Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst, his cross of red Triumphant Michael brandished, And trampled the apostate's pride. The moon-beam kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. XII. They sate them down on a marble stone (A Scottish monarch slept below); Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone— 66 I was not always a man of woe; For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the cross of God; Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. XIII. “In these far climes, it was my lot To meet the wondrous Michael Scott; A wizard of such dreaded fame, That when, in Salamanca's cave, Him listed his magic wand to wave, The bells would ring in Notre Dame! Some of his skill he taught to me; And, warrior, I could say to thee, The words that clove Eildon hills in three, But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within, A treble penance must be done. XIV. "When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened; He bethought him of his sinful deed, And he gave me a sign to come with speed : The words may not again be said, That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; And pile it in heaps above his grave. XV. "I swore to bury his mighty book, I buried him on St Michael's night, When the bell tolled one, and the moon was bright; And I dug his chamber among the dead, Where the floor of the chancel was stained red, That his patron's cross might over him wave, And scare the fiends from the wizard's grave. XVI. "It was a night of woe and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid! Strange sounds along the chancel past; The banners waved without a blast" Still spoke the Monk, when the bell tolled one!— I tell you, that a braver man Than William of Deloraine, good at need,, Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed ; Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread, And his hair did bristle upon his head. XVII. "Lo, warrior! now the cross of red To chase the spirits that love the night: Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone, A bar from thence the warrior took; And the Monk made a sign with his withered hand, The grave's huge portal to expand. XVIII. With beating heart, to the task he went ; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; Till the toil-drops fell from his brows like rain. That he moved the massy stone at length. I would you had been there to see, |