But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. XXV. So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, Scarce marked the guests the darkened hall, Though, long before the sinking day, A wondrous shade involved them all: It was not eddying mist or fog, Drained 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 stretched hand, behold, A secret horror checked the feast, And chilled the soul of every guest; Even the high Dame stood half aghast, The elvish Page fell to the ground, [found!" And, shuddering, muttered, "Found! found! XXVI. Then sudden through the darkened air A flash of lightning came; So broad, so bright, so red the glare, Glanced every rafter of the hall, Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone, And filled the hall with smouldering smoke, It broke, with thunder long and loud, XXVII. Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, Some saw a sight, not seen by uli; That dreadful voice was heard by some, Just where the Page had flung him down, And some the waving of a gown. The guests in silence prayed and shook, And terror dimmed each lofty look: But none of all the astonished train Was so dismayed as Deloraine; His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, XXVIII. The anxious crowd, with horror pale, And he a solemn sacred plight Then each, to ease his troubled breast, To some blessed saint his prayers addressed Some to St Modan made their vows, Some to St Mary of the Lowes, Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, Some to our Lady 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 prayed, "Tis said the noble Dame, dismayed, Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. XXIX. Nought of the bridal will I tell, Nor how brave sons and daughters fair To wake the note of mirth again; XXX. With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, The standers-by might hear uneath, Through all the lengthened row: No lordly look, no martial stride, Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide And there they kneeled them down; The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnished niche around, Stern saints, and tortured martyrs frowned, XXXI 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, With the Redeemer's name; Then mass was sung, and prayers were said, And solemn requiem for the dead; And bells tolled 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 DIES IRE, DIES ILLA, SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA; While the pealing organ rung; HYMN FOR THE DEAD. That day of wrath, that dreadful day, HUSHED is the harp-the Minstrel gone. 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 scen Then would he sing achievements high, And noble youths, the strain to hear, |