THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain-they do not err, Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, To murmur dirges round his grave. II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn - The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, The chief, whose antique crownlet long Now, from the mountain's misty throne, His place, his power, his memory die: All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, 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 ; Ꭱ |