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,
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds1 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 waken'd by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all; He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

And sought the convent's lonely wall.2

1 Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church.

2 The ancient and beautiful monastery of Melrose was founded by King David I. Its ruins afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture and Gothic sculpture which Scotland can boast. The stone of which it is built, though it has resisted the weather for so many ages, retains perfect sharpness, so that even the most minute ornaments seem as entire as when newly wrought. In some of the cloisters, as is hinted in the next Canto, there are representations of flowers, vegetables, &c., carved in stone, with accuracy and precision so delicate, that we almost distrust our senses, when we consider the difficulty of subjecting so hard a substance to such intricate and exquisite modulation. This superb convent was dedicated to St. Mary, and the monks were of the Cistertian order. At the time of the Reformation, they shared in the general reproach of sensuality and

HERE paused the harp; and with its swell
The Master's fire and courage fell:
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seem'd 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 wand'ring 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 long'd the rest to hear.
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,

After meet rest, again began.

irregularity, thrown upon the Roman churchmen. The old words of Galashiels, a favourite Scottish air, ran thus:

O the monks of Melrose made gude kale 1

On Fridays when they fasted:

They wanted neither beef nor ale,

As long as their neighbours' lasted.
1 Kale, Broth.

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO SECOND.

5