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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.


They sate them down on a marble stone,

A Scottish monarch slept below;
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone —

"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


"In these far climes, it was my lot . To meet the wonderous 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 cleft Eildon hills in three,

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone:
But to speak them were a deadly sin;
And for having but thought them my heart within,

A treble penance must be done.


"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:

I was in Spain when the morning rose,

But I stood by his bed ere evening close.

The words may not again be said,
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.


"I swore to bury his Mighty Book,

That never mortal might therein look j

And never to tell where it was hid,

Save at his chief of Branksome's need;

And when that need was past and o'er,

Again the volume to restore.

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,

When 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.


"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.


"Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wonderous light, *
To chase the spirits that love the night:
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
Until the eternal doom shall be."—

Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone,

Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:

He pointed to a secret nook;

An iron bar the Warrior took;

And the Monk made a sign, with his withered hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.


With beating heart to the task he went; .

His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;

With bar of iron heaved amain,

Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.

It was by dint of passing strength,

That he moved the massy stone at length

I would you had been there, to see

How the light broke forth so gloriously,

Streamed upward to the chancel roof,

And through the galleries far aloof1
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like heaven's own blessed light;

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