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Spreading herbs and flowerets bright
Glisten'd with the dew of night;
Nor herb nor floweret glisten'd there,

But was carved in the cloister'd arches as fair
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. (6)

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light.

IX.

By a steel-clenched postern door,

They enter'd now the chancel tall, The darken'd roof rose high aloof On pillars, lofty, and light, and small.

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of shapely stone, Ty combined;

ad bound.

ave thought some fairy's hand lars straight the ozier wand, ay a freakish knot, had twined; Le framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint,

Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Fall in the midst, his cross of red
Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the Apostate's pride.
The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

XII.

They sate them down on a marble stone, A Scottish monarch slept below; (10) as 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.

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XIII.

In these far climes, it was my lot

meet the wondrous Michael Scott; (11)
A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave, (12)
Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame! (13)
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: (14) 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,

His conscience was awakened;

Carbella, the projections from which the arches spring, usually tasia a fantastic face, or mask.

He bethought him of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign to come 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.

XV.

I swore to bury his mighty book, That never mortal might therein look; And never to tell where it was hid, Sive at his chief of Branksome's need; And when that need was past and o'er, Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on St Michael's night,

When the bell told one, and the moon was bright,
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.

XVI.

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 toll'd one!

I tell you, that a braver mau

Than William of Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII.

« Lo, warrior! now the cross of red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wonderous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night:
That lamp shall burn unquenchably, (15)
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 hand, The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

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 rain.
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,
Stream'd 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 blessed light;
And, issuing from the tomb,
Show'd the monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd warrior's mail,
And kiss'd his waving plume.

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Each after each, in due degree,

Gave praises to his melody;

His hand was true, his voice was clear,

And much they long'd the rest to hear.
Encouraged thus, the aged man,
After meet rest, again began.

Fr

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to his cell,

er and penance sped;

met at the noontide bell, St Mary's aisle was dead!

ross was the body laid, clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

XXIV.

knight breathed free in the morning wind, And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-stones gr Which girdle round the fair abbaye; For the mystic book, to his bosom press'd, 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 joy'd to see the cheerful light, And he said Ave Mary as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray,

The sun had brighten'd the Carter's' side, And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot tide. The wild birds told their warbling tale, And waken'd 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.

XXVI.

Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie:

And the silken knots, which in hurry she wou

make,

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 pat the 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?

XXVII.

The ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread:
The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,
Lest his 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 green-wood at dawn O

light,

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

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.

A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.

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and young, and tall,

and loved in hall:
scarce told, scarce hid,
elier red;
welling breast
ress'd:

Secret told,

Jocks of goldd the peerless fair, Branksome might compare!

XXIX.

, fair dames, methinks I see hsten to my minstrelsy;

Four waving locks ye backward throw,

And sidelong bend your necks of snow:
Te veen to hear a melting talę,
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove;
Swore, he might at her feet expire,
But never, never, cease to love;

And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid ;-
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.

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leath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,
The baron's Dwarf his courser held, (17)
And beld his crested helm and spear:
That Dwarf was scarcely an earthly man,
The tales were true that of him ran
Through all the Border, far and near.
Tas said, when the baron a-hunting rode
Tarough Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod,
Be heard a voice ery, «Lost! lost! lost!»
And, like tennis-ball by racquet toss'd,
A leap of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorse this elfin shape,
Instorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee.
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd;
Tis said that five good miles he rade,
To rid him of his company;

Bet where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four,
And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

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He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,

But well Lord Cranstoun served he: And he of his service was full fain; For once he had been ta'en or slain, An it had not been his ministry. All between Home and Hermitage Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's goblin-page.

XXXIII.

For the baron went on pilgrimage, And took with him this elvish page,

To Mary's chapel of the Lowes: For there, beside Our Lady's lake, An offering he had sworn to make, And he would pay his vows.

But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band
Of the best that would ride at her command; (18)
The trysting-place was Newark Lee.

Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestane,
And thither came William of Deloraine;

They were three hundred spears and three.
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream,
Their horses prance, their lances gleam.
They came to St Mary's lake ere day;
But the chapel was void, and the baron away.
They burn'd the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's goblin-page.

XXXIV:

And now, in Branksome's good green-wood,
As under the aged oak he stood,
The baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears;

The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,
And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh.
Fair Margaret, through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat-dove: 1
The Dwarf the stirrup held, and rein;
Vaulted the knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail :
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the wither'd hand of age
A goblet, crown'd with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye,
Pray'd God to bless the duchess long,
And all who cheer'd a sou of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd;
Aud he, embolden'd by the draught,
Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd.
The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.

1 Wood-pigeon,

XIX.

Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapp'd 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.

XX.

Often had William of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,

And neither known remorse nor awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd:

His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood,
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:
With eyes averted prayed he;

He might not endure the sight to see
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

XXI.

And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, Thus unto Deloraine he said:

«Now speed thee what thou hast to do,

Or, warrior, we may dearly rue;

For those, thou mayst not look upon,

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!»Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the mighty book,

With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd; (16)

But the glare of the sepulchral light,
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.

XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,
The night return'd in double gloom,

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 past,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall,
Loud 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;
I say the tale as 't was said to me.
XXIII.

«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 return'd him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bell, The Monk of St Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid, With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

XXIV.

The knight breathed free in the morning wind,
And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-stones gra
Which girdle round the fair abbaye;
For the mystic book, to his bosom press'd,
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 be when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;
He joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary as well as he might.

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