The Select Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott; comprising The Lay of the Last Minstrel; Marmion; The Lady of the Lake; ballads, lyrical pieces, etc. MS. notes

Front matter

THE «ELECT POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT; COMPRISING W3HI3S St.&'W ©£? WSSSS S_&Sf KOMS'BimL? ee & is sa k © 3^ & sass ©w if s © ® ® s sr srjriai; ■EIS® a^,®^ ©IF SE3S SAKIig BÆ_E_E-.&W3!> IL "F IB 2 <S A 3L I? 2 S (5 S g, &©_, WITH ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. GLASGOW: PUBLISHED BY RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO, NUCCCXXXVIJI. © T— -., . - . © THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. a ,#oem, in Sti Cantos. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. The Poem, now offered to the Public, is intended to illustrate tlie customs and manners which anciently prevailed on the borders of England and Scotland. Thc inhabitants, living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament.

As the descrip tion of scenery and manners was more the object of thc Author, than a combined and regular narrative, ihe plan of the ancient metrical romance was adopted, which allows greater latitude in this respect than would be consistent with the dignity of a regular poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorises the changes of rythm in the text. The machinery also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile in a poem, which did not partake of the -rudeness of the old ballad, or metrical romance. For these reasons, the poem was put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of thc race, who, as he is supposed to have survived thc Revolution, might have caught somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model.

Thc date of the tale itself is about thc middle of the 16th century, when most of thc persons actually flourished. — The time occupied by the action is three nights and three days.

Introduction

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a hotter day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, tutor Who sung of Border chivalry ; ee^JaiAMw^- For, well-a-day! tReir date was sled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them and at rest. And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well; I For she had known adversity, — Though born in such a high degree ; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb! When kindness had his wants supplied, And the old man was gratified, Began to rise his minstrel pride And he began to talk anon, Of good carl Francis,* dead and gone, And of earl Walter, f rest him God!

A braver ne'er to battle rode: And how full many a tale he knew, Of the old warriors of Buccleugh ; And, would the noble Duchess deign To listen to an old man's strain, Though stiffhis hand, his voice though weak, He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, That if she loved the harp to hear, He could make music to her ear No more, on prancing palfrey borne, He carolled, light as lark at morn; No longer, courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay ; Old times were changed, old manners gone, , A stranger filled thcjjtuarte' throne; $AgjU^- The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor, He begged his bread from door to door; And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp, a King had loved to hear.

He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower; The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — No humbler resting-place was nigh, With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch hc passed, Whose ponderous grate, and massy bar, Had oft rolled back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door Against thc desolate and poor. .. r The Duchess* marked his weary pace, W**** His tiinTdnfien, and reverend face, Thc humble boon was soon obtained ; The aged Minstrel audience gained, But, when he reached the room of state, Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied; For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease, Which marks security to please ; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brain — He tried to tune his harp in vain, The pitying Duchess praised its chime, And gave him heart, and gave him time, Till every string's according glee Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain He could recal an ancient strain, He never thought to sing again. * Anue. Duclies3 of Buccleugh and Monmouth repre sentative of tin' ancient Lords of Buccleugh, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685. * Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleugh, father to tlie duchess. f Waiter, grandfather to the duchess. TJUNTEn By OEO. BROOKMAN. [FOR RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO., GLA ■2 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. [canto I It was riot framed for village churles, But for high dames and mighty earls _ He had played it to King Charles the Good, When hc kept court at Holyrood ; And much he wished, yet feared, to try The long forgotten melody. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, And an uncertain warbling made, And oft he shook his hoary head.

JBut when he caught the measure wild, The old man raised his face, and smiled; And lightened up his faded eye, With all a poet's ecstasy! In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along ; The present scene, the future lot; His toils, his wants, were all forgot; Cold diffidence, and age's frost, In tlie full tide of song were lost ; Each blank, in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied ; And, while his harp responsive rung, I 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

Canto I

I. They watch, against Southern force and guile, Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers, Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle. The feast was over in Branksome tower, And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower ; Her bower, that was guarded by word and by spell , Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — Jesu Maria, shield us well! No living wight, save the Ladye alone, Had dared to cross the threshold stone. VII. Such is the custom of Branksome Hall, Many a valiant knight is here ; But he, the Chieftain of them all, His sword hangs rusting on the wall, Beside his broken spear. Bards long shall tell, How Lord Walter fell ! When startled burghers fled afar, The furies of the Border war ; When the streets of high Dunedin Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden, And heard the slogan's* deadly yell — Then the Chief of Branksome tell.

II. The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all ; Knight, and page, and household squire, Loitered through the lofty hall, Or crowded round the ample fire. The stag-hounds, weary with the chace, Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race, from Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. III. VIII. Nine-and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall ; Nine-and-twenty squires of name Brought them their steeds from bower to stall , Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall Waited, duteous, on them all: They were all knights of mettle true, Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. Can piety the discord heal, Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, Can love of blessed charity? No! vainly to each holy shrine, In mutual pilgrimage, they drew ; Implored, in vain, the grace divine For chiefs, their own red falchions slew.

While Cessford owns the rule of Car, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war, Shall never, never be forgot! IV. Ten of them were sheathed in steel, With belted sword, and spur on heel ; They quitted not their harness bright, Neither by day, nor yet by night: They lay down to rest With corslet laced, Pillowed on buckler cold and hard ; IX. In sorrow, o'er lord Walter's bier The warlike foresters had bent They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred. And many a flower, and many a tear, Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear ! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe ; And burning pride, and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisped from the nurse's knee " And, if I live to be a man, My father's death revenged shall be!"

Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek. V. Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, Waited the beck of the warders ten. Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, Stood saddled in stable day and night, Barbed with frontlet of steel I trow, And with Jedwood-axe at saddle bow. A hundred more fed free in stall — Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. VI. X. Why do these steeds stand ready dight? Why watch these warriors, armed, by night? They watch, to hear the blood-hound baying; They watch, to hear the war-horn braying ; To see St George's red cross streaming, To see the midnight beacon gleaming, All loose her negligent attire All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire, And wept in wild despair. * The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan.

CANTO I.

] THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 3 But not alone the bitter tear Up, and mark their nimble feet! Up, and list their music sweet! Had filial grief supplied; For hopeless love, and anxious fear, Had lent their mingled tide : Nor in her mother's altered eye Dared she to look for sympathy, Her lover, 'gainst, her father's clan, With Car in arms had stood, When Mathouse burn to Melrose ran, All purple with their blood. And well she knew, her mother dread, Before lord Cranstoun she should wed, Would see her on her dying bed. XVI. River Spirit. " Tears of an imprisoned maiden Mix with my polluted stream ; Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, When shall cease these feudal jars? What shall be the maiden's fate? Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

XI. XVII. Of noble race the Ladye came ; Her father was a clerk of fame, Of Bethune's line of Picardic : Mountain Spirit. 11 Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, In utter darkness, round the pole ; The Northern Bear lowers black and grim ; Orion's studded belt is dim; He learned the art, that none may name, In Padua, far beyond the sea, Men said, he changed his mortal frame By feat of magic mystery ; For when, in studious mood, he paced St Andrew's cloistered hall, His form no darkening shadow traced Upon the sunny w all ! Twinkling faint, and distant far, Shimmers through mist each planet star ; 111 may I read their high decree ; But no kind influence deign they shower, On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, Till pride be quelled, and love be free." XII. XVIII. And, of his skill, as bards avow, He taught that Ladye fair, Till to her bidding she could bow The viewless forms of air.

And now she sits in secret bower, In old Lord David's western tower, And listens to a heavy sound, That moans the mossy turrets round. Is it the roar of Tcviot's tide, That chafes against the scaur's* red side? Is it the wind, that swings the oaks? Is it the echo from the rocks? What may it be, the heavy sound, That moans old Branksome's turrets round! The unearthly voices ceas'd, And the heavy sound was still ; It died on the river's breast, It died on the side of the hill. — But round Lord David's tower The sound still floated near ; For it rung in the Ladye's bower, And it rung in the Ladye's ear. She raised her stately head, And her heart throbbed high with pride. " Your mountains shall bend, And your streams ascend, Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride." XIX. XIII. The Ladye sought the lofty hall, Where many a bold retainer lay, And, with jocund din, among them all, Her son pursued his infant play.

A fancied moss-trooper, the buy The truncheon of a spear bestrode, And round the hall, right merrily, In mimic foray* rode, Even bearded knights, in arms grown old Share in his frolic gambols bore, Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould, Were stubborn as the steel they wore. Fur tlie gay warriors prophesied, How the brave boy in future war, Should tame the Unicorn's pride, Exalt the Crescent and the Star.f At the sullen, moaning sound, The ban-dogs bay and howl ; And, from the turrets round, Loud whoops the startled owl. In the hall, both squire and knight Swore that a storm was near, And looked forth to view the night ; But the night was still and clear! XIV. From the sound of Teviot's tide, Chafing with the mountain's side, From tlie groan of the wind-swung oak, From the sullen echo of the rock, From the voice of the coming storm, Tho Ladye knew it well!

It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke, And he called on the Spirit of the I ell. XX. The Ladye forgot her purpose high, One moment, and no more ; One moment gazed with a mother's eye, As she paused at the arched door. Then from amid the armed train, She called to her William of Deloraine. XV. River Spirit. " Sleepest thou, brother?" Mountain Spirit. " Brother, nay — On my hills the moonbeams play From Craik-cross to Skelfhill pen, By every rill, in every glen, Merry elves, their morrice pacing, To aerial minstrelsy. Emerald rings on brown heath tracing, Trip it deft and merrily. XXI. A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, As e'er couched border lance by knee ; Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss, Blindluld he knew the paths across ; * Foray, a predatory inroad. t Alluding to the armorial bearing6 of the Seotta and * Scaur, a precipitous bank ol earth.

Cars. [canto i, THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 4 I Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horseliehill ; Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman way.* By wily turns, by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds ; In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none, But he would ride them one by one ; Alike to him was time, or tide, December's snow, or July's pride ; Alike to him was tide, or time, Moonless midnight, or matin prime ; Steady of heart, and stout of hand, As ever drove prey from Cumberland ; Five times outlawed had he been, By England's king and Scotland's queen. XXVII. A moment now he slacked his speed, A moment breathed his panting steed; Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band And loosened in the sheath his brand. On Minto-crags the moon-beams glint, Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint; Who flung his outlawed limbs to rest, Where falcons hang their giddy nest, Mid cliff's, from whence his eagle eye For many a league his prey could spy ; Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne, The terrors of the robber's horn ; Cliffs, which for many a later year, The warbling Derie reed shall hear, When some sad swain shall teach the grove, Ambition is no cure for love.

XXII. " Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, Mount thee on the wightest steed ; Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, Until thou come to fair Tweedside; And in Melrose's holy pile Seek thou the Monk of St Mary's aisle: Greet, the father well from me ; Say, that the fated hour is come, And to-night he shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb: For this will be St Michael's night And though stars be dim the moon is bright ; And the cross of bloody red Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine To ancient Riddell's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from thc lakes did raving come ; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the main of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIII. " What he gives thee, see thou keep ; Stay not thou for food or sleep. Be it scroll or be it book, Into it, knight, thou must not look ; If thou readest thou art lorn! Better hadst thou ne'er been born." XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddle bow; Above the foaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen ; For he was barded f from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail ; Never heavier man and horse Stemmed a midnight torrent's force ; Tlie warrior's very plume, I say, Was daggled by the dashing spray; Yet, through good heart, and our Ladye's grace, At length he gained tlie landing place. XXIV. " O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day," the warrior 'gan say, " Again will I be here : And safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, noble dame, by me ; Letter nor line know I never a one, Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee."* XXV.

XXX. Soon in his saddle sate he fast, And soon the steep descent he past ; Soon crossed the sounding barbican, •(• And soon the Teviot side he won. Eastward the wooded path he rode ; Green hazels o'er his basnet nod: He passed the Peel J of Goldiland, And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand, Dimly he viewed the Moat-hill's mound, Where Druid shades still flitted round: In Hawick twinkled many a light ; Behind him soon they set in night ; And soon he spurred his courser keen Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. Now Bowdcn Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ;§ F'or on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallowed morn arose, When first tlie Scott and Car 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 Melrose 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 Melrojje sung. XXVI. The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ; "Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark." " For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoined, And left the friendly tower behind. Hc.turned him now from Teviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill, * Hairibee, tlie place of executing the Eorder Marau ders at Carlisle. The neck verse is the beginning of the 51st psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by'cri minals claiming the benefit of clergy. t Barbican, tbe defences of the outer gate of a feudal castle. * An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire. | Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutered with defensive armour. § Halidon-hill on wliich the battle of Melrose was fought. || Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church. 1 Peel, a Border tower.

Canto II

] THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 5 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, 'twas silence all He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall. 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 ladye 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. 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,

CANTO IL

I. V. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moon light ; . 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 St David's ruined pile ; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair! 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 stunes have wurn : Yet all tuo little to atone For knowing what shoulifne'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 begone." 11. 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 strait 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. VII. Again on the knight looked the churchman old, And again he sighed heavily; For ho had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy, And he thought on the days that were long since When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high: — Now, slow and faint he led the way, Where, cloistered round, the garden lay ; The pillared arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. III. Rold Deloraine his errand said; The porter bent his humble head ; With torch in hand, and foot unshod, And noiseless step, the path he trod ; The arched cloysters, 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 St Mary's aisle.

VIII. 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 glancing 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. 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 thc monk arose, With toil his stiffened limbs he reared ; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard. IX. By a steel-clenched postern door, They entered now the chancel tall? * Aventale, visor of the helmet [

CANTO II. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

6 They would rend this shbaye's massy nave, And pile it in heaps above his grave, XV. The darkened roof rose high aloof On pillars, lofty, and light, and small ; The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatro-feuille ; The corbells * were carved grotesque and grim ; And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, With base and with capital flourished around, Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound. " 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 tolled one, and the moon was X. Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, Around the screened altar's pale ; And there the dying lamps did burn, Before thy low and lonely urn, O gallant chief of Otterburne, And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale!

O fading honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid! 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 past ; Tlie banners waved without a blast." — XI. The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined: Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand, 'Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint, Showred many a prophet and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst his Cross of Red —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 unquenchabiy, 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 Triumphant Michael brandished, And trampled the Apostate's pride. The moon-beam kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. XII. They sate them down on a marble stone A Scottish monarch slept below ; 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 mine ear.

The grave's huge portals 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; Streamed upward to the chancel roof, And through tlie 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 thc Monk's cowl, and visage pale ; Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail 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!