But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's mail; Through shield, and jack, and acton past, Deep in his bosom broke at last. Still sate the warrior saddle fast, Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, Down went the steed, the girthing broke, VII. But when he reigned his courser round, And saw his foeman on the ground Lie senseless as the bloody clay, He bade his Page to stanch the wound, And tend him in his doubtful state, And lead him to Branksome castle-gate : His noble mind was inly moved For the kinsman of the maid he loved. No longer here myself may stay: Short shrift will be at my dying day." VIII. Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; His lord's command he ne'er withstood, The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book! Like a book-bosomed priest should ride : He thought not to search or stanch the wound, Until the secret he had found. IX. The iron band, the iron clasp, Resisted long the elfin grasp; 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, With the Borderer's curdled gore; A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, A sheeling seem a palace large, And youth seem age, and age seem youth All was delusion, nought was truth. X. 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, No more the Elfin Page durst try, Into the wonderous Book to pry; The clasps, though smeared with Christian gore, Shut faster than they were before. He hid it underneath his cloak. Unwillingly himself he addressed, He lifted up the living corse, And laid it on the weary horse; He led him into Branksome hall, 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. XII. 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. |