Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

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 of the sepulchral light,

Perchance, had dazzled the warrior’s sight.

XXII

When the huge stone sunk o’er the tomb,

The night return’d 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 pass’d,

They heard strange noises on the blast:

And through the cloister-galleries small,

Which at mid-height thread the cancel 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.

XXIII

“Now, hie thee hence,” the Father said,

“And when we are on deathbed laid,

O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!”

The Monk return’d him to his cell,

And many a prayer and penance sped;

When the convent met at the noontide bell,

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

Before the cross was the body laid,

With hands clasp’d fast, as if still he pray’d.

XXIV

The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

And strove his hardihood to find:

He was glad when he pass’d the tombstones grey,

Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

For the mistic Book, to his bosom prest,

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 joy’d to see the cheerful light,

And he said Ave Mary, as well he might.

XXV

The sun had brighten’d Cheviot grey,

The sun had brighten’d 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 waken’d 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.

XXVI

Why does fair Margarent 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 bloodhound,

As he rouses him up from his lair;

And, though she passes the postern alone,

Why is not the watchman’s bugle blown?

XXVII

The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

The lady caresses the rough bloodhound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round,

The watchman’s bugle is not blown,

For he was her foster-father’s son;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light

To meet Baron Henry her own true knight.

XXVIII

The Knight and ladye fair are met,

And under the hawthorn’s boughs are set.

A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.

He was stately, and young, and tall;

Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:

And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

When the half sigh her swelling breast

Against the silken ribbon prest;

When her blue eyes their secret told,

Though shaded by her locks of gold,

Where whould you find the peerless fair,

With Margarent of Branksome might compare!

XXIX

And now, fair dames, methinks I see

You listen to my minstrelsy;

Your waving locks ye backward throw,

And sidelong bend your necks of snow;

Ye ween to hear a melting tale,

Of two true lovers in a dale;

And how the Knight, with tender fire,

To paint his faithful passion strove;

Swore he might at her feet expire,

But never, never, cease to love;

And how she blush’d, and how she sigh’d.

And, half consenting, half denied,

And said that she would die a maid;

Yet, might the bloody feud be stay’d,

Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,