And he thought on the days that were long since bye, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high; Now, slow and faint, he led the way, Where, cloistered round, the garden lay; The pillared arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. VIII. Spreading herbs and flowerets bright, Nor herb nor floweret glistened there, The youth in glittering squadrons start; And hurl the unexpected dart. He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light. IX. By a steel-clenched postern door, On pillars lofty, and light, and small; bound. X. Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, * Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut into a fantastic face, or mask. F 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. The moon on the east oriel shone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, Shewed many a prophet and many a saint, 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 kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. XII. They 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. "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 clove Eildon hills in three, And for having but thought them my heart within, XIV. "When Michael lay on his dying bed, He bethought him of his sinful deed, |