And many a Runic column high
Had witnessed grim idolatry.
And thus had Harold, in his youth,
Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth,—
Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curl'd,
Whose monstrous circle girds the world;
Of those dread Maids, whose hideous
yell

Maddens the battle's bloody swell;
Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old,
Their falchions wrench'd from corpses'
hold,

Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
And bade the dead arise to arms!
With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood

tree.

He learn'd a milder minstrelsy;
Yet something of the Northern spell
Mix'd with the softer numbers well.

XXIII.

HAROLD.

O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell ;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. "The blackening wave is edged with white;

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck nigh.

"Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye

gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?”-
"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

* Inch, isle

"'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." -
O'er Roslin all that dreary night,

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,.

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairSo still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle. And each St Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell ;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

XXIV.

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, Scarce mark'd the guests the darkened hall,

Though, long before the sinking day,
A wondrous shade involved them all:
It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog;

Of no eclipse had sages told;
And yet, as it came on apace,
Each one could scarce his neighbour's
face,

Could scarce his own stretch'd hand

behold.

A secret horror check'd the feast,
And chill'd the soul of every guest;
Even the high Dame stood half aghast,
She knew some evil on the blast;
The elvish page fell to the ground,
And, shuddering, mutter'd, "Found!
found found!

XXV.

Then sudden, through the darken'd air
A flash of lightning came;
So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seem'd on flame.
Glanced every rafter of the hall,
Glanced every shield upon the wall;
Each trophied beam, each sculptured
stone,

Were instant seen, and instant gone;
Full through the guests' bedazzled band
Resistless flash'd the levin-brand,
And fill'd the hall with smouldering
smoke,

As on the elvish page it broke.

It broke with thunder long and loud, Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the proud,

From sea to sea the larum rung; On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,

To arms the startled warders

For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, Like him of whom the story ran, Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. At length, by fits, he darkly told, With broken hint, and shuddering cold

That he had seen right certainly, A shape with amice wrapp'd around, With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, Like pilgrim from beyond the sea; And knew-but how it matter'd notIt was the wizard, Michael Scott.

XXVII.

The anxious crowd, with horror pale, All trembling heard the wondrous tale; No sound was made, no word was spoke,

Till noble Angus silence broke;

And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to St Bride of Douglas make,
That he a pilgrimage would take,
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake
Of Michael's restless sprite.
Then each, to ease his troubled breast,
To some bless'd saint his prayers ad-
dress'd:

Some to St Modan made their vows,
Some to St Mary of the Lowes,
Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,
Some to our Ladye of the Isle ;
Each did his patron witness make,
That he such pilgrimage would take,
And monks should sing, and bells should
toll,

All for the weal of Michael's soul.
While vows were ta'en, and prayers

were pray'd,

'Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid.

XXVIII.

Nought of the bridal will I tell,
Which after in short space befell:
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair
Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cranstoun's
heir:

After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain
To wake the note of mirth again.

More meet it were to mark the day

Of penitence, and prayer divine, When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array, Sought Melrose' holy shrine.

XXIX.

With naked foot, and sackloth vest,
And arms enfolded on his breast,

Did every pilgrim go;
The standers-by might hear uneath,
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath,
Through all the lengthen'd row:
No lordly look, nor martial stride;
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,
Forgotten their renown;
Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide
To the high altar's hallow'd side,

And there they knelt them down: Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave; Beneath the letter'd stones were laid The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnish'd niche around, Stern saints and tortured martyrs frown'd.

XXX.

And slow up the dim aisle afar,
With sable cowl and scapular,
And snow-white stoles, in order due,
The holy Fathers, two and two,

In long procession came;
Taper, and host, and book they bare,
And holy banner, flourish'd fair

With the Redeemer's name. Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred Abbot stretch'd his hand, And bless'd them as they kneel'd; With holy cross he signed them all, And pray'd they might be sage in hall, And fortunate in field.

Then mass was sung, and prayers were said,

And solemn requiem for the dead;
And bells toll'd out their mighty peal,
For the departed spirit's weal;
And ever in the office close
The hymn of intercession rose ;
And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burthen of the song-

DIES IRE, DIES ILLA,

SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA;
While the pealing organ rung.
Were it meet with sacred strain
To close my lay, so light and vain,
Thus the holy Fathers sung :-

XXXI.

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day? When, shriveling like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll; When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay,

Be THOU the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

HUSH'D is the harp-the Minstrel gone.
And did he wander forth alone?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage
No!-close beneath proud Newark's
tower,

Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower;
A simple hut; but there was seen
The little garden hedged with green,
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.
There shelter'd wanderers, by the
blaze,

Oft heard the tale of other days;
For much he loved to ope his door,
And give the aid he begg'd before.
So pass'd the winter's day; but still,
When summer smiled on sweet Bow-
hill,

And July's eve, with balmy breath,
Way'd the blue-bells on Newark heath;
When throstles sung in Hairhead-shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's
oak,

The aged Harper's soul awoke !
Then would he sing achievements high,
And circumstance of chivalry,
Till the rapt traveller would stay,
Forgetful of the closing day;
And noble youths the strain to hear,
Forsook the hunting of the deer;
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along,
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song.

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