THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO THIRD. I. AND said I that my limbs were old, And that my kindly fire was fled, And that I might not sing of love?— 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; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green. A 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, A stately knight came pricking on. That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, Was dark with sweat, and splashed with clay; As if he had ridden the live-long night; IV. But no whit weary did he seem, 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, |