"Last night the gifted seer did view
A wet shroud rolled 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.
""Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sires the wine will chide
If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle."
O'er Roslin all that dreary night
A wonderous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire light, And brighter than the bright moon-beam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It reddened all the copse-wood glen; "Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from eayerned 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,
Both vaulted crypt and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foilage-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 Saint 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 Saint Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell;
But the Kelpy* rung and the mermaid sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,
Scarce marked the guests the darkened hall
Though, long before the sinking day,
A wonderous 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 elfish page fell to the ground,
And, shuddering, muttered, "found! found! found!"
Then sudden through the darkened air
A flash of lightning came;
So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seemed 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 flashed the levin-brand,
And filled the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elvish page it broke.
It broke, with thunder long and loud,
Dismayed the brave, appalled 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!
Some heard a voice in Branksome hall,
Some saw a sight, not seen by all;
That dreadful voice was heard by some,
Cry, with loud summons, GYLBIN, COME!"
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 prayed and shook,
And terror dim'd each lofty look :
But none of all the astonished train
Was so dismayed as Deloraine;
His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
'Twas feared his mind would ne'er return;
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him, of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre bound in Man.
At length, by fits, he darkly told,
With broken hint, and shuddering cold-
That he had seen, right certainly,
A shape with amice wrapped around,
With 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.
The anxious crowd, with horror pale,
All trembling, heard the wonderous tale;
No sound was made, no word was spoke,
Till noble Angus silence broke ;
And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to Saint Bryde 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:
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