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have I 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,

       Than when, in Salmanca’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.

       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;

       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 deathbed laid;

       They would rend they Abbay’s massy nave,

       And pile it in heaps above his grave.

       XV

      “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 toll’d 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.

       XVI

      “It was a night of woe and dread,

       When Michael in the tomb I laid!

       Strange sounds along the chancel pass’d,

       The banners waved without a blast;”

       Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll’d one!

       I tell you, that a braver man

       Than William of Deloraine, good at need,

       Against a foe ne’er spurr’d a steed;

       Yet somewhat was he chill’d with dread,

       And his hair did bristle upon his head.

       XVII

      “Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red

       Points to the grave of the mighty dead;

       Within it burns a wondrous light,

       To chase the spirits that love the night:

       That lamp shall burn unquenchably,

       Until the eternal doom shall be.”

       Slowly moved the Monk to the broad flagstone,

       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 wither’d hand,

       The grave’s huge portal to expand.

       XVIII

      With beating heart to the task he went;

       His sinewy frame o’er the gravestone 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,

       Stream’d upward to the chancel roof,

       And through the galleries far aloof!

       No earthly flame blazed e’er so bright:

       It shone like haaven’s own blessed light,

       And, issuing from the tomb,

       Show’d th Monk’s cowl, and visage pale,

       Danced on the dark-brow’d Warrior’s mail,

       And kiss’d his waving plume.

       XIX

      Before their eyes the Wizard lay,

       As if he had not been dead a day.

       His hoary beard in silver roll’d,

       He seem’d some seventy winters old;

       A palmer’s amice wrapp’d him round,

       With a wrought Spanish baldric 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,

       And all unruffled was his face:

       They trusted his soul had gotten grace.

       XX

      Often had William of Deloraine

       Rode through the battle’s bloody plain,

       And trampled down the warriors slain,

       And neither known remorse nor awe;

       Yet now remorse and awe he own’d;

       His breath came thick, his head swam round,

       When this strange scene of death he saw,

       Bewilder’d and unnerved he stood,

       And the priest pray’d fervently and loud:

       With eyes averted prayed he;

       He might not endure the sight to see,

       Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

       XXI

      And when the priest his death-prayer had pray’d,

       Thus unto Deloraine he said:

       “Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,

       Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;

       For those, thou may’st not look upon,

       Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!”

       Then Deloraine, in terror, took

       From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

       With iron clasp’d, and with iron bound:

       He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown’d;

       But the glare

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