THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain-they do not err, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lòne, Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave 'o murmur dirges round his grave. To II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Of those, who, else forgotten long, The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, Now, from the mountain's misty throne, His place, his power, his memory die : All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, III. Scarcely the hot assault was staid, The terms of truce were scarcely made, When they could spy, from Branksome's towers, And trampling steeds were faintly heard; R |