And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd, And, half consenting, half denied, Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd, be. XXX. Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! My harp has lost the enchanting strain; Its lightness would my age reprove: My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are cold: I may not, must not, sing of love. XXXI. Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, If the tales were true that of him ran near. 'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod, He heard a voice cry, 'Lost! lost! lost!' And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd, A leap, of thirty feet and three, Made from the gorse this elfin shape, Distorted like some dwarfish ape, And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismay'd; XXXII. Use lessens marvel, it is said: Little he ate, and less he spoke, And often mutter'd 'Lost! lost! lost!' XXXIII. For the Baron went on pilgrimage, To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes: But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a band Of the best that would ride at her command: The trysting place was Newark Lee. Wat of Harden came thither amain, And thither came John of Thirlestane, And thither came William of Deloraine; They were three hundred spears and three. Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream, Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 'Tis said that five good miles he They burn'd the chapel for very rage, rade, To rid him of his company; But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four, And the Dwarf was first at the castle door. The Baron's courser pricks his ears, And signs to the lovers to part and fly; Rode eastward through the hawthorns green. WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale, The Minstrel's voice began to fail : soul; A lighter, livelier prelude ran, Ere thus his tale again began. Canto Third. I, AND said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold, And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor wither'd heart was dead, And that I might not sing of love?— How could I to the dearest theme, That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream, So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love's very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame ! II. In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love. III. So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, While, pondering deep the tender scene, He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green. But the Page shouted wild and shrill, And scarce his helmet could he don, When downward from the shady hill A stately knight came pricking on. That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, Was dark with sweat, and splashed with clay; His armour red with many a stain: He seem'd in such a weary plight, As if he had ridden the live-long night; For it was William of Deloraine. IV. But no whit weary did he seem, When, dancing in the sunny beam, He mark'd the crane on the Baron's crest; For his ready spear was in his rest.. Few were the words, and stern and high, That mark'd the foemen's feudal hate; For question fierce, and proud reply, Gave signal soon of dire debate. Their very coursers seem'd to know That each was other's mortal foe, And snorted fire, when wheel'd around To give each foe his vantage-ground. V. In rapid round the Baron bent; prayer: The prayer was to his patron saint, The sigh was to his ladye fair. Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd, Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid; But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his spear, And spurred his steed to full career. The meeting of these champions proud Seem'd like the bursting thunder cloud. VI. Stern was the dint the Borderer lent! The stately Baron backwards bent; Bent backwards to his horse's tail, And his plumes went scattering on the gale ; The tough ash spear, so stout and true, Into a thousand flinders flew. Through shield, and jack, and acton, past, Deep in his bosom broke at last.- Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. Nor knew-so giddy rolled his brainHis foe lay stretch'd upon the plain. VII. But when he rein'd 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 there beside the warrior stay, And tend him in his doubtful state, And lead him to Branksome-castle gate: His noble mind was inly moved VIII. Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; Though small his pleasure to do good. The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book! Much he marvell'd a knight of pride, Like a book-bosom'd 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, The cobwebs on a dungeon wall All was delusion, nought was truth. X. He had not read another spell, Shut faster than they were before. XI. Unwillingly himself he address'd, He led him into Branksome hall, He led the boy o'er bank and fell, Until they came to a woodland brook; The running stream dissolv'd 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, And laugh'd, and shouted, 'Lost! lost! lost!' XIV. Before the beards of the warders all; Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous And each did after swear and say There only pass'd a wain of hay. And the door might not be opened, wound. 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. 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, And hark! and hark! the deep- Had pierc'd the throat of many a deer. mouth'd bark Comes nigher still, and nigher : Bursts on the path a dark blood hound; His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, He faced the blood-hound manfully, 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! XVII. His kirtle, made of forest green, Reach'd scantly to his knee; And, at his belt, of arrows keen A furbish'd sheaf bore he; His buckler, scarce in breadth a span, No larger fence had he; He never counted him a man, Would strike below the knee : His slacken'd bow was in his hand, And the leash that was his bloodhound's band. XVIII. He would not do the fair child harm, But held him with his powerful arm, That he might neither fight nor flee; For when the Red-Cross spied he, The boy strove long and violently. Now, by St. George,' the archer cries, 'Edward, methinks we have a prize! This boy's fair face, and courage free, Show he is come of high degree.' XIX. Ho! shoot not, Edward; 'tis a boy!' 'Yes! I am come of high degree, |