Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide,
A selcouth[53] 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 cloaths 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 turned him oft
To view his ancient hall;
On the grey tower, in lustre soft,
The autumn moon-beams 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!"—