And soon he spurr'd his courser keen Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

XXVI.

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark :

"Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."— "For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd,

And left the friendly tower behind.

He turn'd him now from Teviotside,

And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horsliehill; Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman way.*

XXVII.

A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand,
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the
grove,

Ambition is no cure for love!

XXVIII

Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain,

Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;

* An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.

For he was barded* from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail;

Never heavier man and horse
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say,
Was daggled by the dashing spray;
Yet, through good heart, and Our
Ladye's grace,

At length he gained the landing place.

XXX.

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,
And sternly shook his plumed head,
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; +
For on his soul the slaughter red
Of that unhallow'd morn arose,
When first the Scott and Carr were foes;
When royal James beheld the fray,
Prize to the victor of the day,
When Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

In bitter mood he spurred fast,
And soon the hated heath was past;
And far beneath, in lustre wan,
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran,
Like some tall rock with lichens grey,
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew
rung,

Now midnight lauds were in Melrose

sung.

The sound, upon the fitful gale,
In solemn wise did rise and fail,
Like that wild harp, whose magic tone
Is waken'd by the winds alone.
But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas
silence all;

He meetly stabled his steed in stall,
And sought the convent's lonely wall.

HERE paused the harp; and with its swell The Master's fire and courage fell;

Barded, or barbed,-applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour.

An ancient seat of the Kerrs of Cessford, now demolished.

Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholi Church.

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,
And much they longed the rest to hear,
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,
After meet rest, again began.

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.

"In 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.

But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.

"Lo, Warrior! now the Cross of Red
'Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night.
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
Until the eternal doom shall be."-
Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-
stone,

Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:
He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the Warrior took ; And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

With beating heart to the task he went ; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;

With bar of iron heaved amain,
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows,
like rain.

It was by dint of passing strength,
That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there, to see
How the light broke forth so gloriously,
Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like heaven's own blessed light,
And, issuing from the tomb,
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,

But the glare of the sepulchral light, Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.

XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, The night return'd in double gloom : For the moon had gore down, and the stars were few;

And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, With wavering steps and dizzy brain, They hardly might the postern gain. 'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,

They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel
wall,

Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,
And voices unlike the voice of man;
As if the fiends kept holiday,
Because these spells were brought to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be ;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

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 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.

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find:
He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-
stones grey,
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;
For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast;