The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle, Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound, X. Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, Around the screened 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 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, Shewed 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 kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. XII. They sate them down on a marble stone, Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone :- For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the Cross of God; Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, XIII. "In these far climes, it was my lot To meet the wond'rous Michael Scott; That when, in Salamanca's cave, 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. |