THE FRENCH EXILE.
My Mary! wipe those tears away
That dim thy lovely eyes,
Nor, on that wild, romantic lay,
That leads through fairy worlds astray,
Waste all thy human sighs.
Come hither on the lightsome wing
Of innocence, and with thee bring
Thy smiles that warmly fall
Into the heart with sunny glow;
When once he tunes his harp to sing,
Thou wilt not be in haste to go.—
—The Minstrel's in the Hall!
Quickly she started from her seat,
With blushing, virgin-grace;
Her long hair floating like a stream,
While through it shone with tender gleam
Her calm and pensive face!
Soon as she heard the Minstrel's name,
Across her silent cheek there came
A blythe yet pitying ray;
For often had she heard me tell
Of the French Exile, blind and lame,
Who sung and touched the harp so well—
—Old Louis Fontenaye.
Silent he sat his harp beside,
Upon an antique chair;
And something of his country's pride
Did, exiled though he was, reside
Throughout his foreign air!
A snow-white dog of Gascon breed,
With ribbands deck'd, was there to lead
His dark steps,—and secure
The paltry alms that traveller threw,
Alms that in truth he much did need,
For every child that saw him, knew
That he was wretched poor.
His harp with figures quaint and rare
Was deck'd, and strange device;
There, you beheld the mermaid fair
In mirror braid her sea-green hair,
In wild and sportive guise.
There, on the imitated swell
The Tritons blew the wreathed shell
Around some fairy isle;
—He framed it, when almost a child,
Long ere he left his native dell:
Who saw the antic carving wild
Could scarce forbear to smile.
With silver voice, the lady said,
She knew how well he sung!—
—Starting, he raised his hoary head,
To hear from that kind-hearted maid
His own dear native tongue.
He seem'd as if restored to sight,
So suddenly his eyes grew bright
When that music touch'd his ear;
The lilied fields of France, I ween,
Before him swam in softened light,
And the sweet waters of the Seine
They all are murmuring near.
Even now, his voice was humbly sad,
Subdued by woe and want;
So crush'd his heart, no wish he had
To feel for one short moment glad,
That hopeless Emigrant!
—The aged man is young again,
And cheerily chaunts a playful strain
While his face with rapture shines;—
How rapidly his fingers glance
O'er the glad strings! his giddy brain
Drinks in the chorus and the dance,
Beneath his clustering vines.
We saw it was a darling tune
With his old heart,—a chear
That made all pains forgotten soon;—
Gay look'd he as a bird in June
That loves itself to hear.
Nor undelightful were the lays
That warm and flowery sung the praise
Of France's lovely queen,
When with the ladies of her court,
Like Flora and her train of fays,
She came at summer-eve to sport
Along the banks of Seine.
But fades the sportive roundelay;
Both harp and voice are still;
The dear delusion will not stay,
The murmuring Seine flows far away,
Sink cot and vine-clad hill!
Though his cheated soul is wounded sore,
His aged visage dimm'd once more,
The smile will not depart;
But struggles 'mid the wrinkles there,
For he clings unto the parting shore,
And the morn of life so melting-fair,
Still lingers in his heart.