“But tell me now,” said brave Dunbar, “True Thomas, tell now unto me, What man shall rule the isle Britain, Even from the north to the southern sea?” “A French Queen shall bear the son, Shall rule all Britain to the sea; He of the Bruce’s blood shall come, As near as in the ninth degree. “The waters worship shall his race; Likewise the waves of the farthest sea; For they shall ride over ocean wide, With hempen bridles and horse of tree.” PART THE THIRD.—MODERN. _By Walter Scott._ When seven years more were come and gone, Was war through Scotland spread, And Ruberslaw show’d high Dunyon His beacon blazing red. Then all by bonny Coldingknow, Pitch’d palliounes took their room, And crested helms, and spears a-rowe, Glanced gaily through the broom. The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, Resounds the ensenzie; They roused the deer from Caddenhead, To distant Torwoodlee. The feast was spread in Ercildoune, In Learmont’s high and ancient hall: And there were knights of great renown, And ladies, laced in pall. Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, The music nor the tale, Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, Nor mantling quaighs of ale. True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, When as the feast was done: (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, The elfin harp he won.) Hush’d were the throng, both limb and tongue, And harpers for envy pale; And armed lords lean’d on their swords, And hearken’d to the tale. In numbers high, the witching tale The prophet pour’d along; No after bard might e’er avail Those numbers to prolong. Yet fragments of the lofty strain Float down the tide of years, As buoyant on the stormy main A parted wreck appears. He sung King Arthur’s Table Round; The Warrior of the Lake: How courteous Gawaine met the wound, And bled for ladies’ sake. But chief, in gentle Tristrem’s praise, The notes melodious swell; Was none excell’d in Arthur’s days, The Knight of Lionelle. For Marke, his cowardly uncle’s right, A venom’d wound he bore; When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, Upon the Irish shore. No art the poison might withstand; No medicine could be found, Till lovely Isolde’s lily hand Had probed the rankling wound. With gentle hand and soothing tongue She bore the leech’s part; And while she o’er his sick-bed hung, He paid her with his heart. O fatal was the gift, I ween! For, doom’d in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall’s queen, His cowardly uncle’s bride. Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard In fairy tissue wove; Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove. The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, High-rear’d its glittering head; And Avalon’s enchanted vale In all its wonders spread.