His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, 'Twas feared 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 wrapped around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like pilgrim from beyond the sea;
And knew-but how it mattered not-
It was the wizard, Michael Scott.

XXVII

461

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;

470

And he a solemn sacred plight Did to Saint Bride of Douglas make, That he a pilgrimage would take To Melrose Abbey, for the sake Of Michael's restless sprite. Then each, to each his troubled breast, To some blest saint his prayers addressed: Some to Saint Modan made their vows, Some to Saint Mary of the Lowes, Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, Some to Our Lady of the Isle; Each did his patron witness make That he such pilgrimage would take, 480 And monks should sing and bells should

toll,

All for the weal of Michael's soul. While vows were ta'en and prayers were prayed,

'Tis said the noble dame, dismayed, Renounced 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
Blessed Teviot's Flower and Cranstoun's
heir:

After such dreadful scene 'twere vain 49°
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;

501

The standers-by might hear uneath 1
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath,
Through all the lengthened 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 hallowed side,

And there they knelt them down.
Above the suppliant chieftains wave
The banners of departed brave;
Beneath the lettered stones were laid 510
The ashes of their fathers dead;
From many a garnished niche around
Stern saints and tortured
frowned.

XXX

And slow up the dim aisle afar, With sable cowl and scapular,2

1 scarcely

martyrs

An ecclesiastical garment.

Be THOU the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

Hushed is the harp-the Minstrel gone.
And did he wander forth alone?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage?

No: close beneath proud Newark's tower
Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower,

560

569

A simple hut; but there was seen
The little garden hedged with green,
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.
There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze,
Oft heard the tale of other days;
For much he loved to ope his door,
And give the aid he begged before.
So passed the winter's day; but still,
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,
And July's eve, with balmy breath,
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath,
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak,
The aged harper's soul awoke!
Then would he sing achievements high
And circumstance of chivalry,
Till the rapt traveller would stay,
Forgetful of the closing day;
And noble youths, the strain to hear,
Forsook the hunting of the deer;
And Yarrow, as he rolled along,
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song.

580

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824)

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

A FABLE

I

My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears.

II

My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned, and barred-forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven-who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finished as they had begun,

Proud of persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,

Their belief with blood have sealed:
Dying as their father died,

For the God their foes denied;-
Three were in a dungeon cast,

Of whom this wreck is left the last.

20

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,

We could not see each other's face,

But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together-yet apart,
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,

A grating sound-not full and free.
As they of yore were wont to be;
It might be fancy-but to me
They never sounded like our own.

60

IV

I was the eldest of the three,

And to uphold and cheer the rest. I ought to do and did my bestAnd each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heavenFor him my soul was sorely moved: And truly might it be distressed To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day

(When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free)A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun:

70

And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for naught but others' ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills,

Ω

The other was as pure of mind,
But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perished in the foremost rank

With joy:-but not in chains to pine:
His spirit withered with their clank,
I saw it silently decline-

And so perchance in sooth did mine: 100 But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills,

Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fettered feet the worst of ills.

VI

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls, A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent ΠΙΟ From Chillon's snow-white battlement,

Which round about the wave inthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay: We heard it ripple night and day;

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked, And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high

And wanton in the happy sky;

And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshocked, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.

VII

I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined,

Lake of Geneva

120

130

He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter's fare,
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow men
Like brutes within an iron den;
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould 140
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied.
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth?-he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand-nor dead,-
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlocked his chain,
And scooped for him a shallow grave 150
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begged them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine-it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer-
They coldly laughed-and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!

VIII

But he, the favorite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;

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170