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.

THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO THIRD.

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!