THOMAS THE RHYMER.

PART THIRD,

WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,
And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon
His beacon blazing red.

Then all by bonny Coldingknow,
Pitched palliouns took their room,
And crested helms, and spears a rowe,
Glanced gayly through the broom.

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie ;*

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee.

The feast was spread in Ercildoun,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And there were knights of great renown;
And ladies, laced in pall.

*Ensenzie. War cry, or gathering word.

Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine,

The music, nor the tale,

Nor goblets of the bloodred wine,
Nor mantling quaighs* of ale.

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,
When as the feast was done;
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy land,
The elfin harp he won.)

Hushed were the throng, both limb and tongue,

And harpers for envy pale;

And armed lords leaned on their swords,

And hearkened to the tale.

In numbers high, the witching tale
The prophet poured along;
No after bard might e'er availf
Those numbers to prolong.

Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's table round:

The warrior of the lake;

Quaighs. Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped to

gether.

See introduction to this ballad.

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,

And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,

The notes melodious swell;

Was none excelled, in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venomed wound he bore;
When fierce Marholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;
No medicine could be found,

Till lovely Isolde's lily hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leech's part;

And, while she o'er his sick bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!

For, doomed in evil tide,

The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,

His cowardly uncle's bride.

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard

In fairy tissue wove;

Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High reared its glittering head;
And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders spread.

Brengwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that famed wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?

Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,

Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.

His ancient wounds their scars expand;
With agony his heart is wrung;

O where is Isolde's lily hand,

And where her soothing tongue?

She comes, she comes! like flash of flame

Can lovers' footsteps fly:

She comes, she comes! She only came
To see her Tristrem die..

She saw him die: her latest sigh
Joined in a kiss his parting breath: