And he played and sang so beautifully, that Halfred had never yet heard such playing and singing; mournful and yet blissful at the same time, was the melody, like the pain of yearning, which yet for no pleasure of the earth would the heart resign.
And Halfred told me that for the first time since that midsummer night a warm breath passed again over his soul.
And the beautiful boy in the airy bower enchained his eyes, and the mournful yearning song entranced his soul.
And for the first time, for many, many years, his breast could heave with a full drawn breath.
And tears filled his eyes, and restored and healed him, and made him young once more, like cool dew upon the heath after a burning sun.
And at the close of every two lines the words of the song rang harmoniously together, like--and yet again not altogether entirely like--as though two voices sought each other in sound and echo.
Or as when man and woman, one and yet two, are folded together in a kiss.
The boy sang in the soft lisping Irish language, which Halfred well knew. But that closing concord had he never heard, and it resounded far more pleasingly upon the ear than did the dead consonant staves of the Skalds.
And this was the boy's song,--
"On light slender branches blowing
White rose yearns through May's young bloom--
Sun God, 'tis for thee I'm glowing,
When wilt thou, thy bright face showing,
Quaff full deep my fresh perfume?
When wilt thou, for ardour sighing,
Greet my flowers in trembling bliss?
Come, and must I rue thee dying,
Leave within my chalice lying,
Fiery sweet, thy fervid kiss."