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Again unto his native land

His weary course he drew,
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,

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;
For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,

Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country still,

In battle he had stood,
Ay, even when, on the banks of Till,

Her noblest pour'd their blood..

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet !

By Eske’s fair streams that run,
O’er airy steep, through copsewood deep,

Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,

And yield the muse the day ;
There Beauty, led by timid Love,

May shun the tell-tale ray ;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid,

By blast of bugle free,
To Auchendinny's hazel glade,

And haunted Woodhouslee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,

And Roslin's rocky glen,
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden ?
VOL. III.

9

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,
The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams

Had streak'd the grey with red;

And the convent bell did vespers tell,

Newbattle's oaks among,
And mingled with the solemn knell

Our Ladye's evening song ;

The heavy knell, their choir's faint swell,

Came slowly down the wind,
And on the Pilgrim's ear they fell,

As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,

Nor ever raised his eye,
Until he came to that dreary place,

Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls so scathed with fire,

With many a bitter groan-
And there was aware of a Grey Friar,

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 ;
I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,

Which for ever will cling to me."

“ Now, woeful Pilgrim, say not so!

But kneel thee down by me,
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin.

That absolved thou may'st be.”

“ And who art thou, thou Grey Brother,

That I should shrive to thee,
When he, to whom are given the keys of earth and

heaven,
Has no power to pardon me?”-

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