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, Hurled on a heap lay man and horse. The Baron onward passed his course; Nor knew-so giddy roll'd his brain- His foe lay stretched upon the plain. VII. But when he reined his courser round, And saw his foeman on the ground Lie senseless as the bloody clay, He bade his Page to staunch the wound, And there beside the warrior stay, And tend him in his doubtful state, And lead him to Branksome 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 : Short shrift will be at my dying day." VIII. Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; Though small his pleasure to do good. The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book! Much 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. IX. 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, With the borderer's curdled gore; A nut-shell 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, * Magical delusion. + A shepherd's hut. So fierce, it stretched him on the plain, Beside the wounded Deloraine. From the ground he rose dismayed, And shook his huge and matted head ; Into the wondrous 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. XI. Unwillingly himself he addressed, 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 passed a wain of hay. And the door might not be opened, He had laid him on her very bed. Whate'er he did of gramarye,' He flung the warrior on the ground, And the blood welled freshly from the wound. XII. As he repassed the outer court, He spied the fair young child at sport: He thought to train him to the wood; For, at a word, be it understood, He was always for ill, and never for good. * Magic. F |