Spreading herbs and flowerets bright But was carved in the cloister'd arches as fair The youth in glittering squadrons start; And hurl the unexpected dart. (6) He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light. IX. By a steel-clenched postern door, They enter'd now the chancel tall, The darken'd roof rose high aloof On pillars, lofty, and light, and small. of shapely stone, Ty combined; ad bound. ave thought some fairy's hand lars straight the ozier wand, ay a freakish knot, had twined; Le framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint, Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint, And trampled the Apostate's pride. XII. They sate them down on a marble stone, A Scottish monarch slept below; (10) as spoke the monk, in solemn tone I was not always a man of woe; And fought beneath the cross of God: And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. XIII. In these far climes, it was my lot meet the wondrous Michael Scott; (11) The bells would ring in Notre Dame! (13) The words that cleft Eildon hills in three, And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone: (14) But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within, A treble penance must be done. XIV. When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened; Carbella, the projections from which the arches spring, usually tasia a fantastic face, or mask. He bethought him of his sinful deed, That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; XV. I swore to bury his mighty book, That never mortal might therein look; And never to tell where it was hid, Sive at his chief of Branksome's need; And when that need was past and o'er, Again the volume to restore. I buried him on St Michael's night, When the bell told one, and the moon was bright, XVI. It was a night of woe and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid! Strange sounds along the chancel past, The banners waved without a blast»- -Still spoke the monk when the bell toll'd one! I tell you, that a braver mau Than William of Deloraine, good at need, XVII. « Lo, warrior! now the cross of red To chase the spirits that love the night: Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone, He pointed to a secret nook; An iron bar the warrior took; And the monk made a sign with his wither'd hand, The grave's huge portal to expand. XVIII. With beating heart to the task he went; Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. Each after each, in due degree, Gave praises to his melody; His hand was true, his voice was clear, And much they long'd the rest to hear. Fr S to his cell, er and penance sped; met at the noontide bell, St Mary's aisle was dead! ross was the body laid, clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd. XXIV. knight breathed free in the morning wind, And strove his hardihood to find: He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-stones gr Which girdle round the fair abbaye; For the mystic book, to his bosom press'd, Felt like a load upon his breast; And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. Full fain was he when the dawn of day Began to brighten Cheviot gray; He joy'd to see the cheerful light, And he said Ave Mary as well as he might. XXV. The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray, The sun had brighten'd the Carter's' side, And soon beneath the rising day Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot tide. The wild birds told their warbling tale, And waken'd every flower that blows; And peeped forth the violet pale, And spread her breast the mountain rose; And lovelier than the rose so red, Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed, The fairest maid of Teviotdale. XXVI. Why does fair Margaret so early awake, And the silken knots, which in hurry she wou make, Why tremble her slender fingers to tie; Why does she stop, and look often around, As she glides down the secret stair; And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound, As he rouses him up from his lair; And though she passes the postern alone, Why is not the watchman's bugle blown? XXVII. The ladye steps in doubt and dread, And she glides through the green-wood at dawn O light, To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight. XXVIII. The knight and ladye fair are met, To meet beneath the hawthorn green. A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh. and young, and tall, and loved in hall: Secret told, Jocks of goldd the peerless fair, Branksome might compare! XXIX. , fair dames, methinks I see hsten to my minstrelsy; Four waving locks ye backward throw, And sidelong bend your necks of snow: And how the knight, with tender fire, And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd, leath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Bet where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four, He was waspish, arch, and litherlie, But well Lord Cranstoun served he: And he of his service was full fain; For once he had been ta'en or slain, An it had not been his ministry. All between Home and Hermitage Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's goblin-page. XXXIII. For the baron went on pilgrimage, And took with him this elvish page, To Mary's chapel of the Lowes: For there, beside Our Lady's lake, An offering he had sworn to make, And he would pay his vows. But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band Wat of Harden came thither amain, They were three hundred spears and three. XXXIV: And now, in Branksome's good green-wood, The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high, WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale, Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; 1 Wood-pigeon, XIX. Before their eyes the wizard lay, Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea; His left hand held his book of might; A silver cross was in his right; The lamp was placed beside his knee: High and majestic was his look, At which the fellest fiends had shook, And all unruffled was his face; They trusted his soul had gotten grace. XX. Often had William of Deloraine And neither known remorse nor awe; His breath came thick, his head swam round, He might not endure the sight to see XXI. And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, Thus unto Deloraine he said: «Now speed thee what thou hast to do, Or, warrior, we may dearly rue; For those, thou mayst not look upon, Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!»Then Deloraine, in terror, took From the cold hand the mighty book, With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound: He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd; (16) But the glare of the sepulchral light, XXII. When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, For the moon had gone down,and the stars were few; «Now hie thee hence,» the father said, And when we are on death-bed laid, The monk return'd him to his cell, And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bell, The Monk of St Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid, With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd. XXIV. The knight breathed free in the morning wind, He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-stones gra |