Dismay’d the brave, appall’d the proud,
From sea to sea the larum rung;
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,
To arms the startled warders sprung.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elvish dwarf was seen no more!
XXVI
Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall,
Some saw a sight, not seen by all
That dreadful voice was heard by some,
Cry, with loud summons, “Gylbin, come!”
And on the spot where burst the brand
Just where the page had flung him down,
Some saw an arm, and some a hand,
And some the waving of a gown.
The guests in silence pray’d and shook,
And terror dimm’d each lofty look.
But none of all the astonish’d train
Was so dismay’d as Deloraine
His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
‘Twas fear’d his mind would ne’er return;
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.
At length, by fits, he darkly told.
With broken hint, and shuddering cold,
That he had seen, right certainly.
A shape with amice wrapp’d around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like pilgrim from beyond the sea;
And knew — but how it matter’d not,
It was the wizard, Michael Scott.
XXVII
The anxious crowd, with horror pale,
All trembling heard the wondrous tale;
No sound was made, no word was spoke,
Till noble Angus silence broke;
And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make,
That he a pilgrimage would take
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake
Of Michael’s restless sprite.
Then each, to ease his troubled breast,
To some bless’d saint his prayers address’d:
Some to St. Modan made their vows,
Some to St. Mary of the Lowes,
Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,
Some to our Ladye of the Isle;
Each did his patron witness make,
That he such pilgrimage would take,
And monks should sing, and bells should toll,
All for the weal of Michael’s soul.
While vows were ta’en, and prayers were pray’d,
‘Tis said the noble dame, dismay’d,
Renounc’d, for aye, dark magic’s aid.
XXVIII
Nought of the bridal will I tell,
Which after in short space befell;
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair
Bless’d Teviot’s Flower, and Cranstoun’s heir:
After such dreadful scene, ‘twere vain
To wake the note of mirth again.
More meet it were to mark the day
Of penitence, and prayer divine,
When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array,
Sought Melrose’ holy shrine.
XXIX
With naked foot, and sackcloth vest,
And arms enfolded on his breast,
Did every pilgrim go;
The standers-by might hear uneath,
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath,
Through all the lengthen’d row:
No lordly look, nor martial stride;
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,
Forgotten their renown
Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide
To the high altar’s hallow’d side,
And there they knelt them down:
Above the suppliant chieftains wave
The banners of departed brave;
Beneath the letter d stones were laid
The ashes of their fathers dead;
From many a garnish’d niche around,
Stern saints and tortur’d martyrs frown’d.
XXX
And slow up the dim aisle afar,
With sable cowl and scapular,
And snow-white stoles, in order due,
The holy Fathers, two and two,
In long procession came;
Taper and host, and book they bare,
And holy banner, flourish’d fair
With the Redeemer’s name.
Above the prostrate pilgrim band
The mitred Abbot stretch’d his hand
And bless’d them as they kneel’d
With holy cross he sign’d them all,
And pray’d they might be sage in hall,
And fortunate in field.
Then mass was sung, and prayers were said,
And solemn requiem for the dead;
And bells toll’d out their mighty peal,
For the departed spirit’s weal;
And ever in the office close
The hymn of intercession rose;
And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burthen of the song,
Dies Iræ, Dies Illa,
Solvet Sæclum in Favilla,
While the pealing organ rung.
Were it meet with sacred strain
To close my lay, so light and vain,
Thus the holy Fathers sung:
XXXI
Hymn for the Dead
That day of wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
What power shall be the sinner’s stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?
When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead:
Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,