قراءة كتاب The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme
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feast—
But not in pomp or pride;
He smileth on the humblest guest
So gladsomely—all feel that rest
Of heart which doth abide
Where deeds of generousness attest
The welcome by the tongue professed,
Is not within belied.
And the Baron's beauteous child is there,
In her maiden peerlessness,—
Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare,
And smiles so sweetly debonair,
That all her presence bless.—
But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek?
And why, with trembling, doth she seek
To shun her father's gaze?
And who is he for whom the crowd
Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud
With gleeful voices raise?
"Right welcome!" though the revellers shout,
They hail the minstrel "Stranger!"
And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt,
And his daughter's look thrills "danger!"
Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold,
And his speech is firm and free;
He saith he will carol a legend old,
Of a Norman lord of Torksey told:
He learnt it o'er the sea;
And he will not sing for the Baron's gold,
But for love of minstrelsy.
"Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith,
"And tell thy minstrel tale:
It is too late to harbour wrath
For the thieves in helm and mail:
"Our fathers' home again is ours!—
Though Thorold is Saxon still,
To a song of thy foreign troubadours
He can list with right good will!"
A shout of glee rings to the roof,
And the revellers form a ring;
Then silent wait to mark what proof
Of skill with voice and string
The youthful stranger will afford.
Full soon he tunes each quivering chord,
And, with preamble wildly sweet
He doth the wondering listeners greet;—
Then strikes into a changeful chaunt
That fits his fanciful romaunt.
The Daughter of Plantagenet.
THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S TALE.
FYTTE THE FYRSTE.
Pours on the earth her silver noon;
Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear,
Their ghostly forms the towers uprear;
And their long dark shadows behind them are cast,
Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning hath past.
The warder sleeps on the battlement,
And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent;
The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute—
But list! awaked is the woodland lute:
The nightingale warbles her omen sweet
On the hour when the ladye her lover shall meet.
She waves her hand from the loophole high,
And watcheth, with many a struggling sigh,
And hearkeneth in doubt, and paleth with fear,—
Yet tremblingly trusts her true knight is near;—
And there skims o'er the river—or doth her heart doat?—
As with wing of the night-hawk—her lover's brave boat.
His noble form hath attained the strand,
And she waves again her small white hand;
And breathing to heaven, in haste, a prayer,
Softly glides down the lonely stair;
And there stands by the portal, all watchful and still,
Her own faithful damsel awaiting her will.
The midnight lamp gleams dull and pale,—
The maidens twain are weak and frail,—
But Love doth aid his votaries true,
While they the massive bolts undo,—
And a moment hath flown, and the warrior knight
Embraceth his love in the meek moonlight.
The knight his love-prayer, tenderly,
Thus breathed in his fair one's ear
"Oh! wilt thou not, my Agnes, flee?—
And, quelling thy maiden fear,
Away in the fleeting skiff with me,
And, for aye, this lone heart cheer?"
"O let not bold Romara[7] seek"—
Soft answered his ladye-love,—
"A father's doating heart to break,
For should I disdainful prove
Of his high behests, his darling child
Will thenceforth be counted a thing defiled;
And the kindling eye of my martial sire
Be robbed of its pride, and be quenched its fire:
Nor long would true Romara deem
The heart of his Agnes beat for him,
And for him alone—if that heart, he knew,
To its holiest law could be thus untrue."
His plume-crowned helm the warrior bows
Low o'er her shoulder fair,
And bursting sighs the grief disclose
His lips can not declare;
And swiftly glide the tears of love
Adown the ladye's cheek;—
Their deep commingling sorrows prove
The love they cannot speak!
The moon shines on them, as on things
She loves to robe with gladness,—
But all her light no radiance brings
Unto their hearts' dark sadness:
Forlornly, 'neath her cheerless ray,—
Bosom to bosom beating,—
In speechless agony they stay,
With burning kisses greeting;—
Nor reck they with what speed doth haste
The present hour to join the past.
"Ho! lady Agnes, lady dear!"
Her fearful damsel cries;
"You reckon not, I deeply fear,
How swift the moontide flies!
The surly warder will awake,
The morning dawn, anon,—
My heart beginneth sore to quake,—
I fear we are undone!"
But Love is mightier than Fear:
The ladye hasteth not:
The magnet of her heart is near,
And peril is forgot!
She clingeth to her knight's brave breast
Like a lorn turtle-dove,
And 'mid the peril feeleth rest,—
The full, rapt rest of Love!
"I charge thee, hie thee hence, sir knight!"
The damsel shrilly cries;
"If this should meet her father's sight,
By Heaven! my lady dies."
The warrior rouseth all his pride,
And looseth his love's
