'When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow's holy dome 305
The King, as wont, was praying;
While, for his royal father's soul,
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying--
For now the year brought round again 310
The day the luckless King was slain--
In Katharine's aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him in their stalls of state, 315
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 320
Through the stain'd casement gleaming;
But, while I mark'd what next befell,
It seem'd as I were dreaming.
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white; 325
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.--
Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace, 330
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,--
Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint, 335
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,--
The loved Apostle John!