The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott. Walter Scott

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,

       And thither came John of Thirlestane,

       And thither came William of Deloraine;

       They were three hundred spears and three.

       Through Douglasburn, up Yarrow strem,

       Their horses prance, their lances gleam.

       They came to St. Mary’s lake ere day;

       But the chapel was void, and the Baron away.

       They burn’d the chapel for very rage,

       And cursed Lord Cranstoun’s Goblin-Page.

       XXXIV

      And now, in Branksome’s good green wood,

       As under the aged oak he stood,

       The Baron’s courser pricks his ears,

       As if a distant noise he hears.

       The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,

       And signs to the lovers to part and fly;

       No time was then to vow or sigh.

       Fair Margaret through the hazel grove,

       Flew like the startled cushat-dove:

       The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein;

       Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain,

       And, pondering deep that morning’s scene,

       Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

       While thus he pour’d the lengthen’d tale

       The Minstrel’s voice began to fail:

       Full slyly smiled the observant page,

       And gave the wither’d hand of age

       A goblet crown’d with mighty wine,

       The blood of Velez’ scorched vine.

       He raised the silver cup on high,

       And, while the big drop fill’d his eye

       Pray’d God to bless the Duchess long,

       And all who cheer’d a son of song.

       The attending maidens smiled to see

       How long, how deep, how zealously

       The precious juice the Minstrel quaff’d;

       And he, embolden’d by the draught,

       Look’d gaily back to them, and laugh’d.

       The cordial nectar of the bowl

       Swell’d his old veins, and cheer’d his soul;

       A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

       Ere thus his tale again began.

      Canto III

       Table of Contents

       I

      And said I that my limbs were old,

       And said I that my blood was cold,

       And that my kindly fire was fled,

       And my poor wither’d heart was dead,

       And that I might not sing of love,

       How could I to the dearest theme,

       That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream

       So foul, so false a recreant prove!

       How could I name love’s very name,

       Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

       II

      In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;

       In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;

       In halls, in gay attire is seen;

       In hamlets, dances on the green.

       Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

       And men below, and saints above;

       For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

       III

      So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,

       While, pondering deep the tender scene,

       He rode through Branksome’s hawthorn green.

       But the Page shouted wild and shrill,

       And scarce his helmet could he don,

       When downward from the shady hill

       A stately knight came pricking on.

       That warrior’s steed, so dapple-gray,

       Was dark with sveat, and splashed with clay;

       His armor red with many a stain

       He seem’d in such a weary plight,

       As if he had ridden the livelong night;

       For it was William of Deloraine.

       IV

      But no whit weary did he seem,

       When, dancing in the sunny beam,

       He mark’d the crane on the Baron’s crest;

       For his ready spear was in his rest.

       Few were the words, and stern and high,

       That mark’d the foemen’s feudal hate;

       For question fierce, and proud reply,