I own the gay lark is the blythest bird
That welcomes the purple dawn;
But a sweeter chorister far is heard
When the veil of eve is drawn:
When the last lone traveller homeward wends
O'er the moorland, drowsily;
And the pale bright moon her crescent bends,
And silvers the soft gray sky;
And in silence the wakeful starry crowd
Their vigil begin to keep;
And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud,
And their buds in dew-drops weep;
Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild,
In the depth of the forest dark,
Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child,
Than the song of the cheerful lark!
————
"'Twas sweet, but somewhat sad," said some;
And the Baron sought his daughter's eye,—
But, now, there fell a shade of gloom
On the cheek of Edith;—and tearfully,
He thought she turned to shun his look.
He would have asked his darling's woe,—
But the harp, again, the minstrel took;
And with such prelude as awoke
Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe
In Thorold's soul,—the minstrel stranger—
In spite of fear, in spite of danger,—
In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,—
Responded thus to Edith's plaint:—
The Minstrel's Response.
What meant that glancing of thine eye,
That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh?
Hast thou a thought of woe or weal,
Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel?
Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal,
Or hide it from my mind, Love?
Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me,
And I not breathe as deep to thee?
Or hast thou whispered in mine ear
A word of sorrow or of fear,—
Or have I seen thee shed a tear,—
And looked a thought unkind, Love?
Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray
Across thy beaming countenance play,—
Or joy its seriousness beguile,
And o'er it cast a radiant smile,—
And mine with kindred joy, the while,
Not glow as bright as thine, Love?
Why would'st thou, then, that something seek
To hide within thy breast,—nor speak,
Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear,
Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,—
Assured this heart would gladly bear
A burthen borne by thine, Love?
————
Sir Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood,
When the youthful minstrel's song was ended;
While Edith by her loved sire stood,
And o'er his chair in sadness bended.
The guests were silent;—for the chaunt,
Where all, of late, were jubilant,
Had kindled quick imagining
Who he might be that thus dared sing—
Breathing of deep and fervent feeling—
His tender passion half-revealing.
Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke:
Saint Leonard's lay-brother,
Who seldom could smother
Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke,
Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak,—
And touching the chords
To brain-sick words,—
While he mimicked a lover's phantasy,
Upward rolling his lustrous eye,—
With warblings wild
He flourished and trilled,—
Till mother and maiden aloud 'gan to laugh,
And clown challenged clown more good liquor to quaff.
These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure,
He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure.
The Lay-Brother's Love Song.
The lilies are fair, down by the green grove,
Where the brooklet glides through the dell;
But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove,
As the maid whose name I could tell.
The roses are sweet that blush in the vale,
Where the thorn-bush grows by the well;
But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale
As the maid whose name I could tell.
The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky,—
Over song-birds bearing the bell;
But one bird may for music the skylark defy,—
'Tis the maid whose name I could tell.
The angels all brightly glitter and glow,
In the regions high where they dwell;
But they beam not so bright as one angel below,—
'Tis the maid whose name I could tell.
————
Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares,
And woo faint smiles from pain;
Jesting, a while, may keep down tears—
But they will rise, again!
And saddening thoughts of others' care,
Unwelcome, though they be, to share,—
And though self-love would coldly say
"Let me laugh on, while others bear
Their own grief-fardels as they may!"—
Yet, while in sadness droops a brother,
No brother-heart can sadness smother:
The tear of fellowship will start—
The tongue seek comfort to impart.
And English hearts, of old, were dull
To quell their yearnings pitiful:—
The guests forgot the jester's strain,
To think upon the harp again,
And of the youth who, to its swell,
So late, his sighs did syllable.
Natheless, no guest was skilled to find,
At once, fit words that might proclaim,—
For one who seemed without a name,—
Their sympathy;—and so, with kind
Intent, they urged some roundelay
The stranger minstrel would essay.
He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung
Of passion still,—and still it clung
To Love—his full, melodious tongue!
The Minstrel's Avowal.
O yes! I hold thee in my heart;
Nor shall thy cherished form depart
From its loved home: though sad I be,—
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!
My dawn of life is dimmed and dark;
Hope's flame is dwindled to a spark;
But, though I live thus dyingly,—
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!
Though short my summer's day hath been,
And now the winter's eve is keen,—
Yet, while the storm descends on me,—
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!
No look of love upon me beams,—
No tear of pity for me streams:—
A thing forlorn—despairingly—
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!
Thine eye would pity wert thou free
To soothe my woe; and though I be
Condemned to helpless misery,
My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee!
————
The maidens wept—the clowns looked glum—
Each rustic reveller was dumb:
Sir Wilfrid struggled hard to hide
Revengeful throes and ireful pride,
That, now, his wounded bosom swelled,—
For in that youth he had beheld
An image which had overcast
His life with sorrow in the Past:—
He struggled,—and besought the youth
To leave his strains of woe and ruth
For some light lay, or merry rhyme,
More fitting Yule's rejoicing time.—
And, though it cost him dear, the while,
He eyed the minstrel with a smile.
The stranger waited not to note
The Baron's speech: like one distraught
He struck the harp—a wild farewell
Thus breathing to its deepest swell:—