Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, And stoutly steer'd him from the shore; VOL. III. 101 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. CANTO THIRD. THE GATHERING. I. TIME rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, marvelling boyhood legends store, And told our Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and wither'd of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course. Yet live there still who can remember well, And fast the faithful clan around him drew, |