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And, issuing from the tomb, Shewed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale, Danced on the dark-browed Warrior's mail,

And kissed his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped 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 or awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he owned;
His breath came thick, his head swam round,

When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved he stood,
And the priest prayed fervendy, and loud:
With eyes averted prayed he;
He might not endure the sight to see,
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

XXI.

And when the priest his death-prayer had prayed,

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 !"—

Theft Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

With iron clasped, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frowned;

But the glare of the sepulchral light,

Perchance, had dazzled the Warrior's sight.

XXII.

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,

The night returned in double gloom,

For the moon hadgone 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 passed,

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.

XXII.

"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 returned 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 clasped fast, as if still he prayed.

XXV.

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he passed the tombstones gray,

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 twined,

Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.

Full fain was he when the dawn of day

Began to brighten Cheviot gray;

He joyed to see the chearful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.

XXV.

The sun had brightened Cheviot gray,

The sun had brightened the Carter's* side;

And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide.

• A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.

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