“There soon again we meet, my Clare! This baron means to guide thee there; Douglas reveres his king’s command, Else would he take thee from his band And there thy kinsman Surrey, too, Will give De Wilton justice due. Now meeter far for martial broil, Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, Once more”—“O Wilton! must we then Risk new-found happiness again, Trust fate of arms once more? And is there not an humble glen, Where we, content and poor, Might build a cottage in the shade, A shepherd thou, and I to aid Thy task on dale and moor?— That reddening brow!—too well I know, Not even thy Clare can peace bestow, While falsehood stains thy name: Go, then, to fight! Clare bids thee go! Clare can a warrior’s feelings know, And weep a warrior’s shame; Can Red Earl Gilbert’s spirit feel, Buckle the spurs upon thy heel, And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame!” XI. That night, upon the rocks and bay, The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay, And poured its silver light, and pure, Through loophole, and through embrazure, Upon Tantallon’s tower and hall; But chief where archéd windows wide Illuminate the chapel’s pride, The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though, seamed with scars, Two veterans of the Douglas’ wars, Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, You could not by their blaze descry The chapel’s carving fair. Amid that dim and smoky light, Chequering the silvery moonshine bright, A bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas blood, With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye But little pride of prelacy; More pleased that, in a barbarous age, He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page, Than that beneath his rule he held The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. Beside him ancient Angus stood, Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood: O’er his huge form and visage pale He wore a cap and shirt of mail; And leaned his large and wrinkled hand Upon the huge and sweeping brand Which wont of yore, in battle fray, His foeman’s limbs to shred away, As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. He seemed as, from the tombs around Rising at Judgment-Day, Some giant Douglas may be found In all his old array; So pale his face, so huge his limb, So old his arms, his look so grim. XII.