THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain :-they do not err, Who say, that, when the Poet dies, 1 For the departed bard make moan; 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, The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, And shrieks along the battle-plain : Now, from the mountain's misty throne, Sees, in the thanedom once his own, His place, his power, his memory die : His groans the lonely caverns fill, His tears of rage impel the rill; All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, Their name unknown, their praise unsung. III. Scarcely the hot assault was staid, The terms of truce were scarcely made, When they could spy, from Branksome's towers, The advancing march of martial powers; Thick clouds of dust afar appeared, And trampling steeds were faintly heard; Bright spears, above the columns dun, Glanced momentary to the sun; And feudal banners fair displayed The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. IV. Vails not to tell each hardy clan, From the fair Middle Marches came; The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne 1 Their men in battle-order set; And Swinton laid the lance in rest, That tamed of yore the sparkling crest Of Clarence's Plantagenet. Nor list I say what hundreds more, From the rich Merse and Lammermore, And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, |