ENGLISH POETRY. THE LAST MINSTREL. THE way was long, the wind was cold, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger filled the Stuart's throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. B A wandering harper, scorned and poor, SCOTT. BRANKSOME TOWER. THE feast was over in Branksome tower, No living wight, save the Ladye alone, The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; Or crowded round the ample fire: Nine-and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall; Nine-and-twenty squires of name Brought them their steeds from bower to stall; Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall Waited, duteous, on them all: |