CANTO IV.
THE PROPHECY.
157
When did my gifted dream beguile?
Think of the stranger at the isle,
And think upon the harpings slow,
That presaged this approaching woe!
Sooth was my prophecy of fear;
Believe it when it augurs cheer.
Would we had left this dismal spot!
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot.
Of such a wond'rous tale I know—
Dear lady, change that look of woe!
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer."—
Think of the stranger at the isle,
And think upon the harpings slow,
That presaged this approaching woe!
Sooth was my prophecy of fear;
Believe it when it augurs cheer.
Would we had left this dismal spot!
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot.
Of such a wond'rous tale I know—
Dear lady, change that look of woe!
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer."—
ELLEN.
"Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear,
But cannot stop the bursting tear."—
The Minstrel tried his simple art,
But distant far was Ellen's heart.
"Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear,
But cannot stop the bursting tear."—
The Minstrel tried his simple art,
But distant far was Ellen's heart.
