THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO SECOND.

Go visit it by the pale moon-light;

For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;

When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;

Then go but go alone the while—
Then view St David's ruined pile;

And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

II.

Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little recked he of the scene so fair.
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate-

"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"
"From Branksome I," the warrior cried;

And strait the wicket opened wide:

For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood, To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls repose.

III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;

The porter bent his humble head;

With torch in hand, and foot unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod;
The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle *,

To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle.

* Aventayle, visor of the helmet.