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Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
Ie seem'd to seek, in every eye,
f 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,
Cach after each, in due degree,
ave praises to his melody;

His hand was true, his voice was clear,
And much they longed the rest to hear,
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,
After meet rest, again began.

CANTO SECOND,

I.

F 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 grey.
When the broken arches are black in
night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined 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 ;

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

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Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone :"I was not always a man of woe; For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the cross of God: Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,

And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

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XIII.

In these far climes it was my lot

To meet the wondrous Michael Scott; A Wizard, of such dreaded fame, hat 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

he 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.

XIV.

When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened : Ie bethought him of his sinful deed, And he gave me a sign to come with speed,

was in Spain when the morning rose, But I stood by his bed ere evening close. he words may not again be said,

'hat he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; 'hey would rend this Abbaye's massy nave,

nd pile it in heaps above his grave.

XV.

I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 'hat never mortal might therein look : nd never to tell where it was hid, ave at his Chief of Branksome's need: .nd when that need was past and o'er, gain the volume to restore. buried him on St. Michael's night, When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright,

nd I dug his chamber among the dead, When the floor of the chancel was stained red,

That his patron's cross might over him wave,

And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.

XVI.

"It was a night of woe and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid! Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, The banners waved without a blast," -Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one !

I tell you, that a braver man

Than William of Deloraine, good at need,

Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII.

"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;
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 fiend had shook,
And all unruffled was his face :

They trusted his soul had gotten grace.

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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 ;
say the tale as 'twas said to me.

I

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And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The Knight and Ladye fair are met, And under the hawthorn's boughs are

set.

A fairer pair were never seen
To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce
hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might
compare!

XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow:
Ye ween to hear a melting tale,
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove ;
Swore he might at her feet expire,

But never, never cease to love;
And how she blush'd and how she sigh'd,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid ;—
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should
be.

XXX.

Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! My harp has lost the enchanting strain;

Its lightness would my age reprove: My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are cold: I may not, must not, sing of love.

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