surface of his earth,
And put on airs, and prate of rank and forms,
And loftiness of blood, and noble birth;
Know with the angels man's poor pride makes mirth.
Come here, my Sybil; Eustace, thou, my son:
Each other love, and long by Solway firth
Be blest together, and your thoughts be one.”
He blest them: they were blest. My rustic tale is done.

214

LI

My song is ended: may my country see
Order and beauty in my rude design:—
My song is ended; I have poured it free:
May they who read it deem its roughest line
Tastes of fresh nature like well flavoured wine.
My song is ended: it was long to me
As light to morn—as morn to Solway brine,—
As showers to corn—as blossom to the bee;
And dearer since, dear Wife, 'twas pleasant unto thee.

FINIS.

Name of rocks and sand-bars on the shore of Colvend.