XVII.

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.

"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll,
In utter darkness round the pole;
The Nothern Bear lowers black and grim;
Orion's studded belt is dim;
Twinkling faint, and distant far,

Shimmers through mist each planet star;
Ill may I read their high decree!
But no kind influence deign they shower
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower,
Till pride be quell'd, and love be free."
XVIII.

The unearthly voices ceast,

And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast,

It died on the side of the hill. But round Lord David's tower The sound still floated near; For it rung in the Ladye's bower, And it rung in the Ladye's ear. She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbb'd high with pride:"Your mountains shall bend,

And your streams ascend,

Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride !"

XIX.

The Ladye sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer lay,
And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play.
A fancied moss-trooper,' the boy,
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall, right merrily,
In mimic foray' rode.

Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,
Share in his frolic gambols bore,
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould,
Were stubborn as the steel they wore.
For the gray warriors prophesied,

3

How the brave boy, in future war, Should tame the Unicorn's pride, Exalt the Crescent and the Star.

XX.

The Ladye forgot her purpose high,
One moment, and no more;

One moment gazed with a mother's eye,
As she paused at the arched door:
Then, from amid the armed train,
She call'd to her William of Deloraine."

1 See Appendix, Note N.

Foray, a predatory inroad.

This line, of which the metre appears defective, would have its full complement of feet according to the pronunciation of the poet himself-as all who were familiar with his utterane of the letter r will bear testimony.-ED.

XXI.

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he,
As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee:
Through Solway sands, through Tarras

moss,

Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;

By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds;
In Eske or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one.
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride:
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight, or matin prime:
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's King and Scotland's Queen.

XXII.

"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile

Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the Father well from me;

Say that the fated hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb:

For this will be St. Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the Cross, of bloody red,

Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.

XXV.

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he past,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,1
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode,
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod;
He pass'd the Peel' of Goldiland,
And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound,
Where Druid shades still flitted round;
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon he spurr'd his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.*

XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ;— "Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.""For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd, And left the friendly tower behind. He turn'd him now from Teviotside,

And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,

And gain'd the moor at Horsliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman way.

XXVIL

A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn?
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,

When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love!

Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow:
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
For he was barded from counter to tail,
And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse

Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say

Was daggled by the dashing spray;

Yet through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace, At length he gain'd the landing place.

XXX.

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head,

As glanced his eye o'er Halidon;

For on his soul the slaughter red
Of that unhallow'd morn arose,

When first the Scott and Carr were foes;
When royal James beheld the fray,
Prize to the victor of the day;
When Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

In bitter mood he spurred fast,
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan,

Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran:
Like some tall rock with lichens gray,
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung,

Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.
The sound, upon the fitful gale,

In solemn wise did rise and fail,

Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

Is waken'd by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

And sought the convent's lonely wall."

HERE paused the harp; and with its swell
The Master's fire and courage fell;
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd to seek, in every eye,
If they approved his minstrelsy;
And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age, and wand'ring long,
Had done his hand and harp some wrong.
The Duchess, and her daughters fair,
And every gentle lady there,
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.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,1
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ;*
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then go but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ;'
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

II.

Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little reck'd he of the scene so fair:
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full Jong.

"In the description of Melrose, which introduces the Secend Canto, the reader will observe how skilfully the Author calis in the aid of sentimental associations to heighten the effect of the picture which he presents to the eye."-JEFFREY.

1 See Appendix, Note W.

David I. of Scotland, purchased the reputation of sanctity, by founding, and liberally endowing, not only the monastery of Melrose, but those of Kelso, Jedburgh, and many others;

The porter hurried to the gate

"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?" "From Branksome, I," the warrior cried; And straight the wicket open'd wide: For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood, To fence the rights of fair Melrose; And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod:
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,"
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

IV. .

"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me;
Says, that the fated hour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb."
From sackcloth couch the monk arose,
With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.

V

And strangely on the Knight look'd he,

And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide; "And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast, in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn; For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.
Wouldst thou thy every future year
In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear-
Then, daring Warrior, follow me!"—

VI.

"Penance, father, will I none;

Prayer know I hardly one;

which led to the well-known observation of his successor, that he was a sore saint for the crown.

4 The Buccleuch family were great benefactors to the Abbey of Melrose. As early as the reign of Robert II., Robert Scott, Baron of Murdieston and Rankleburn (now Buccleuch), gave to the monks the lands of Hinkery, in Ettrick Forest, pro sœ lute anime sua.-Chartulary of Melrose, 28th May, 1415. Aventayle, visor of the helmet.

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,

When I ride on a Border foray.
Other prayer can I none;

So speed me my errand, and let me be gone.”—

VIL

Again on the Knight look'd 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, cloister'd round, the garden lay;
The pillar'd arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

VIII.

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-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.

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: The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; The corbells were carved grotesque and grim; And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,

1 See Appendix, Note X.

The cloisters were frequently used as places of sepulture. An instance occurs in Dryburgh Abbey, where the cloister has an inscription, bearing. Hic jacet frater Archibaldus.

See Appendix, Note Y.

Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.

"With plinth and with capital flourish'd around." First Edition. See Appendix, Note Z. 7 Ibid. Note 2 A. Ibid. Note 2 B. | "Bombay, September 25, 1805.-I began last night to read Walter Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, as part of my evening readings to my children. I was extremely delighted by the oetical beauty of some passages, the Abbey of Melrose for

With base and with capital flourish'd around," Seem'd 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 honors 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, Show'd 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 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);
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 wondrous Michael Scott;"

The cos

example, and most of the prologues to the cantos. tume, too, is admirable. The tone is antique; and it might be read for instruction as a picture of the manners of the mid dle ages." "November 2, 1805.-We are perfectly enchanted with Walter Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. He is surely the man born at last to translate the Iliad. Are not the good parts of his poem the most Homeric of any thing in our language? There are tedious passages, and so are there in Ho mer."-SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH, Life, vol. i. pp. 254, 262. 10 A large marble stone, in the chancel of Melrose, is pointed out as the monument of Alexander II., one of the greatest of our early kings; others say, it is the resting-place of Waldeve one of the early abbots, who died in the odor of sanctity. See Appendix, Note 2 C.

A wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,1
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.

XIV.

"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 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,
Save 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 toll'd 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 wo and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid! Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, The banners waved without a blast"-Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!

I tell you, that a braver man

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.

See Appendix, Note 2 D.

18 Appendix, Note 2 F.

2 Ibid. Note 2 E. 4 Ibid. Note 2 G.

XVII.

"Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
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 ;5

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.

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;