“Here is my harp,” she continued, after a moment, handing the instrument to Egwina. “Sing me one of thy songs. Dost remember what thou and the king did sing when ye came to the camp?”
“Yea,” answered Egwina, briefly.
“Then sing the same songs as ye did then. I like the Saxon king and fain would I be reminded of him. Gentle was he to me, though I were the daughter of his foe who had driven him from his throne. In his palace nobly did he demean himself towards my father, and bestowed upon him twelve manors and many presents. Stay,” as Egwina swept the strings of the harp, “knowest thou the king’s favorite songs?”
“Yea, they are the Christian hymns,” replied Egwina, promptly.
“Then sing those, and afterward shalt thou sing the others.”
Again the maiden swept the strings, saying as she did so: “Methinks the king liketh this hymn the best of any. ’Tis a hymn of thanksgiving on the creation.
“Befits it well that man should raise
To Heaven the song of thanks and praise,
For all the gifts a bounteous God
From age to age hath still bestowed.
The kindly seasons’ tempered reign,
The plenteous store, the rich domain
Of this mid earth’s extended plain,
All that His creatures’ wants could crave,
His boundless pow’r and mercy gave.
Noblest of yon bright train that sparkles high,
Beneath the vaulted sky,
The sun by day, the silver’d moon by night,
Twin fires of Heav’n, dispense for man their useful light.
Where’er on earth his lot be sped,
For man the clouds their richness shed,
In gentle dews descend, or op’ning pour
Wide o’er the land their fertilizing shower.
“Not such the doom
Our sorrowing fathers heard of old,
The doom that in dread accents told
Of Heaven’s avenging might, and woe, and wrath to come.
‘Lo! I have set thee on earth’s stubborn soil
With grief and stern necessity to strive;
To wear thy days in unavailing toil,
The ceaseless sport of tort’ring friends to live.
Thence to thy dust to turn, the worm’s repast,
And dwell where penal flames thro’ endless ages last.
“‘Thrice holy He,
The Spirit Son of Deity!
He called from nothing into birth
Each fair production of the teeming earth;
He bids the faithful and the just aspire
To join in endless bliss Heaven’s angel choir.
His love bestows on human kind
Each varied excellence of mind.
To some His Spirit-gift affords
The power and mastery of words.
So may the wiser sons of earth proclaim,
In speech and measured song, the glories of His name.’”
“Doth the king like that?” asked the girl, wistfully.
“Yes, Hilda. Doth it not please thee?”
“It is like the king,” said Hilda. “Lofty and grand! Far beyond the simple ken of a maiden’s knowledge, even as the king is beyond a maiden’s understanding. Siegbert, what is the little song that thou dost sing?”