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The falling gauntlet quits the rein,

Down drops the casque of steel,
The cuirass leaves his shrinking side,

The spur his gory heel.
The eyes desert the naked skull,

The mouldering flesh the bone,
Till Helen's lily arms entwine

A ghastly skeleton.

Warriors from the breach of dangt

Pluck no longer laurels there; They but yield the passing strange Wild-flower wreaths for Bean

hair.

The furious barb snorts fire and foam,

And with a fearful bound
Dissolves at once in empty air,

And leaves her on the ground.

Half seen by fits, by fits half heard,

Pale spectres flit along,
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance,

And howl the funeral song :

* E'en when the heart's with anguish

cleft
Revere the doom of Heaven,
Her soul is from her body reft;
Her spirit be forgiven!”

1795. 1796.

THE VIOLET
See Lockhart's life of Scott, Vol I, Chapter
8, and the Century Magazine, July, 1899.
The violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels

mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen or copse or forest dingle.

THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN
THE Baron of Smaylho’me rose

day,

He spurred his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the re

way,
That leads to Brotherstone.
He went not with the bold Bucclench

His banner broad to rear ;
He went not 'gainst the English yer

To lift the Scottish spear.
Yet his plate-jack was braced and

helmet was laced,
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel

sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.
The baron returned in three days' spare

And his looks were sad and sour;
And

weary was his courser's pace
As he reached his rocky tower.
He came not from where Ancralia Moor

Ran red with English blood; Where the Douglas true and the bold

Buccleuch
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stogod.
Yet was his helmet hacked aryd heweil,

His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with

brued,
But it was not English gore.
He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for hi-

foot-page,
His name was English Will
" Come thou hither, my little

Come hither to my knee ;
Though thou art young an

age,
I think thou art true to m

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Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclin-

ing;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through watery lustre

shining

blood im

The summer sun that dew shall dry

Ere yet the day be past its morrow, Nor longer in my false love's eye Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

1797. 1810.

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Come, tell me all that tho

And look thou tell me tru
Since I from Smaylho'me

been,
What did thy lady do ?

· And I'll chain the blood-hound, and

the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strewed on the

stair; So, by the black rood-stone and by

holy Saint John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there!' • Though the blood-hound be mute and.

the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not

blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the

chamber to the east, And my footstep he would know.'

"My lady, each night, sought the lonely

light That burns on the wild Watchfold ; For from height to height the beacons

bright of the English foemen told. ** The bittern clamored from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill ; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross

To the eiry Beacon Hill. "I watched her steps, and silent came

Where she sat her on a stone ;No watchman stood by the dreary

flame, It burned all alone. * The second night I kept her in sight

Till to the fire she came, And, by Mary's might! an armed

knight Stood by the lonely flame. * And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there; But the rain fell fast and loud blew the

blast, And I heard not what they were. ** The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watched the secret pair

On the lonesome Beacon Hill. ** And I beard her name the midnight

hour.

"O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to

the east, For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say mass, till three days do

pass, For the soul of a knight that is

slayne.' " He turned him around and grimly he

frowned Then he laughed right scornfullyHe who says the mass-rite for the soul

of that knight May as well say mass for me : " • At the lone midnight hour when bad

spirits have power In thy chamber will I be.—' With that he was gone and my lady left

alone,
And no more did I see."

And say, 'Come this night to thy

lady's bower; Ask no bold baron's leave. He lifts his spear with the bold Buc

cleuch ; lady is all alone ; door she 'll undo to her knight so

true the eve of good Saint John.' cannot come; I must not come ;

are not come to thee: the eve of Saint John I must wan

der alone : In thy bower I may not be.' Now, out on thee, faint-hearted

knight! Thou shouldst not say me nay ; For the ere is sweet, and when lovers

meet
I worth the whole summer's day.

Then changed, I trow, was that bold

baron's brow From the dark to the blood-red high; “ Now, tell me the mien of the knight

thou last seen, For, by Mary, he shall die!" · His arms shone full bright in the

beacon's red light ; His plume it was scarlet and blue; On his shield was a hound in a silver

leash bound, And his crest was a branch of the

yew." “ Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot

page, Loud dost thou lie to me! or that knight is cold and low laid in

mould, All under the Eildon-tree."

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“ Yet hear but my word, my noble lord !

For I heard her name his name; And that lady bright, she called the

knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

The bold baron's brow then changed, I

trow, From high blood-red to pale“ The grave is deep and dark-and the

corpse is stiff and starkSo I may not trust thy tale. “ Where fair Tweed flows round holy

Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago by some secret foe

That gay gallant was slain. “The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drowned the

name; For the Dryburgh bells ring and the

white monks do sing For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!" He passed the court-gate and he oped the

tower-gate, And he mounted the narrow stair To the bartizan-seat where, with maids

that on her wait, He found his lady fair.

for me,

|". The worms around him creep, and ki

bloody grave is deepIt cannot give up the dead ! It was near the ringing of matin-bell,

The night was well-nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that baron fell,

On the eve of good Saint John. The lady looked through the chamber

fair, By the light of a dying flame ; And she was aware of a knight stue

thereSir Richard of Coldinghame! “ Alas ! away, away!" she cried,

For the holy Virgin's sake! “Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side:

But, lady, he will not awake. ** By Eildon-tree for long nights three

In bloody grave have I lain ;
The mass and the death-prayer are said

But, lady, they are said in vain.
By the baron's brand, near Tweed's fair

strand, Most foully slain I fell ; And my restless sprite on the beacon's

height For a space is doomed to dwell. “At our trysting-place, for a certain

space, I must wander to and fro; But I had not had power to come to thr

bower Hadst thou not conjured me so." Love mastered fear-her brow she

crossed; “ How, Richard, hast thou sped ? And art thou saved or art thou lost?"

The vision shook his head !
* Who spilleth life shall forfeit life';

So bid thy lord believe :
That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."
He laid his left palm on an oaken beam,

His right upon her hand ;
The lady shrunk and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.
The sable score of fingers four

Remains on that board impressed ; And forevermore that lady wore

A covering on her wrist.

That lady sat in mournful mood ;

Looked over hill and vale ; Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's

wood, And all down Teviotdale, “Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright !”

Now hail, thou baron true ! What news, what news, from Ancram

fight? What news from the bold Buccleuch !” 6. The Ancram moor is red with gore,

For many a Southern fell; And Buccleuch has charged us evermore

To watch our beacons well." The lady blushed red, but nothing she

said : Nor added the baron a word : Then she stepped down the stair to her

chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron

tossed and turned, And oft to himself he said,

Fades slow their light; the east is gray ;

The weary warder leaves his tower; Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay,

And merry hunters quit the bower.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower

Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose tower

He speaketh word to none.
That nun who ne'er beholds the day,

That monk who speaks to noneThat nun was Smaylho'me's lady gay, That monk the bold baron.

1799, 1801.

The drawbridge falls—they hurry outClatters each plank and swinging

chain, As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout

Urge the shy steed and slack the rein.

First of his troop, the chief rode on;
His shouting merry-men throng be-

hind;
The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind.

From the thick copse the roebucks

bound, The startled red-deer scuds the plain, For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound Has roused their mountain haunts

again. Through the huge oaks of Evandale, Whose limbs a thousand years have

worn, What sullen roar comes down the gale And drowns the hunter's pealing

horn ?

CADYOW CASTLE WHEN princely Hamilton's abode

Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, The song went round, the goblet flowed,

And revel sped the laughing hours. Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,

So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, And echoed light the dancer's bound,

As mirth and music cheered the hall. But Cadyow's towers in ruins laid,

And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, Thrill to the music of the shade,

Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame

You bid me tell a minstrel tale, And tune my harp of Border frame

On the wild banks of Evandale. For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,

From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst To draw oblivion's pall aside

And mark the long-forgotten urn. Then, noble maid ! at thy command

Again the crumbled halls shall rise ; Lo! as on Evan's

banks we stand, The past returns—the present Alies. Where with the rock's wood-covered side

Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride

And feudal banners flaunt between : Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagged with thorn and tangling

sloe, The ashler buttress braves its force

And ramparts frown in battled row. Tis night-the shade of keep and spire

Obscurely dance on Evan's stream; And on the wave the warder's fire

Is checkering the moonlight beam.

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase

That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race, The Mountain Bull comes thundering

turn,

on.

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Yet missed his eye the boldest man

That bore the name of Hamilton.

Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,

Still wont our weal and woe to share ? Why comes he not our sport to grace?

Why shares he not our hunter's fare? "

Stern Claud replied with darkening

faceGray Paisley's haughty lord was heAt merry feast or buxom chase No more the warrior wilt thou see.

Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair

'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. From gory selle and reeling steed Sprung the fierce horseman with

bound, And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dashed his carbine on the ground Sternly he spoke-“ 'Tis sweet to hear

In good greenwood the bugle blow But sweeter to Revenge's ear

To drink a tyrant's dying groan. “Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod

At dawning morn o'er dale and down But prouder base-born Murray rode Through old Linlithgow's crowded

town.

** Few suns have set since Woodhouselee Saw Both wellhaugh's bright goblets

foam, When to his hearths in social glee The war-worn soldier turned him

home.

“There, wan from her maternal throes,

Ilis Margaret, beautiful and mild, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, And peaceful nursed her new-born

child.

“ From the wild Border's humbled side

In baughty triumph marched he, While Knox relaxed his bigot pride

And smiled the traitorous pomp to see.

“But can stern Power, with all his vaunt.

Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,

Or change the purpose of Despair ? “ With hackbut bent, my secret stand,

Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And marked where mingling in his ban! Trooped Scottish pipes and English

bows.

“O change accursed ! past are those days;

False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,

Ascends destruction's volumed flame. “What sheeted phantom wanders wild Where mountain Eske through woodo

land flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy child

O! is it she, the pallid rose ? ** The wildered traveller sees her glide,

And hears her feeble voice with awe* Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's

pride! And woe for injured Bothwell

haugh!'” He ceased and cries of rage and grief

Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling chief,

And half unsheathed his Arran brand.

“ Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,

Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clashed their broadswords in the

rear The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.

But who o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,

Rides headlong with resist less speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke

Drives to the leap his jaded steed; Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs

glare, As one some visioned sight that saw,

“Glencairn and stout Parkhead were

nigh, Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. “ Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage Aoated

high; Scarce could his trampling charger more,

So close the minions crowded nigh, " From the raised vizor's shade his eye.

Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high,

Seemed marshalling the iron throng.

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