The Minstrel's Farewell.
Oh! smile not upon me—my heart is not smiling:
Too long it hath mourned, 'neath reproach and reviling:
Thy smile is a false one: it never can bless me:
It doth not relieve,—but more deeply distress me!
I care not for beauty; I care not for riches:
I am not the slave whom their tinsel bewitches:
A bosom I seek
That is true, like mine own,—
Though pale be the cheek,
And its roses all flown,—
And the wearer be desolate, wretched, forlorn,—
And alike from each soul-soothing solace be torn.
That heart I would choose, which is stricken and slighted;
Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all blighted;
For that heart alone
Would in sympathy thrill
With one like my own
That sorrow doth fill;—
With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been spurned,—
And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned.
The harp of my heart is unstrung; and to gladness
Respond not its chords—but to sorrow and sadness:—
Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath forsaken!
Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken?
————
It is the shriek of deathful danger!
None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger!
All start aghast, with deadly fear,
While they, again, that wild shriek hear!
"He drowns—Sir Wilfrid!" cries a hind:
"The ferryman is weak:
He cannot stem the stream and wind:
Help, help! for Jesu's sake!"
"Help one,—help all!" the Baron cries;
"Whatever boon he craves,
I swear, by Christ, that man shall win,
My ferryman who saves!"—
Out rush the guests: but one was forth
Who heard no word of boon:
His manly heart to deeds of worth
Needed no clarion.
He dashed into the surging Trent—
Nor feared the hurricane;
And, ere the breath of life was spent,
He seized the drowning man.—
"What is thy boon?" said Torksey's lord,—
But his cheek was deadly pale;
"Tell forth thy heart,—and to keep his word
De Thorold will not fail."—
"I rushed to save my brother-man,
And not to win thy boon:
My just desert had been Heaven's ban—
If thus I had not done!"—
Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall
The Baron's guests had gained:
And, now, De Thorold's noble soul
Spoke out, all unrestrained.
"Then for thy own heart's nobleness
Tell forth thy boon," he said;
"Before thou tell'st thy thought, I guess
What wish doth it pervade."—
"Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love,
Romara asks of thee!
What though my kindred with thee strove,
And wrought thee misery?
"Our Lord, for whom we keep this day,
When nailed upon the tree;
Did he foredoom his foes, or pray
That they might pardoned be?"—
"Son of my ancient foe!" replied
The Baron to the youth,—
I glad me that my ireful pride
Already bows to truth:
"Deep zeal to save our brother-man—
Generous self-sacrifice
For other's weal—is nobler than
All blood-stained victories!
"Take thy fair boon!—for thou hast spoiled
Death,—greedy Death—of prey—
This poor man who for me hath toiled
Full many a stormy day!
"I feel—to quell the heart's bad flame,
And bless an enemy,
Is richer than all earthly fame—
Though the world should be its fee!
"My sire was by thy kinsman slain;—
Yet, as thy tale hath told,
Thy kinsman's usurping act was vain—
He died in the dungeon cold.
"Perish the memory of feud,
And deeds of savage strife!
Blood still hath led to deeds of blood,
And life hath paid for life!
"My darling Edith shall be thine—
My blood with thine shall blend—
The Saxon with the Norman line—
In love our feuds shall end.
"In age I'll watch ye bless the poor,
And smile upon your love;
And, when my pilgrimage is o'er,
I hope to meet above
"Him who on earth a Babe was born
In lowliness, as on this morn,—
And tabernacled here below,
Lessons of brotherhood to show!"
————
High was the feast, and rich the song,
For many a day, that did prolong
The wedding-revelry:
But more it needeth not to sing
Of our fathers' festive revelling:—
How will the dream agree
With waking hours of famished throngs,
Brooding on daily deepening wrongs—
A stern reality!—
With pictures, that exist in life,
Of thousands waging direful strife
With gaunt Starvation, in the holds
Where Mammon vauntingly unfolds
His boasted banner of success?
Oh, that bruised hearts, in their distress,
May meet with hearts whose bounteousness
Helps them to keep their courage up,—
"Bating no jot of heart or hope!"[17]
My suffering brothers! still your hope
Hold fast, though hunger make ye droop!
Right—glorious Right—shall yet be done!
The Toilers' boon shall yet be won!
Wrong from its fastness shall be hurled—
The World shall be a happy world!—
It shall be filled with brother-men,—
And merry Yule oft come again!