The Lay of the Last Minstrel

Front matter

THE

LAY

OF

Preface

THE Poem now offered to the Public is intended to illustrate the customs and manners which anciently prevailed on the Borders of England and Scotland. The 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 description of scenery and manners was more the object of the Author than a combined and regular narrative, the 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 faculties, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorises the changes of rhythm 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 the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model. The date of the tale itself is about the middle of the 16th century, when most of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is three nights and three days.

Introduction

THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO FIRST.

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 better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well-a-day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. 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 the Stuarts' throne; 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 he passed,

Whose ponderous grate, and massy bar, Had oft rolled back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door Against the desolate and poor. The Duchess marked his weary pace, His timid mien, and reverend face, And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well: 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 Earl Francis, dead and gone, And of Earl Walter, rest him God! A braver ne'er to battle rode: And how full many a tale he knew, Of the old warriors of Buccleuch; And, would the noble Duchess deign To listen to an old man's strain, Though stiff his 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.

The 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. It was not framed for village churles, But for high dames and mighty earls; He had played it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court in 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. But 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 extacy! 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 the full tide of song were lost. Each blank, in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied; And, while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

Canto First

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO FIRST.

<>I. 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.

<>II. The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; Knight and page, and household squire, Loiter'd through the lofty hall, Or crowded round the ample fire. The stag-hounds, weary with the chase, Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race, From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.

<>III. Nine-and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall, Nine-and-twenty squires of name Brought them their steeds to bower from stall; Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall, Waited, duteous, on them all: They were all knights of mettle true, Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

<>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, Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard; They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.

<>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 saddlebow.

A hundred more fed free in stall— Such was the custom of Branksome-Hall.

<>VI 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; They watch against Southern force and guile, Lest Scroope, or Howard, or Percy's powers, Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, From Warkwork, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

<>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 Chef of Branksome fell.

<>VIII. 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!

<>IX. In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier, The warlike foresters had bent; 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 dropp'd 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.

<>X. All loose her negligent attire, All loose her golden hair, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire, And wept in wild despair, But not alone the bitter tear 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, Would see her on her dying bed.

<>XI. Of noble race the Ladye came; Her father was a clerk of fame, 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 mode, he paced St Kentigern's hall, His form no darkening shadow traced Upon the sunny wall!

<>XII. And of his skill, as bards avow, He taught that Ladye fair, Till to her bidding she could bow 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 Teviot'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?

<>XIII. 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 the groan of the wind-swung oak, From the sullen echo of the rock, From the voice of the coming storm, The Ladye knew it well! It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke, And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.

<>XV. <>River Spirit. "Sleepest thou, brother?" <>Mountain Spirit. 4"Brother, nay— On my hills the moon-beams 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.

Up, and mark their nimble feet! Up, and list their music sweet!"

<>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 viewest the stars, When shall cease these feudal jars? What shall be the maiden's fate? Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

<>XVII. <>Mountain Spirit. "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;

Twinkling faint, and distant far, Shimmers through mist each planet star; Ill may I read their high decree: But no kind influence deign they shower On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower, Till pride be quell'd, and love be free."

<>XVIII. The unearthly voices ceast, 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. 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 boy 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. For the gray warriors prophesied, Should tame the Unicorn's pride, Exalt the Crescents and the Star.

<>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.

<>XXI. A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, As e'er couched border lance by knee. Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss, Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross; By wily turns, by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds; In Eske, or Liddell, 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 mattin prime.

Steady of heart, and stout of hand, As ever drove prey from Cumberland; Five times outlawed had be been, By England's King, and Scotland's Queen.

<>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."

<>XXIII. "What he gives thee, see thou keep; Stay not thou for food or sleep. Be it scroll, or be it book, Into, knight, thou must not look; If thou readest thou art lorn! Better hadst thou ne'er been born."

<>XXIV. "O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, 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. 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 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.

<>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. He turn'd him now from Teviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horsliehill; Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman way.

Giaour01 <>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 cliffs, 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 Doric reed shall hear, When some sad swain shall teach the grove, Ambition is no cure for love.

<>XXVIII. Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine, To ancient Riddell's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chesnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

<>XXIX. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow;

Above the flaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; For he was barded from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail; Never heavier man and horse Stemmed a midnight torrent's force; The 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 the landing place.

<>XXX. Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ; For on his soul the slaughter red,

Of that unhallowed morn arose, When first the 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 Melros' 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 Melrose sung.

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.

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, He seemed to seek, in every eye, If they approved his mistrelsy; 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 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

THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO SECOND.

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO SECOND.

If thou would'st 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!

<>II. 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; Had gifted the shrine for their souls repose.

<>III. Bold Deloraine his errand said; The porter bent his humble head; With torch in hand, and feet unshod, And noiseless step, the path he trod; The arched cloisters, 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.

<>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 the Monk arose, With toil his stiffened limbs he reared; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard.

<>V. 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 stones have worn:

Yet all too little to atone For knowing what should ne'er be known. Would'st thou thy very 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."

<>VII. Again on the Knight looked the Churchman old, And again he sighed heavily; For he had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy.

And he thought on the days that were long since bye, 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.

<>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 dancing in the glowing north. 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.

<>IX. By a steel-clenched postern door, They entered now the chancel tall; ModernParnassusp32The darkened roof rose high aloof On pillars lofty, and light, and small; The keystone, that locked each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille; The corbells were carved grotesque and grim; And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, With plinth and with capital flourished around, Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

<>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, O fading honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid!

<>XI. The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou would'st 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, Shewed many a prophet and many a saint,

Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst, his cross of red 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 have I 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, Than when, in Salamanca's cave, Him listed his magic wand to wave, Some of his skill he taught to me; And, warrior, I could say to thee, The words that clove 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 tolled one, and the moon was 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; The banners waved without a blast"— —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 unquenchably, Until the eternal doom shall be."

Slowly moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone, Which the bloody cross was traced upon: He pointed to a secret nook; A bar from thence the warrior took; And the Monk made a sign with his withered 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; Streamed 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, Showed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale; Danced on the dark-brow'd 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 own'd; 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 fervently, 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 mayest not look upon, Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!"— Then 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 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 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.

<>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 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.