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The sound, upon the fitful gale, In solemn wise did rise and fail, Like that wild harp, whose magic tone Is wakened by the winds alone. But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all;He meetly stabled his steed in stall, And sought the convent's lonely wall.

Here paused the harp: and with its swell
The Master's fire and courage fell:
Dejectedly, and low, he bowed,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seemed to seek, in every eye,
If they approved his minstrelsy;And, diffident of present praise,
Somewhat he spoke of former days,
And how old age, and wandering long,
Had done his hand and harp some wrong.

The Duchess, and her daughters fair, And every gentle ladye there, Each after each, in due degree, Gave praises to his melody; His hand was true, his voice was clear, And much they longed the rest to hear. Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, After meet rest, again began.

THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO SECOND.

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