That broke our secret speech It rose from the infernal shade, Or featly was some juggle play'd, Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, IX. "Now here, within Tantallon Hold, To Douglas late my tale I told, To whom my house was known of old. Won by my proofs, his faulchion bright This eve anew shall dub me knight. These were the arms that once did turn And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, But ancient armour on the walls, And aged chargers in the stalls, And women, priests, and grey-hair'd men; The rest were all in Twizel glen.* And now I watch my armour here, By law of arms, till midnight's near; Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light. X. "There soon again we meet, my Clare! Now meeter far for martial broil, Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, Once more" "O, Wilton! must we then Risk new-found happiness again, * Where James encamped before taking post at Flodden. Trust fate of arms once more? And is there not a humble glen, Thy task on dale and moor? That reddening brow!-too well I know, Not even thy Clare can peace bestow, Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go! And weep a warrior's shame ; Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame !". XI. That night, upon the rocks and bay, The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, And pour'd its silver light, and pure, Through loop-hole, and through embrazure, Upon Tantallon tower and hall; But chief where arched windows wide Illuminate the chapel's pride, The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though, seam'd with scars, Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, Amid that dim and smoky light, A Bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas' blood, With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet shew'd his meek and thoughtful eye But little pride of prelacy; More pleased that, in a barbarous age, He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page, Than that beneath his rule he held The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. Beside him ancient Angus stood, Doff'd his furr'd gown and sable hood; And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand In all his old array ; So pale his face, so huge his limb, So old his arms, his look so grim. XII. Then at the altar Wilton kneels, And Clare the spurs bound on his heels; |