And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, To watch our beacons well."-- The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said: Nor added the Baron a word: Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said,-- "The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep... It cannot give up the dead!"-- It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St. John. ' The lady look'd through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame! "Alas! away, away!" she cried, "For the holy Virgin's sake!"-- "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake. "By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me. But, lady, they are said in vain. "By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain, I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon s height, For a space is doom'd to dwell. "At our trysting-place, for a certain space, I must wander to and fro; But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Had'st thou not conjured me so."-- Love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd; "How, Richard, hast thou sped? And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"-- The vision shook his head! "Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; So bid thy lord believe: That lawless love is guilt above, This awful sign receive." He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand; The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. The sable score, of fingers four, Remains on that board impress'd; And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist. There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne'er looks upon the sun; There is a monk in Melrose tower He speaketh word to none. That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk, who speaks to none-- That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron. ----W. Scott. CHRISTABEL I. [Illustration: 9104] |Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock: Tu--whit!-Tu--whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock Maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud: Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full;