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'The Ladye of Branksome greets thee Again on the Knight look'd the

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XV.

'I swore to bury his Mighty Book, That never mortal might therein look; And never to tell where it was hid, Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: And when that need was past and o'er,

Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on St. Michael's night, When the bell toll'd one, and the

moon was bright,

And I dug his chamber among the dead,

When the floor of the chancel was stained red,

That his patron's cross might over him wave,

And scare the fiends from the Wizard's

grave.

XVI.

'It was a night of woe and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid! Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd,

The banners wav'd without a blast'— -Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!

I tell you, that a braver man Than William of Deloraine, good at need,

Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed; Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,

And his hair did bristle upon his head.

XVII.

'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 mov'd the Monk to the broad
flag-stone,

Which the bloody cross was trac'd

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 heav'd 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,

Danc'd on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail,

And kiss'd his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapp'd him
round,

With a wrought Spanish baldric
bound,

Like a pilgrim from beyond the

sea:

His left hand held his Book of Might;

A silver cross was in his right;

The lamp was placed beside his knee :

High and majestic was his look,
At which the fellest fiends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face :
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.

XX.

Often had William of Deloraine Rode through the battle's bloody plain,

And trampled down the warriors slain, And neither known remorse nor

awe;

Yet now remorse and awe he own'd; His breath came thick, his head swam round,

When this strange scene of death

he saw.

Bewilder'd and unnerv'd he stood, And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:

With eyes averted prayed he;
He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the man he had lov'd so brotherly.

XXI.

And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd,

Thus unto Deloraine he said:'Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,

Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue; For those thou may'st not look upon Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!'

Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book, With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound: He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd;

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

XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the

tomb,

For the moon had gone 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 breath'd free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find: He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey,

The night return'd in double gloom; | Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest,

Felt like a load upon his breast;
And his joints, with nerves of iron
twin'd,

Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot grey;
He joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he
might.

XXV.

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey, The sun had brighten'd the Carter's side;

And soon beneath the rising day Smil'd Branksome towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale, And waken'd every flower that blows;

And peeped forth the violet pale,
And spread her breast the mountain

rose.

And lovelier than the rose so red,

Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed, The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

XXVI.

Why does fair Margaret so earlyawake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie;
And the silken knots, which in hurry
she would make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to

tie;

XXVII.

The Ladye steps in doubt and dread, Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

The Ladye caresses the rough bloodhound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round;

The watchman's bugle is not blown, 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.

The 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.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and lov'd in hall :
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce
hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might
compare !

XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see You listen to my minstrelsy;

Why does she stop, and look often Your waving locks ye backward throw,

around,

As she glides down the secret stair; And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound,

As he rouses him up from his lair; And, though she passes the postern alone,

Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?

And sidelong bend your necks of

snow:

Ye ween to hear a melting tale,
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender
fire,

To paint his faithful passion strove; Swore he might at her feet expire, But never, never cease to love;

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