« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
And, would the noble duchess deign
The humble boon was soon obtained ; The aged minstrel audience gained. But when he reached the room of state, Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied : For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease, Which marks security to please ; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brain He tried to tune his harp in vain ! The pitying duchess praised its chime, And gave him heart, and gave him time, Till every string's according glee Was blended into harmony. And then, he said, he would full fain He could recall an ancient strain, He never thought to sing again. It was not framed for village churls, But for high dames and mighty earls: He had played it to King Charles the good, When he kept court in Holyrood; And much he wished, yet feared, to try The long-forgotten melody. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, And an uncertain warbling made, And oft he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
The feast was over in Branksome Tower,
Knight, and page, and household squire,
Or crowded round the ample fire: The stag-hounds, weary of the chase,
Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest-race,
From Teviot Stone to Eskdale Moor.
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall
Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
They lay down to rest
With corslet laced,
They carved at the meal
With gloves of steel,
The helmet barred.
Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,
Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
The feast 1: And the La Her bower Deadly to Jesu Maria, No living Had dared
bezin - Actions reeden, -zadly veil
Knight, Loitered t
Or crow The stag-h
Lay stret And urged.
death-feud's enmity? JEE, can patriot zeal,
vain, the grave divine
Solard ours the rule of Carr,
While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war,
Shall never, never be forgot!
The warlike foresters had bent;
Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,
Had locked the source of softer woc; And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan,
Her son lisped from the nurse's knee"And if I live to be a man,
My father's death revenged shall be !' Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek.
All loose her golden hair,
And wept in wild despair,
Had filial grief supplied ;
Had lent their mingled tide: