And said I that my blood was cold,

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

heart 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.

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.

5

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 live-long night;

For it was William of Deloraine.

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,
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 the Borderer lent!

The stately Baron backwards bent;

Bent backwards to his horse's tail,

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;

The tough ash spear, so stout and true,

Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail,

Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's mail;