IV. "The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me; Says, that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb.". From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, With toil his stiffened limbs he reared; A hundred years had flung their snows V. And strangely on the Knight looked he, And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide; "And, dar'st thou, Warrior! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast, in belt of iron pent, With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn, For threescore years, in penance spent, My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone For knowing what should ne'er be known. Yet wait thy latter end with fear Then, daring Warrior, follow me!" VI. "Penance, Father, will I none; Prayer know I hardly one; For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, Save to patter an Ave Mary, When I ride on a Border foray: Other prayer can I none; So speed me my errand, and let me be gone." VII. Again on the Knight looked the Churchman old, And again he sighed heavily; For he had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy. And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high: Now, slow and faint, he led the way, Where, cloistered round, the garden lay; The pillared arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. VIII. Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, Glistened with the dew of night; Nor herb, nor floweret, glistened there, But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon, So had he seen, in fair Castile, The youth in glittering squadrons start; Sudden the flying jennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart. He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light. IX. By a steel-clenched postern door, The darkened roof rose high aloof On pillars, lofty, and light, and small: The corbells were carved grotesque and grim; Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound. X. Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, * Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask. D Around the screened altar's pale; And there the dying lamps did burn, Before thy low and lonely urn, O gallant chief of Otterburne! And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale! O fading honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid! XI. The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow-wreaths to stone, The silver light, so pale and faint, Shewed many a prophet, and many a saint, |