THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain-they do not err, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, To murmur dirges round his grave. II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, Now, from the mountain's misty throne, His place, his power, his memory die : 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 ; R Spear-heads, above the columns dun, 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, Announcing Douglas, dreaded name! Vails not to tell what hundreds more, From the rich Merse and Lammermore, And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, Beneath the crest of old Dunbar, And Hepburn's mingled banners, come, Down the steep mountain glittering far, And shouting still, "a Home! a Home!" V. Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent, On many a courteous message went; |