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.
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 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.
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.
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 cheerful light,
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might
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.
The wild birds told their warbling tale,
And wakened 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.
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 blood-hound,
As he 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 blood-hound,
Lest his voice should waken the castle round;
The watchman's bugle is not blown,
For he was her foster-father's son;
And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,
To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.
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 ribband pressed;
When her blue eyes their secret told,
Though shaded by her locks of gold
A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.
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 blushed, and how she sighed,
And, half consenting, half denied,
And said that she would die a maid-
Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed,
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be..
Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain!
My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Its lightness would my age reprove:
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old,
My heart is dead, my veins are cold-
I may not, must not, sing of love.
While thus he poured the lengthened tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail:
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the withered hand of age
A goblet, crowned with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop filled his eye,
Prayed God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheered a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see,
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed;
And he, emboldened by the draught,
Looked gaily back to them and laughed.
The cordial nectar of the bowl
Swelled his old veins, and cheered his soul;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seemed all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmered all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !
And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell ;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
[From Mr. MERCER'S LYRIC POEMS.]
HE Bandit whom the laws pursue,
The Soldier, and the Gipsy crew,
Arabs, and Tartars, ever doom'd to roam—
Whate'er their place of shelter be,
A tent, a cave, or hollow tree,
Thither they hie with joy, and call it HOME.
There if a doxy, or a wife,
Receive the wretch escap'd from strife;
If there his tatter'd brood around him cling-
His features catch a bright'ning smile,
He rests him from his sordid toil,
And in his narrow confines reigns a king.
While thus the poor and wretched find
Th' asylum for a wounded mind-
Distemper❜d men there are, estrang'd from home,
Cold to an angel's kind embrace,
Cheerless amid a blooming race,
And dead to comfort in a princely dome.
Men in the lap of Fortune nurst,
With all her froward humours curst,
And teas'd by wishes ever on the wing;
Who, wand'ring still through Folly's maze,
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