THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       Stout Deloraine nor sigh’d nor pray’d,

       Nor saint, nor ladye, call’d to aid;

       But he stoop’d his head, and couch’d his spear,

       And spurred his steed to full career.

       The meeting of these champions proud

       Seem’d 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;

       The tough ash spear, so stout and true,

       Into a thousand flinders flew.

       But Cranstoun’s lance, of more avail

       Pierc’d 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,

       Hurl’d on a heap lay man and horse.

       The Baron onward pass’d his course;

       Nor knew, so giddy rolled his brain,

       His foe lay stretch’d upon the plain.

       VII

      But when he rein’d his courser round,

       And saw his foeman on the ground

       Lie senseless as the bloody clay,

       He badehis page to stanch the wound,

       And there beside the warrior stay,

       And tend him in his doubtful state,

       And lead him to Brauksome castle gate:

       His noble mind was inly moved

       For the kinsman of the maid he loved.

       “This shalt thou do without delay:

       No longer here myself may stay;

       Unless the swifter I speed away

       Short shrift will be at my dying day.”

       VIII

      Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;

       The Goblin-Page behind abode;

       His lord’s command he ne’er withstood,

       Though small his pleasure to do good.

       As the corslet off he took,

       The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book!

       Much he marvell’d a knight of pride,

       Like a book-bosom’d priest should ride:

       He thought not to search or stanch the wound

       Until the secret he had found.

       IX

      The iron band, the iron clasp,

       Resisted long the elfin grasp:

       For when the first he had undone

       It closed as he the next begun.

       Those iron chlsps, that iron band,

       Would not yield to unchristen’d hand

       Till he smear’d the cover o’er

       With the Borderer’s curdled gore;

       A moment then the volume spread,

       And one short spell therein he read:

       It had much of glamour might;

       Could make a ladye seem a knight;

       The cobwebs on a dungeon wall

       Seem tapestry in lordly hall;

       A nutshell seem a gilded barge,

       A sheeling seem a palace large,

       And youth seem age, and age seem youth:

       All was delusion, nought was truth.

       X

      He had not read another spell,

       When on his cheek a buffet fell,

       So fierce, it stretch’d him on the plain

       Beside the wounded Deloraine.

       From the ground he rose dismay’d,

       And shook his huge and matted head;

       One word he mutter’d, and no more,

       “Man of age, thou smitest sore!”

       No more the Elfin Page durst try

       Into the wondrous Book to pry;

       The clasps, though smear’d with Christian gore,

       Shut faster than they were before.

       He hid it underneath his cloak.

       Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,

       I cannot tell, so mot I thrive;

       It was not given by man alive.

       XI

      Unwillingly himself he address’d,

       To do his master’s high behest:

       He lifted up the living corse,

       And laid it on the weary horse;

       He led him into Branksome hall,

       Before the beards of the warders all;

       And each did after swear and say

       There only pass’d a wain of hay.

       He took him to Lord David’s tower,

       Even to the Ladye’s secret bower;

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