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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519702" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto II.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, <br>Go visit it by the pale moonlight; <br>For the gay beams of lightsome day <br>Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. <br>When the broken arches are black in night, <br>And each shafted oriel glimmers white; <br>When the cold light's uncertain shower <br>Streams on the ruin'd central tower; <br>When buttress and buttress, alternately, <br>Seem framed of ebon and ivory; <br>When silver edges the imagery, <br>And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; <br>When distant Tweed is heard to rave, <br>And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, <br>Then go-but go alone the while- <br>Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; <br>And, home returning, soothly swear, <br>Was never scene so sad and fair! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II <br>Short halt did Deloraine make there; <br>Little reck'd he of the scene so fair; <br>With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, <br>He struck full loud, and struck full long. <br>The porter hurried to the gate- <br>'Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?'<br>'From Branksome I,' the warrior cried; <br>And straight the wicket open'd wide: <br>For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood, <br>To fence the rights of fair Melrose; <br>And lands and livings, many a rood, <br>Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III <br>Bold Deloraine his errand said; <br>The porter bent his humble head; <br>With torch in hand, and feet unshod, <br>And noiseless step, the path he trod, <br>The arched cloister, far and wide, <br>Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, <br>Till, stooping low his lofty crest, <br>He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, <br>And lifted his barred aventayle, <br>To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV <br>'The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me, <br>Says, that the fated hour is come, <br>And that to-night I shall watch with thee, <br>To win the treasure of the tomb.'<br>From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, <br>With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd; <br>A hundred years had flung their snows <br>On his thin locks and floating beard. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">V <br>And strangely on the Knight look'd he, <br>And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide; <br>'And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see <br>What heaven and hell alike would hide? <br>My breast, in belt of iron pent, <br>With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn; <br>For threescore years, in penance spent, <br>My knees those flinty stones have worn: <br>Yet all too little to atone <br>For knowing what should ne'er be known. <br>Would'st thou thy very future year <br>In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, <br>Yet wait thy latter end with fear- <br>Then, daring Warrior, follow me!- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI <br>'Penance, father, will I none; <br>Prayer know I hardly one; <br>For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, <br>Save to patter an Ave Mary, <br>When I ride on a Border foray. <br>Other prayer can I none; <br>So speed me my errand, and let me be gone.'- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII <br>Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old, <br>And again he sighed heavily; <br>For he had himself been a warrior bold, <br>And fought in Spain and Italy. <br>And he thought on the days that were long since by, <br>When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high:- <br>Now, slow and faint, he led the way, <br>Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay; <br>The pillar'd arches were over their head, <br>And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII <br>Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, <br>Glisten'd with the dew of night; <br>Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there, <br>But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. <br>The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, <br>Then into the night he looked forth; <br>And red and bright the streamers light <br>Were dancing in the glowing north. <br>So had he seen in fair Castille, <br>The youth in glittering squadrons start; <br>Sudden the flying jennet wheel, <br>And hurl the unexpected dart. <br>He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, <br>That spirits were riding the northern light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX <br>By a steel-clenched postern door, <br>They enter'd now the chancel tall; <br>The darken'd roof rose high aloof <br>On pillars lofty and light and small; <br>The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle, <br>Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuille, <br>The corbells were carved grotesque and grim; <br>And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim, <br>With base and with capital flourish'd around, <br>Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X <br>Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, <br>Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, <br>Around the screenëd altar's pale; <br>And there the dying lamps did burn, <br>Before thy low and lonely urn, <br>O gallant Chief of Otterburne! <br>And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale! <br>O fading honours of the dead! <br>O high ambition, lowly laid! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI <br>The moon on the east oriel shone <br>Through slender shafts of shapely stone, <br>By foliaged tracery combined; <br>Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand <br>'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand, <br>In many a freakish know, had twined; <br>Then framed a spell, when the work was done, <br>And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. <br>The silver light, so pale and faint, <br>Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint, <br>Whose image on the glass was dyed; <br>Full in the midst, his Cross of Red <br>Triumphant Michael brandished, <br>And trampled the Apostate's pride. <br>The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane, <br>And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII <br>They sate them down on a marble stone, <br>(A Scottish monarch slept below);<br>Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone:- <br>'I was not always a man of woe; <br>For Paynim coutries have I trod, <br>And fought beneath the Cross of God: <br>Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, <br>And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII <br>'In these far climes it was my lot <br>To meet the wondrous Michael Scott, <br>A wizard, of such dreaded fame, <br>Than when, in Salmanca's cave, <br>Him listed his magic wand to wave, <br>The bells would ring in Notre Dame! <br>Some of his skill he taught to me; <br>And Warrior, I could say to thee <br>The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,<br>And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone: <br>But to speak them were a deadly sin; <br>And for having but thought them my heart within, <br>A treble penance must be done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV <br>'When Michael lay on his dying bed, <br>His conscience was awakened: <br>He bethought him of his sinful deed, <br>And he gave me a sign to come with speed; <br>I was in Spain when the morning rose, <br>But I stood by his bed ere evening close. <br>The words may not again be said, <br>That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; <br>They would rend they Abbay's massy nave, <br>And pile it in heaps above his grave. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV <br>'I swore to bury his Mighty Book, <br>That never mortal might therein look; <br>And never to tell where it was hid, <br>Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: <br>And when that need was past and o'er, <br>Again the volume to restore. <br>I buried him on St. Michael's night, <br>When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright, <br>And I dug his chamber among the dead, <br>When the floor of the chancel was stained red, <br>That his patron's cross might over him wave, <br>And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI <br>'It was a night of woe and dread, <br>When Michael in the tomb I laid! <br>Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, <br>The banners waved without a blast;'- <br>-Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!- <br>I tell you, that a braver man <br>Than William of Deloraine, good at need, <br>Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed; <br>Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread, <br>And his hair did bristle upon his head. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII <br>'Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red <br>Points to the grave of the mighty dead; <br>Within it burns a wondrous light, <br>To chase the spirits that love the night: <br>That lamp shall burn unquenchably, <br>Until the eternal doom shall be.'- <br>Slowly moved the Monk to the broad flagstone, <br>Which the bloody Cross was traced upon: <br>He pointed to a secret nook; <br>An iron bar the Warrior took; <br>And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand, <br>The grave's huge portal to expand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII <br>With beating heart to the task he went; <br>His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; <br>With bar of iron heaved amain, <br>Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. <br>It was by dint of passing strength, <br>That he moved the massy stone at length. <br>I would you had been there, to see <br>How the light broke forth so gloriously, <br>Stream'd upward to the chancel roof, <br>And through the galleries far aloof! <br>No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright: <br>It shone like haaven's own blessed light, <br>And, issuing from the tomb, <br>Show'd th Monk's cowl, and visage pale, <br>Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail, <br>And kiss'd his waving plume. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX <br>Before their eyes the Wizard lay, <br>As if he had not been dead a day. <br>His hoary beard in silver roll'd, <br>He seem'd some seventy winters old; <br>A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, <br>With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, <br>Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea; <br>His left hand held his Book of Might; <br>A silver cross was in his right; <br>The lamp was placed beside his knee; <br>High and majestic was his look, <br>At which the fellest fiends had shook, <br>And all unruffled was his face: <br>They trusted his soul had gotten grace. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX <br>Often had William of Deloraine <br>Rode through the battle's bloody plain, <br>And trampled down the warriors slain, <br>And neither known remorse nor awe; <br>Yet now remorse and awe he own'd; <br>His breath came thick, his head swam round, <br>When this strange scene of death he saw, <br>Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood, <br>And the priest pray'd fervently and loud: <br>With eyes averted prayed he; <br>He might not endure the sight to see, <br>Of the man he had loved so brotherly. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI <br>And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, <br>Thus unto Deloraine he said:- <br>'Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, <br>Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue; <br>For those, thou may'st not look upon, <br>Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!'- <br>Then Deloraine, in terror, took <br>From the cold hand the Mighty Book, <br>With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound: <br>He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd; <br>But the glare of the sepulchral light, <br>Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII <br>When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, <br>The night return'd in double gloom; <br>For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few; <br>And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, <br>With wavering steps and dizzy brain, <br>They hardly might the postern gain. <br>'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd, <br>They heard strange noises on the blast: <br>And through the cloister-galleries small, <br>Which at mid-height thread the cancel wall, <br>Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, <br>And voices unlike the voice of man; <br>As if the fiends kept holiday, <br>Because these spells were brought to day. <br>I cannot tell how the truth may be; <br>I say the tale as 'twas said to me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII <br>'Now, hie thee hence,' the Father said, <br>'And when we are on death-bed laid, <br>O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John, <br>Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!' <br>The Monk return'd him to his cell, <br>And many a prayer and penance sped; <br>When the convent met at the noontide bell- <br>The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead! <br>Before the cross was the body laid, <br>With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV <br>The Knight breathed free in the morning wind, <br>And strove his hardihood to find: <br>He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones grey, <br>Which girdle round the fair Abbaye; <br>For the mistic Book, to his bosom prest, <br>Felt like a load upon his breast; <br>And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, <br>Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. <br>Full fain was he when the dawn of day <br>Began to brighten Cheviot grey; <br>He joy'd to see the cheerful light, <br>And he said Ave Mary, as well he might. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV <br>The sun had brighten'd Cheviot grey, <br>The sun had brighten'd the Carter's side; <br>And soon beneath the rising day <br>Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's tide. <br>The wild birds told their warbling tale, <br>And waken'd every flower that blows; <br>And peeped forth the violet pale, <br>And spread her breast the mountain rose. <br>And lovelier than the rose so red, <br>Yet paler than the violet pale, <br>She early left her sleepless bed, <br>The fairest maid of Teviotdale. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI <br>Why does fair Margarent so early awake? <br>And don her kirtle so hastilie; <br>And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make, <br>Why tremble her slender fingers to tie; <br>Why does she stop, and look often around, <br>As she glides down the secret stair; <br>And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound, <br>As he rouses him up from his lair; <br>And, though she passes the postern alone, <br>Why is not the watchman's bugle blown? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII <br>The ladye steps in doubt and dread, <br>Lest her watchful mother hear her tread; <br>The lady caresses the rough blood-hound, <br>Lest his voice should waken the castle round, <br>The watchman's bugle is not blown, <br>For he was her foster-father's son; <br>And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light <br>To meet Baron Henry her own true knight. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII <br>The Knight and ladye fair are met, <br>And under the hawthorn's boughs are set. <br>A fairer pair were never seen <br>To meet beneath the hawthorn green. <br>He was stately, and young, and tall; <br>Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall: <br>And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid, <br>Lent to her cheek a livelier red; <br>When the half sigh her swelling breast <br>Against the silken ribbon prest; <br>When her blue eyes their secret told, <br>Though shaded by her locks of gold- <br>Where whould you find the peerless fair, <br>With Margarent of Branksome might compare! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX <br>And now, fair dames, methinks I see <br>You listen to my minstrelsy; <br>Your waving locks ye backward throw, <br>And sidelong bend your necks of snow; <br>Ye ween to hear a melting tale, <br>Of two true lovers in a dale; <br>And how the Knight, with tender fire, <br>To paint his faithful passion strove; <br>Swore he might at her feet expire, <br>But never, never, cease to love; <br>And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd. <br>And, half consenting, half denied, <br>And said that she would die a maid;- <br>Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd, <br>Henry of Cranstoun, and only he, <br>Margaret of Branksome's choice should be. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX <br>Alas! fair dames, you hopes are vain! <br>My harp has lost the enchanting strain; <br>Its lightness would my age reprove; <br>My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, <br>My heart is dead, my veins are cold: <br>I may not, must not, sing of love. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI <br>Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, <br>The Baron's Dwarf his courser held, <br>And held his crested helm and spear: <br>That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man, <br>If the tales were true that of him ran <br>Through all the Border far and near. <br>'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode, <br>Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod, <br>He heard a voice cry, 'Lost! lost! lost!'<br>And, like a tennis-ball by racket toss'd, <br>A leap, of thirty feet and three, <br>Made from the gorse this elfin shape, <br>Distorted like some dwarfish ape, <br>And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. <br>'Tis said that five good miles he rade, <br>To rid him of his company; <br>But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four, <br>And the Dwarf was first at the castle door. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXII <br>Use lessens marvel, it is said: <br>This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid; <br>Little he ate, and less he spoke, <br>Nor mingled with the menial flock: <br>And oft apart his arms he toss'd, <br>And often mutter'd 'Lost! lost! lost!'<br>He was waspish, arch, and litherlie, <br>But well Lord Carnstoun served he: <br>And he of his service was full fain; <br>For once he had been ta'en, or slain, <br>An it had not been for his ministry. <br>All between Home and Hermitage, <br>Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXIII <br>For the Baron went on Pilgrimage, <br>And took with him this elvish Page, <br>To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes; <br>For there beside our Ladye's lake, <br>An offering he had sworn to make, <br>And he would pay his vows. <br>But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band <br>Of the best that would ride at her command: <br>The trysting place was Newark Lee. <br>Wat of Harden came thither amain, <br>And thither came John of Thirlestane, <br>And thither came William of Deloraine; <br>They were three hundred spears and three. <br>Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow strem, <br>Their horses prance, their lances gleam. <br>They came to St. Mary's lake ere day; <br>But the chapel was void, and the Baron away. <br>They burn'd the chapel for very rage, <br>And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXIV <br>And now, in Branksome's good green wood, <br>As under the aged oak he stood, <br>The Baron's courser pricks his ears, <br>As if a distant noise he hears. <br>The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high, <br>And signs to the lovers to part and fly; <br>No time was then to vow or sigh. <br>Fair Margaret through the hazel grove, <br>Flew like the startled cushat-dove: <br>The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein; <br>Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain, <br>And, pondering deep that morning's scene, <br>Rode eastward through the hawthorns green. <br>While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale <br>The Minstrel's voice began to fail: <br>Full slyly smiled the observant page, <br>And gave the wither'd hand of age <br>A goblet crown'd with mighty wine, <br>The blood of Velez' scorched vine. <br>He raised the silver cup on high, <br>And, while the big drop fill'd his eye <br>Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long, <br>And all who cheer'd a son of song. <br>The attending maidens smiled to see <br>How long, how deep, how zealously <br>The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd; <br>And he, embolden'd by the draught, <br>Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd. <br>The cordial nectar of the bowl <br>Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; <br>A lighter, livelier prelude ran, <br>Ere thus his tale again began.</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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If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 
For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. 
When the broken arches are black in night, 
And each shafted oriel glimmers white; 
When th..."></div>
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