Many a red heart died to beat --_Music swelled in Holyrood!_-- Once, beneath her fair white feet. --_Now the floors may rot with blood_-- She was young and her deep hair-- --_Wind and rain were all her fate!_-- Trapped young Love as in a snare, --_And the wind's a sword in the Canongate! Edinboro'! Edinboro'! Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow!_ Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping, What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows? What if her hair were a silken mesh? Hands of steel can deal hard blows, Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh! Carry her southward, palled in purple, Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping, What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose. Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went, We three behind,--the pedlar-poet and I, And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed The escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinct Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds, But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms. Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep, We brought her to the doors of her last home, In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles, The heralds with their torches, but their light Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark. Their ring of smoky red could only show A few sad faces round the purple pall, The wings of a stone angel overhead, The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully, Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault, One little slab of marble, far away. Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles, Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief That still was built of silence, like the drip Of water from a frozen fountain-head. We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb. With echoing footsteps all the funeral went; And I went last to close and lock the doors; Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom That rolled along behind me as one by one The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see The moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again. But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw That foreigner with the olive-coloured face. From head to foot he shivered, as with cold. He drew me into the shadows of the porch. 'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand --Like ice it was!--along my wrist, and slipped A ring upon my finger, muttering quick, As in a burning fever, 'All the wealth