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"This shalt thou do without delay;
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 iMuch he marvelled, a knight of pride Like a book-bosomed priest should ride:He thought not to search or staunch the wound, Until the secret he had found.
The iron band, the iron clasp,
For when the first he had undone, It closed as he the next begun. Those iron clasps, that iron band, Would not yield to unchristened hand, Till he smeared 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 nut-shell seem a gilded barge, A sheelingf seem a palace large, And youth seem age, and age seem youth— All was delusion, nought was truth.
He had not read another spell,
* Magical delusion. f A shepherd's hut.
So fierce, it stretched him on the plain,Seemed to the boy, some comrade gay
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismayed,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he muttered, and no more—
"Man of Age, thou smitest sore!"—
No more the Elfin Page durst try
Into the wonderous Book to pry;
The clasps, though smeared 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.
Unwilliugly himself he addressed,
He led him into Branksome hall, Before the beards of the warders all;
And each did after swear and say,
There only passed a wain of hay.
He took him to Lord David's tower,
Even to the Ladye's secret bower;
And, but that stronger spells were spread,
And the door might not be opened,
He had laid him on her very bed.
Whate'er he did of gramarye,*
Was always done maliciously;
He flung the warrior on the ground,
And the blood welled freshly from the wound.
As he repassed the outer court,
XIII. He led the boy o'er bank and fell,
Until they came to a woodland brook;The running stream dissolved the spell, And his own elvish shape he took. Could he have had his pleasure vilde, He had crippled the joints of the noble child;Or, with his fingers long and lean, Had strangled him in fiendish spleen:But his awful mother he had in dread, And also his power was limited;So he but scowled on the startled child, And darted through the forest wild;The woodland brook he bounding crossed, And laughed, and shouted, "Lost! lost! lost!" 8