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O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east !
For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en;
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'
Then he laughed right scornfully-
May as well say mass for me.
In thy chamber will I bé.'-
And no more did I see.
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 hast 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;
And his crest was a branch of the yew.'
“Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,
Loud dost thou lie to me!
All under the Eildon-tree."
“Yet hear but my word, my noble lord !
For I heard her name his name;
Sir Richard of Colding hame."
From high blood-red to pale--
And Eildon slopes to the plain,
The gay gallant was slain.
And the wild winds drowned the name;
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame !”.
And he mounted the narrow stair
He found his lady fair.
That lady sat in mournful mood;
Looked over hill and vale ;
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 ? "
“ The Ancram moor is red with gore,
For many a Southron fell ;
To watch our beacons well.”
The lady blushed red, but nothing she said ;
Nor added the Baron a word :
And so did her moody lord.
And oft to himself he said “ The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is
The night was well-nigh done,
On the eve of good St. John.
By the light of a dying flame;
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!
“For the holy Virgin's sake!
But, lady, he will not awake.
In bloody grave have I lain;
But, lady, they are said in vain.
By the Baron's brand near Tweed's fair strand,
Most foully slain I fell;
For a space is doomed to dwell.
I must wander to and fro;
Hadst thou not conjured me so.'
Love mastered fear--her brow she crossed ;
How, Richard, hast thou sped ?
The Vision shook his head !
“Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life,
So bid thy lord believe :
This awful sign receive."
lle laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand :
For it scorched like a fiery brand.
The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
A covering on her wrist.
There is a Nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun :
He speaketh word to none.
That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That Monk, who speaks to none-
That Monk the bold Baron.
ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.
The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two milcs above its junction with the Clyde. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the Eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shows that they may have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. In this forest was long preserved the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity led to their extirpation, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beantiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.
WHEN princely Hamilton's abode
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
And revel sped the laughing hours.
Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
As mirth and music cheered the hall.
But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er,
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.
Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame,
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
On the wild banks of Evandale.
For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn,
And mark the long-forgotten urn.
Then, noble maid ! at thy command,
Again the crumbled halls shall rise,
The past returns—the present flies.
Where with the rock's wood-covered side
Were blended late the ruins green,
And feudal banners flaunt between:
Where the rude torrent's brawling course
Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe,
And ramparts frown in battled row.
'Tis night-the shade of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream,
Is chequering the moonlight beam.
Fades slow their light; the east is grey;
The weary warder leaves his tower;
And merry hunters quit the bower.
The drawbridge falls—they hurry out
Clatters 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 behind; The steed of princely Hamilton
Was fleeter than the mountain wind.
From the thick copse the roebucks bound,
The startling 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 ?
Mightiest of all the beasts of chase
That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race,
The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. Fierce, on the hunters' quivered band,
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand, And tosses high bis mane of snow.
Aimed well, the chieftain's lance has flown;
Struggling in blood the savage lies ; His roar is sunk in hollow groan
Sound, merry huntsmen / sound the pryse!
'Tis noon-against the knotted oak
The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender smoke,
Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.
Proudly the chieftain marked his clan,
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet missed his eye the boldest man
That bore the name of Hamilton.
“Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,
Still wont our woe and weal to share ? Why comes he not our sport to grace ?
Why shares he not our hunter's fare ?"
Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,
(Grey Pasley's hty lord was her) “At merry feast, or buxom chase,
No more the warrior shalt thou see.