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They burned the chapel for very rage,
And cursed lord Cranstoun's goblin page.

XXXIV.

And now, in Branksome's good green wood,
As under the aged oak he stood,
The baron's courser pricks his ears,

As if a distant noise he hears.

The dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,
And signs to the lovers to part and fly;
No time was then to vow or sigh,
Fair Margaret, through the hazel grove,
Flew like the startled cushat-dove:*
The dwarf the stirrup held and rein;
Vaulted the knight on his steed amain,
And pondering deep that morning's scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

WHILE thus he poured the lengthened tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail;
Full slily smiled the observant page,
And gave the withered hand of age

* Wood-pigeon.

A goblet, crowned with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop filled his eye,
Prayed God to bless the duchess long,
And all who cheered a son of song.
The attending maidens smiled to see,
How long, how deep, how zealously,
The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed;
And he; emboldened by the draught,
Looked gaily back to them, and laughed.
The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swelled his old veins, and cheered his soul :
A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

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And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?
How could I, to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a Minstrel's dream,

So foul, so false, a recreant prove!
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my harp to notes of flame!

II.

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;

In war he mounts the warrior's steed;

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In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

III.

So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,
While, pondering deep the tender scene,
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green.
But the page shouted wild and shrill,

And scarce his helmet could he don,
When downward from the shady hill

A stately knight came pricking on. That warrior's steed so dapple gray, Was dark with sweat, and splashed with clay; His armour red with many a stain:

He seemed in such a weary plight,

As if he had ridden the livelong night;
For it was William of Deloraine.

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When dancing in the sunny beam,

He marked the crane on the baron's crest:

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern, and high,

That marked the foemen's feudal hate;

For question fierce and proud reply,
Gave signal soon of dire debate.
Their very coursers seemed to know
That each was other's mortal foe ;
And snorted fire, when wheeled around,
To give each knight his vantage ground.

V.

In rapid round the baron bent;

He sighed a sigh, and prayed a prayer :
The prayer was to his patron saint,
The sigh was to his ladye fair.
Stout Deloraine nor sighed, nor prayed,
Nor saint, nor ladye, called to aid;

But he stooped his head and couched his spear,
And spurred his steed to full career.
The meeting of these champions proud
Seemed like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI.

Stern was the dint of the Borderer lent!
The stately baron backwards bent;

Bent backwards to his horse's tail,

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;

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