XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;

"Stand, ho!" thou courier of the dark."

"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd,

And left the friendly tower behind.
He turn'd him now from Teviotside,

And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,
And gain'd the moor at Horsliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman way.*

XXVII.

A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his
prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the
grove,

Ambition is no cure for love!

XXVIII.

Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain,

Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;

* An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.

For he was barded † from counter to tail,
And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say,
Was daggled by the dashing spray:
Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's
grace,

At length he gain'd the landing-place.

ΧΧΧ.

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eyes o'er Halidon; ‡

For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallow'd morn arose, When first the Scott and Carr were foes; When royal James beheld the fray, Prize to the victor of the day; When Home and Douglas, in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

In bitter mood he spurred fast,
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan,
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran:
Like some tall rock with lichens gray,
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds § were in Melrose

sung.

The sound, upon the fitful gale,

In solemn wise did rise and fail,
Like that wild harp, whose magic tone
Is waken'd by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all;

He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall. 13

HERE paused the harp; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell;

↑ Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armor.

Halidon was an ancient seat of the Kerrs of Cessford, now demolished.

Lands, the midnight service of the Catholic Church.

Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd to seek, in every eye,
If they approved his minstrelsy;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age, and wand'ring long,
Had done his hand and harp some wrong.
The Duchess, and her daughters fair,
And every gentle lady there,
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.
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,
After meet rest, again began.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; 14

When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's

For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood To fence the rights of fair Melrose; And lands and livings, many a rood, Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod,
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,*
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

IV.

"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by

me,

Says, that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb." From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard.

V.

And strangely on the Knight look'd he, And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and

wide:

"And darest thou, Warrior! seek to see

What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast, in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;

For threescore years, in penance spent, My knees those flinty stones have worn: Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known. Would'st thou thy every future year In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, Yet wait thy latter end with fear

Then, daring Warrior, follow me!"

VI.

"Penance, father, will I none; Prayer know I hardly one;

Aventayle, visor of the helmet.

And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourish'd around,

Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

X.

Full many a scutcheon and banner riven,
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,
Around the screened altar's pale;
And there the dying lamps did burn,
Before thy low and lonely urn,
O gallant Chief of Otterburne! 15
And thine, dark Knight of Liddes-
dale! 16

O fading honors of the dead!
O high ambition, lowly laid!

XI.

The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;
Thou would'st have thought some fairy's
hand

'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,

In many a freakish knot, had twined; Then 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,

Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst, his Cross of Red Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the Apostate's pride. The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody

XIII.

"In these far climes it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott,17
A wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,
Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame!
Some of his skill he taught to me;
And, Warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,"
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of
stone:

But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.

"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 wither'd 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,
Stream'd 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,

Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's

mail,

And kiss'd his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old;

It was a belief of the Middle Ages, that eternal lamps were to be found burning in ancient sepulchres.

A palmer's amice wrapp'd 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 nor 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,

Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood,
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:
With eyes averted prayed he;

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

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 may'st 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;

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 return'd 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 pass'd, 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, O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"

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,

And strove his hardihood to find.
He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-

stones 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 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;

*A mountain on the Border of England, above Jedburgh.