Fair Margaret, through the hazel grove,

Flew like the startled cushat-dove:*

The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein;
Vaulted the knight on his steed amain,
And, pondering deep that morning's scene,
Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

WHILE thus he pour'd the lengthen❜d tale,
The Minstrel's voice began to fail:
Full slyly smiled the observant page,
And gave the wither'd hand of age
A goblet, crown'd with mighty wine,
The blood of Velez' scorched vine.
He raised the silver cup on high,
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye,
Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long,
And all who cheer'd a son of song.

* Wood-pigeon.

The attending maidens smiled to see, How long, how deep, how zealously, The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd ; And he, embolden'd by the draught, Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd. The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul; A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

THE

LAY

OF

THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO THIRD.