I cannot tell how the truth may be ; I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 66 XXIII. OW, 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 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. HE Knight breathed free in the morning wind, And strove his hardihood to find ; He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey, Which girdle round the fair Abbaye ; And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, He joy'd to see the cheerful light, And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might XXV. 'HE sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey, The sun had brighten'd 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 spread her breast the mountain rose. XXVI. HY does fair Margaret so early awake, 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 bloodhound, As he rouses him up from his lair; And, though she passes the postern alone, Why is not the watchman's bugle blown? XXVII. HE ladye steps in doubt and dread, The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound, 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. HE 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. When the half sigh her swelling breast When her blue eyes their secret told, XXIX. ND now, fair dames, methinks I see Your waving locks ye backward throw, And how the Knight, with tender fire, And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd, And said that she would die a maid ;— XXX. LAS! fair dames, your hopes are vain! My harp has lost the enchanting strain ; Its lightness would my age reprove: My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are cold: I may not, must not, sing of love. XXXI. ENEATH an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, The Baron's Dwarf his courser held, And held his crested helm and spear; That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man, If the tales were true that of him ran Through all the Border, far and near. 'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod. He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!" |