The Lady of the lake . DY OF THE LAKE. Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid, Clasping his withered hands, he said, Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain. Alas ! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my barp, my strings has spanned! I touch the chords of joy, but low And mournful answer notes of woe; And the proud march which victors tread Sinks in the wailing for the dead. Oh, well for me, if mine alone That dirges deep prophetic tone! If, as my tuneful fathers said. This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed, Can thus its masters fate foretell. Then welcome be the mins
The Lady of the lake . DY OF THE LAKE. Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid, Clasping his withered hands, he said, Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain. Alas ! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my barp, my strings has spanned! I touch the chords of joy, but low And mournful answer notes of woe; And the proud march which victors tread Sinks in the wailing for the dead. Oh, well for me, if mine alone That dirges deep prophetic tone! If, as my tuneful fathers said. This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed, Can thus its masters fate foretell. Then welcome be the minstrels knell! VIII. But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed, The eve thy sainted mother died; And such the sounds which, while I strove To wake a lay of war or love, Came marring all the festal mirth, Appalling me who gave them birth, And, disobedient to my call, Wailed loud through Bothwells bannered hall, Ere Douglases, to ruin driven. Were exiled from their native heaven. — Oh ! if yet worse mishap and woe THE ISLAND. 85. My masters house must undergo,Or aught but weal to Ellen fan-Brood in these accents of despair,No future bard, sad Harp ! shall flin<Triumph or rapture from thy string j 86 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. One short, one final strain shall flow,Fraught with unutterable woe,Then shivered shall thy fragments lie,Thy master cast him down and die ! IX. Soothing she answered him : Assuage, Mine honored friend, the fears of age; All melodies to thee are knoAvn That harp has rung or pipe has blown, In Lowland vale or Highland glen. From Tweed to Spey — what marvel, then, At times unbidden notes should rise. Confusedly bound in memorys ties. Entangling, as they rush along. The war-march with the funeral song ? — Small ground is now for boding fear; Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. My sire, in native virtue great, Kesigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resigned Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reave, The noble st
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookpublisherbosto, bookyear1896
