_There is an old French air,
A little song of loneliness and grief—
Simple as nature, sweet beyond compare—
And sad—past all belief!
Nameless is he that wrote
The melody—but this I opine:
Whoever made the words was some remote
French ancestor of mine.
I know the dungeion deep
Where long he lay—and why he lay therein;
And all his anguish, that he could not sleep
For conscience of a sin._
I see his cold, hard bed;
I hear the chimes that jingled in his ears
As he pressed nightly, with that wakeful head,
A pillow wet with tears.
Oh, restless little chime!
It never changed—but rang its roundelay
For each dark hour of that unhappy time
That sighed itself away.
And ever, more and more,
Its burden grew of his lost self a part—
And mingled with his memories, and wore
Its way into his heart.
And there it wove the name
Of many a town he loved, for one dear sake,
Into its web of music; thus he came
His little song to make.
Of all that ever heard
And loved it for its sweetness, none but I
Divined the clew that, as a hidden word,
The notes doth underlie.
That wail from lips long dead
Has found its echo in this breast alone!
Only to me, by blood-remembrance led,
Is that wild story known!
And though 'tis mine, by right
Of treasure-trove, to rifle and lay bare—
A heritage of sorrow and delight
The world would gladly share—