XXIV.

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, Scarce marked the guests the darkened hall,

Though, long before the sinking day,

A wondrous shade involved them all.
It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drained 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 neighbor's face, Could scarce his own stretched hand behold.

A secret horror checked the feast,
And chilled the soul of every guest;
Even the high dame stood half aghast,
She knew some evil on the blast;
The elfish page fell to the ground,
And, shuddering, muttered, Found! found!
found!'

XXV.

Then sudden through the darkened air
A flash of lightning came;

So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seemed on flame.
Glanced every rafter of the hall,
Glanced every shield upon the wall;
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone,
Were instant seen and instant gone;
Full through the guests' bedazzled band

Resistless flashed the levin-brand,
And filled the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elfish page it broke.
It broke with thunder long and loud,
Dismayed the brave, appalled the proud,-
From sea to sea the larum rung;
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,
To arms the startled warders sprung.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elfish dwarf was seen no more!

XXVI.

Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall,
Some saw a sight, not seen by all;
That dreadful voice was heard by some
Cry, with loud summons, GYLBIN, COME!'
And on the spot where burst the brand,
Just where the page had flung him down,
Some saw an arm, and some a hand,
And some the waving of a gown.
The guests in silence prayed and shook,
And terror dimmed each lofty look.
But none of all the astonished train
Was so dismayed as Deloraine :

His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
'T was feared his mind would ne'er re-

turn;

For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.
At length by fits he darkly told,

No sound was made, no word was spoke, Till noble Angus silence broke;

And he a solemn sacred plight Did to Saint 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 blest saint his prayers addressed: Some to Saint Modan made their vows, Some to Saint Mary of the Lowes, Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, Some to Our Lady of the Isle; Each did his patron witness make That he such pilgrimage would take,

Nor how brave sons and daughters fair Blessed Teviot's Flower and Cranstoun's

heir:

After such dreadful scene 't were 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 lengthened 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 hallowed side,

And there they knelt them down.
Above the suppliant chieftains wave
The banners of departed brave;

Beneath the lettered stones were laid
The ashes of their fathers dead;

And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burden of the song,

DIES IRE, DIES ILLA,

SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA, While the pealing organ rung.

Were it meet with sacred strain To close my lay, so light and vain, Thus the holy fathers sung:

Hymn for the Dead.

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away. What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll. The flaming heavens together roll, When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

O, on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be THOU the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass
away!

From many a garnished niche around
Stern saints and tortured martyrs frowned.

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, flourished fair

With the Redeemer's name.
Above the prostrate pilgrim band
The mitred abbot stretched his hand,
And blessed them as they kneeled;
With holy cross he signed them all,
And prayed they might be sage in hall
And fortunate in field.

Then mass was sung, and prayers were said,
And solemn requiem for the dead;

And bells tolled out their mighty peal
For the departed spirit's weal;
And ever in the office close

The hymn of intercession rose;

HUSHED is the harp the Minstrel gone.

And did he wander forth alone?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage?

No: close beneath proud Newark's tower
Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower,

A simple hut; but there was seen
The little garden hedged with green,
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.
There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze,
Oft heard the tale of other days;
For much he loved to ope his door,
And give the aid he begged before.
So passed the winter's day; but still,
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill.
And July's eve, with balmy breath,
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath,
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak,
The aged harper's soul awoke !
Then would he sing achievements high
And circumstance of chivalry,
Till the rapt traveller would stay,
Forgetful of the closing day;
And noble youths, the strain to hear,
Forsook the hunting of the deer;
And Yarrow, as he rolled along,
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song.