And that to night I shall watch with thee, V. And strangely on the knight looked he, And his blue eyes gleamed 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. VI. "Penance, father, will I none; Prayer know I hardly one; For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, 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 be gone." VII. Again on the knight looked the churchman old, And again he sighed heavily: For he had himself been a warrior bold, And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high: Now, slow and faint, he led the way, dead. VIII. Spreading herbs, and flow'rets bright, Nor herb, nor flow'ret, glistened there, 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, On pillars, lofty, and light, and small; The keystone, that locked each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; The corbells 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. X. Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale ! O fading honours of the dead! XI. The moon on the east oriel shone * Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face or mask. 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 grass 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. XII. They sate them down on a marble stone, Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, XIII. "In these far climes, it was my lot 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. XIV. "When Michael lay on his dying bed, He bethought him of his sinful deed, That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; XV. "I swore to bury his mighty book, I buried him on St. Michael's night, When the bell tolled one, and the moon was bright; |