sway

O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ;-
Still nods their palace to its fall,
Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirk-
wall!

alarms,

And bade the dead arise to arms! With war and wonder all on flame, To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,

'The blackening wave is edg'd with white :

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the WaterSprite,

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

'Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : Why cross the gloomy firth today?'

''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glar'd on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheath'd in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's
mail.

Blaz'd battlement and pinnet high,

Blaz'd every rose-carved buttress fair

So still they blaze when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one, the holy vault doth hold—

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell ;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

XXIV.

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd

hall,

Though, long before the sinking day, A wondrous shade involv'd them all: It was not eddying mist or fog, Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog; Of no eclipse had sages told;

And yet, as it came on apace, Each one could scarce his neighbour's face,

Could scarce his Own stretch'd hand behold.

A secret horror check'd the feast, And chill'd the soul of every guest; Even the high Dame stood halfaghast-She knew some evil on the blast; The elvish page fell to the ground, And, shuddering, mutter'd, 'Found! found

found!'

XXV.

Then sudden, through the darken'd air,
A flash of lightning came;
So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seem'd on flame.
Glanc'd every rafter of the hall,
Glanc'd every shield upon the wall;

With broken hint, and shuddering

cold,

That he had seen, right certainly, A shape with amice wrapp'd around, With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, Like pilgrim from beyond the sea; And knew-but how it matter'd notIt was the wizard, Michael Scott.

XXVII.

The anxious crowd, with horror pale, All trembling heard the wondrous tale;

No sound was made, no word was

spoke,

Till noble Angus silence broke;

And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make,
That he a pilgrimage would take
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake
Of Michael's restless sprite.
Then each, to ease his troubled breast,
To some bless'd saint his prayers ad-
dress'd:

Some to St. Modan made their vows,
Some to St. Mary of the Lowes,
Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,
Some to our Ladye of the Isle ;
Each did his patron witness make,
That he such pilgrimage would take,
And monks should sing, and bells
should toll,

All for the weal of Michael's soul.
While vows were ta'en, and prayers

were pray'd,

'Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, Renounc'd, for aye, dark magic's aid.

XXVIII.

Nought of the bridal will I tell,
Which after in short space befell;
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair
Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cran-

stoun's heir:

After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain To wake the note of mirth again.

More meet it were to mark the day Of penitence, and prayer divine, When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array, Sought Melrose' holy shrine.

XXIX.

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, And arms enfolded on his breast,

Did every pilgrim go; The standers-by might hear uneath, Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath,

Through all the lengthen'd row: No lordly look, nor martial stride; Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,

Forgotten their renown; Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide To the high altar's hallow'd side,

And there they knelt them down: Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave; Beneath the letter'd stones were laid The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnish'd niche around, Stern saints and tortur'd martyrs frown'd,

XXX.

And slow up the dim aisle afar,
With sable cowl and scapular,
And snow-white stoles, in order due,
The holy Fathers, two and two,

In long procession came;
Taper and host, and book they bare,
And holy banner, flourish'd fair

With the Redeemer's name. Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred Abbot stretch'd his hand, And bless'd them as they kneel'd; With holy cross he sign'd them all, And pray'd they might be sage in hall, And fortunate in field.

were said,

And solemn requiem for the dead;
And bells toll'd out their mighty peal,
For the departed spirit's weal;
And ever in the office close
The hymn of intercession rose;

Oft heard the tale of other days;
For much he lov'd to ope his door,
And give the aid he begg`d before.
So pass'd the winter's day; but still,
When summer smil'd on sweet Bow

hill,