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, He bethought him of his sinful deed, XV. "I swore to bury his Mighty Book, I buried him on St. Michael's night, When the bell tolled one, and the moon was bright, When the floor of the chancel was stainèd red, 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 tolled one ! I tell you, that a braver man Than William of Deloraine, good at need, Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed; Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread, XVII. "Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone, He pointed to a secret nook; An iron bar the Warrior took; And the Monk made a sign with his withered hand, The grave's huge portal to expand. XVIII. With beating heart to the task he went ; Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. I would you had been there, to see Shewed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale, XIX. Before their eyes the Wizard lay, The lamp was placed beside his knee: They trusted his soul had gotten grace. XX. Often had William of Deloraine And the priest prayed 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 prayed, Thus unto Deloraine he said : "Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue; For those, thou may'st not look upon, Are gathering fast round the yawning stone !"- From the cold hand the Mighty Book, With iron clasped, and with iron bound: He thought, as he took it, the dead man frowned; But the glare of the sepulchral light, XXII. When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few; And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, Because these spells were brought to-day. 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 returned him to his cell, And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bellThe Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid, With hands clasped fast, as if still he prayed. XXIV. The Knight breathed free in the morning wind, And strove his hardihood to find; He was glad when he passed the tombstones grey, Which girdle round the fair Abbaye; For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest, Felt like a load upon his breast; And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might. XXV. The sun had brightened Cheviot grey, The sun had brightened the Carter's* side; And soon beneath the rising day Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide. The wild birds told their warbling tale, And wakened 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 the silken knots, which in hurry she would make, Why does she stop, and look often around, As she glides down the secret stair; And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound, And, though she passes the postern alone, XXVII. The Ladye steps in doubt and dread, Lest her watchful mother hear her tread; 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. To meet beneath the hawthorn green. And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid, With Margaret of Branksome might compare! * A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh XXIX. And now, fair dames, methinks I see And how the Knight, with tender fire, And how she blushed, and how she sighed, XXX. Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! I XXXI. Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld, And held his crested helm and spear: A leap, of thirty feet and three, Made from the gorse this elfin shape, Distorted like some dwarfish ape, And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed; 'Tis said that five good miles he rade, To rid him of his company; But where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran four, And the Dwarf was first at the castle door. XXXII. Use lessens marvel, it is said: This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid; Little he ate, and less he spoke, Nor mingled with the menial flock: And often muttered, "Lost! lost! lost!" |