VII.

The goblin-page, omitting still
No opportunity of ill,

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,
To rouse debate and jealousy;

Till Conrad, lord of Wolfenstein,

By nature fierce, and warm with wine,
And now in humour highly cross'd,
About some steeds his band had lost,
High words to words succeeding still,
Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill; (7)
A hot and hardy Rutherford,

away.

Whom men call Diccon Draw-the-sword.
He took it on the page's saye,
Ilunthill had driven these steeds
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose,
The kindling discord to compose:
Stern Rutherford right little said,

But bit his glove, and shook his head.-(8)
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood,
Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd in blood,
His bosom gored with many a wound,
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found;
Unknown the manner of his death,!

Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath;
But ever from that time, 't was said,
That Diccon wore a Cologne blade.

VIII.

The Dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery,
Where many a yeoman bold and free,
Revell'd as merrily and well
As those that sat in lordly selle
Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes; (9)
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
A deep carouse to yon fair bride!»
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foam'd forth, in floods, the nut-brown ale;
While shout the riders every one,
Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan,
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,
When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. (10)

IX.

The wily page, with vengeful thought,
Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew,
And swore, it should be dearly bought,
That ever he the arrow drew.
First, be the yeoman did molest,
With bitter gibe and taunting jest;
Told, how he fled at Solway strife,
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife :
Then, shunning still his powerful arm,
At unawares he wrought him harm;
From trencher stole his choicest cheer,
Dash'd from his lips his can of beer;
Then to his knee sly creeping on,
With bodkin pierced him to the bone;
The venom'd wound, and festering joint,
Long after rued the bodkin's point.

And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan spy,
Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream;
Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem
To form a lordly and a lofty room,
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.

XIX.

Fair all the pageant-but how passing fair
The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind!
O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair,
Pale her dear cheek as if for love she pined;
All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined,

And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine
Some strain, that seem'd her inmost soul to find:
That favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line,
That fair and lovely form, the Lady Geraldine.

XX.

Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely form,
And swept the goodly vision all away—
So royal envy roll'd the murky storm

O'er my beloved master's glorious day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay
On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,

The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine, The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine!

XXI.

Both Scots and southern chiefs prolong
Applauses of Fitztraver's song:
These hated Henry's name as death,
And those still held the ancient faith.-
Then, from his seat, with lofty air,
Rose Harold, bard of brave St Clair;
St Clair, who, feasting high at Home,
Had with that lord to battle come.
Harold was born where restless seas
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades;
Where erst St Clairs held princely sway
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay;-(14)
Still nods their palace to its fall,

Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall!—(15)
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave,
As if grim Odin rode her wave;
And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale,
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail;
For all of wonderful and wild
Had rapture for the lonely child.

XXII.

And much of wild and wonderful
In these rude isles might fancy cull;
For thither came, in times afar,
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war,
The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food:
Kings of the main their leaders brave,
Their barks the dragons of the wave. (16)
And there, in many a stormy vale,
The Scald hath told his wond'rous tale;
And many a Runic column high
Had witness'd grim idolatry.

And thus had Harold, in his youth,

Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth,—
Of that sea-snake, tremendous curl'd,
Whose monstrous circle girds the world; (17)
Of those dread maids, whose hideous yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell; (18)
Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old,

Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' hold, (19)
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
And bade the dead arise to arms!

With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,
Where, by sweet glen and green-wood tree,
He learn'd a milder minstrelsy:
Yet something of the northern spell
Mixed with the softer numbers well.

XXIII.

HAROLD.

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. (20)

Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, (21)
Nor tempt the stormy frith to-day.

The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the water sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

Last night the gifted seer did view A wet shroud swathe a ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch: Why cross the gloomy frith to-day?»>

T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 't is not fill'd by Rosabelle.»>—

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'T was broader than the watch-fire light, And redder than the bright moon-beam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; T was seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie; Each baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. (22)

' Inch, isle.

Seem'd all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd 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.

XXIV.

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,

A wond'rous shade involved them all:

It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog,

Of no eclipse had sages told;

And yet, as it came on apace,

Each one could scarce his neighbour's face, Could scarce his own stretch'd hand behold.

A secret horror check'd the feast,

And chill'd the soul of every guest;

Even the high dame stood half aghast,
She knew some evil on the blast;

The elvish page fell to the ground,

And, shuddering, mutter'd, « Found! found! found!»>

XXV.

Then sudden, through the darkeu'd air

A flash of lightning came;

So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seem'd on flame:
Glanced every rafter of the hall,

Glanced every shield upon
the wall;
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone,
Were instant seen, and instant
gone;

Full through the guests' bedazzled band
Resistless flash'd the levin-brand,
And fill'd the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elvish page it broke.

It broke, with thunder long and loud,
Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the proud,-
From sea to sea the larum rung;
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,
To arms the startled warders sprung.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elvish Dwarf was seen no more!

XXVI.

Some heard a voice in Branksome-ball,
Some saw a sight, not seen by all;
That dreadful voice was heard by some,

Cry, with loud summons, «GYLBIN, COME!» (23)
And on the spot where burst the brand,

Just where the page had flung him down,

Some saw an arm, and some a hand,
And some the waving of a gown.
The guests in silence pray'd and shook,
And terror dimm'd each lofty look.
But none of all the astonish'd train
Was so dismay'd as Deloraine;

His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
'T was fear'd his mind would ne'er return;
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.' (24)
At length, by fits he darkly told,
With broken hint, and shuddering cold-
That he had seen, right certainly,
A shape with amice wrapp'd around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like pilgrim from beyond the sea;
And knew-but how it matter'd not-
It was the wizard, Michael Scott!

XXVII.

The anxious crowd, with horror pale,
All trembling heard the wond'rous tale.
No sound was made, no word was spoke,
Till noble Angus silence broke;

And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to St Bride of Douglas make, (25)
That he a pilgrimage would take
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake

Of Michael's restless sprite.

Then each, to ease his troubled breast,

To some bless'd saint his prayers address'd;
Some to St Modan made their vows,
Some to St Mary of the Lowes,
Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle;

Some to our Ladye of the Isle;

Each did his patron witness make,
That he such pilgrimage would take,

And monks should sing, and bells should toll,
All for the weal of Michael's soul.

While vows were ta'en, and prayers were pray'd, "T is said the noble dame, dismay'd, Renounced for aye dark magic's aid.

XXVIII.

Nought of the bridal will I tell,
Which after in short space befel;
Nor how brave sons, and daughters fair,
Bless'd Teviot's Flower and Cranstoun's heir;
After such dreadful scene, 't were vain
To wake the note of mirth again.
More meet it were to mark the day

Of penitence and prayer divine,
When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array,
Sought Melrose' holy shrine.

XXIX.

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest,
And arms enfolded on his breast,

Did every pilgrim go;

The standers-by might hear unneath, Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath, Through all the lengthen'd row:

The Isle of Man.-See Note.

No lordly look, nor martial stride;
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,
Forgotten their renown;

Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide
To the high altar's hallow'd side,

And there they knelt them down :
Above the suppliant chieftains wave
The banners of departed brave;
Beneath the letter'd stones were laid
The ashes of their fathers dead;
From many a garnish'd niche around
Stern saints and tortured martyrs frown'd.

And slow up

XXX.

the dim aisle afar,
With sable cowl and scapular,
And snow-white stoles, in order due,
The holy fathers, two and two,

In long procession came;
Taper, and host, and book they bare,
And holy banner flourish'd fair
With the Redeemer's name:
Above the prostrate pilgrim band
The mitred abbot stretch'd his hand,
And bless'd them as they kneel'd:
With holy cross he sign'd them all,
And pray'd they might be sage in hall,
And fortunate in field.'

The mass was sung, and prayers were said,
And solemn requiem for the dead;
And bells toll'd out their mighty peal
For the departed spirit's weal;
And ever in the office' close
The hymn of intercession rose;
And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burthen of the song,-
DIES IRE, DIES ILLA,

SOLVET SECLUM IN FAVILLA;
While the pealing organ rung;
Were it meet with sacred strain
To close my lay, so light and vain,
Thus the holy fathers sung.

XXXI.

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and.earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

HUSH'D is the harp-the Minstrel gone.

And did he wander forth alone?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage?