And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong, and his courage Now, slow and faint, he led the way, dead. VIII. PREADING herbs, and flowerets bright, Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there, The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon, 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. Y a steel-clenched postern door, They enter'd now the chancel tall; The darken'd roof rose high aloof And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim, X. ULL 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 honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid! XI. HE moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou would'st 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. Show'd many a prophet, and many a 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 moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. * XII. HEY 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. N these far climes, it was my lot To meet the wondrous Michael Scott ;+ A wizard, of such dreaded fame, That when, in Salamanca's cave, 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.t But to speak them were a deadly sin; D And for having but thought them my heart within, A treble penance must be done. XIV. HEN Michael lay on his dying bed, He bethought him of his sinful deed, That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; XV. SWORE to bury his Mighty Book, look; And never to tell where it was hid, I buried him on St. Michael's night, |