From John O'Groats to Land's End Part 19

And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high-- Now, slow and faint, he led the way, Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay; The pillar'd arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

The silver light, so pale and faint, Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint, Whose image on the gla.s.s was dyed; Full in the midst, his Cross of Red Triumphal Michael brandished, And trampled the Apostate's pride.

The moon beam kiss'd the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a b.l.o.o.d.y stain.

They sate them down on a marble stone,-- (A Scottish monarch slept below;) Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone-- "I was not always a man of woe; For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the Cross of G.o.d: Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear.

And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.

"In these far climes it was my lot To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;

Some of his skill he taught to me; And, Warrior, I could say to thee The words that cleft Eildon hills in three, And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone: But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within, A treble penance must be done.

"When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened He bethought him of his sinful deed, And he gave me a sign to come with speed.

I was in Spain when the morning rose, But I stood by his bed ere evening close.

The words may not again be said That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; They would rend this Abbaye's ma.s.sy nave, And pile it in heaps above his grave.

"I swore to bury his Mighty Book, That never mortal might therein look; And never to tell where it was hid, Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: And when that need was past and o'er, Again the volume to restore.

I buried him on St. Michael's night, When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright, And I dug his chamber among the dead, When the floor of the chancel was stained red, That his patron's cross might over him wave, And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.

"It was a night of woe and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid!

Strange sounds along the chancel pa.s.s'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.

"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."-- Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone, Which the b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

With beating heart to the task he went; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; With bar of iron heaved amain, Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.

It was by dint of pa.s.sing strength, That he moved the ma.s.sy 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 heaven's own blessed light, And, issuing from the tomb, Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale, Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail, And kiss'd his waving plume.

Before their eyes the Wizard lay, As if he had not been dead a day.

His h.o.a.ry 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.

Often had William of Deloraine Rode through the battle's b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

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.

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 pa.s.s'd, They heard strange noises on the blast; And through the cloister-galleries small, Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, And voices unlike the voices 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.

"Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, "And when we are on death-bed 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.

What became of Sir William Deloraine and the wonderful book on his return journey we had no time to read that evening, but we afterwards learned he fell into the hands of the terrible Black Dwarf. We had decided to walk to Hawick if possible, although we were rather reluctant to leave Melrose. We had had one good tea on entering the town, and my brother suggested having another before leaving it, so after visiting the graveyard of the abbey, where the following curious epitaph appeared on one of the stones, we returned to the inn, where the people were highly amused at seeing us return so soon and for such a purpose:

The earth goeth to the earth Glist'ring like gold; The earth goeth to the earth Sooner than it wold; The earth builds on the earth Castles and Towers; The earth says to the earth, All shall be ours.

Still, we were quite ready for our second tea, and wondered whether there was any exercise that gave people a better appet.i.te and a greater joy in appeasing it than walking, especially in the clear and sharp air of Scotland, for we were nearly always extremely hungry after an hour or two's walk. When the tea was served, I noticed that my brother lingered over it longer than usual, and when I reminded him that the night would soon be on us, he said he did not want to leave before dark, as he wanted to see how the old abbey appeared at night, quoting Sir Walter Scott as the reason why:

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 the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central tower; When b.u.t.tress and b.u.t.tress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery.

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go--but go alone the while-- Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; And, home returning, soothly swear.

Was ever scene so sad and fair?

I reminded my brother that there would be no moon visible that night, and that it would therefore be impossible to see the old abbey "by the pale moonlight"; but he said the starlight would do just as well for him, so we had to wait until one or two stars made their appearance, and then departed, calling at a shop to make a few small purchases as we pa.s.sed on our way. The path alongside the abbey was entirely deserted.

Though so near the town there was scarcely a sound to be heard, not even "the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave." Although we had no moonlight, the stars were shining brightly through the ruined arches which had once been filled with stained gla.s.s, representing the figures "of many a prophet and many a saint." It was a beautiful sight that remained in our memories long after other scenes had been forgotten.