<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519703" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto III.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>And said I that my limbs were old, <br>And said I that my blood was cold, <br>And that my kindly fire was fled, <br>And my poor wither'd heart was dead, <br>And that I might not sing of love - <br>How could I to the dearest theme, <br>That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream <br>So foul, so false a recreant prove! <br>How could I name love's very name, <br>Nor wake my heart to notes of flame! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II <br>In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; <br>In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; <br>In halls, in gay attire is seen; <br>In hamlets, dances on the green. <br>Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, <br>And men below, and saints above; <br>For love is heaven, and heaven is love. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III <br>So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, <br>While, pondering deep the tender scene, <br>He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green. <br>But the Page shouted wild and shrill, <br>And scarce his helmet could he don, <br>When downward from the shady hill <br>A stately knight came pricking on. <br>That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, <br>Was dark with sveat, and splashed with clay; <br>His armor red with many a stain <br>He seem'd in such a weary plight, <br>As if he had ridden the live-long night; <br>For it was William of Deloraine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV <br>But no whit weary did he seem, <br>When, dancing in the sunny beam, <br>He mark'd the crane on the Baron's crest; <br>For his ready spear was in his rest. <br>Few were the words, and stern and high, <br>That mark'd the foemen's feudal hate; <br>For question fierce, and proud reply, <br>Gave signal soon of dire debate. <br>Their very coursers seem'd to know <br>That each was other's mortal foe, <br>And snorted fire, when wheel'd around <br>To give each foe his vantage-ground. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">V <br>In rapid round the Baron bent; <br>He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer: <br>The prayer was to his patron saint, <br>The sigh was to his ladye fair. <br>Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd, <br>Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid; <br>But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his spear, <br>And spurred his steed to full career. <br>The meeting of these champions proud <br>Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI <br>Stern was the dint the Borderer lent! <br>The stately Baron backwards bent; <br>Bent backwards to his horse's tail <br>And his plumes went scattering on the gale; <br>The tough ash spear, so stout and true, <br>Into a thousand flinders flew. <br>But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail <br>Pierc'd through, like silk, the Borderer's mail; <br>Through shield, and jack, and acton, past, <br>Deep in his bosom broke at last.- <br>Still sate the warrior saddle-fast <br>Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, <br>Down went the steed, the girthing broke, <br>Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. <br>The Baron onward pass'd his course; <br>Nor knew-so giddy rolled his brain- <br>His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII <br>But when he rein'd his courser round, <br>And saw his foeman on the ground <br>Lie senseless as the bloody clay, <br>He badehis page to stanch the wound, <br>And there beside the warrior stay, <br>And tend him in his doubtful state, <br>And lead him to Brauksome castle gate: <br>His noble mind was inly moved <br>For the kinsman of the maid he loved. <br>'This shalt thou do without delay: <br>No longer here myself may stay; <br>Unless the swifter I speed away <br>Short shrift will be at my dying day.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII <br>Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; <br>The Goblin-Page behind abode; <br>His lord's command he ne'er withstood, <br>Though small his pleasure to do good. <br>As the corslet off he took, <br>The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book! <br>Much he marvell'd a knight of pride, <br>Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride: <br>He thought not to search or stanch the wound <br>Until the secret he had found. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX <br>The iron band, the iron clasp, <br>Resisted long the elfin grasp: <br>For when the first he had undone <br>It closed as he the next begun. <br>Those iron chlsps, that iron band, <br>Would not yield to unchristen'd hand <br>Till he smear'd the cover o'er <br>With the Borderer's curdled gore; <br>A moment then the volume spread, <br>And one short spell therein he read: <br>It had much of glamour might; <br>Could make a ladye seem a knight; <br>The cobwebs on a dungeon wall <br>Seem tapestry in lordly hall; <br>A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, <br>A sheeling seem a palace large, <br>And youth seem age, and age seem youth: <br>All was delusion, nought was truth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X <br>He had not read another spell, <br>When on his cheek a buffet fell, <br>So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain <br>Beside the wounded Deloraine. <br>From the ground he rose dismay'd, <br>And shook his huge and matted head; <br>One word he mutter'd, and no more, <br>'Man of age, thou smitest sore!' <br>No more the Elfin Page durst try <br>Into the wondrous Book to pry; <br>The clasps, though smear'd with Christian gore, <br>Shut faster than they were before. <br>He hid it underneath his cloak. <br>Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, <br>I cannot tell, so mot I thrive; <br>It was not given by man alive. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI <br>Unwillingly himself he address'd, <br>To do his master's high behest: <br>He lifted up the living corse, <br>And laid it on the weary horse; <br>He led him into Branksome hall, <br>Before the beards of the warders all; <br>And each did after swear and say <br>There only pass'd a wain of hay. <br>He took him to Lord David's tower, <br>Even to the Ladye's secret bower; <br>And, but that stronger spells were spread, <br>And the door might not be opened, <br>He had laid him on her very bed. <br>Whate'er he did of gramarye <br>Was always done maliciously; <br>He flung the warrior on the ground, <br>And the blood well'd freshly from the wound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII <br>As he repass'd the outer court, <br>He spied the fair young child at sport: <br>He thought to train him to the wood; <br>For, at a word be it understood, <br>He was always for ill, and never for good. <br>Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay <br>Led him forth to the woods to play; <br>On the drawbridge the warders stout <br>Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII <br>He led the boy o'er bank and fell, <br>Until they came to a woodland brook <br>The running stream dissolv'd the spell, <br>And his own elvish shape he took. <br>Could he have had his pleasure vilde <br>He had crippled the joints of the noble child; <br>Or, with his fingers long and lean, <br>Had strangled him in fiendish spleen: <br>But his awful mother he had in dread, <br>And also his power was limited; <br>So he but scowl'd on the startled child, <br>And darted through the forest wild; <br>The woodland brook he bounding cross'd, <br>And laugh'd, and shouted, 'Lost! lost! lost!'- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV <br>Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change, <br>And frighten'd, as a child might be, <br>At the wild yell and visage strange, <br>And the dark words of gramarye, <br>The child, amidst the forest bower, <br>Stood rooted like a lily flower; <br>And when at length, with trembling pace, <br>He sought to find where Branksome lay, <br>He fear'd to see that grisly face <br>Glare from some thicket on his way. <br>Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on, <br>And deeper in the wood is gone,- <br>For aye the more he sought his way, <br>The farther still he went astray,- <br>Until he heard the mountains round <br>Ring to the baying of a hound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV <br>And hark! and hark! the deep-mouth'd bark <br>Comes nigher still, and nigher: <br>Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound; <br>His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, <br>And his red eye shot fire. <br>Soon as the wilder'd child saw he, <br>He flew at him right furiouslie. <br>I ween you would have seen with joy <br>The bearing of the gallant boy, <br>When, worthy of his noble sire, <br>His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire! <br>He faced the blood-hound manfully, <br>And held his little bat on high; <br>So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid, <br>At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd <br>But still in act to spring; <br>When dash'd an archer through the glade, <br>And when he saw the hound was stay'd, <br>He drew his tough bow-string; <br>But a rough voice cried, 'Shoot not, hoy! <br>Ho! shoot not, Edward; 'tis a boy!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI <br>The speaker issued from the wood, <br>And check'd his fellow's surly mood, <br>And quell'd the ban-dog's ire: <br>He was an English yeoman good, <br>And born in Lancashire. <br>Well could he hit a fallow-deer <br>Five hundred feet him fro; <br>With hand more true, and eye more clear, <br>No archer bended bow. <br>His coal-black hair, shorn round and close, <br>Set off his sun-burn'd face: <br>Old England's sign, St. George's cross, <br>His barret-cap did grace; <br>His bugle-horn hung by his side, <br>All in a wolf-skin baldric tied; <br>And his short falchion, sharp and clear, <br>Had pierc'd the throat of many a deer. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII <br>His kirtle, made of forest green, <br>Reach'd scantly to his knee; <br>And, at his belt, of arrows keen <br>A furbish'd sheaf bore he; <br>His buckler, scarce in breadth a span, <br>No larger fence had he; <br>He never counted him a man, <br>Would strike below the knee: <br>His slacken'd bow was in his hand, <br>And the leash that was his blood-hound's band. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII <br>He would not do the fair child harm, <br>But held him with his powerful arm, <br>That he might neither fight nor flee; <br>For when the Red-Cross spied he, <br>The boy strove long and violently. <br>'Now, by St. George,' the archer cries, <br>'Edward, methinks we have a prize! <br>This boy's fair face, and courage free, <br>Show he is come of high degree.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX <br>'Yes! I am come of high degree, <br>For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch <br>And, if thou dost not set me free, <br>False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue! <br>For Walter of Harden shall come with speed, <br>And William of Deloraine, good at need, <br>And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed; <br>And, if thou dost not let me go, <br>Despite thy arrows and thy bow <br>I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX <br>'Gramercy for thy good-will, fair boy! <br>My mind was never set so high; <br>But if thou art chief of such a clan, <br>And art the son of such a man <br>And ever comest to thy command <br>Our wardens had need to keep good order; <br>My bow of yew to a hazel wand <br>Thou'lt make them work upon the Border. <br>Meantime, be pleased to come with me <br>For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see; <br>I think our work is well begun, <br>When we have taken thy father's son.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI <br>Although the child was led away <br>In Branksome still he seem'd to stay, <br>For so the Dwarf his part did play; <br>And, in the shape of that young boy, <br>He wrought the castle much annoy. <br>The comrades of the young Buccleuch <br>He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew; <br>Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew. <br>He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire <br>And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire <br>He lighted the match of his bandelier, <br>And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer. <br>It may be hardly thought or said, <br>The mischief that the urchin made, <br>Till many of the castle guess'd, <br>That the young Baron was possess'd! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII <br>Well I ween the charm he held <br>The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd; <br>But she was deeply busied then <br>To tend the wounded Deloraine. <br>Much she wonder'd to find him lie <br>On the stone threshold stretch'd along; <br>She thought some spirit of the sky <br>Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong; <br>Because, despite her precept dread <br>Perchance he in the Book had read; <br>But the broken lance in his bosom stood, <br>And it was earthly steel and wood. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII <br>She drew the splinter from the wound, <br>And with a charm she stanch'd the blood; <br>She bade the gash be cleans'd and bound: <br>No longer by his couch she stood; <br>But she has ta'en the broken lance, <br>And wash'd it from the clotted gore <br>And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. <br>William of Deloraine, in trance <br>Whene'er she turn'd it round and round, <br>Twisted as if she gall'd his wound. <br>Then to her maidens she did say <br>That he should be whole man and sound <br>Within the course of a night and day. <br>Full long she toil'd; for she did rue <br>Mishap to friend so stout and true. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV <br>So pass'd the day; the evening fell, <br>'Twas near the time of curfew bell; <br>The air was mild, the wind was calm, <br>The stream was smooth, the dew was balm; <br>E'en the rude watchman on the tower <br>Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour. <br>Far more fair Margaret lov'd and bless'd <br>The hour of silence and of rest. <br>On the high turret sitting lone, <br>She waked at times the lute's soft tone; <br>Touch'd a wild note, and all between <br>Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. <br>Her golden hair stream'd free from band, <br>Her fair cheek rested on her hand <br>Her blue eyes sought the west afar <br>For lovers love the western star. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV <br>Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, <br>That rises slowly to her ken, <br>And, spreading broad its wavering light, <br>Shakes its loose tresses on the night? <br>Is yon red glare the western star? <br>O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war! <br>Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath, <br>For well she knew the fire of death! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI <br>The Warder view'd it blazing strong, <br>And blew his war-note loud and long, <br>Till, at the high and haughty sound, <br>Rock, wood, and river rung around. <br>The blast alarm'd the festal hall, <br>And startled forth the warriors all; <br>Far downward, in the castle-yard, <br>Full many a torch and cresset glared; <br>And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd, <br>Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost; <br>And spears in wild disorder shook, <br>Like reeds beside a frozen brook. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII <br>The Seneschal, whose silver hair <br>Was redden'd by the torches' glare, <br>Stood in the midst with gesture proud, <br>And issued forth his mandates loud: <br>'On Penchryst glows a bale of fire, <br>And three are kindling on Priest-haughswire; <br>Ride out, ride out, <br>The foe to scout! <br>Mount, mount for Branksome, every man! <br>Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan <br>That ever are true and stout; <br>Ye need not send to Liddesdale, <br>For when they see the blazing bale, <br>Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. <br>Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life! <br>And warn the Warder of the strife. <br>Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, <br>Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII <br>Fair Margaret from the turret head <br>Heard, far below, the coursers' tread, <br>While loud the harness rung <br>As to their seats, with clamor dread, <br>The ready horsemen sprung: <br>And trampling hoofs, and iron coat, <br>And leaders' voices mingled notes, <br>And out! and out! <br>In hasty route, <br>The horsemen gallop'd forth; <br>Dispersing to the south to scout, <br>And east, and west, and north, <br>To view their coming enemies, <br>And warn their vassals and allies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX <br>The ready page, with hurried hand, <br>Awaked the need-fire's slumbering brand, <br>And ruddy blush'd the heaven: <br>For a sheet of flame from the turret high <br>Wav'd like a blood-flag on the sky, <br>All flaring and uneven; <br>And soon a score of fires, I ween, <br>From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen; <br>Each with warlike tidings fraught, <br>Each from each the signal caught; <br>Each after each they glanc'd to sight <br>As stars arise upon the night. <br>They gleam d on many a dusky tarn, <br>Haunted by the lonely earn; <br>On many a cairn's grey pyramid, <br>Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;<br>Till high Dunedin the blazes saw <br>From Soltra and Dumpender Law, <br>And Lothian heard the Regent's order <br>That all should bowne them for the Border. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX <br>The livelong night in Branksome rang <br>The ceaseles sound of steel; <br>The castle-bell, with backward clang <br>Sent forth the larum peal; <br>Was frequent heard the heavy jar, <br>Where massy stone and iron bar <br>Were piled on echoing keep and tower, <br>To whelm the foe with deadly shower <br>Was frequent heard the changing guard, <br>And watch-word from the sleepless ward; <br>While, wearied by the endless din, <br>Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI <br>The noble Dame, amid the broil <br>Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil, <br>And spoke of danger with a smile; <br>Cheer'd the young knights, and council sage <br>Held with the chiefs of riper age. <br>No tidings of the foe were brought <br>Nor of his numbers knew they aught, <br>Nor what in time of truce he sought. <br>Some said that there were thousands ten; <br>And others ween'd that it was nought <br>But Leven clans, or Tynedale men, <br>Who came to gather in black-mail; <br>And Liddesdale, with small avail, <br>Might drive them lightly back agen. <br>So pass'd the anxious night away, <br>And welcome was the peep of day. <br>Ceas'd the high sound. The listening throng <br>Applaud the Master of the Song; <br>And marvel much, in helpless age, <br>So hard should be his pilgrimage. <br>Had he no friend, no daughter dear, <br>His wandering toil to share and cheer; <br>No son to be his father's stay, <br>And guide him on the rugged way? <br>'Ay, once he had-but he was dead!' <br>Upon the harp he stoop'd his head, <br>And busied himself the strings withal <br>To hide the tear that fain would fall. <br>In solemn measure, soft and slow, <br>Arose a father's notes of woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519703" data-title="The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto III. de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="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..."></div> </div> </div>

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