The Lay-Brother's Love Song.
The lilies are fair, down by the green grove,
Where the brooklet glides through the dell;
But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove,
As the maid whose name I could tell.
The roses are sweet that blush in the vale,
Where the thorn-bush grows by the well;
But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale
As the maid whose name I could tell.
The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky,—
Over song-birds bearing the bell;
But one bird may for music the skylark defy,—
'Tis the maid whose name I could tell.
The angels all brightly glitter and glow,
In the regions high where they dwell;
But they beam not so bright as one angel below,—
'Tis the maid whose name I could tell.
————
Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares,
And woo faint smiles from pain;
Jesting, a while, may keep down tears—
But they will rise, again!
And saddening thoughts of others' care,
Unwelcome, though they be, to share,—
And though self-love would coldly say
"Let me laugh on, while others bear
Their own grief-fardels as they may!"—
Yet, while in sadness droops a brother,
No brother-heart can sadness smother:
The tear of fellowship will start—
The tongue seek comfort to impart.
And English hearts, of old, were dull
To quell their yearnings pitiful:—
The guests forgot the jester's strain,
To think upon the harp again,
And of the youth who, to its swell,
So late, his sighs did syllable.
Natheless, no guest was skilled to find,
At once, fit words that might proclaim,—
For one who seemed without a name,—
Their sympathy;—and so, with kind
Intent, they urged some roundelay
The stranger minstrel would essay.
He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung
Of passion still,—and still it clung
To Love—his full, melodious tongue!