The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ;
The corbels 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,

Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

Around the screened altar's pale ;

And there the dying lamps did burn,

Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant Chief of Otterburne,

And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale!

O fading honours of the dead!

O high ambition, lowly laid!

XI.

The moon on the east oriel shone,

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the ozier 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,

Shewed many a prophet, and many a saint, Whose image on the glass 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,
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.

XIII.

"In these far climes, it was my lot

To meet the wond'rous 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, 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.