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For forty days and nights so drear,
I ween he had not spoke,
And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock,

Seem'd none more bent to pray; But, when the Holy Father spoke, He rose and went his way.

Again unto his native land

His weary course he drew,
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat,

'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; [sweet Through woods more fair no stream more Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the pilgrim came,

And vassals bent the knee;
For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,
Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country, still,
In battle he had stood,
Ay, even when on the banks of Till
Her noblest pour'd their blood.
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;

There Beauty, led by timid Love,
May shun the tell-tale ray;

And the convent bell did vespers tell,
Newbattle's oaks among,
And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song:

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,

As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,
Nor ever raised his eye,

Until he came to that dreary place,
Which did all in ruins lie.

Hegazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,
With many a bitter groan-

And there was aware of a Gray Friar,
Resting him on a stone.

"Now, Christ save thee !" said the Gray Brother;

"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he.

'O come ye from east, or come ye from west,

Or bring reliques from over the sea; Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the divine,

Or St. John of Beverley?"—

"I come not from the shrine of St. James the divine,

Nor bring reliques from over the sea; I bring but a curse from our father, the

Pope,

Which for ever will cling to me."

From that fair dome, where suit is paid, "Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so!

By blast of bugle free,*

To Auchendinny's hazel glade,*
And haunted Woodhouselee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,*
And Roslin's rocky glen,*
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,*
And classic Hawthornden ?*

Yet never a path, from day to day,
The pilgrim's footsteps range,
Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruin'd grange.

A woeful place was that, I ween,

As sorrow could desire;

[wall,

For nodding to the fall was each crumbling And the roof was scathed with fire.

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But kneel thee down to me,

And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly

sin,

That absolved thou mayest be."—

"And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, That I should shrive to thee, When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven,

Has no power to pardon me?"—

"O I am sent from a distant clime,
Five thousand miles away,
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,
Done here 'twixt night and day."

The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand,
And thus began his saye-
When on his neck an ice-cold hand
Did that Gray Brother laye.

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XXXVIII.

And on the right, and on the left,

Ere they could snatch a view, Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain, And cot, and castle, flew.

XXXIX.

XLIX.

"Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines Dost fear to ride with me?— [clear, Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride!"— "O William, let them be !L.

"Sit fast-dost fear?-The moon shines "See there, see there! What yonderswings clear

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And creaks 'mid whistling rain?' "Gibbet and steel, th' accursed wheel; A murderer in his chain.

LI.

"Hollo! thou felon, follow here: To bridal bed we ride;

And thou shalt prance a fetter-dance Before me and my bride."—

LII.

And, hurry! hurry! clash, clash, clash!
The wasted form descends;

And fleet as wind through hazel bush
The wild career attends.

LIII.

Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode, Splash! splash! along the sea;

"Come with thy choir, thou coffin'd The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, guest,

To swell our nuptial song!

The flashing pebbles flee.

LIV.

Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast! How fled what moonshine faintly show'd! Come all, come all along!"

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How fled what darkness hid! How fled the earth beneath their feet, The heaven above their head!

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Reluctant on its rusty hinge
Revolved an iron door,
And by the pale moon's setting beam
Were seen a church and tower.
LX.

With many a shriek and cry whiz round
The birds of midnight, scared;
And rustling like autumnal leaves
Unhallow'd ghosts were heard.

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AN IMITATION OF THE "WILD JAGER" OF THE POET BUrger.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lord pursue.
The eager pack, from couples freed,
Dash through the bush, the brier, the
brake;
[steed,
While answering hound, and horn, and
The mountain echoes startling wake.
The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,
Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd:
But still the Wildgrave onward rides;
Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides,

Two Stranger Horsemen join the train.
Who was each Stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
The right-hand steed was silver white,

The left, the swarthy hue of hell.
The right-hand Horseman, young and fair,
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,

Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.
He waved his huntsman's cap on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,

To match the princely chase, afford?" "Cease thy loud bugle's changing knell," Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell,

Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise.

"To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear,

Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the Warning Spirit hear,

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.” "Away, and sweep the glades along!" The Sable Hunter hoarse replies; "To muttering monks leave matin-song, And bells, and books, and mysteries." The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, And, launching forward with a bound, "Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound? "Hence, if our manly sport offend !

With pious fools go chant and pray:Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend;

Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!"

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,

Each stranger Horseman follow'd still.
Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,
A stag more white than mountain snow;
And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,
"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"
A heedless wretch has cross'd the way;
He gasps the thundering hoofs below;-
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still, "Forward, forward!" on they go.
See, where yon simple fences meet,

A field with Autumn's blessings crown'd;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman with toil embrown'd:

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