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The silver light, so pale and faint, Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,

Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint, Glisten'd with the dew of night;

Whose image on the glass was dyed; Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there,

Full in the midst, his Cross of Red But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.

Triumphant Michael brandished, The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

And trampled the Apostate's pride. Then into the night he looked forth;

The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane,
And red and bright the streamers light

And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.:
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start;' They sate them down on a marble stone, 8
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

(A Scottish monarch slept below ;) And hurl the unexpected dart.

Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone: He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,

“ I was not always a man of woe; That spirits were riding the northern light.

For Paynim countries I have trod,

And fought beneath the Cross of God:

Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,
By a steel-clenched postern door,

And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. They enter'd now the chancel tall; The darken'd roof rose high aloof

XIII. On pillars lofty and light and small:

“ In these far climes it was my lot The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,

To meet the wondrous Michael Scott: Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille;

A wizard, of such dreaded fame, The corbells were carved grotesque and grim; That when, in Salamanca's cave, lo And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim, Him listed his magic wand to wave, With base and with capital flourish'd around,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame !11 Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had Some of his skill he taught to me; bound.

And, Warrior, I could say to thee

The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone: Full many a scutcheon and banner riven,

But to speak them were a deadly sin; Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

And for having but thought them my heart within, Around the screened altar's pale;

A treble penance must be done.
And there the dying lamps did burn,
Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant Chief of Otterburne !4

« When Michael lay on his dying bed, And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale !5

His conscience was awakened: O fading honours of the dead !

He bethought him of his sinful deed, O high ambition, lowly laid !

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 moon on the east oriel shone 6

The words may not again be said, Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;
By foliaged tracery combined;

They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave,
Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand And pile it in heaps above his grave.
'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand,
In many a freakish knot, had twined;

Then framed a spell, when the work was done, “ I swore to bury his Mighty Book,
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.

That never mortal might therein look;
See Appendix, Note Y.

the middle ages “ November 2, 1805.-We are perfectly en2 Corlwlls, the projections from which the arches spring, chanted with Walter Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. He usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.

is surely the man born at last to translate the Iliad. Are not 3“ With plinth and with capital flourish'd around" the good parts of his poem the most Homeric of any thing in

First Edition. our language? There are tedious passages, and so are there in * See Appendix, Note 2.5 Ibid. Note 2 A. 6 Ibid. Note 2 B. Homer."-SiR JAMES MACKINTOSH, Lift, Vol. I., pp. 254, 262. 7" Bombay, September 25, 185.- I began last night to read

8 A large marble stone, in the chancel of Melrose, is pointed Walter Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, as part of my out as the monument of Alexander II., one of the greatest of evering readings to my children. I was extremely delighted our early kings; others say, it is the resting-place of Waldeve, by the jwetical beauty of some passages, the Abber of Melrose for example, and most of the prologues to the cantos. The

one of the early abbots, who died in the odour of sanctity. costume, too, is admirable. The tone is antique; and it

See Appendix, Note 2 C. 10 Ibid. Note 2 D. might be read for instruction as a picture of the manners of 1 See Appendıx, Note 2 E. 12 Ibid. Note 2 P.

And never to tell where it was hid,

XIX. Save at his Chief of Branksome's need:

Before their eyes the Wizard lay, And when that need was past and o'er,

As if he had not been dead a day. Again the volume to restore.

His hoary beard in silver rollid, 1 buried him on St. Michael's night,

He seem'd some seventy winters old; When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, bright,

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, And I dug his chamber among the dead,

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea : When the floor of the chancel was stained red, His left hand held his Book of Might; That his patron's cross might over him wave,

A silver cross was in his right; And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.

The lamp was placed beside his knee:

High and majestic was his look,

At which the fellest fiends had shook, " It was a night of woe and dread,

And all unruffled was his face:
When Michael in the tomb I laid!

They trusted his soul had gotten grace.3
Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd,
The banners waved without a blast”-

-Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one ! Often had William of Deloraine
I tell you, that a braver man

Rode through the battle's bloody plain, Than William of Deloraine. good at need,

And trampled down the warriors slain, Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;

And neither known remorse nor awe; Yet somewhat was he chill’d with dread,

Yet now remorse and awe he own'd; And his hair did bristle upon his head.

His breath came thick, his head swam round,

When this strange scene of death he saw.

Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood, “ Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red

And the priest pray'd fervently and loud: Points to the grave of the mighty dead;

With eyes averted prayed he; Within it burns a wondrous light,

He might not endure the sight to see,
To chase the spirits that love the night:

Of the man he had loved so brotherly.
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
Until the eternal doom shall be.”_1

Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone,

And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:

Thus unto Deloraine he said :He pointed to a secret nook;

“ Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, Aa iron bar the Warrior took ;?

Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;
And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand, For those, thou may’st not look upon,
The grave's huge portal to expand.

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone !”.

Then Deloraine, in terror, took

From the cold hand the Mighty Book,
With beating heart to the task he went;

With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound:
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd;
With bar of iron heaved amain,

But the glare of the sepulchral light,
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.
It was by dint of passing strength,
That he moved the massy stone at length.

I would you had been there, to see

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, How the light broke forth so gloriously,

The night return’d in double gloom; Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few; And through the galleries far aloof!

And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:

With wavering steps and dizzy brain, It shone like heaven's own blessed light,

They hardly might the postern gain. And, issuing from the tomb,

'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass’d, Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,

They heard strange noises on the blast; Danced on the dark-browa Warrior's mail,

And through the cloister-galleries small, And kiss'd his waving plume.

Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall,

" See Appendix, Note 2 G.

magic volume from its grasp, are, in a succeeding part of the 2 Orig.- A bar from thence the warrior took.

narrative, circumstances not more happily conceived thaji 8“ The agitation of the monk at the sight of the man whom exquisitely wrought."-Critical Review. he had loved with brotherly affection-the horror of Deloraine, and his belief that the corpse frowned, as he withdrew the * See Arpendii, Note 2 H.

Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,

And, though she passes the postern alone,
And voices unlike the voice of man;

Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?
As if the fiends kept holiday,
Because these spells were brought to day.

I cannot tell how the truth may be;

The ladye steps in doubt and dread, I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

The lady caresses the rough blood-hound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round; “ Now, hie thee hence,” the Father said,

The watchman's bugle is not blown, “ And when we are on death-bed laid,

For he was her foster-father's son; O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"

light The Monk return'd him to his cell,

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.
And many a prayer and penance sped;
When the convent met at the noontide bell

The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead !

The Knight and ladye fair are met, Before the cross was the body laid,

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set. With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.

He was stately, and young, and tall ;
The Knight breathed free in the morning wind, Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:
And strove his hardihood to find :

And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,
He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey, Lent to her cheek a livelier red;
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye ;

When the half sigh her swelling breast
For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest,

Against the silken ribbon prest; Felt like a load upon his breast;

When her blue eyes their secret told, And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,

Though shaded by her locks of goldShook, like the aspen leaves in wind.

Where would you find the peerless fair, Full fain was he when the dawn of day

With Margaret of Branksome might comBegan to brighten Cheviot grey;

pare! He joy'd to see the cheerful light, And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might.


And now, fair dames, methinks I see

You listen to my minstrelsy;
The sun had brightend Cheviot grey,

Your waving locks ye backward throw, The sun had brightend the Carter's side; And sidelong bend your necks of snow: And soon beneath the rising day

Ye ween to hear a melting tale, Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide.2 Of two true lovers in a dale; The wild birds told their warbling tale,

And how the Knight, with tender fire, And wakend every flower that blows;

To paint his faithful passion strove; And peeped forth the violet pale,

Swore he might at her feet expire, And spread her breast the mountain rose.

But never, never cease to love; And lovelier than the rose so red,

And how she blush'd, and how she sigh’d, Yet paler than the violet pale,

And, half consenting, half denied, She early left her sleepless bed,

And said that she would die a maid ;The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd,

Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,

Margaret of Branksome's choice should be.
Why does fair Margaret so early awake,
And don her kirtle so hastilie;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make, Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain !
Why tremble her slender fingers to tie;

My harp has lost the enchanting strain;
Why does she stop, and look often around,

Its lightness would my age reprove : As she glides down the secret stair ;

My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound, My heart is dead, my veins are cold : As he rouses him up from kis lair ;

I may not, must not, sing of love. 1 A mountain on the Border of England, above Jalburgh. a “ How true, sweet, and original, is this description of ? " How lovely and exhilarating is the fresh cool morning Margaret-the trembling haste with which she attires her: landscape which relieves the mind after the horrors of the self, descends, and speeds to the bower !" - ANNA SE spell-guarded tomb!"-ANNA SKWARD.



Wat of Harden came thither amain,
And thither came John of Thirlestane,
And thither came William of Deloraine ;

They were three hundred spears and three.
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream,
Their horses prance, their lances gleam.
They came to St. Mary's lake ere day;
But the chapel was void, and the Baron away.
They burnd the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page.

Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld,
The Baron's Dwarf his courser held,

And held his crested helm and spear:
That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man,
If the tales were true that of him ran

Through all the Border, far and near.
'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode
Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod,

He heard a voice cry, “ Lost! lost ! lost !”
And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd,

A leap, of thirty feet and three,
Made from the gorse this elfin shape,
Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd; 'Tis said that five good miles he rade,

To rid him of his company;
But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran

And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

And now, in Brank some's good green wood,
As under the aged oak he stood,
The Baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears.
The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,
And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh.
Fair Margaret through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat-dove: 5
The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein;
Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

Use lessens marvel, it is said:
This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid;
Little he ate, and less he spoke,
Nor mingled with the menial flock:
And oft apart his arms he toss'd,
And often mutter'd “ Lost ! lost! lost !”

He was waspish, arch, and litherlie, 2

But well Lord Cranstoun served he:
And he of his service was full fain;
For once he had been ta'en or slain,

An it had not been for his ministry.
All between Home and Hermitage,
Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page.

For the Baron went on pilgrimage,
And took with him this elvish Page,

To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes:
For there, beside our Ladye's lake,
An offering he had sworn to make,

And he would pay his vows.
But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band
Of the best that would ride at her command :3

The trysting place was Newark Lee.

While thus he pour'd the lengthen’d tale
The Minstrel's voice began to fail:
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the wither'd hand of age
A goblet, crown'd with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye,
Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheer'd a son of song.
The attending maiders smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff’d;
And he, embolden'd by the draught,
Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh’d.
The cordial nectar of the bowl
Swellid his old veins, and cheer'd his soul;
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,
Ere thus his tale again began.

1 See Appendix, Note 2 I.

It is observable that in the same play, Pug alludes to the 2 The idea of the imp domesticating himself with the first spareness of his diet. Mr. Scott's goblin, though " waspish, person he met, and subjecting himself to that one's authority, arch, and litherlie," proves a faithful and honest retainer to is perfectly consonant to old opinions. Ben Jonson, in his play the lord, into whose service he had introduced himself. Thie of " The Devil is an Ass," has founded the leading incident of sort of inconsistency seems also to form a prominent part of the that comedy upon this article of the popular creed. A fiend, diabolic character. Thus, in the romances of the Round styled Pug, is ambitious of figuring in the world, and petitions Table, we find Merlin, the son of a devil, exerting himself his superior for permission to exhibit himself upon earth. The most zealously in the cause of virtue and of religion, the friend devil grants him a day-rule, but clogs it with this condi- and counsellor of King Arthur, the chastiser of wrongs, and tion,

the scourge of the infidels. “ Satan-Only thus more, I bind you

3 See Appendix, Note 2 K. To serve the first man that you meet; and him

* See notes on The Douglas Tragedy in the Minstrelsy, vol I'll show you now; observe him, follow him ;

iii. p. 3.--Ed. But, once engaged, there you must stay and fix." 5 Wood-pigeon.

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