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By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand,
"Twixt poplars straight the osier 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,
Showed many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphant Michael brandishèd,

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.

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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;

lightness and elegance of Gothic architecture, when in purity, than the eastern window of Melrose Abbey.

A large marble stone, in the chancel of Melrose, is pointed out as the monument of Alexander II., one of the greatest of the early kings of Scotland; others say, it is the resting-place of Waldeve, one of the early abbots, who died in the odour of sanctity.

Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished during the thirteenth century, and was one of the ambassadors sent to bring the fair maid of Norway to Scotland, upon the death of Alexander III., 1290. By apoetical anachronism, he is here placed in a later era. He wrote several works upon the abstruse sciences, and passed among his contemporaries for a skilful magician. His memory survives in many a legend, and in the south of Scotland, any work of great labour and antiquity is ascribed, either to the agency of Auld Michael, of Sir William Wallace, or of the devil. Tradition varies as to the place of his burial, but all agree that his books of magic were interred in his grave, or preserved in the convent where he died.

* Spain, from the reliques, doubtless, of Arabian learning and superstition, was accounted a favourite residence of magicians. Pope Sylvester, who actually imported from Spain the use of the Arabian numerals, was supposed to have learned in that country the magic for which he was stigmatized by the ignorance of his age.

And, Warrior, I could say to thee

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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;
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 stainèd 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 passed,

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.

• Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was under the necessity of finding constant employment. He commanded him to build a cauld, or dam-head, across the Tweed at Kelso: it was accomplished in one night. Michael next ordered that Eildon Hill, which was then a uniform cone, should be divided

Within it burns a wondrous light,

To chase the spirits that love the night:
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,b
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 aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like heaven's own blessed light,
And, issuing from the tomb,

Showed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.


Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped him round,
With a wrought Spanish baldried bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea:
His left hand held his Book of Might;
A silver cross was in his right;

The lamp was placed beside his knee:

High and majestic was his look,

At which the fellest fiends had shook,

into three. Another night was sufficient to part its summit into the three picturesque peaks which it now bears.

b Baptista Porta, and other authors who treat of natural magic, talk much of eternal lamps, which they pretend to have been found burning in ancient sepulchres.

• The amice or amite is the first of the sacerdotal vestments. It is, says Mr. Way, a piece of fine linen, of an oblong square form, which was formerly worn on the head until the priest arrived before the altar, and then thrown back upon the shoulders.-Halliwell, Arch. Dict.

d A belt, girdle, or sash of various kinds.-Halliwell.

And all unruffled was his face:-
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.


Often had William of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,
And neither known remorse or awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he owned;
His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved he stood,

And the priest prayed fervently, and loud:
With eyes averted prayèd he;

He might not endure the sight to see,

Of the man he had loved so brotherly.


And when the priest his death-prayer had prayed,
Thus unto Deloraine he said:-

"Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,

Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;

For those, thou mayst not look upon,

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!"
Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

With iron clasped, and with iron bound:

He thought, as he took it, the dead man frowned;

But the glare of the sepulchral light,

Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.


When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,

The night returned in double gloom;

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;

And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew,

With wavering steps and dizzy brain,

They hardly might the postern gain.

"Tis said, as through the aisles they passed,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,

Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall.
Loud sobs, and laughter louder ran,
And voices unlike the voice of man;
As if the fiends kept holiday,

Because these spells were brought to-day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;

I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

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Now, hie thee hence," the Father said,

And, when we are on death-bed laid,

O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,
Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"-

The monk returned him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bellThe monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead!

Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasped fast, as if still he prayed.


The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,
And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he passed the tombstones grey,
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the Mystic Book, to his bosom pressed,
Felt like a load upon his breast;

And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot grey;

He joyed to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.


The sun had brightened Cheviot


The sun had brightened the Carter's side;

And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale,

And wakened every flower that blows;

And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain rose.

And lovelier than the rose so red,

Yet paler than the violet pale, She early left her sleepless bed, The fairest maid of Teviotdale.


Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,
Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ?

Why does she stop, and look often around,

As she glides down the secret stair ?

And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound,
As he rouses him up from his lair;

And, though she passes the postern alone,
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?


The Ladye steps in doubt and dread,
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;
The Ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,
Lest his voice should waken the castle round;

• A mountain on the border of England, above Jedburgh.

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