“O find a messenger true to me, To bear me a letter across the sea. A messenger true they brought him there, And the young knight warned him thus with care: Lay now that dress of thine aside, And in beggar’s weeds thy service hide, And take my ring, my ring of gold, And wrap it safe in some secret fold, But, once at my mother’s castle gate, That ring will gain admittance straight. And O! if she comes to ransom me, Then high let the white flag hoisted be; But if she comes not--ah, well-a-day! The night-black flag at the mast display.[374] When the messenger true to Leon came, At supper sat the high-born dame: With cups of gold and royal fare, And the harpers merrily harping there. I kneel to thee, right noble dame; This ring will show from whom I came. And he who gave me that same ring, Bade me in haste this letter bring. Oh! harpers, harpers, cease your song; The grief at my heart is sharp and strong. Why did they this from his mother hide? In a dungeon lies my only pride! O quick make ready a ship for me, This night I’ll cross the stormy sea.” The ballad goes on to show how young Bran, from his bed, at morn, at noon, at vesper, asked the warder whether he saw a ship; and when, at last, the warder says he observes one, he couples it with the falsehood that the color of its flag is black. “When the downcast knight that answer heard, He asked no more, he spake no word. He turned to the wall his face so wan, And shook in the breath of the Mighty One!” The mother touches the strand; hears a death-bell; asks of a gray-haired man; speeds wildly to the tower: “At the foot of the tower, to the gaoler grim, She sobbed aloud and she called to him: O! open the gates (my son! my son!) O open the gates (my only son!) They opened the gates; no word they said: Before her there her son lay dead. In her arms she took him so tenderly, And laid her down--never more rose she!” The ballad then describes an oak, with lofty head, whereon the birds gather at night: “And amidst them comes ever croaking low, With a young dark raven, an aged crow. Wearily onward they flap their way With drooping wings, soaked through with spray, As they had come from a far countrye; As they had flown o’er a stormy sea. And the birds they sing so sweet and clear That the waves keep very still to hear. They all sing out in a merry tone, They all sing together--save two alone. With mournful voice ever croaking low, Sing, happy birds! says the aged crow, Blest little birds! sing, for you may, _You did not die from home far away_!” How this noble ballad would have stirred the hearts of the authors of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel” and of “Christabel”!