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Little reck’d he of the scene so fair;

       With dagger’s hilt, on the wicket strong,

       He struck full loud, and struck full long.

       The porter hurried to the gate,

       “Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?”

       “From Branksome I,” the warrior cried;

       And straight the wicket open’d wide:

       For Branksome’s Chiefs had in battle stood,

       To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

       And lands and livings, many a rood,

       Had gifted the shrine for their souls’ repose.

       III

      Bold Deloraine his errand said;

       The porter bent his humble head;

       With torch in hand, and feet unshod,

       And noiseless step, the path he trod,

       The arched cloister, far and wide,

       Rang to the warrior’s clanking stride,

       Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

       He enter’d the cell of the ancient priest,

       And lifted his barred aventayle,

       To hail the Monk of St Mary’s aisle.

       IV

      “The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,

       Says, that the fated hour is come,

       And that tonight I shall watch with thee,

       To win the treasure of the tomb.”

       From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,

       With toil his stiffen’d limbs he rear’d;

       A hundred years had flung their snows

       On his thin locks and floating beard.

       V

      And strangely on the Knight look’d he,

       And his blue eyes gleam’d wild and wide;

       “And, darest 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.

       Would’st thou thy very future year

       In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,

       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 look’d 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, cloister’d round, the garden lay;

       The pillar’d arches were over their head,

       And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

       VIII

      Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,

       Glisten’d with the dew of night;

       Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten’d there,

       But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.

       The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

       Then into the night he looked forth;

       And red and bright the streamers light

       Were dancing in the glowing north.

       So had he seen in fair Castille,

       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,

       They enter’d now the chancel tall;

       The darken’d roof rose high aloof

       On pillars lofty and light and small;

       The keystone, that lock’d each ribbed aisle,

       Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuille,

       The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;

       And the pillars, with cluster’d shafts so trim,

       With base and with capital flourish’d around,

       Seem’d bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

       X

      Full many a scutcheon and banner riven,

       Shook to the cold nightwind of heaven,

       Around the screenëd 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 wouldst have thought some fairy’s hand

       ‘Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand,

       In many a freakish know, 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,

       Shew’d many a prophet, and many a saint,

       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 moonbeam kiss’d the holy pane,

       And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

       XII

      They sate them down on a marble stone,

       (A Scottish monarch slept below);

       Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone:

      

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