Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd 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 wand'ring 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.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day,
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
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 St. David's ruin'd pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair!

Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone :"I was not always a man of woe; For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the Cross of God: Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,

And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

XIII.

"In these far climes it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
A Wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,
Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame!
Some of his skill he taught to me;
And, Warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of
stone.

But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.

XIV.

"When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened : 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 St. Michael's night, When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright,

And I dug his chamber among the dead, When the floor of the chancel was stained red,

"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 wither'd hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

XVIII.

With beating heart to the task he went ; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone 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,
Stream'd 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,
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,

Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's

mail,

And kiss'd his waving plume.

XIX.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapp'd 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.

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 return'd in double gloom : For the moon had gone 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 pass'd,

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.

XXIII.

"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 return'd 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 clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

XXIV.

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find:
He was glad when he pass'd the tomb-
stones grey,
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 twin'd,

Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day,
Began to brighten Cheviot grey;
He joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he
might.

XXV.

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey, The sun had brighten'd the Carter's * side;

And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale, And waken'd every flower that blows; And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain

rose.

And lovelier than the rose so red, Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed, The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

XXVI.

Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie ;
And the silken knots, which in hurry
she would make,

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie; Why does she stop, and look often around, As she glides down the secret stair; And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound,

As she rouses him up from his lair; And, though she passes the postern alone, Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?

XXVII.

The Ladye steps in doubt and dread, Lest her watchful mother hear her tread; The Ladye caresses the rough bloodhound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle

round;

The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster-father's son;

* A mountain on the Border of England, above Jedburgh.

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

XXVIII.

The Knight and Ladye fair are met, And under the hawthorn's boughs are

set.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall;
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce
hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
When the half sigh her swelling breast
Against the silken ribbon prest;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold-
Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might
compare !

XXIX.

And now, fair dames, methinks I see
You listen to my minstrelsy;
Your waving locks ye backward throw,
And sidelong bend your necks of snow:
Ye ween to hear a melting tale,
Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,
To paint his faithful passion strove;
Swore he might at her feet expire,

But never, never cease to love;
And how she blush'd and how she sigh'd,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid ;-
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should
be.

XXX.

Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! My harp has lost the enchanting strain;

Its lightness would my age reprove: My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are cold: I may not, must not, sing of love.