« 前へ次へ »
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
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,
Streamed 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 bless: light;
And, issuing from the tomb,
Showed the monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brown warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.
Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled, "
He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped 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 fiends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face—
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.
Often had William of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,
And neither known remorse or awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he owned;
His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved, he stood,
And the prost prayed fervently, and loud:
With eyes averted, prayed he,
He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.
And when the priest his death-prayer had
Thus unto Deloraine he said:—
“Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,
Or, warrior, we may dearly rue;
For those, thou may'st not look upon,
Are gathering fast round the yawning'stone!”
Then Deloraine, in terror, took
From the cold hand the mighty book,
With iron clasped, and with iron bound:
He tho't, as he took it,the dead-man frownid;
But the glare of the sepulchral light, Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.
When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,
The night returned, in double gleom:
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 passed,
They heard strange moises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at midheight thread the chancel wall,
Lond 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 ;
Isay the tale as 'twas said to me.
* Now, hie'thee hence,” the father said;
“And when we are on death-bed laid,
O may our dear ladye, and sweet St. John,
Forgive our souls for the deed we have done?”
The monk returned him to his cell,
And many a prayer and penance sped;
When the convent met at the moon-tide bell,
The monk of Saint Mary's aisle was dead!
Before the cross was the body laid,
with hands clasped fast, as if stillo Po"
The knight breathed free in the morning wind,
And strove his hardihood to find :
He was glad when he passed the tombstones
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;
For the mystic book, to his bosom prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast:
And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;
He joyed to see the cheerful light, ,
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.
The sun had brightened Cheviot gray,
The sun had brightened the Carter's" side;
And soon beneath the rising day
Smiled Branksome towers andTeviot's tide.
The wild birds told their warbling tale,
And wakened every flower that blows;
And peeped forth the violet pale,
And spread her breast the mountain rose:
And lovelier than the rose so red,
Yet paler than the violet pale,
She early left her sleepless bed,
The fairest maid of Teviotdale.
* A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.
Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie;
And the silken knots, which in hurry she
Why tremble her slender fingers to tie;
Why does she stop, and look often around,
As she glides down the secret stair;
And why does she patthe shaggy blood-hound,
As he rouses him up from his lair;
And, though she passes the postern alone,
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?
The ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;
The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,
Lesthis voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster-father's son;
And she glides through the greenwood at
dawn of light,
To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight,
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: