Alan of Winton, and the Heiress of Seton

O Elphingston! thy rural shades Are bare, which firry forests crown’d, When Margaret, pride of Scottish maids, Trod joyfully thy verdant ground.

Seen far upon the hill’s green side, Thy lofty tower, august and hoar, Views Agriculture’s sons preside Where rival factions ruled before.

How changed since that eventful day When Winton’s baron, young but sage, Amidst thy leafy dells did stray, And communed with his fairy page!—

“Go, search, my boy, ere autumn fades, “From pastoral Tweed to Jura’s isle, “And ’mongst the flower of Scottish maids “Seek one that rivals Seton’s smile.”

“As well, Sir Knight, go lift the Bass, “Or fathom Corryvrekin’s linn, “Forget to love a bonny lass, “Or live on earth unstain’d by sin!”

Thus spake the page to Winton’s chief, What each admiring heart confess’d; But, ah! it did not give relief To pangs that rent his master’s breast.—

“Go, sharpen me my stoutest spear, “Go, saddle me my fleetest steed, “By Byres-hill to hunt the deer, “We go at morn,—speed, Maurice! speed!”

“Men seek not deer with mail and spear, “But I obey, whate’er betide: “’Twere better far, for sylvan war, “To lead the hounds by Soutra’s side.”—

“What boots my trusty page to tell, “But ere the eve is rising hoar, “We brush the broom on Luffness fell, “And rouse to death the brindled boar.”

The chief withdrew; but do not blame His cunning vassal’s quick surmise, That his lord went in quest of game Which look’d more fair in youthful eyes.

We spoke of that enchanting maid, Who now, in Seton’s ancient towers, Lamented both her parents dead, And wept away the lonely hours.

That heart grew chill that once was glad; She sought the orchard’s walks alone, And ’neath the walnut tree so sad She woke her harp to sorrow’s tone.

Here, like a jewel in casket hid, She pined obscure in solitude; Till, playful, Love would lift the lid, As misers o’er their treasure brood.

Too much inclined in courts to rove, Lindsay, that “pink of chivalry,” Forsook the tented shrine of Love, In Seton’s lonely shades to sigh.

For her, the youthful Elphingston, Though less renown’d, yet not less true, Had left an oriental throne, And bade its gilded pomp adieu!

And Salton’s baron, high in grace, And Keith’s own Fraser, stoop’d to tell How they had left the mountain chase For glimpse of her in Seton’s cell.

And great De Vaux, that prince of men, Whose castle looks o’er fairer fields Than ere was wash’d by silver Nen, To her the palm of beauty yields.

And Alan, lord of Winton’s vale, The first in field—the first in hall— Sought to reveal love’s tender tale To her who had his heart in thrall.

Come paint her form in maiden bower, Her virgin bosom’s rising swell,— As well go paint the matchless flower That blossoms in St Germains’ dell!

Her sunny hair, with jewels crown’d, Upon her parted bosom lies; But search the heaven’s starry round To match the lightning of her eyes.

Her face and neck like mountain snow That duns the hue of whitest flower, Her cheeks tinged with a rosy glow, In secret stolen from Flora’s bower.

Her lips like cherry-twins rejoice, Bathed in the morning’s sparkling dew, While the soft music of her voice In angel-strains comes warbling through.

Her form is stately as the pine, Amongst the forest’s pride the queen; Her limbs like polish’d pillars shine, Where Nature’s perfect art is seen.

Her waist appears a gentle span, Within her girdle’s diamond star; O, Heaven will bless the happy man Who may that starry belt unbar!

“Fair Marg’ret, come for gentle space, “O come to Winton’s blooming vale, “Till lenient time, with change of place, “Shall sooth the griefs it may not heal.”

“I cannot ride in Winton loan, “Her castle’s walks no views afford; “I go to princely Dirleton, “To banquet with its noble lord.”

Less spake in earnest than in jest, The beauteous Seton did reply, When for the baron’s gorgeous feast Her horse stood saddled pompously.

At early hour, on autumn morn, She vaulted on her coal-black steed, And look’d like light by darkness borne, While pacing Germains’ flowery mead.

One trusty page—one faithful maid— With kernes on foot, away she flew, Till pass’d Long Niddry’s naked shade. Close to Redcastle’s towers she drew.

The warder’s horn blew loud and shrill, That hail’d the lady passing by; The sound was echo’d from Lochill, As rose the buckler-pennon high.

A page rode up—in doublet green, On dwarfish steed, but fleet as wind— Handed a billet all unseen, Then shot away, nor look’d behind.

The scroll was tied with crimson thread, The ink was red as new-drawn blood; The purport ran,—“Wo to the kid! “Who seeks the fox by Peffers’ flood!

“There is a maid in Fenton Tower, “That walks the woods when others sleep; “Talks to the moon, in hollin bower, “And dreams of yonder Castle’s Keep.”

The lady’s cheek grew deadly pale, She smote her steed, yet check’d its rein; She sigh’d for Winton’s peaceful vale, And thought of Alan’s noble mien.

She felt a thought pass o’er her soul, That orphan-woman needs a stay; But thoughts what maiden may control, Like sunny clouds they pass away.

The lady came to Luffness-moor, And roused the deer and dark curlew; The lady came to Luffness Tower, But there, no ostrich-pennon flew.

She found the Lindsay’s vassals gone, To rouse the game ‘yond Peffers’ flood; She thought of snaky Spindleston, And war-wolf dread of Wormwood.

Then, as her maiden heart ’gan fail, She sent her page to Luffness mill; Thinks she, while Kelso’s monks love kail, There’s work for clapper here and kiln.

No guest was found but bearded hag, Who spake, while mouthing carrion raw, “Knave’s gone the Marle Loch to drag, “Or wire the hare on Galla Law.”

But, hark! the huntsman’s jovial horn Makes all the leafy coverts ring; The merry shouts are onward borne, O’er brake and bush the coursers spring.

What booted now her Flanders rein, Her steed through thickets wildly tore, Till, like some forest-fashion’d queen, She faced dread Saltcoats’ ravenous boar.

Fiercely the brindled monster came, While far behind the chase-hounds roam; His eyes glared red, as dipt in flame, His tusks distended o’er with foam.

Death’s muffled horn must shortly sound!— Yon distant knight too slowly rides;— The monster furrows up the ground, His tusks plough up the horse’s sides.

From stunned steed the lady fell, Amidst the horrors of the chase; But who her bosom’s thoughts may tell When she look’d up—in Alan’s face!

He stood across her as a shield, The gleaming faulchion in his hand; For such a prize who would not wield The deadly dart—the burning brand!

O’er her his scarlet cloak he threw, To veil where silken scarf was rent, Which gave a bosom to his view, That shamed Medici’s monument.

The scatter’d hunters fast advance, The forest trembles to the roar, When Saltcoats’ chief, with sharpen’d lance, Rush’d fiercely on the fiercer boar.

Ribb’d in the monster’s sides the spear Snapp’d, dealing forth a double pain; His tusks the oak’s firm roots uptear, Or worm in wrath the shaking plain.

With glove of steel, and ready dart, Down the boar’s throat his hand he thrust, Till the sword drank the vital part, And hurl’d the savage to the dust.

“Come, fill the goblet high with wine!” Young Saltcoats cried, as forth he drew The streaming dart—“we meet to dine “To-morrow on the barbecue.

“Where is the haughty Winton now, “Who watch’d yon lady, drooping faint?” Surprise grew dark on every brow, They gazed on earth and firmament.

When, lo! by dark Kilspindie’s shade, The winged steeds are seen to glide; “St Andrew!” Saltcoats cried, “yon maid “By gallant is constrain’d to ride.

“O for one hour of Lindsay gay! “De Vaux, Morville, or Elphingston; “Yon collier chief should rue the day, “And ’neath the thirsty broad-sword groan.”

Margaret’s dull vassal, left behind, Told them of what he heard and saw; But now as well go chase the wind, As near their course by Galla Law.

“O lady, thou art weak and wan, “Thy lovely limbs had need of rest! “I’ll be your trusty waiting-man, “If thou’lt be Moray’s welcome guest.”—

“I cannot sleep in Gosford’s shade, “Where many a chosen archer dwells; “It were not meet for Seton’s maid “To sleep—save in her castle’s cells.”

One hour’s repose, with gentle fare, Refresh’d Kilspindie’s gentle guest; When she threw back her sunny hair, Her head reclined on Alan’s breast.

Yet deem not aught but virgin love That bosom e’er could venture in, Pure as the angel-pairs above She walk’d unstain’d with passion’s sin.

“Awake! my love, while all is still, “Lest rivals mar our honeymoon, “We’ll pitch our tents by Gogar’s rill, “And sleep in Niddry’s fair saloon.

“Until that feudal storm is o’er, “That rises now—but do not weep; “It gathers gloomy on the shore, “But, like the waves, will roar to sleep.

“The boat lies rocking in the bay, “Her crew are brave, her oars are ready,— “Then rise, my love, ere dawn of day “Awakes the maids of Aberlady.

“When shooting o’er the dark green sea, “Our canvass full, our vessel steady, “I’ll kiss your cheek, and then be free “To hail you Winton’s lovely lady.

“Though far the castle’s turrets blaze “Like beacons on the ocean burning, “As high the festal fire they’ll raise, “To hail their chieftain’s glad returning.”

The shallop flew along the shore, Dashing the rising waves aside,— They raise the sail, and strike the oar, So favouring breeze and swelling tide!

Landed on Preston’s fertile strand, They hear the organ’s dying strain; As Alan takes his Margaret’s hand, And leads to Seton’s holy fane.

The portly Bishop look’d on high, The golden-chalice stretch’d to bless, When he beheld with wondering eye Love’s culprit in her loveliness.

“Father! this lady as my bride, “I claim before my God and thou; “When warrior to the field must ride, “No forms should e’er delay his vow.

“Although this marriage course be rude, “This diamond ring must plead the rest!” The priest look’d down in soften’d mood, And soon the happy couple blest.

This chequer’d scene again we change; Now o’er the waves the lovers’ fly, While heard in Preston’s fertile grange, Newbottle’s lusty oxen cry.

The moon is up—the crew prolong The notes, as o’er the waters clear Is heard the fisher’s oyster-song Like water-spirits hovering near.

They pass the Inch’s beacon fires, St Ninian bless for favouring gale, As high Dunedin’s dusky spires Amidst the chequer’d lights they hail.

And soon in Murray’s friendly bower, The weary day had joyful night, And Alan kiss’d the sweetest flower That ever blest the morning light.

Morn saw the feudal standard raised, The shepherd left his mountain fold,— Unyoked six hundred oxen grazed, A second Sabbath glad to hold.

One hundred ploughs unharness’d lie, The dusky collier leaves his mines, “A Seton!” is the gathering cry, And far the fiery dragon shines.

With sound of horn and bloodhound near The angry slogan rises far, Smoke brindles every pointed spear, Portentous of the coming war.

The gloomy minions of the wood, Rush down impatient for the spoil, But back return like ocean’s flood, That leaves it wreck to feed the soil.

Proud Salton’s baron thundering comes, (The parrot shining on his crest,) Till Keith bears down on ostrich plumes, And drives the popinjay to nest;

But not till Winton’s lofty spires Are veil’d in smoke and gilt with flame; Not till Revenge has lit her fires, And curses pour’d on Bruce’s name!

Meanwhile on Preston’s fertile shore The feudal war is fiercely borne; Newbottle’s monks will long deplore Their oxen maim’d,—their trampled corn.

Destruction broods o’er Seton’s fane, Her gold-embroider’d altars spoil’d; Her aged priests down cast and slain, Her temples pilfer’d and defiled.

Her silver-blazon’d sachristy, Was stolen by sacrilegious hand; Her silken-woven tapistry Shrunk shrivell’d from the burning brand.

The priest’s right arm was stretch’d to curse, When generous Saltcoats forward came; The robbers cry, “To horse, to horse!” But ere they mount a host is slain.

Now Baliol’s liegemen thread the Moor, From dark Tranent, Fawside, and Myles, Investing Elphingston’s high tower, As warm for strife each bosom boils.

They mount the breach, while in the shade Sir Alan’s page, in dread despair, The nitrous train so nicely laid, Hurl’d foes and battlements in air.

An adept in that dangerous art, In latter times, ah! known too well, This faëry page could point the dart, Or spring the mine with deadly yell.

As round the parting fragments fall, The urchin flew like bird on wing, Scaled Winton’s castellated wall, And loosed the cauldron’s pitchy spring.

Unnumbered cisterns rivers pour, Which boiling, hissing falls around; Th’ assailants shun the burning shower, Rush to the Tyne, or bite the ground.

While rings the loud alarum-bell, Echo’d by rock and birken dale: It sounds her foes’ departing knell, And brings her chief to Winton’s vale.

Afar the steel-clad warriors shine, Like silver mists on green Fawside, While to the primrose banks of Tyne A chosen band of warriors ride.

The Winton’s starry shield is seen, And Moray’s lion’s red array, While Seton, like a Roman queen, Sits throned in phalanx firm, but gay.

Must sorrow cloud these shouts that rise, And raise in bridal eye the tear? A knight, dark mask’d, claims Winton’s prize, With strength of arm and just of spear.

The bidding Alan did not bide, But met his rival as a rock; The spear which pass’d his steel-laced side, Unhorsed his foeman with the shock.

“On vantage-ground I will not stand,” Brave Winton cried; on foot he sprung, Attack’d his foe with sword in hand, Aside his trusty spear he flung.

One blow the haughty youth laid low, The shiver’d helmet burst in twain; Winton stood o’er his fallen foe, Whose blood bedew’d the emerald plain.

“O Heaven! that visor quick undo, “Bring balm to sooth the soldier’s groan;” But ere that close-mask’d face they view, Expired the gallant Elphingston.

“Now maidens raise the funeral wail, “To chivalry award its meed:— “There’s not in Lothian’s primrose vale “A braver knight that mounts a steed.”

“Thrice welcome to these lordly halls! “Joy, joy to Winton’s lovely bride;” Is echo’d from the castle walls, As through the gates the warriors ride.

“Thrice welcome,” gifted seer has said, “From thee and thine a race shall spring, “Like Winton’s chaplet, ne’er to fade “While ancient Scotland has a king.”