Brangwain was there, and Segramore, And fiend-born Merlin’s gramarye; Of that famed wizard’s mighty lore, O who could sing but he? Through many a maze the winning song In changeful passion led, Till bent at length the listening throng O’er Tristrem’s dying bed. His ancient wounds their scars expand, With agony his heart is wrung: O where is Isolde’s lily hand, And where her soothing tongue? She comes! she comes!—like flash of flame Can lovers’ footsteps fly; She comes! She comes!—she only came To see her Tristrem die. She saw him die; her latest sigh Joined in a kiss his parting breath; The gentlest pair, that Britain bare, United are in death. Then paused the harp: its lingering sound Died slowly on the ear; The silent guests still bent around, For still they seem’d to hear. Then wo broke forth in murmurs weak: Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh: But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek Did many a gauntlet dry. On Leader’s stream, and Learmont’s tower, The mists of evening close; In camp, in castle, or in bower, Each warrior sought repose. Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent, Dream’d o’er the woful tale: When footsteps light across the bent The warrior’s ears assail. He starts, he wakes;—“What, Richard, ho! Arise, my page, arise! What venturous wight, at dead of night, Dare step where Douglas lies!”— Then forth they rush’d; by Leader’s tide, A selcouth sight they see— A hart and hind pace side by side, As white as snow on Fairnalie. Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, They stately move and slow; Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, Who marvel as they go. To Learmont’s tower a message sped, As fast as page might run; And Thomas started from his bed, And soon his clothes did on. First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; Never a word he spake but three;— “My sand is run; my thread is spun; This sign regardeth me.” The elfin harp his neck around, In minstrel guise, he hung: And on the wind, in doleful sound, Its dying accents rung. Then forth he went; yet turn’d him oft To view his ancient hall: On the gray tower, in lustre soft, The autumn moonbeams fall; And Leader’s waves, like silver sheen, Danced shimmering in the ray; In deepening mass, at distance seen, Broad Soltra’s mountains lay. “Farewell, my father’s ancient tower! A long farewell,” said he: “The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, Thou never more shalt be. “To Learmont’s name no foot of earth Shall here again belong, And on thy hospitable hearth The hare shall leave her young. “Adieu! adieu!” again he cried, All as he turn’d him roun’— “Farewell to Leader’s silver tide! Farewell to Ercildoune!”