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THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO THIRD.

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

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 withered heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love?—
How could I to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,

So foul, so false a recreant prove!

How could I name love's very name,

Nor wake my harp 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.

A

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 seemed 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 marked the crane on the Baron's crest;

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high,

That marked the foemen's feudal hate;

For question fierce, and proud reply,
Gave signal soon of dire debate.
Their very coursers seemed to know
That each was other's mortal foe;
And snorted fire, when wheeled around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.

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