LXXXVII
Then goads he Gringolet and gets to the track, Shapes him by a shore at the edge of a shaw, And rides down the hillside right to the valley; He look’d o’er the waste and full wild he ween’d it, No sign of a shelter saw he aywhere, But bare hills and brent upon bóth hànds, Rough-knuckled knars with gnarlèd stones, And clustering cliffs that grazèd the clouds. Full often he hoved, and halted his horse, And oft his way changed that chapel to seek, But on no síde could it see, and strange he thought it. Soon, a little on a laund, a low as it were, A barrow by a bank at the búrn sìde, Fast by a fall of that foaming water, Wherein bubbled the burn, as if it had boil’d. He urges his horse and hies to the knoll And lightly by a linden leaps down and ties The rein of his rouncy to a ruggèd branch. Then he bouns to the barrow and about it he strides, Busily debating what thing it might be; It had a hole at the end and at either side, And was graithly o’ergrown with grass all in patches, And all hollow within—only an old cavern Or a crevice of a crag; he could not it read or spell. “Ah, Lord!” said the good knight, “Is this the Green Chapel? Here might about mid-night The dule his matins tell.”