Page:The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.djvu/731

"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 turned him oft
 To view his ancient hall;
On the grey 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 turned him roun'—
"Farewell to Leader's silver tide!
 Farewell to Ercildoune!"

The hart and hind approached the place,
 As lingering yet he stood;
And there, before Lord Douglas' face,
 With them he crossed the flood.

Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed,
 And spurred him the Leader o'er;
But, though he rode with lightning speed,
 He never saw them more.

Some said to hill, and some to glen,
 Their wondrous course had been;
But ne'er in haunts of living men
 Again was Thomas seen.