IF thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, | |
| Go visit it by the pale moonlight; | |
| For the gay beams of lightsome day | |
| Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. | |
| When the broken arches are black in night, | 5 |
| 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: | 10 |
| 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,— | 15 |
| Then view Saint David’s ruined pile; | |
| And, home returning, soothly swear, | |
| Was never seen so sad and fair! * * * * * | |
| The pillared arches were over their head, | |
| And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. | 20 |
| |
| Spreading herbs and flowerets bright | |
| Glistened with the dew of night; | |
| Nor herb nor flower glistened there, | |
| But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. | |
| The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, | 25 |
| Then into the night he lookèd forth; | |
| And red and bright the streamers light | |
| Were dancing in the glowing north. | |
| So had he seen, in fair Castile, | |
| The youth in glittering squadrons start, | 30 |
| Sudden the flying jennet wheel, | |
| And hurl the unexpected dart. | |
| He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, | |
| That spirits were riding the northern light. | |
| |
| By a steel-clenched postern door, | 35 |
| They entered now the chancel tall; | |
| The darkened roof rose high aloof | |
| On pillars lofty and light and small; | |
| The keystone, that locked each ribbèd aisle, | |
| Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille: | 40 |
| The corbells were carved grotesque and grim: | |
| And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, | |
| With base and with capital flourished around, | |
| Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound. | |
| |
| Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, | 45 |
| Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, | |
| Around the screenèd altar’s pale; | |
| And there the dying lamps did burn, | |
| Before thy low and lonely urn, | |
| O gallant Chief of Otterburne! | 50 |
| And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale! | |
| O fading honors of the dead! | |
| O high ambition lowly laid! | |
| |
| The moon on the east oriel shone | |
| Through slender shafts of shapely stone, | 55 |
| By foliaged tracery combined; | |
| Thou wouldst have thought some fairy’s hand | |
| ’Twixt poplars straight the osier wand | |
| In many a freakish knot had twined; | |
| Then framed a spell, when the work was done, | 60 |
| And changed the willow wreaths to stone. | |
| The silver light, so pale and faint, | |
| Showed many a prophet, and many a saint, | |
| Whose image on the glass was dyed; | |
| Full in the midst, his Cross of Red | 65 |
| Triumphant Michael brandishèd, | |
| And trampled the Apostate’s pride. | |
| The moonbeam kissed the holy pane, | |
| And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. | |
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