The Baron's courser pricks his ears,
As if a distant noise he hears.
The Dwarf waves his long lean arm
on high,

And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh.
Fair Margaret through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat-dove:
The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein;
Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's
scene,

Rode eastward through the hawthorns

green.

WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale,

The Minstrel's voice began to fail :
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the wither'd hand of age
A goblet, crown'd with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye,
Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheer'd a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd;
And he, embolden'd by the draught,
Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd.
The cordial nectar of the bowl
Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his

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;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the

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;
He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a

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.
But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail,
Pierc'd through, like silk, the Bor-
derer'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,

Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse.
The Baron onward pass'd his course;

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
For the kinsman of the maid he loved.
'This shalt thou do without delay:
No longer here myself may stay;
Unless the swifter I speed away,
Short shrift will be at my dying day.'

VIII.

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;
The Goblin-Page behind abode;
His lord's command he ne'er with-
stood,

Though small his pleasure to do good.
As the corslet off he took,

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,
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 unchristen'd hand,
Till he smear'd 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 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 stretch'd him on the plain
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismay'd,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he mutter'd, and no more,
'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.

Unwillingly 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,

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,
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.

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.

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,

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!

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.