THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain :-they do not err, Who say, that, when the Poet dies, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn; Is vocal with the plaintive wail Of those, who, else forgotten long, That love, true love, should be forgot, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear Upon the gentle minstrel's bier The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; |