"Man of

age,

thou smitest sore!"

No more the Elfin Page durst try

Into the Wondrous Book to pry ;

The clasps, though smear'd 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.

XI.

NWILLINGLY himself he address'd,

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 pass'd 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 well'd freshly from the wound,

XII.

S he repass'd 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
Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay
Led him forth to the woods to play;
On the draw-bridge the warders stout
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out.

XIII.

E led the boy o'er bank and fell,

Until they came to a woodland brook; The running stream dissolved the spell,† And his own 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 scowl'd on the startled child,

And darted through the forest wild;
The woodland brook he bounding cross'd,
And laugh'd, and shouted, "Lost! lost!
lost!"-

XIV.

ULL sore amazed at the wondrous

change,

And frighten'd 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 lily flower;

And when at length, with trembling pace,' He sought to find where Branksome lay,

He fear'd to see that grisly face

Glare from some thicket on his way.

Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on,

And deeper in the wood is gone,—
For aye the more he sought his way,
The farther still he went astray,—
Until he heard the mountains round
Ring to the baying of a hound.

XV.

ND hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd

bark

Comes nigher still, and nigher :

Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound,
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground,
And his red eye shot fire.

Soon as the wilder'd 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 glow'd '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 cautious distance hoarsely bay'd,
But still in act to spring ;

When dash'd an archer through the glade, And when he saw the hound was stay'd, He drew his tough bow-string;

But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy. Ho! shoot not, Edward-'Tis a boy!"—

XVI.

HE speaker issued from the wood,
And check'd his fellow's surly mood,

And quell'd 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-burn'd face :
Old England's sign, St. 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 falchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.