CANTO SECOND

I

IF thou wouldst 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 ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seemed 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 man's grave,

Then go

but go alone the while

Then view Saint David's ruined pile;

And, home returning, soothly swear
Was never scene so sad and fair!

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II

Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little 'recked he of the scene so fair:
With dagger's hilt on the wicket strong
He struck full loud, and struck full long,

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The porter hurried to the gate :

"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"
"From Branksome I," the warrior cried;
And straight the wicket opened wide:
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 entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle

To hail the Monk of Saint 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 stiffened limbs he reared;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.

V

And strangely on the knight looked he,
And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide:

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"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.
Wouldst 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;

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For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,

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Save to patter an Ave Mary,

When I ride on a Border foray.

Other prayer can I none;

So speed me my errand, and let me begone."

VII

Again on the knight looked the churchman old,
And again he sighed heavily;

For he had himself been a warrior bold,
And fought in Spain and Italy.

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And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong and his courage was high: 75

Now, slow and faint, he led the way

Where, cloistered round, the garden 'lay;

The pillared arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

VIII

Spreading herbs and flowerets bright
Glisten with the dew of night;

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Nor herb nor floweret glistened there

But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.

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The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.

So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start,

Sudden the flying °jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,

That spirits were riding the northern light.

IX

By a steel-clenched postern door
They entered now the chancel tall;
The darkened roof rose high aloof
On pillars lofty and light and small:
The keystone that locked each ribbed aisle
Was a fleur-de-lys or a quatre-feuille;

The corbels were carved grotesque and grim;
And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,
Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

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Full many a 'scutcheon and banner 'riven
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,
Around the screened altar's 'pale;

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And there the dying lamps did burn
Before thy low and lonely °urn,

O gallant Chief of °Otterburne!

And thine, dark Knight of "Liddesdale! 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 wouldst 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,
Showed 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 moonbeam kissed the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

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XII

They sate them down on a marble stone-
A Scottish monarch slept below;
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:

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