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.