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If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moon-light;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;

When buttress and buttress, 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 ruined pile;

And, home returning, soothly swear,

Was never scene so sad and fair!


Short halt did Deloraine make there;

Little recked he of the scene so fair.

With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,

He struck full loud, and struck full long.

The porter hurried to the gate

"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"

"From Branksome I," the warrior cried;

And strait the wicket opened wide:


For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood,

To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.


Bold Deloraine his errand said


The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,

And noiseless step, the path he trod :

The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,*

To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle.

* Aventayle, visor of the helmet.


"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me;

Says, that the fated hour is come,

And that to-night I shall watch with thee,

To win the treasure of the tomb."

From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,

With toil his stiffened limbs he reared;

A hundred years had flung their snows

On his thin locks and floating beard.


And strangely on the Knight looked he,

And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide;

And, dar'st 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 ;

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