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The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day, With the power to him given, by the saints in
To wash men's sins away.
The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneeld around;
As he kiss'd the holy ground.
And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue, While through vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,
The holy accents rung.
At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,
And faulter'd in the sound
He dropp'd it on the ground.
“ The breath of one, of evil deed,
Pollutes our sacred day;
No part in what I say.
“ A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring ;
Recoils each holy thing.
“ Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise !
My adjuration fear!
Nor longer tarry here !"
Amid them all a Pilgrim kneelid,
gown of sackcloth gray ; Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.
For forty days and nights so drear,
he had not spoke, And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.
Amid the penitential flock,
Seem'd none more bent to pray ; But, when the Holy Father spoke, He rose, and went his
Again unto his native land
His weary course he drew,
And Pentland's mountains blue.
His unblest feet his native seat,
Mid Eske's fair woods, regain ; Through woods more fair no stream more sweet
Rolls to the eastern main.
And lords to meet the Pilgrim came,
And vassals bent the knee ;
Was none more famed than he.
And boldly for his country still,
In battle he had stood,
Her noblest pour'd their blood.
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run, O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.
There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day ; There Beauty, led by timid Love,
May shun the tell-tale ray;
From that fair dome, where suit is paid,
By blast of bugle free,
And haunted Woodhouselee.
Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,
And Roslin's rocky glen,
And classic Hawthornden?