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These tidings caught Sir Bertram's ear,

He thank'd him for his tale ; And foon he hasted o'er the hills,

And foon he reach'd the vale.

Then Jrawing near those lonely towers,

Which stood in dale so low, And fitting down beside the gate,

His pipes he 'gan to blow.

Sir Porter, is thy lord at home

To hear a Minstrel's song? Or may I crave a lodging here?

Without offence or wrong?

My Lord, he said, is not at home

To hear a Minstrel's song:
And should I lend thee lodging here,

My life would not be long.

He play'd again, so soft a strain,

Such power sweet sounds impart, He won the churlish Porter's ear,

And moved his stubborn heart.

Minstrel, he said, thou play'st so sweet,

Fair entrance thou should'st win; But, alas ! I am sworn upon the rood,

To let no stranger in.

Yet, Minstrel, in yon rifing cliff

Thou'lt find a sheltering cave, And here thou shalt my supper share,

And there thy lodging have. All day he fits befide the gate,

And pipes both loud and clear : All night he watches round the walls,

In hopes his love to hear.

The first night, as he filent watchd,

All at the midnight hour,
He plainly heard his Lady's voice

Lamenting in the tower.

The second night the moon lone clear,

And gilt the spangled dew;
He saw his Lady thro’the gráte,

But 'twas a transient view.

The third night wearied out he Nept

'Till near the morning tide ; When starting up, he feiz'd his fword,

And to the castle hy'd.

When, lo i he saw a ladder of ropes

Depending from the wall ;
And o'er the mote was newly laid

A poplar strong and tall.

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And foon he saw his love descend

Wrapt in a tartan plaid : Afifted by a sturdy youth

In Highland garb y-clad.

Amaz'd confounded at the fight,

He lay unseen and still ;
And soon he saw them cross the stream,

And mount the neighbouring hill.

Unheard unknown of all within,

The youthful couple fly.
But what can 'scape the lover's ken ?

Or Thun his piercing eye?
With filent step he follows close

Behind the flying pair,
And saw her hang upon his arm,

With fond familiar air.

Thanks, gentle yooth, the often said;

My thanks thou well haft won :
For me what wiles haft thou contriv'd ?

For me what dangers run ?

And ever shall my grateful heart

Thy services repay :
Sir Bertram would no further hear,

But cried, Vile traitor, stay!

Vile traitor, yield that Lady up!

And quick his sword he drew,
The stranger turn'd in fudden rage,

And at Sir Bertram fiew.

With mortal hate their vigorous arms

Gave many a vengeful blow:
But Bertam's stronger hand prevaila,

And laid the ftranger low.

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Die, traitor, die! - A deadly thrust

Attends each furious word.
Ah! then fair Isabel knew his voice,

And rush'd beneath his sword.

O ftop, she cried, O atop thy arm!

Thou dost thy brother Day!
And here the Hermit paus'd and wept:

His tongue no more could say.

At length he cried, Ye lovely pair,

How shall I tell the rest
Ere I could ftop my piercing sword,

It fell and ftab'd her breast.

Wert thou thyself that hapless youth ?

Ah! cruel fate! they said,
The Hermit wept, and so did they ;

They fighd; he hung his head.

O blind and jealous rage, he cried,

What evils from thee flow? The Hermit paus’d ; they filent mourn'd;

He wept, and they were woe.

Ah! when I heard


brother's name, And saw my lady bleed, I rav’l, I wept, I curft my arm,

That wrought the fatal deed.

In vain 1 clafp'd her to my breast,

And clos'd the ghaftly wound;
In vain I press’d his bleeding cerpfe,

And rais'd it from the ground.

My brother, alas! fpake never more ;

His precious life was flown.
She kindly strove to sooth my pain,

Regardless of her own.

Bertram, she said, be comforted,

And live to think on me :
May we in heaven that union prove,

Which here was not to be.

Bertram, she said, I still was true ;

Thou only hadft my heart : May we hereafter meet in bliss !

We now, alas ! must part.

For thee I left my father's hall,

And few to thy relief;
When, lo! near Chiviot's fatal hills

I met a Scottish chief.

Lord Malcolm's son, whose proffered love

I had refus'd with scorn ;
He New my guards and seiz'd on me

Upon that fatal morn;

And in these dreary hated walls

He kept me close confin'd;
And fondly lued and warmly press'd

To win me to his mind.

Each rising morn increas'd my pain,

Each night increas'd my fear ; When wandering in this northern garb

Thy brother found me here.

He quickly form'd this brave design

To set me captive free;
And on the moor his horses wait.

Ty'd to a neighbouring tree.

Then hafte, my love, escape away,

And for thyself provide ;
And sometimes fondly think on her,

Who should have been thy bride.

Thus pouring comfort on my soul

Even with her latest breath,
She gave one parting fond embrace,

And clos'd her eyes death.


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