The father would not listen to Sordino,
Whose English he but scarcely understood,
And half afraid of this so swarthy stranger,
In times, like those, so full of lurking danger,
But when he saw his gold, it seemed quite good,
And gave consent to let his helper go.
But not before his mother had been seen,
Her sanction gained, for what he felt some fears,
And so they left the sheaves of ripened wheat,
And sought their humble dwelling’s blithe retreat,—
A little cottage, thatched, and gray with years,
Amid the trees and garden-beds still green.
And here they tarried till the close of day,
Till Vesper-bells proclaimed its toil should cease,
Yea, tarried over night, for mother’s heart
Is more reluctant with the child to part,
But in the morn she said: “Do as ye please,”
And gave her blessing, and they went away.
And as they left, the peals from Shoreditch tow’r
Came on the crispéd morning air like streams
Of living water from the Holy Mount,—
Where priests with silver basins at its fount
Oblation brought to golden Cherubims,
Amid rejoicing of the festive hour.
Their cleansing tones, refreshing to the mind,
And nature, smiling, drank their harmony,
The crystal dew vibrating with delight,
A veil of mist, the garment of the night,
Hung o’er the deepest valley, seemed to flee
Before their dancing with a timid wind.
Sordino felt their rapture like a flow
Of scented warmth, which crept through limbs and brain,
And to his heart, where lotus-like it stayed,
Until each chilling sorrow was allayed,
And joy of other years returned again,
Enkindling in his face a new life’s glow.
The silent, wond’ring lad, who followed him,
Had often heard this gladsome melody,
It was a part of him from infancy,
It cast upon his soul a witchery,
From which no mood or attitude was free,
And claimed him for a realm remote and dim.
It was the springtime of the golden age
Of England’s minstrelsy, and here and there
A youth did feel its heart-throb ’mid the flowers,
And saw sweet, flitting forms amongst the bowers,
And heard transporting voices in the air,
Which captured him and did his life engage.
And though, perhaps, he never won a name,
And though it spoiled his life for “useful things,”
And Fate endowed him, as she did a Greene,
With wretched penury and squalor mean,—
Still he who sees and hears and gladly sings
Hath recompense, transcending gold and fame.
Woe, unto him around whose cradle danced
The fairies on the golden morning ray,
Anointing him with essence of the rose,
Into whose soul the magic music flows,
To shape itself into a deathless lay,
Who all denies, by earthliness entranced.