As glanced his eye o'er Halidon;

For on his soul the slaughter red
Of that unhallowed 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
Reeked 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 gray,
Seemed, dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he passed 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 wakened by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reached 't was 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:
Dejectedly and low he bowed,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seemed 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 wandering 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.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

IF thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's
grave,

Then go but go alone the while-
Then view Saint David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear
Was never scene so sad and fair!

II.

Short halt did Deloraine make there; Little recked he of the scene so fair: With dagger's hilt on the wicket strong He struck full loud, and struck full long. The porter hurried to the gate:

'Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?' 'From Branksome I,' the warrior cried; And straight the wicket opened wide: For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,
Had gifted the shrine for their souls'

repose.

III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod :
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle

To hail the Monk of Saint Mary's aisle.

IV.

'The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,

Says that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb.' From sackcloth couch the monk arose, With toil his stiffened limbs he reared; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard.

V.

And strangely on the knight looked he, And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide: And darest thou, warrior, seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn, For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.
Wouldst thou thy every future year

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear
Then, daring warrior, follow me!'

VI.

Penance, father, will I none;
Prayer know I hardly one;

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
When I ride on a Border foray.
Other prayer can I none;

So speed me my errand, and let me be gone.'

VII.

Again on the knight looked the churchman old,

And again he sighed heavily:

Spreading herbs and flowerets bright
Glistened with the dew of night;
Nor herb nor floweret glistened there
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start, Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,

That spirits were riding the northern light.

He bethought him of his sinful deed,

And he gave me a sign to come with speed:
I was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
The words may not again be said
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.

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 Saint Michael's night, When the bell tolled 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 passed, The banners waved without a blast

Still spoke the monk, when the bell tolled one!

I tell you, that a braver man

Than William of Deloraine, good at need, Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed;

Yet somewhat was he chilled 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 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 withered hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

With beating heart to the task he went, His sinewy frame o'er the gravestone 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,
Streamed 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,

Showed the monk's cowl and visage pale,