ERE 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, After meet rest, again began. Canto Second. I. F thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, For the gay beams of lightsome day, Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, 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 ; † Was never scene so sad and fair! II. HORT 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 long. 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. COLD 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 ; He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. IV. HE Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me; Says, that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, V. ND 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, For knowing what should ne'er be known. VI. ENANCE, father, will I none; 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." VII. GAIN on the Knight look'd the Church man old, And again he sighed heavily; For he had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy, |