That his patron's Cross might over him wave,
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.

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 tolled one!-
I tell you, that a braver man

Than William of Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed;

Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII.

"Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,
To chase the spirits that love the night:
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,

Until the eternal doom shall be."*

Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone,

Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:

He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the warrior took;

And the Monk made a sign, with his withered hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

With beating heart to the task he went;
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;
With bar of iron heaved amain,

Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.

It was by dint of passing strength,

That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there, to see
How the light broke forth so gloriously,

Baptista Porta, and other authors who treat of natural magic, talk much of eternal lamps, pretended to have been found burning in ancient sepulchres. One of these perpetual lamps is said to have been discovered in the tomb of Tulliola, the daughter of Cicero.

B

Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like heaven's own blessed light;
And, issuing from the tomb,

Showed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped him round,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
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
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,
And neither known remorse or awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd;
His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved he stood,
And the priest prayed fervently, and loud:
With eyes averted prayed he;

He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

ΧΧΙ.

And when the Priest his death-prayer had prayed,

Thus unto Deloraine he said:

"Now speed thee what thou hast to do,
Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;
For those, thou mayest not look upon,

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!"
Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,
With iron clasped, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frowned;
But the glare of the sepulchral light,
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.

XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,
The night returned, in double gloom;

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;
And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew,

With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
They hardly might the postern gain.
Tis said, as through the aisles they passed,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall,
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,
And voices unlike the voice of man;

As if the fiends kept holiday,

Because these spells were brought to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

XXIII.

"Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, "And, when we are on death-bed laid,

may our dear Ladye, and sweet St John, Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!" The monk returned 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 clasped fast, as if still he prayed.

XXIV.

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he passed the tombstones gray,
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest,
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 joyed to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brightened Cheviot gray,

The sun had brightened the Carter's* side; And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale,

And wakened 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 don her kirtle so hastilie;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would 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?

A mountain on the Border of England, above Jedburgh.

XXVII.

The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;
The lady caresses the rough blood-hound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,

For he was her foster-father's son;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light, To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The Knight and Ladye fair are met,
And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.
A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,
Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribband pressed;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might compare!

XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;

Your waving locks ye backward throw,

And sidelong bend your necks of snow:-
Ye ween to hear a melting tale,

Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove;
Swore, he might at her feet expire,
But never, never cease to love;
And how she blushed, and how she sighed,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid:-

Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed,