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Again unto his native land
His weary course he drew,
And Pentland's mountains blue.
His unblest feet his native seat,
Mid Esk's fair woods, regain; Through woods more fair no stream more sweet
Rolls to the eastern main.
And lords to meet the Pilgrim came,
And vassals bent the knee;
Was none more famed than he.
And boldly for his country still,
In battle he had stood,
Her noblest pour'd their blood..
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet !
By Eske’s fair streams that run,
Impervious to the sun.
There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day ;
May shun the tell-tale ray ;
From that fair dome, where suit is paid,
By blast of bugle free,
And haunted Woodhouslee.
Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,
And Roslin's rocky glen,
And classic Hawthornden ?
Yet never a path, from day to day,
The Pilgrim's footsteps range, Save but the solitary way
To Burndale's ruin'd Grange.
A woeful place was that, I ween,
As sorrow could desire ; For, nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,
And the roof was scathed with fire.
It fell upon a summer's eve,
While, on Carnethy's head,
Had streak'd the grey with red;
And the convent bell did vespers tell,
Newbattle's oaks among,
Our Ladye's evening song ;
The heavy knell, their choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,
As his wonted path he did find.
Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,
Nor ever raised his eye,
Which did all in ruins lie.
He gazed on the walls so scathed with fire,
With many a bitter groan-
Resting him on a stone.
“ Now, Christ thee save !" said the Grey Brother ;
“Some pilgrim thou seem'st to be.”' But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he.
“ O come ye from east, or come ye from west,
Or bring reliques from over the sea, Or come ye from the shrine of Saint James the divine,
Or Saint John of Beverley ?"
“ I come not from the shrine of Saint James the divine,
Nor bring reliques from over the sea ;
Which for ever will cling to me."
“ Now, woeful Pilgrim, say not so!
But kneel thee down by me,
That absolved thou may'st be.”
“ And who art thou, thou Grey Brother,
That I should shrive to thee,