That he had seen, right certainly,
A shape with amice wrapped around,
Like a wrought Spanish baldric bound,

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;

And knew-but how it mattered not-
It was the wizard, Michael Scott.

XXVIII.

The anxious crowd, with horror pale,

All trembling, heard the wondrous 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, 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 blessed saint his prayers addressed:

Some to St Modan made their vows,

Some to St Mary of the Lowes,

Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,

Some to our Lady 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 prayed,

'Tis said the noble Dame, dismayed,

Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid.

XXIX.

Nought of the bridal will I tell,

Which after in short space befel;

Nor how brave sons and daughters fair

Blessed Teviot's Flower, and Cranstoun's heir:

After such dreadful scene, 'twere 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.

XXX.

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest,

And arms enfolded on his breast,

Did every pilgrim go;

The standers-by might hear uneath,

Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath,

Through all the lengthened row:

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 hallowed side,

And there they kneeled them down: Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave;

Beneath the lettered stones were laid

The ashes of their fathers dead;

From many a garnished niche around,

Stern saints, and tortured martyrs, frowned.

XXXI.

And slow up 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, flourished fair

With the Redeemer's name:

Above the prostrate pilgrim band

The mitred Abbot stretched his hand,

And blessed them as they kneeled ;

With holy cross he signed them all,
And prayed they might be sage in hall,

And fortunate in field.

Then mass was sung, and prayers were said,

And solemn requiem for the dead;

And bells tolled 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 SÆCLUM 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.

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?