XV.

'I swore to bury his Mighty Book,

He pointed to a secret nook;
An iron bar the Warrior took;
And the Monk made a sign with his
wither'd hand,

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,

XVIII.

With beating heart to the task he went; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;

With bar of iron heav'd amain,

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 pass'd,

The banners wav'd 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.

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 mov'd the Monk to the broad flag-stone,

Which the bloody cross was trac'd upon :

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,

Danc'd 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 :

had pray'd,

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 breath'd free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find: He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey,

For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest,

Felt like a load upon his breast;
And his joints, with nerves of iron
twin'd,

Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot grey;
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 grey, The sun had brighten'd the Carter's side;

And soon beneath the rising day Smil'd Branksome towers and Teviot's 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 would 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 bloodhound,

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 greenwood at dawn of 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.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and lov'd in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce
hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might
compare !

XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of

snow:

Ye ween to hear a melting tale,
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;

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:
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 son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff ̃d;
And 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.

IV.

But no whit weary did he seem, When, dancing in the sunny beam, He mark'd the crane on the Baron's

crest;

For his ready spear was in his rest.