I've sung, I've smiled: where'er my path
Mirth's dazzling meteors shine:
All hearts have owned its magic power,
And all are glad but mine.
II.
"I've soothed the darkest surge of woe,
And many a bosom blessed;
Forbade the sufferer's tear to flow,
And brought the weary rest:
I've poured upon the bleeding heart
The balm of Hope,—the shrine
Where holier, happier thoughts shall dwell;—
But who shall gladden mine?
III.
"Forgive; 'tis but one short complaint,
One pang I would reveal:
The wretch upon the torturing rack
Is not forbid to feel!
Then laugh,—let merry hearts to-night
Their brightest wreaths entwine:
The flowers that bloom on every breast
Will, withering, fade on mine!"[35]
Many were the bright eyes glittering on him through their long silken lashes; but Sir John looked downward,—diligently noting something extraordinary in the disposition of his shoe-roses, or in the tie of his garter.
"One raven will set another croaking," said Sir George.
"That we may escape a concert so detestable," cried out Buckingham, "let Sir John Finett follow me, and we will reel with our fair dames, until cares whirl off like sling-stones."
"And may he that tires first fiddle the witches' jig," said the sapient king.
A burst of harsh music followed, and Sir John's feebly tinkling strings were thrown aside. Never had he wished so anxiously for one short hour of quietness; and right fain he was when the king retired to his chamber. His duties for that day were over, and he strolled out from the hot and oppressive atmosphere into a calm quiet moonlight. The cool breeze came like a healing balm upon his spirit, the soft dew fell upon his cheek,—but the fire in his veins burnt fiercely. His mistress's form, her face, the sweet influence of her smile, were fixed indelibly on his heart. Away from the bustle and cares of office,—which, like waves on the surface, for a while effaced their