« 前へ次へ »
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, 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, 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 flow'rets bright, Glistened with the dew of night; Nor herb, nor flow'ret, glistened there, But was carved in the cloister arches as fair. The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, Then into the night he looked forth; Andred 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.
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 corbells" were carved grotesque and
And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,
Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had
Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven,
Shook to the cold nightwind of heaven,
Around the screened altar's pale;
And there the dying lamps did burn,
Before thy low and lonely urn,
0 gallant chief of Otterburne!
And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale'
O fading honours of the dead!
O high ambition, lowly laid!
The moon on the eastoriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;
* corbells, the projections from Shich the arches
spring, usually cut in a fantastic face or mask *
Thou wouldsthave thought some fairy's hand
"Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,
In many afreakish knot, had twined;
Then framed aspell 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.
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:
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,
And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.
“In these far climes, it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
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; F could say to thee.
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of
But to speak them were a deadly sin;
And for having but thought them my heart
A treble penance must be done.
“When Michael lay on his dying bed,
His conscience was awakened;
He bethought him of his sinful deed, -
And he gave me a sign to eome with speed:
I was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
The words may not again be said,
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.
“I swore to bury his mighty book,
That never mortal might therein look;
And never to tell where it was hid,
Saveathis chief of Branksome's need :
And when that need was past and o'er,
Again the volume to reStore.
* buried him on St. Michael's night,
When the bell tolled one, and the moon was
And 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.
* It was a night of woe and dread,
. When Michael in the tomb I laid
Strange sounds along the chancel past;
The banners waved without a blast,”—
—Still spoke the monk, when the bell tolled
H tell you, that a braver man
Than William of Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe me'er spurred a steed;
Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.
“Lo, warrior now, the cross of red
Points to the grave of the mighty dea');
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
The grave's huge portal to expand.