THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain :-they do not err, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn; Of those, who, else forgotten long, The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, That love, true love, should be forgot, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, And shrieks along the battle-plain : The chief, whose antique crownlet long Now, from the mountain's misty throne, Sees, in the thanedom once his own, His place, his power, his memory die: His tears of rage impel the rill; All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, Their name unknown, their praise unsung. III. Scarcely the hot assault was staid, The terms of truce were scarcely made, And trampling steeds were faintly heard; |