Against the lance and helmed file

Their courage, might, and skill were vain;

Short was the conflict, short the while

Ere all the Scotts were bound or slain.

When first the hostile band upsprung,
The body in the church was laid,
Where vows were made, and requiems sung,
By matron, monk, and weeping maid.

Lord Pringle came-before his eye

The monks and maidens kneeled in fear;

But Lady Tushilaw stood bye,

And pointed to her Mary's bier!

"Thou lord of guile and malice keen, What boots this doleful work to thee! Could Scotland such a pair have seen

As Mary Scott and Torwoodlee ?"

Lord Pringle came, no word he spake,

Nor owned the pangs his bosom knew;

But his full heart was like to break

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In every throb his bosom drew.

"O I had weened with fondest heart

Woe to the guileful friend who lied!-This day should join us ne'er to part,

This day that I should win my bride!

"But I will see that face so meek,

Cold, pale, and lifeless though it be ; And I will kiss that comely cheek,

Once sweeter than the rose to me."

With trembling hand he raised the lid,

Sweet was the perfume round that flew ;

For there were strewed the roses red,

And every flower the forest knew.

He drew the fair lawn from her face,

"Twas decked with many a costly wreath;

And still it wore a soothing grace

Even in the chill abodes of death.

And aye he prest the cheek so white,
And aye he kissed the lips beloved,

Till pitying maidens wept outright,

And even the frigid monks were moved.

Why starts Lord Pringle to his knee?

Why bend his eyes with watchful strain?

The maidens shriek his mien to see;

The startled priests inquire in vain !

Was that a sob, an earthly sigh,

That heaved the flowers so lightly shed? "Twas but the wind that wandered bye,

And kissed the bosom of the dead!

Are these the glowing tints of life

O'er Mary's cheek that come and fly? Ah, no! the red flowers round are rife, The rosebud flings its softened dye.

Why grows the gazer's sight so dim;
Stay, dear illusion, still beguile!

Thou art worth crowns and worlds to him

Last, dear illusion, last awhile!

Short was thy sway, frenzied and short,

For ever fell the veil on thee;

Thy startling form of fears the sport,
Vanished in sweet reality!

"Tis past! and darkly stand revealed A mother's cares and purpose deep: That kiss, the last adieu that sealed,

Waked Mary from her death-like sleep!

Slowly she raised her form of grace,

Her eyes no ray conceptive flung; And O, her mild, her languid face, Was like a flower too early sprung!

"O I lie sick and weary here,

My heart is bound in moveless chain; Another cup, my mother dear,

I cannot sleep though I would fain!"

She drank the wine with calm delay,

She drank the wine with pause and sigh:

Slowly, as wakes the dawning day,

Dawned long-lost thought in Mary's eye.

She looked at pall, she looked at bier,

At altar, shrine, and rosary;