The _Forster_, _Fenwick_, _Collingwood_, The _Heron_ of renown, High in the ranks of Lord Percy, The war-axe hewed down!
He sang the acts of other chiefs, That by the _Reedside_ fell; The flow’r of val’rous families That still near _Cheviot_ dwell.
The heath-hen long, and fallow deer, Their native heights did quit; With warrior-blood th’ attainted sward, Made e’en the gorecock flit!
The Percies in that vengeful fight, Both, both were pris’ners ta’en; But for the Douglas’ dead bodie Were yielded up again.
He ceas’d the song, then paused awhile; Down roll’d the silent tear; The lady, smit with sympathy, Could scarce the like forbear.
Then stifling back the star-like drop, With woman’s winning voice, She ask’d if tidings from his lord Would not his heart rejoice?
“Perchance,” quoth she, “I may you aid, (Assuage your troubled breast,) For oh! methinks the task is good To comfort the distressed!”
His kerchief to his furrow’d face He gently did apply, And bright and fervent shone his front, New fire illum’d his eye.
“But thrice the golden circling sun, Has rubied yonder east,” The lady said, “Since news there came From Shrewsb’ry’s hostile waste.
“There _Hotspur_ and his valiant band, Oppos’d to _Tudor’s_ ire, Encamped lay, and high their hearts Beat for the conflict dire.”
So having said, her snowy hand She plac’d across her brow; “Lo! down by _Windingshore’s_ dim vale, A Herald’s coming now.”
The Herald flew on wings of wind, Swift to the Royal fane; “A victory,” he stoutly cried, “And valiant _Hotspur_ slain!”
The death-sound pierc’d the Harper’s ear, And instant on the plain He dropt,--as light’ning had him struck, Nor e’er spoke word again.
This legendary ballad is an un-embellished versification of an old tradition, still current in the vicinity of Sewen Shields Castle, in Northumberland.
Nought but some dæmon’s baleful step For years had pass’d those lands, Where (all its former grandeur fled) An ancient castle stands.
Where many a lord, and many a knight, And many a baron bold, The meed of valour oft had won, Or tale of love had told.
Once, too, it held Northumbria’s king In days of former fame: But now no courteous tenants boasts-- And Sewen Shields[54] its name.
And there, too, superstition’s spell Had cast its gloom around: And none for years had ever been Within its precincts found--