The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — But there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would add another tale.
THE moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square; And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine: And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing in a line, The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.
"Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant He dwells alone
He loved the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made:
third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.
FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires The Bruce had been selected; And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaimed with truth, If Bruce hath loved sincerely, That Gordon loves as dearly.
But what are Gordon's form and face, His shattered hopes and crosses, To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, Reclined on flowers and mosses ? Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin! Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same, Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love, The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent.
But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing.
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