THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ As he rouses him up from his lair;

       And, though she passes the postern alone,

       Why is not the watchman’s bugle blown?

       XXVII

      The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

       Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

       The lady caresses the rough bloodhound,

       Lest his voice should waken the castle round,

       The watchman’s bugle is not blown,

       For he was her foster-father’s son;

       And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light

       To meet Baron Henry her own true knight.

       XXVIII

      The Knight and ladye fair are met,

       And under the hawthorn’s boughs are set.

       A fairer pair were never seen

       To meet beneath the hawthorn green.

       He was stately, and young, and tall;

       Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall:

       And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,

       Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

       When the half sigh her swelling breast

       Against the silken ribbon prest;

       When her blue eyes their secret told,

       Though shaded by her locks of gold,

       Where whould you find the peerless fair,

       With Margarent of Branksome might compare!

       XXIX

      And now, fair dames, methinks I see

       You listen to my minstrelsy;

       Your waving locks ye backward throw,

       And sidelong bend your necks of snow;

       Ye ween to hear a melting tale,

       Of two true lovers in a dale;

       And how the Knight, with tender fire,

       To paint his faithful passion strove;

       Swore he might at her feet expire,

       But never, never, cease to love;

       And how she blush’d, and how she sigh’d.

       And, half consenting, half denied,

       And said that she would die a maid;

       Yet, might the bloody feud be stay’d,

       Henry of Cranstoun, and only he,

       Margaret of Branksome’s choice should be.

       XXX

      Alas! fair dames, you hopes are vain!

       My harp has lost the enchanting strain;

       Its lightness would my age reprove;

       My hairs are grey, my limbs are old,

       My heart is dead, my veins are cold:

       I may not, must not, sing of love.

       XXXI

      Beneath an oak, moss’d o’er by eld,

       The Baron’s Dwarf his courser held,

       And held his crested helm and spear:

       That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man,

       If the tales were true that of him ran

       Through all the Border far and near.

       ‘Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode,

       Through Reedsdale’s glens, but rarely trod,

       He heard a voice cry, “Lost! lost! lost!”

       And, like a tennis-ball by racket toss’d,

       A leap, of thirty feet and three,

       Made from the gorse this elfin shape,

       Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

       And lighted at Lord Cranstoun’s knee.

       ‘Tis said that five good miles he rade,

       To rid him of his company;

       But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four,

       And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

       XXXII

      Use lessens marvel, it is said:

       This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid;

       Little he ate, and less he spoke,

       Nor mingled with the menial flock:

       And oft apart his arms he toss’d,

       And often mutter’d “Lost! lost! lost!”

       He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,

       But well Lord Carnstoun served he:

       And he of his service was full fain;

       For once he had been ta’en, or slain,

       An it had not been for his ministry.

       All between Home and Hermitage,

       Talk’d of Lord Cranstoun’s Goblin-Page.

       XXXIII

      For the Baron went on Pilgrimage,

       And took with him this elvish Page,

       To Mary’s Chapel of the Lowes;

       For there beside our Ladye’s lake,

       An offering he had sworn to make,

       And he would pay his vows.

       But the Ladye of Branksome gather’d a band

       Of the best that would ride at her command:

       The trysting place was Newark Lee.

       Wat of Harden came thither amain,

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