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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519693" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Gray Brother</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,<br>All on Saint Peter's day,<br>With the power, to him given, by the saints of heaven,<br>To wash men's sins away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,<br>And the people kneel'd around,<br>And from each man's soul his sins did pass,<br>As he kiss'd the holy ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And all, among the crowded throng,<br>Was still, both limb and tongue,<br>While, through vaulted roof and aisles aloof,<br>The holy accents rung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,<br>And falter'd in the sound-<br>And, when he would the chalice rear,<br>He dropp'd it to the ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The breath of one of evil deed<br>Pollutes our sacred day;<br>He has no portion in our creed,<br>No part in what I say.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'A being, whom no blessed word<br>To ghostly peace can bring;<br>A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,<br>Recoils each holy thing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!<br>My adjuration fear!<br>I charge thee not to stop my voice,<br>Nor longer tarry here!'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd,<br>In gown of sackcloth grey;<br>Far journeying from his native field,<br>He first saw Rome that day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For forty days and nights so drear,<br>I ween he had not spoke,<br>And, save with bread and water clear,<br>His fast he ne'er had broke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Amid the penitential flock,<br>Seem'd none more bent to pray;<br>But, when the Holy Father spoke,<br>He rose and went his way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Again unto his native land<br>His weary course he drew,<br>To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,<br>And Pentland's mountains blue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His unblest feet his native seat,<br>'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;<br>Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet<br>Rolls to the eastern main.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And lords to meet the pilgrim came,<br>And vassals bent the knee;<br>For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,<br>Was none more famed than he.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And boldly for his country, still,<br>In battle he had stood,<br>Ay, even when on the banks of Till<br>Her noblest pour'd their blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!<br>By Eske's fair streams that run,<br>O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep,<br>Impervious to the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There the rapt poet's step may rove,<br>And yield the muse the day;<br>There Beauty, led by timid Love,<br>May shun the tell-tale ray;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From that fair dome, where suit is paid<br>By blast of bugle free,<br>To Auchendinny's hazel glade,<br>And haunted Woodhouselee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,<br>And Roslin's rocky glen,<br>Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,<br>And classic Hawthornden?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet never a path, from day to day,<br>The pilgrim's footsteps range,<br>Save but the solitary way<br>To Burndale's ruin'd grange.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A woful place was that, I ween,<br>As sorrow could desire;<br>For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,<br>And the roof was scathed with fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It fell upon a summer's eve,<br>While, on Carnethy's head, <br>The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams<br>Had streak'd the grey with red;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the convent bell did vespers tell,<br>Newbattle's oaks among,<br>And mingled with the solemn knell<br>Our Ladye's evening song:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,<br>Came slowly down the wind,<br>And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,<br>As his wonted path he did find.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,<br>Nor ever raised his eye,<br>Until he came to that dreary place,<br>Which did all in ruins lie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,<br>With many a bitter groan-<br>And there was aware of a Gray Friar,<br>Resting him on a stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now, Christ thee save!' said the Gray Brother;<br>'Some pilgrim thou seemest to be.'<br>But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,<br>Nor answer again made he.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O come ye from east, or come ye from west,<br>Or bring reliques from over the sea;<br>Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the divine,<br>Or St. John of Beverley?'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I come not from the shrine of St James the divine,<br>Nor bring reliques from over the sea;<br>I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,<br>Which for ever will cling to me.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now, woful pilgrim, say not so!<br>But kneel thee down to me,<br>And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin,<br>That absolved thou mayst be.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And who art thou, thou Gray Brother,<br>That I should shrive to thee,<br>When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven,<br>Has no power to pardon me?'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O I am sent from a distant clime,<br>Five thousand miles away,<br>And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,<br>Done <br>here<br>'twixt night and day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, <br>And thus began his saye-<br>When on his neck an ice-cold hand<br>Did that Gray Brother laye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519693" data-title="The Gray Brother de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day,
With the power, to him given, by the saints of heaven,
To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneel'd around,
And from each man's soul..."></div>
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