"O fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east! For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say Mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a Knight that is slayne." He turned him round, and grimly he frowned; Then he laughed right scornfully-- "He who says the Mass-rite for the soul of that Knight, May as well say Mass for me." Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron's brow, From dark to the blood-red high; "Now tell me the mien of the Knight thou hast seen, For by Mary he shall die." "O hear but my word, my noble lord, For I heard her name his name, And that lady bright, she called the Knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame." The bold baron's brow then chang'd, I trow, From high blood-red to pale-- "The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- So I may not trust thy tale. "The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name, For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame." It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, When the lady looked through the chamber fair, On the eve of good St. John. The lady looked through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame. "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 hand, near Tweed's fair stand, Most foully slain I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell." He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, His right upon her hand; The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorched like a fiery brand. THE BEQUEST OF A SOUL, IN PURGATORY. [From "A Collection of Spiritual Hymns and Songs on Various Religious Subjects," published by Chalmers & Co., of Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1802. Its quaint and touching simplicity, redolent of old-time faith, will commend it to the reader] From lake where water does not go, A prisoner of hope below, To mortal ones I push my groans, In hopes they'll pity me. O mortals that still live above, Your faith, hope, prayers, and alms, and love, Still merit place With God's sweet grace; O faithful, pity me. My fervent groans don't merit here, Strict justice only doth appear, My smallest faults, And needless talks Heap chains and flames on me. Though mortal guilt doth not remain, I still am due the temp'ral pain, I did delay To satisfy, Past coldness scorcheth me. Tepidity and good works done With imperfections mixt, here come; All these neglects And least defects,-- Great anguish bring on me. Though my defects here be not spared, Yet endless glory for me's prepared, I love in flames, And hope in chains; O friends, then, pity me!