The Funeral, XV

Down to the castle’s caves they wend, With hesitating steps and slow, And, fearful, one by one descend, As if Vesuvius yawn’d below; The first sent up a horrid sound, His glaring torch fell to the ground; Another, and another fell— Some vow’d to heav’n, some thought of hell; And as the smouldering flame upbroke, They shudder’d as they saw The devil tow’ring o’er the smoke, Seize Baldred, and, with agile bound, Leap o’er North Berwick Law! That hill, which in a latter day, By witchcraft near was borne away, When the Gyre Carling strode the mast, And, like a huntress, rein’d the blast. Retreated all as best they might, Each sought to save himself in flight; Nor did the Bishop stoop to kneel— Unlike St Serf, the church’s keel, Who with his prayers the dragon slew, St George eclipsing—if ’tis true!