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And then he took the cross divine
(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), And died for her sake in Palestine,
So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all !
Arose a bard of loftier port;
Renowned in haughty Henry's court:
Who has not heard of Surrey's fame?
And his the bard's immortal name,
And oft, within some olive grove,
They sung of Surrey's absent love. His step the Italian peasant staid,
And deemed, that spirits from on high, Round where some hermit saint was laid,
Were breathing heavenly melody; So sweet did harp and voice combine, To praise the name of Geraldine.
XV. Fitztraver! ( what tongue may say
The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,
Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ?
Fitztraver. 'Twas All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart beat higli;
He heard the midnight bell with anxious start.
Which told the mystic hour, approaching uign,
When wise Cornelius promised, by his art, To show to him the ladye of his heart,
Albeit betwixt them roared the ocean grim; Yet so the sage had hight to play his part,
That he should see her form in life and limb, And mark, if still she loved, and still she thought of him.
Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye,
To which the wizard led the gallant Knight, Save that before a mirror, huge and high,
A hallowed taper shed a glimmering light On mystic implements of magic might;
On cross, and character, and talisman,
For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam;
Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream;
To form a lordly and a lofty room,
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
Fair all the pageant-but how passing fair
The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind! O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair,
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined;
And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine
That favoured strain was Surrey's raptured line,
xx. Slow rolled the clouds upon the lovely form,
And swept the goodly vision all away So royal en vy rolled the murky storm
O'er my beloved Master's glorious day. Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant ! Heaven repay
On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The gory bridal bed, the plundered shrine,
These hated Henry's name as death,
Harold. o listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell ;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. “ The blackening wave is edged with white ;
To inch* and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water Sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
“ Last night the gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch :
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?"
“'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. “'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide,
If ’tis not filled by Rosabelle."
O'er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,
And redder than the bright moon-beam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
And seen from caverned Hawthornden.
Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie; Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seemed all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairSo still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
* Inch, Isle
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds bung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
xxiv. So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,
Scarce marked the guests the darkened ball, Though, long before the sinking day,
A wondrous shade involved them all :
Of no eclipse had sages told;
Could scarce his own stretched hand behold.
A flash of lightning came
The castle seemed on flame.
It broke, with thunder long and loud,
From sea to sea the larum rung;
To arms the startled:warders sprung.