THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO THIRD. I. AND said I that my limbs were old; And that I might not sing of love?— 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 hamlets, dances on the green. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, For love is heaven, and heaven is love. III. So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, And scarce his helmet could he don, 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 : As if he had ridden the live-long night; IV. But no whit weary did he seem, He marked the crane on the Baron's crest; Few were the words, and stern, and high, That marked the foemen's feudal hate; For question fierce, and proud reply, V. In rapid round the Baron bent; He sighed a sigh, and prayed a prayer : The prayer was to his patron saint, The sigh was to his ladye fair. Stout Deloraine nor sighed, nor prayed, But he stooped his head, and couched his spear, And spurred his steed to full career. The meeting of these champions proud Seemed 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; Into a thousand flinders flew. But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer'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, VII. But when he reined his courser round, He bade his page to stanch the wound, His noble mind was inly moved For the kinsman of the maid he loved. |