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That broke our secret speechIt rose from the infernal shade, Or featly was some juggle play'd, A tale of

peace to teach. Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest.


“Now here, within Tantallon Hold,
To Douglas late my tale I told,
To whom


house was known of old. Won by my proofs, his faulchion bright This eve anew shall dub me knight. These were the arms that once did turn The tide of fight on Otterburne, And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, When the dead Douglas won the field. These Angus gave-his armourer's care, Ere morn shall every breach repair ; For nought, he said, was in his halls,

But ancient armour on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and grey-hair'd men ;
The rest were all in Twizel glen.*
And now I watch my armour here,
By law of arms, till midnight's near ;
Then, once again a belted knight,
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light.


“ 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,

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* Where James encamped before taking post at Flodden.

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Trust fate of arms once more?

And is there not a 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!”


That night, upon the rocks and bay,
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay,

And pour'd its silver light, and pure,
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,

Upon Tantallon tower and hall;
But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel's pride,

The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though, seam'd 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 moon-shine bright,

A Bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas' blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.

Yet shew'd 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,
Doff'd his furr'd gown and sable hood;
O’er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail,
And lean’d his large and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont, of yore, in battle-fray,
His foemen's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seem'd 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.


Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels ;

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