قراءة كتاب The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme
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On days of sunshine in the wood.
Tell out thy heart withouten fear—
For none shall stifle free thoughts here!
But, bear the mead-cup, Edith sweet!
We crave our stranger guest will greet
All hearts, again, with minstrelsy,
When Snell hath trolled his mirth-notes free!"
Fairer than fairest flower that blows,—
Sweeter than breath of sweetest rose,—
Still on her cheek, in lustre left,
The tear the minstrel's tale had reft
From its pearl-treasure in the brain—
The limbec where, by mystic vein,
From the heart's fountains are distilled
Those crystals, when 'tis overfilled,—
With downcast eye, and trembling hands,
Edith before the stranger stands—
Stranger to all but her!
Though well the baron notes his brow,
While the young minstrel kneeleth low—
Love's grateful worshipper!—
And doth with lips devout impress
The hand of his fair ministress!
Yet, was the deed so meekly done,—
His guerdon seemed so fairly won,—
The tribute he to beauty paid
So deeply all believed deserved,—
That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said,
Though much his thoughts from meekness swerved.
Impatience, soon, their faces tell
To hear the song of woodman Snell,
Among the festive crew;
And, soon, their old and honest frere,
Elated by the good Yule cheer,
In untaught notes, but full and clear,
Thus told his heart-thoughts true:—
The Woodman's Song.
For all his gaudy gear;
I would not be that pampered thing,
His gew-gaw gold to wear:
But I would be where I can sing
Right merrily, all the year;
Where forest treen,
All gay and green,
Full blythely do me cheer.
I would not be a gentleman,
For all his hawks and hounds,—
For fear the hungry poor should ban
My halls and wide-parked grounds:
But I would be a merry man,
Among the wild wood sounds,—
Where free birds sing,
And echoes ring
While my axe from the oak rebounds.
I would not be a shaven priest,
For all his sloth-won tythe:
But while to me this breath is leased,
And these old limbs are lithe,—
Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,
And felled me with his scythe,—
I'll troll my song,
The leaves among,
All in the forest blythe.
————
"Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried,
When the woodman ceased to sing;
"By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide
In our veins to hear thee bring
These English thoughts so freely out!
Thy health, good Snell!"—and a merry shout
For honest boldness, truth, and worth,
The baron's grateful guests sent forth.
Silence like grave-yard air, again,
Pervades the festive space:
All list for another minstrel strain;
And the youth, with merrier face,
But tender notes, thus half-divulged
The passion which his heart indulged:—
The Minstrel's Song.
That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;
Who weepeth for pity,
To hear a love ditty,
And marketh the end with a sigh.
If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,
Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,
Each day for the morrow
Will nurture more sorrow,—
Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.
The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;
The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:
'Twere better to tarry,
Unless thou canst marry
To sweeten the bitters of life!
————