Of those dread Maids, whose hideous yell Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom Ransacked the graves of warriors old, Their faulchions wrenched from corpses' hold, 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, He learned a milder minstrelsy; Yet something of the northern spell Mixed with the softer numbers well, XXIII. 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. "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth 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 swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" " "Tis 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. * Inch, Isle. " "Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas 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; "Twas seen from Dreyden's groves of oak, And seen from caverned Hawthornden. Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie; 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 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 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 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. sung, XXIV. So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, Scarce marked the guests the darkened hall, Though, long before the sinking day, A wondrous shade involved them all : It was not eddying mist or fog, Drained 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 stretched hand behold. A secret horror checked the feast, And chilled 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,' 1. And, shuddering, muttered, " Found! found! found!" |