The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott ... Notes & life of the author.

~~ l molARXIO.. ANTO Vt.
Invisible to human ken,
He walks among the sons of men.
Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchemont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? —
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,
Amassed through rapine, and through wrongl
1By the last lord of Frdnchemont.
The iron chest is bolted hard,
A Huntsman sits, its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his bloodhounds lie:
An'twere not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As trute a huntsman doth he look,
As bugle e'er in brake did sound
Or ever hollowed to a hound.
To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged Necromantic Priest;
It is an hundred years at least,
Since'twixt them first the strife began,
And neither yet has lost or won.
And oft the conjuror's words will make
The stubborn Demon groan and quake;
And oft the bands of iron break,
Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as'tis opened, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the Adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clenched the spell,
When Franch'mont locked the treasure cell.
An hundred years are past and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
Such general superstition may
Excuse for old Pitscottie say;
Whose gossip history has given
My song the messenger from heaven,