For when the first he had undone,
It closed as he the next begun.
Those iron clasps, that iron band,
Would not yield to unchristened hand,
Till he smeared the cover o'er
With the Borderer's curdled gore;
A moment then the volume spread,
And one short spell therein he read.
It had much of glamour* might,
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall,
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nutshell seem a gilded barge,
A sheelingt seem a palace large,
And youth seem age, and age seem youth; All was delusion, nought was truth.
He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buffet fell,
So fierce, it stretched him on the plain,
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismayed,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he muttered, and no more-
"Man of age, thou smitest sore!"
No more the elfin page durst try
Into the wondrous book to pry;
The clasps, tho' smeared with christian gore, Shut faster than they were before.
He hid it underneath his cloak.
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;
It was not given by man alive.
Unwillingly himself he addressed,
To do his master's high behest:
He lifted up the living corse,
And laid it on the weary horse;
He led him into Branksome hall,
Before the beards of the warders all;
And each did after swear and say,
There only passed a wain of hay.
He took him to Lord David's tower,
Even to the ladye's secret bower;
And, but that stronger spells were spread
And the door might not be opened,
He had laid him on her very bed.
Whate'er he did of gramarye,*
Was always done maliciously;
He flung the warrior on the ground,
And the blood welled freshly from the wound.
As he repassed the outer court,
He spied the fair young child at sport:
He thought to train him to the wood;
For, at a word, be it understood,
He was always for ill, and never for good.
Seemed to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the drawbridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.
He led the boy o'er bank and fell,
Until they came to a woodland brook ;
The running stream dissolved the spell,
And his old elvish shape he took,
Could he have had his pleasure vilde,
He had crippled the joints of the noble child;
Or, with his fingers long and lean,
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen :
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited;
So he but scowled on the startled child,
And darted through the forest wild;
The woodland brook he bounding crossed,
And laughed, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!"
Full sore amazed at the wondrous change,
And frightened, as a child might be,
At the wild yell and visage strange,
And the dark words of gramarye,
The child, amidst the forest bower,
Stood rooted like a lilye flower;
And when at length, with trembling pace,
He sought to find where Branksome lay, He feared to see that grisly face
Glare from some thicket on his way. Thus, starting oft, he journeyed on,
And deeper in the wood is gone,→→
For aye the more he sought his way
The farther still be went astray,
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.
And hark! and hark! the deep-mouthed bark
Comes nigher still, and nigher;
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound,
His tawny muzzle tracked the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.
Soon as the wildered child saw he,
He flew at him right furiouslie.
I ween you would have seen with joy
The bearing of the gallant boy,
When, worthy of his noble sire,
His wet cheek glowed 'twixt fear and ire! He faced the blood-hound manfully,
And held his little bat on high;
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,
At cautions distance hoarsely bayed,
But still in act to spring;
When dashed an archer through the glade,
And when he saw the hound was stayed,
He drew his tough bowstring;
But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy! Ho! shoot not, Edward 'tis a boy!"
The speaker issued from the wood,
And checked his fellow's surly mood,
And quellet the ban-dog's ire.
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire;
Well could he hit a fallow deer,
Five hundred feet him fro;
With hand more true, and eye more clear, No archer bended bow.
His coal-black hair, shorn round and close, Set off his sun-burned face
Old England's sign, Saint George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;
His bugle horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied;
And his short faulchion, sliarp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.
His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reached scantly to his knee;
And, at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbished sheaf bore he;
His buckler scarce in breadth a span,
No longer fence had he;
He never counted him a man,
Would strike below the knee;
His slackened bow was in his hand,
And the leash, that was his blood-hound's band.
He would not do the fair child harm,
But held him with his powerful arm,
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