241
BALLAD.
The old ancestral tower is reft
Of tapestry and of pall—
There's not a tattered banner left
Upon the broken wall.
The owl hoots where the minstrel's lay
Cheered my bold ancestors—
And I must up and ride away,
And win my golden spurs.
There's rust upon my good sword blade,
My war-steed rests at ease,
And still I haunt this darksome glade,
Nor cross yon glittering seas.
'Tis idle grief to shed the tear,
Though he was good and brave,—
'Tis idle grief to linger near
My father's blood-stained grave.
