IV. "The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me; Says, that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, V. And strangely on the knight looked he, And his blue eyes gleamed 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. In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, Then, daring warrior, follow me!" 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 begone." VII. Again on the Knight looked 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 bye, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high; Now, slow and faint, he led the way, Where, cloistered round, the garden lay; The pillared arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. VIII. Spreading herbs and flowerets bright, Nor herb nor floweret glistened there, The youth in glittering squadrons start; 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 entered now the chancel tall ; On pillars lofty, and light, and small; The corbells* were carved grotesque and grim ; bound. X. Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, * Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut into a fantastic face, or mask. F 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, Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, 'Twixt poplars straight, the osier 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, |