Chapter II: Part 2

A year has passed: at Eaglestein There sat the Ladye Etheline; Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale, Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail; For though through the world's busy crowd The deeds of the war were sung aloud, And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled With Godfrey's among the brave and bold, No letter had come from her knight so dear, To belie the spell of the lock and tear. The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say, "Alas! for the hour when he went away." But the womb of old Time is everly full, And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull. Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear, And echoed around both far and near; It is Sir Ronald from Palestine-- Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline. "I have come," said he, "through pain and peril, To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl: Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan, Who slew our most gallant capitan! Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour, Fell wounded before High Salem's tower, And ere he died he commissioned me To bear to Scotland, and give to thee, This bit of the genuine haly rood Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood, That thou mightst give it to Etheline, As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."

IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere, The ancient elms seem withered and bare, The river asleep in its rushy bed, The waters are green, and the grass is red, The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers, Where oft in the dewy evening hours, Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell, And the merle was singing her day-farewell, The Lady Etheline would recline And think of her dear Sir Peregrine: All was cheerless now, forlorn, As if they missed her at early morn; At noontide and at evening fall They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.

In the solary, up in the western wing, The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing For one so young, so gentle, and fair, Their only child, lying ailing there, Waning and waning slowly away, Yet waxing more beautiful every day, As if she were drawing from spheres above, Before she got there, the spirit of love, Which shone as a light through the silken lire, Pure as was that of the vestal fire; And ever she kissed in hysterical mood The bit of the cross all red with blood. "Oh mother dear! I wish--I fear The time of my going is drawing near: Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour, A voice seemed to come through my chamber door-- For the ear of the dying is tender and fine-- And three times it sounded Etheline; And it is true, as I've heard say, Such voices are calls to come away-- The voices of angels hovering near, Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere." "Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child, Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled: It was the Yerl, when in a dream, Who three times called thy dear-loved name; I heard the call as awake I lay, And thou mayst believe what now I say."

"Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear? It is the nightingale singing clear; I have heard the notes in Italian clime, And remember them since that early time; And it is true, as I've heard say, That when the nightingale sings by day, The dying who hears it will pass away." "No, no, my child, the song you hear Is that of the throstle-cock singing clear: I see him upon the linden tree, And you, if you like, may also see. I know its speckled breast too well; It is not, dear child, the nightingale."

When this she heard, the maiden sighed, As if she were vexed she was denied The hope of passing quickly away To yon regions bright of eternal day.

"Oh mother! list, what do I hear? Sir Peregrine's horn is winding clear; Ah, I know the sound, as it seems to say In its windings, 'Hali-hali-day;' And it is true, as I've heard tell, When a dead man's horn sounds loud and shrill, It is a true sign to his earthly bride, He will wait for her spirit at evening tide."

The Countess turned her face to the Yerl; It was true what was said by the dying girl; It _was_ Sir Peregrine's horn they heard, And they both sat mute, nor whispered a word, For they wondered much, and were sore afraid Of mysteries working about the maid, Who, as she lay in her ecstasie, Kept muttering slow an Ave Marie: "Oh, Lady sweet! the sign hath come, Happy the maid whom her knight calls home; It is the nightingale that I hear, The golden sun is shining clear; And I've heard tell in time past gone, Blessed is the bier that the sun shines on."

And, as they listened, there came to their ear The grating of the portcullis gear, And a cry of fear from the ballion green, As if the retainers a ghost had seen: Tramp and tramp on the scalière, And along the corridor leading there; The door is opened, and lo! comes in The leal and the living Sir Peregrine. "Holy Maria!" the Countess cried, "Holy Maria!" the Yerl replied; The maid looked up, then sank her head, As an Ave Marie again she said: "Ave Marie! my sweet ladye, Ave Marie! I come to thee. Ah, soft and clear those eyes of thine, That look so kindly into mine; Oh Ladye sweet! stretch forth thy hand To welcome me to yon happy land; Oh Virgin! open thy bosom fair, That thy poor child may nestle there;" Then she laid her arms across her breast, And gently, softly, sank to rest. The throstle-cock's voice rang out more clear On the linden tree there growing near, And the sun burst forth with brighter ray On the couch where her spirit had passed away.

V.

Over hollow, and over height, Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight Who had wrought such woe to Eaglestein-- To him and the Lady Etheline. The time has come and the wish made good, The villain he met in the Calder Wood. "Hold, hold, thou basest dastard Theou, For Ceorl's a name thou'rt far below; Ten lives like thine would not suffice To be to my soul a sacrifice; There is the glaive, it is thine to try. Or with it or without it thou must die." But the caitiff laughed a laugh of scorn: "Come on, thou bastard of bastards born." Their falchions are gleaming in bright mid-day: They rushed like tigers upon their prey; Sir Peregrine's eyes flashed liquid fire, The caitiff's shone out with unholy ire; But victory goes not aye with right, Nor the race to those the quickest in flight. Sir Peregrine's fury o'ershot his aim: His sword breaks through--his arm is maim! With nothing to wield, with nothing to ward. No word of mercy or quarter heard; With a breast-wound deep as his heart he lies, A look of scorn--Sir Peregrine dies.

Behind the crumbling walls of Eaglestein, The tomb of the old Yerls may still be seen, And there long mouldering lay close side by side, Sir Peregrine the bold and his fair bride; Their ashes scattered now and blown away, As thine and mine will be some coming day. This world is surely an enchanted theme, A thing of seims and shows--a wild fantastic dream.

III.

THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL.

The tower-bell has sounded the midnight hour, Old Night has unfolded her sable pall, Darkness o'er hamlet, darkness o'er hall, Loud screams the raven on Allerley Tower;[A] A glimmering gleam from yon casement high Is all that is seen by the passer-by.

[Footnote A: In Ayrshire, as I have heard, but I know of no trace of the family. The old distich may be traced to some other county:

"The Allerley oak stands high, abune trees;
When the raven croaks there, an Allerley dees."

Such rhymes have generally something to rest upon, but I cannot associate this with any county, far less a family.]

All things are neglected, time-smitten there, Crazy and cobwebbed, mildewed and worn, Moth-eaten, weeviled, dusty, forlorn, Everything owning to waning and wear; From the baron's hall to the lady's bower NEGLECT is the watchword in Allerley Tower.

There is silence within old Allerley Hall, Save the raven without with her "croak, croak," And the cricket's "click, click," in the panels of oak, Behind the dim arras that hangs on the wall; So silent and sad in the midnight hour, Yet life may still linger in Allerley Tower.

An old woman sits by a carved old bed-- The drape of green silk, all yellow and sere, The gold-coloured fringes dingy and drear; And she nods and nods her silvery head, And sometimes she looks with a half-drowsy air. To notice how Death may be working there.

Lord William lies there, care-worn and pale, All his sunlight of spirit has passed away, And left to him only that twilight of grey Which ushers men into the long dark vale; Fast ebbing his life, yet feeling no pain, Save a memory working within his brain.

He had sought the world's crowd for forty years, But only a little relief to borrow From the heartfelt pangs of that early sorrow Which had drawn him away from his gay compeers, And made him oft sigh, with a pain-begot scorn, That into this world he ever was born.

But being brought in, as a victim, to tarry, With him, as with all, it is how to get out With no more of pain than you can't go without, Where all have original sin to carry; But his memory brightened, as strength waxed low, Of the grief he had borne forty years ago.

There is silence and sadness in Allerley Tower; The taper is glimmering with murky snot, The raven croak-croaking with rusty throat, And the cricket click-clicking at midnight hour; And the woman mope-moping by the bed, Still nodding and nodding her drowsy head.

"Now bring me, old nurse, from that escritoire, A packet tied up with a ribbon of blue;" Ah! well, though now faded, that ribbon he knew, Which his fingers had bound forty years before. He shuddered to look, yet afraid to wait, Lest Death might render his vision too late.

That ribbon he drew in a calm despair: Behold now revealed to his wondering eyes A face of all beautiful harmonies, Set fair among ringlets of golden hair; With eyes so blue and a smile of heaven, Which haply some angel to her had given.

Beside that miniature lay a scroll, As written by him forty years before: He read every word of it o'er and o'er, And every word of it flashed through his soul, In a flood of that bright and awakened light Which slumbers and sleeps through a long, long night.

THE SCROLL.

"I loved my love early, the young Lady May; I saw her bloom rarely in youth's rosy day; But her eye looked afar to some orb that was shining, As if for that sphere her spirit was pining.

"Faint in the light of day seemed what was near her; Visions far, far away, clearer and clearer; Still, as flesh wears away spirits that bear it, Eyeing yon milky way, sigh to be near it.

"Lady May, she is dying--she hears some one whisper, Near where she's lying, 'Come away, sister'-- Draw down each silky lid--draw them down over Eyes whose last light on earth shone on her lover.

"My lost Lady May in yon vault now is sleeping; Her sisters who go to pray come away weeping; And while I yet linger here, some one elates me, Whispering into my ear, 'Yonder she waits thee.'"

And thus they had waited until this last day, But the hour of their meeting was coming apace; And as he still gazed on that beautiful face, His spirit so weary passed gently away; And the nurse would unfold those fingers so cold, Which still of that picture retained the hold.

There's the silence of death in Allerley Tower, The taper gone out with its murky smoke, The raven has finished her croak-croak, The cricket is silent at midnight hour; The last of the Allerley lords lies there, And Allerley goes to a distant heir.

In yon tomb where was laid his young Lady May, Lord William sleeps now by the side of her bier; And the Allerley lords and ladies lie near. But nearest of neighbours they nothing can say: No "Good morrow, my lord," when the day is begun, No "My lady, good night," when the day it is done.

IV.

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY KATHARINE.

I.

'Twas at a time now long past gone, And well gone if 'twill stay, When our good land seemed made alone For lords and ladies gay; When brown bread was the poor man's fare, For which he toiled and swet, When men were used as nowt or deer. And heads were only worth the wear When crowned with coronet.

There was a right good noble knight, Sir Bullstrode was his name[A]-- A name which he acquired by fight, And with it meikle fame. Upon his burnished shield he bore A head of bull caboshed (For so they speak in herald lore), And for his crest he aptly wore Two bones of marrow crossed.

[Footnote A: A knight called Bullstrode, as having got his name in the way set forth, is mentioned by Guillim; but whether he is the same as he who figures in the Scotch legend I do not know.]

For he had slain in tournay set Full many a blazoned fool; Nor would he deem his praise complete Till he had slain a bull. He threw the gauntlet at the brute, Which was received with scorn, For Taurus straight the gauntlet took, Then in the air the bauble shook, And tossed it on his horn.

To fight they went with might and main, And fought a good long hour; The knight's long lance was broke in twain-- Sir Bull had now the power; The ladies laughed, the barons too, As they Sir Bull admired! But where fair ladies are to view, Who may declare what knight may do, By noble emprise fired?

The knight he paused amid the claque, And threw a look of scorn: Sir Bull has Bullstrode on his back, Who held by either horn; And round the ring, and round the ring, Rushed bull in wild affray, Stamping, roaring, bellowing,-- And, stumbling, gave his neck a wring, And Bullstrode won the day.

This valiant knight, by love inspired, Next sued fair Katharine, The daughter of Sir Ravensbeard, A man of ancient line; And he had known the reason good Sir Bullstrode got his name, And wished--if Kate could be subdued-- To mix his blue and blazoned blood With one of such a fame.

II.

But when the knights are thus employeed, The lady is in yon glen, There seated by the river side With one, the flower of men-- George Allan--a rich yeoman's heir, Who leased her father's land. Yet, though beloved by all the fair, Young Allan might not surely dare To claim this envied hand.

Yet hearts will work, and hearts will steal What high commands deny; And beauty is a thing to feel, Self-chosen by the eye: Nor would fair Katharine had gi'en A touch of Allan's hand For all the honours she could gain From duke or earl, lord or thane, Or knight in all the land.

She knew the price she had to pay For this her secret love; But where's a will there is a way, And Kate she would it prove. The will we know, the way's obscure, Deep in her soul confined; What quick invention might secure, With love for the inspiring power, Was in that maiden's mind.

"Now, Allan," she said, with a silent laugh, In eyes both quaint and keen, "Thou must not fear, for here I swear By Coz. Saint Catharine, 'Twas easier for this doughty knight To hold these horns he dared, Than take for wife by a father's right, Against the spurn of a maiden's spite, The daughter of Ravensbeard."

"No, no, fair lady," George Allan said-- With tears his eyes were full-- "'Tis easier to force the will of a maid, Than hold by the horns a bull." "Yes! yes! of the maids who say a prayer, Like sisters of orders grey; But Kate admits no craven fear, And she can do what they cannot dare, For she's quicker of parts than they."

III.

It's up in yon chamber well bedight Of the castle of Invercloyd, A maiden sits with a grim sir knight Seated on either side. "I come to thee by a father's right, To issue my last command, That thou concede to this gallant knight, What his noble nature will requite, The guerdon of thy hand."

"And here, upon my bended knee," Sir Bullstrode blandly said, "I pray thee, in knightly courtesie, The grace thy sire hath pled." "Oh yes! a guerdon let it remain, I give thee free consent; But I have a mind, and will maintain, This knight shall only my favour gain In knightly tournament."

"What meaneth the wench?" the father cried, With a fire-flaught in his eye, "What other knight would'st thou invite Sir Bullstrode to defy? Is he a lover? I grant no parle, For I am resolved to know, And wish, by my sword, no better a quarrel; And be he a ceorl, or be he an earl, He goes to shades below."

"No lover is he, my father dear, My champion who shall be; A stranger knight shall for me fight, And shall my fate decree." "Well done! well done!" cried Sir Bullstrode, "That goeth with my gree; May the carrion crow be then abroad, All hungry to feed upon carrion food, That day he fights with me."

"But let this contract," said the maid, "Be written on parchment skin, And signed, and sealed, and witnessèd, That surety I may find." Again the father knit his brow, Yet could not he complain, Because Sir Bullstrode wished it so, That all the world might come to know His honour he could maintain.

IV.

It's up in yon chamber tapestried, Sits the Lady Katharine; She smiled at a woman's art applied Her own true love to win. And lo! who comes in a tearful way, But her pretty tire-woman, "Hey! hey! what now? good lack-a-day! Such cheeks so pale, and lips like clay; What ails maid Lilian?"

"Oh it is, it is, young mistress mine, All about this valiant knight, Who came to me all drunk with wine, At the dead hour of the night. He seized me struggling to get free, And swore by the goat of Jove, He would me fee, if I would be, La! my lady! I fear to tell it to thee, _His left-hand lady-love_."

"Ho! ho! my maid, a pretty scene! A brute of noble parts! But 'tis easier to turn a bull by each horn, Than rule two women's hearts. No harems have we in western land, Where a woman's soul is free, To rule weak man by her high command, And rouse by a wave of her wizard wand The fire of his chivalrie."

V.

Lo! round the lists, and round the lists, Bedecked with pennons gay, Environed there with ladies fair, Sir Bullstrode held his way. High mounted on a gallant steed, And armed a-cap-a-pie, His lance well graced by a pennon red, A white plume nodded o'er his head, With ribbons at his knee.

"Why mounts not Kate the dais seat?" The father loudly cried. "She hath not finished her robing yet," A lady quick replied. And now a shout rang all about, Ho! ho! there comes apace, A Cataphract[A] of noble mien, With armour bright as silver sheen, And eke of gentle grace.

[Footnote A: A knight completely equipped; a word in common use in the times of chivalry.]

He bore for his escochion Dan Cupid with his dart, And for his crest there was impressed A well-skewered bleeding heart; His yellow streamer on his spear, Flew fluttering in the wind, And thrice he waved it in the air, As if to fan the ladies there, And thrice his head inclined.

"Who's he, who's he?" cried Ravensbeard; But no one there could say. "Knowest thou him?" cried some who heard; But each one answered Nay. "I am Sir Peveril," said the knight, "If you my name would learn, And I will for fair Katharine fight, A lady's love, and a lady's right, And a lady's choice to earn."

The gauntlet thrown upon the ground, Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy: "Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee-- Methinks a beardless boy." Nor sooner said than in he sprang And aimed a mortal blow, The crenel upon the buckler rang, And having achieved an echoing clang, It made no more ado.

The stranger knight wheeled quick as light, And charging with gratitude, Gave him good thank on his left flank, And lo! a stream of blood! Shall he this knight, so dread in fight, Cede to this beardless foe, And feel in his pain, returned again, That vaunt of his so empty and vain, That vaunt of the carrion crow?

Stung by the wound, not less by shame, He gathered all his force, And sprang again, with desperate aim, His enemy to unhorse; But he who watched the pointed lance A dexterous movement made, And saw his foe, as he missed the blow, Rock in his selle both to and fro, And vault o'er his horse's head.

Sore fainting from the loss of blood, He lay upon the ground, Nor e'er a leech within his reach Can stop that fatal wound. And there with many an honour full, That brave and doughty knight, Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull, And killed (himself one) many a fool, Has closed his eyes in night.

VI.

And now within the ballion court There sits Sir Ravensbeard: "Who shall me say what popinjay Hath earned this proud reward?" And there stands Katharine all confessed In maiden dignity; "'Twas I, in 'fence of life sore pressed, 'Twas I, at honour's high behest, This bad man made to die.

"For hear me, sire, restrain your ire, This knight you so admired, A plan had laid to ruin my maid, While he for my love aspired. I claim the contract by his hand, Whereto thou'rt guarantee, And this young Allan is the man, And he alone of all Scotland, Thy Katharine's lord shall be."

V.

THE BALLAD OF AILIE FAA.

I.

Sir Robert has left his castle ha',
The castle of fair Holmylee,
And gone to meet his Ailie Faa,
Where no one might be there to see.
He has sounded shrill his bugle horn,
But not for either horse or hound;
And when the echoes away were borne,
He listened for a well-known sound.

He hears a rustling among the leaves,
Some pattering feet are drawing near;
Like autumn's breathings among the sheaves,
So sweet at eventide to hear:
His Ailie Faa, who is sweeter far
Than the white rose hanging upon the tree,
Who is fairer than the fairies are
That dance in moonlight on the lea.

Oh! there are some flowers, as if in love,
Unto the oak their arms incline;
And tho' the tree may rotten prove,
They still the closer around it twine:
So has it been until this hour,
And so in coming time 'twill be,
Wherever young love may hang a flower,
'Twill think it aye ane trusty tree.

He has led her into a summer bower,
For he was fond and she was fain,
And there with all of a lover's power
He whispered that old and fatal strain,
Which those who sing it and those who hear
Have never sung and never heard,
But they have shed the bitter tear
For every soft delusive word.

He pointed to yon castle ha',
And all its holts so green and fair;
And would not she, poor Ailie Faa,
Move some day as a mistress there?
As the parchèd lea receives the rains,
Her ears drank up the sweet melodie;
A gipsy's blood flowed in her veins,
A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye.

Oh! it's time will come and time will go,
That which has been will be again;
This strange world's ways go to and fro,
This moment joy, the next is pain.
A sough has thro' the hamlet spread,
To Ailie's ear the tidings came,
That Holmylee will shortly wed
A lady fair of noble name.

II.

In yon lone cot adown the Lynne
A widowed mother may think it long
Since there were lightsome words within,
Since she has heard blithe Ailie's song.
A gloomy shade sits on Ailie's brow,
At times her eyes flash sudden fires,
The same she had noticed long ago,
Deep flashing in her gipsy sire's.

When the wind at even was low and loun,
And the moon paced on in her majesty
Thro' lazy clouds, and threw adown
Her silvery light o'er turret and tree,
Then Ailie sought the green alcove,
That place of fond lovers' lone retreat,
Where she for the boon of gentle love,
Had changed the meed of a deadly hate.

She sat upon "the red Lynne stone,"
Where she between the trees might see,
By yon pale moon that shone thereon,
The goodly turrets of Holmylee.
And as she felt the throbbing pains,
And as she heaved the bursting sigh,
A gipsy's blood burned in her veins,
A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye.

If small the body that thus was moved,
So like the form that fairies wear,
It was that slenderness he loved,
So tiny a thing he might not fear.
But there is an insect skims the air,
Bedecked with azure and green and gold,
Whose sting is a deadlier thing by far
Than dagger of yon baron bold.

III.

She sat upon the red Lynne stone,
The midnight sky was overcast,
The winds are out with a sullen moan,
The angry Lynne is rolling past.
What then? there was no lack of light,
Full fifteen windows blazing shone
Up on the castle on the height,
While Ailie Faa sat there alone.

For there is dancing and deray
In the ancient castle of Holmylee,
And barons bold and ladies gay
Are holding high-jinks revelry.
Sir Robert has that day been wed,
'Midst sounding trumpets of éclat,
And one that night will grace his bed
Of nobler birth than Ailie Faa.

Revenge will claim its high command,
And Ailie is on her feet erect,
She passes nervously her hand
Between her jupe and jerkinet.
_There_ lies a charm for woman's wrong,
Concealed where beats the bursting heart,
Which, ere an hour hath come and gone,
Will play somewhere a fatal part.

IV.

Up in the hall of Holmylee
Still sound the revel, the dance, and song,
And through the open doors and free
There pours the gay and stately throng;
But of all the knights and barons there,
The bridegroom still the foremost stood,
And she the fairest of the fair,
The bride who was of noble blood.

It was when feet were tripping
The mazes of the dance,
It was when lips were sipping
The choicest wines of France,
A wild scream rose within the hall,
Which pierced the roofen tree,
And in the midst was seen to fall
The Baron of Holmylee.

"To whom belongs this small stilette.
By whom our host is slain?"
Between a jupe and jerkinet
That weapon long had lain.
Each on his sword his hand did lay,
This way and that they ran;
But she who did the deed is away,
Ho! catch her if you can.

VI.

THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE

I.

Thou little god of meikle sway,
Who rul'st from pole to pole,
And up beyond yon milky way,
Where wondrous planets roll:
Oh! tell me how a power divine,
That tames the creatures wild,
Whose touch benign makes all men kin,
Could slay sweet Emergilde?

It's up the street, and down the street,
And up the street again,
And all the day, and all the way,
She looks at noble men;
But him she seeks she cannot find
In all that moving train;
No one can please that anxious gaze,
And own to "Ballenden."

From the high castle on the knowe,
Adown the Canongate,
And from the palace in the howe,
Up to the castle yett,
A hizzy here, a cadie there,
She stops with modest mien;
All she can say four words convey:
"I seek for Ballenden."

Nor more of our Scotch tongue she knew,
For she's of foreign kin,
And all her speech can only reach
"I seek for Ballenden."
No Ballenden she yet could find,
No one aught of him knew;
She sought at night dark Toddrick's Wynd,
Next morn to search anew.

II.

And who is she, this fair ladye,
To whom our land is strange?
Why all alone, to all unknown,
Within this city's range?
Her face was of the bonnie nut-brown
Our Scotch folk love to view,
When 'neath it shows the red, red rose,
Like sunlight shining through.

Her tunic was of the mazerine,
Of scarlet her roquelaire,
And o'er her back, in ringlets black,
Fell down her raven hair.
Her eyes, so like the falling sterns,
Seen on an August night,
Had surely won from eastern sun
Some rayons of his light.

And still she tried, and still she plied,
Her task so sad and vain,
The words still four--they were no more--
"I seek for Ballenden."
No Ballenden could she yet find,
No one aught of him knew,
And still at night down Toddrick's Wynd,
Next morn to search anew.

III.

In Euphan Barnet's lowly room,
Adown that darksome wynd,
A ladye fair is lying there,
In illness sair declined;
Her cheeks now like the lily pale,
The roses waned away,
Her eyes so bright have lost their light,
Her lips are like the clay.

On her fair breast a missal rests,
Illumed with various dyes,
In which were given far views of heaven
In old transparencies.
There hangs the everlasting cross
Of emerald and of gold,
That cross of Christ so often kissed
When she her beads had told.

Those things are all forgotten now,
Far other thoughts remain;
And as she dreams she ever renes,
"I seek for Ballenden."
Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden!
Whatever, where'er thou be,
That ladye fair is dying there,
And all for love of thee.

IV.

In the old howf of the Canongate
There is a little lair,
And on it grows a pure white rose,
By love implanted there;
And o'er it hangs a youthful man,
With a cloud upon his brow,
And sair he moans, and sair he groans,
For her who sleeps below.

No noble lord nor banneret,
Nor courtly knight is he,
No more than a simple advocate,
Who pleadeth for his fee.
He holds a letter in his hand,
On which bleared eyes are bent,
It came afar from Almanzar,
The Duke of Bonavent--

A noble duke whom he had seen
In his castle by the sea,
When for one night he claimed the right
Of his high courtesie;
And that letter said, "Kind sir, I write
In sorrow, sooth to say,
That my dear child, fair Emergilde,
Hath from us flown away;

"And all the trace that I can find
Is this, and nothing more,
She took to sea at Tripoli
For Scotland's distant shore.
It is a feat of strange conceit
That fills us with alarms:
Oh seek about, and find her out,
And send her to our arms."

V.

And who is he this letter reads
With tears the words atween?
Yea! even he she had sought to see,
The sair-sought Ballenden.
Yet little little had he thought,
When away in that far countrie,
That a look she had got of a humble Scot
Would ever remembered be.

But tho' he had deemed himself forgot
By one so far away,
Her image had still, against his will,
Him haunted night and day.
And when he laid him on his bed,
And sair inclined to sleep,
That face would still, against his will,
Its holy vigil keep.

Oh gentle youth, thou little thought,
When away in our north countrie,
That up and down, thro' all the town,
That ladye sought for thee.
And little little did thou wot
What in Euphan's room was seen,
Where, as she died, she whispering sighed,
"I die for Ballenden."[A]

[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on shipboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus:

Angry and sad shall be my way If I behold not her afar, And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar. God, who has formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar, Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray, Of seeing her I love afar. ]

VII.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR.

I.

The baron has gone to the hunting green, All by the ancient Castle of Weir, With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin, And a maiden, his only daughter dear-- The Ladye Tomasine, famed around For beauty as well as for courtesie, Wherever might sensible heads be found, Or ears to listen, or eyes to see. Nor merely skin-deep was she fair: She had a spirit both true and leal, As all about the Castle of Weir Were many to know, and many to tell. Right well she knew what it was to feel Grim poverty in declining day, With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal, And tears to bless what she gave away; Yet she was blithe and she was gay. And now she has gone to the hunting green, All on this bright and sunshiny day, To fly her favourite peregrine, With her hunting coat of the baudykin, Down which there flowed her raven hair, And her kirtle of the red sendal fine, With an eagle's plume in her heading gear.

II.

If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist, He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen, And the quarry of which he was in quest Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine; But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite, With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop, And wanted the bold and daring flight That mounts to the sun to make a swoop.

The Baron of Weir points to the sky, "Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing! Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie! Off with the jesses--away him fling!" "Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid, As with nimble fingers she him unjessed, "Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread, Then back to thy mistress to be caressed." Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry, And eyed his quarry, yet far away, Still up and up in the dark blue sky, That he might aim a swoop on his prey; Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear, Shoots away from his enemy over above, And makes for the rushing Water of Weir.

III.

The Water of Weir is rushing down, Foaming and furious, muddy and brown, From the heights where the laughing Näiads dwell, And cascades leap from the craggy fell, Where the mountain streamlets brattle and brawl, 'Midst the mountain maidens' echoing call, Through pools where the water-kelpies wait For the rider who dares the roaring spate. Rain-fed, proud, turgid, and swollen, Now foaming wild, now sombre and sullen; Dragging the rushes from banks and braes, Tearing the drooping branches of trees, Rolling them down by scallop and scaur, Involving all in a watery war-- Turned, and whirled, and swept along, Down to the sea to be buried and gone.

The peregrine, fixed on the wader's back, Is carried along in her devious track, As with a weak and a wailing scream The victim crosses the raging stream. "I will lose, I will lose my gay peregrine!" Cried shrilly the Ladye Tomasine: She will hurry across the bridge of wood, With its rail of wattle which long hath stood; Her nimble feet are upon the plank That will bear her over from bank to bank; She has crossed it times a thousandfold: Time brings youth and Time makes old; The wattles have rotted while she was growing, The wind is up and the waters rowing, And to keep her feet she must use her hand. "Come back! come back!" was the baron's command, Too late!--go wattles--a piercing scream! And the maid falls into the roaring stream! Round and round, in eddying whirl, Who shall save the perishing girl? Round and round, and down and away, Nothing to grasp, and nothing to stay. The baron stands fixed and wrings his hands, And looks to Sir Hubert, who trembling stands. Sir Hubert! one moment now is thine-- The next! and a power no less than divine Can save this maid of so many charms From the grasp of Death's enfolding arms. Spring! spring! Sir Hubert, the moment is thine To save a life, and a love to win. No! no! the dastard kestrel kite Aye hugs the earth in his stealthy flight. Hope gone! the pool at the otter's cave Will prove the Ladye Tomasine's grave. Ho! ho! see yonder comes rushing down A lithe young hind, though a simple clown-- Off bonnet and shoes, and coat and vest, A plunge! and he holds her round the waist! Three strokes of his arm, with his beautiful prize All safe, although faint, on the bank she lies! A cottager's wife came running down, "Take care of the ladye," said the clown. He has donned his clothes, and away he has gone, His name unuttered, his home unknown.

IV.

Up in the ancient Castle of Weir Sat the baron, the knight, and the fair Tomasine; And the baron he looked at his daughter dear, While the salt tears bleared his aged eyne; And then to the steward, with hat in hand: "Make known unto all, from Tweed to Tyne, A hundred rose nobles I'll give to the man Who saved the life of my Tomasine." Sir Hubert cried out, in an envious vein, "Who is he that will vouch for the lurdan loon? There's no one to say he would know him again, And another may claim the golden boon." Then said the ladye, "My eyes were closed, And I never did see this wondrous man; And the cottar woman she hath deposed He was gone ere his features she could scan." "Ho!" cried the baron, "I watched him then, As I stood on the opposite bank afeared; Of a hundred men I would ken him again, Though he were to doff his dun-brown beard."

A year has passed at the Castle of Weir, Yet no one has claimed the golden don; Most wonderful thing to tell or to hear! Was he of flesh and blood and bone? Though golden nobles might not him wile, Was there not something more benign? Was not for him a maiden's smile? Was not that maiden Tomasine?

V.

The ladye sat within her summer bower Alone, deep musing, in the still greenwood; Sadly and slowly passed the evening hour, Sad and sorrowful was her weary mood, For she had seen, beneath a shadowing tree, All fast asleep a beauteous rural swain, Whom she had often sighed again to see, But never yet had chanced to see again;-- So beautiful that, if the time had been In a long mythic age now past and gone, She might have deemed that she had haply seen The all-divine Latona's fair-haired son Come down upon our earth to pass a day Among the daughters fair of earth-born men, And had put on a suit of sober grey, To appear unto them as a rural swain. With features all so sweet in harmony, You might have feigned they breathed a music mild, With lire so peachy, fit to charm the eye, And lips right sure to conquer when they smiled, All seen through locks of lustrous auburn hair, Which wanton fairies had so gaily thrown To cover o'er a face so wondrous fair, Lest Dian might reclaim him as her own.

In the still moonlit hour there steals along, And falls upon her roused and listening ear The notes of some night-wandering minstrel's song, And oh! so sweet and sad it was to hear. You might have deemed it came from teylin sweet, Touched by some gentle fairy's cunning hand, To tell us of those joys that we shall meet In some far distant and far happier land; And oft at night, as time still passed away, That hopeless song throughout the greenwood came, And oft she heard repeated in the lay The well-known sound of her own maiden name; And often did she wish, and often sighed, That bashful minstrel for once more to see, To know if he were him she had espied All fast asleep beneath the greenwood tree.

VI.

Alace! and alace! for that false pride In the hearts of those of high degree, And that gentle love should be decried By its noblest champion, Chivalrie. If the baron shall hear a whispered word Of that fond lover's sweet minstrelsie, That love-lorn heart and his angry sword May some night better acquainted be. Woe! woe! to the viper's envenomed tongue That obeys the hest of a coward's heart, Who tries to avenge his fancied wrong By getting another to act his part. Sir Hubert has lisped in the baron's ear, When drinking wine at the evening hour, That a minstrel clown met his daughter dear At night in her lonely greenwood bower. "Hush! hush! Sir Hubert, thy words are fires; Elves are about us that hear and see, Who may tell to the ghost of my noble sires Of a damned blot on our pedigree." And the baron frowned with darkened brow, And by the bones of his fathers swore That from that night this minstrel theou, To his daughter would warble his love no more.

VII.

That night the minstrel sang in softer flow, Waxing and waning soft and softer still, Like autumn's night winds breathing loun and low, Or evening murmur of the wimpling rill; But there was heard that night no farewell strain, As in foretime there ever used to be-- A stop! and then no more was heard again That bashful lover's hapless minstrelsie. Next morn the maid, with purpose to enjoy The forest flowers and wild birds' early song, Unto the greenwood went; and to employ Her weary musing as she went along, Love's magic memory from its depths upbrought The notes that ever still so sweetly hung About her heart; and as she gaily thought, She sung them o'er as she had heard them sung. Onward she moved: her dreamy, listless eye Had leant upon a fragrant wild-rose bed, And, glancing farther, what does she descry? Stretched stiff and bloody, his sad spirit fled, Yea, him whom when asleep she once had seen, And had so often wished again to see, Now dead and cold 'mong the leaves so green, And all beneath the well-known greenwood tree.

"Good day, my ladye," then some one said-- It was Sir Hubert there close behind; "He will sing no more, or I am belied, For the reason, I wot, that he wanteth wind." Up came the baron in angry vein; He casts his eye on the body there; He scans the features again and again With a look of doubt and shudder of fear; His hands he wrings with a groan of pain, He rolls his eyeballs with gesture wild-- "Great God! by a villain's counsel I've slain The youth who saved my darling child!"

Among yon hoary elms that o'er him grow A harp is hung to catch the evening gale, That sings to him in accents soft and low, And soothes the maiden with its sorrowful wail, Who, as she sits within her greenwood bower, And listens to the teylin's solemn strain, Bethinks her, in her tears, of every hour That gentle youth had sung to her in vain.

VIII.

THE ROMAUNT OF ST. MARY'S WYND.

I. Of Scotland's cities, still the rarest Is ancient Edinburgh town; And of her ladies, still the fairest There you see walk up and down: Be they gay, or be they gayless, There they beck and there they bow, From the Castle to the Palace, In farthingale and furbelow.

Says Lady Jane to Lady Janet,
"Thy gown, I vow, is stiff and grand;
Though there were feint a body in it,
Still I trow that it would stand."
And Lady Janet makes rejoinder:
"Thy boddice, madam, is sae tend,
The bonny back may crack asunder,
But, by my faith, it winna bend."

But few knew one both fairer, kinder,
The fair maid of St. Mary's Wynd;
Among the great you will not find her,
For she was of the humbler kind.
For her minnie spinning, plodding,
She wore no ribbons to her shune,
No mob-cap on her head nid-nodding,
But aye the linsey-woolsey gown.

No Lady Jane in silks and laces,
How fair soever she might be,
Could match the face--the nature's graces
Of this poor, humble Marjorie:
Her eyes they were baith mirk and merry,
Her lire was as the lily fair,
Her lips were redder than the cherry,
And flaxen was her glossy hair.

Ye bucks who wear the coats silk-braided,
With satin ribbons at your knee,
And cambric ruffles starched and plaited,
With cockèd bonnets all ajee,
Who walk with mounted canes at even,
Up and down so jauntilie,
Ye would have given a blink of heaven
For one sweet smile from Marjorie.

But Marjory's care was aye her minnie,
And day by day she sat and span;
Nor did she think it aught but sin aye,
To bear the stare of gentleman:
She doated on her own dear Willie,
For dear to her fond heart was he,
Who, though his sire was poor, yet still he
Was far above the low degree.

It was aye said his father's father
Did claim some Spanish pedigree,
Which many well believed, the rather
That he was not of our countrie:
His skin was brown as nut of hazel,
His eye was black as Scottish sloe,
And all so bright that it would dazzle
The eye that looked that eye into.

There came into his head a notion,
Which wrought and wrought within his brain,
That he would cross th' Atlantic Ocean,
And seek the land of Spanish Main;
And there amass a routh of treasure,
And then come back with bosom leal
To his own Marjory, and release her
From rock and reel and spinning wheel.

Up spake the minnie--it did not please her
That he should "gae sae far frae hame:"
"Thou'lt reap less in yon Abiezer
Than thou wilt glean in this Ephraim;
For there's a proverb faileth never;
A lintie safe within the hand,
Though lean and lank, is better ever
Than is a fat finch on the wand."

Then Marjory, with eye so tearful,
Whispered in dark Willie's ear,
"Thou wilt not go and leave me careful,
Friendless, lanely, starving here;
My minnie God hath gien a warning,
And I can do nae mair than spin,
And slowly, slowly comes the earning
That with my wheel I daily win."

"Oh fear not, Marjory dear--content ye,
Blackfriar John hath to me sworn,
That man of God will kindly tent ye
Until that I again return;
And he has promised fair to write me
Of how ye live and prosper twain,
And I will faithfully requite ye
With my true love to you again."

II.

Dark Willie took his sad departure,
And left at home his Marjory dear
To doubt and fear from every quarter,
Weep--weeping sadly on the pier;
And o'er the sea, all dangers scorning,
And o'er the sea he boldly sailed,
Until upon the fortieth morning
The promised land at length he hailed.

Now! thou one of the fateful sisters
That spins for man the silver thread,
Spin one of gold that glints and glisters
For one who stands in meikle need;
Spin it quick and spin it finely,
Till Willie's golden fortune's made,
And send him back to Marjory kindly,
Who spins at home for daily bread.

There was a rich old Spanish señor,
Who bore dark Willie's Spanish name,
And came to feel the kindly tenor
Of plighted friendship's sacred claim:
He gave his right hand to dark Willie,
With shares of a great companie,
Which sent forth goods far o'er the billow,
In ships that sailed on every sea.

Don Pedro had an only daughter,
The Donna Clara, passing fair,
Who, when her sire took his departure,
Would be her father's only heir:
Her eyes, so like two sterns of even,
Shining the murky clouds among,
And black her ringlets as the raven,
That o'er her marble shoulders hung.

Oh Willie! Willie! have thou care, man!
And give unto thine heart a stay,
For there are witcheries working there, man,
May steal that heart of thine away.
No need! to him blue eyes are glowing,
To him most beautiful of all,
No need! for flaxen hair is flowing
To keep his loving heart in thrall.

III.

A year had passed, and he had written
Of loving letters more than one,
The while gold pieces still remitting
All to holy Blackfriar John;
Yet still no answer had he gotten;
And as the days still passed away,
He fell to musing, and deep thought on
What had caused the strange delay.

What now to him those golden pieces
That he so fastly now could earn?
Ah, love like his gives no releases,
However Clara's eyes might yearn;
He wandered hither, wandered thither,
By sad forebodings nightly tossed;
He wandered now, he wandered ever,
In mournful musing sadly lost.

But time would tell: there came a letter
That filled his soul with dire dismay,
And told him his dark fears' abettor,
His Marjory's health had flown away:
Even as the clay her cheek was paling,
Her azure eyes were waxing dim,
Her hair unkemp't, and loose, and trailing,
And all for hopeless love of him.

Sad harbinger of things to harrow,
Another came, ah! soon a day,
To tell him his dear winsome marrow
From this sad world had passed away.
No more for him those eyes so merry,
That were to him so sweet to see!
No more those lips red as the cherry,
That were to him so sweet to pree!

IV.

Alas! there are of things--we see them
Without the aid of wizard's spell;
But there are other things--we dree them,
No art of wizard can foretell:
Strange thing the heart where love has power,
So tossed with joy or racked with pain!
Dark Willie from that fatal hour
Seemed fated ne'er to smile again.

In vain now Clara, sembling gladness,
Plies the magic of her wile,
To draw him off from his great sadness,
And cheat him of a loving smile:
The more her sympathy she tenders,
The more he will by art defy
All beauty which but contrast renders
With his own dear lost Marjory.

V.

Now Time's big silent, solemn billow
Rolls quietly on from year to year:
Don Pedro lies on his green pillow,
With love-lorn Clara sleeping near.
But, ere he died, he did declare it
His pleasure when his days were told,
And Clara dead, with none to share it,
Don William should heir all his gold.

Gift vain, oh vain! would wealth restore him
His long-lost Marjory to his arms?
Nay, would it wake and bring before him
One only of her envied charms?
No, it might cause another courtship,
A love he could not now control:
Great Mammon lured him to his worship,
And lorded in his inmost soul.

What though ten years away had stolen?
'Twas not to him all weary time,
Who every day was pleased to roll in
The tempting Mammon's golden shrine.
But when he laid him on his pillow,
His fancy sought the farthest east,
And conjured up some lonely willow
That waved o'er her he loved the best.