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 blithe 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 ribbons decked, 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 decked, 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 seemed as if restored to sight,
So suddenly his eyes grew bright
When that music touched 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 crushed his heart, no wish he had To feel for one short moment glad, That hopeless Emigrant!
-The aged man is young again, And cheerily chants 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 cheer
That made all pains forgotten soon ;-
Gay looked he as a bird in June
That loves itself to hear.
Nor undelightful were the lays
That warm and flowery sang 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 dimmed 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.
Ah me! what touching silentness
Slept o'er the face divine
Of my dear maid! methought each tress
Hung 'mid the light of tenderness,
Like clouds in soft moonshine.
With artful innocence she tried
In languid smiles from me to hide.
Her tears that fell like rain;
But when she felt I must perceive
The drops of heavenly pity glide,
She owned she could not choose but grieve,
So gladsome was the strain!
If when his griefs once more began,
His eyes had been restored,
And met her face so still and wan,
How had that aged, exiled man
The pitying Saint adored!
Yet though the angel light that played
Around her face, pierced not the shade
That veiled his eyeballs dim,-
Yet to his ear her murmurs stole,
And, with a faltering voice, he said
That he felt them sink into his soul
Like the blessed Virgin's hymn!
He prayed that Heaven its flowers would strew
On both our heads through life,
With such a tone, as told he knew
She was a virgin fond and true,
Mine own betrothed wife!
And something too he strove to say
In praise of our green isle,-how they
Her generous children, though at war
With France, and both on field and wave
Encountering oft in fierce array,
Would not from home or quiet grave
Her exiled sons debar!
Long was the aged Harper gone
Ere Mary well could speak,—
So I cheered her soul with loving tone,
And, happy that she was my own,
I kissed her dewy cheek.
And, when once more I saw the ray
Of mild-returning pleasure play
Within her glistening eyes,
I bade the gentle maiden go
And read again that Fairy lay,
Since she could weep, 'mid fancied woe,
O'er real miseries.
THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.
WITH laughter swimming in thine eye,
That told youth's heartfelt revelry;
And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow wakened by the spring;
With accents blithe as voice of May
Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;
Circled by joy like planet bright
That smiles 'mid wreathes of dewy light,—
Thy image such, in former time,
When thou, just entering on thy prime,
And woman's sense in thee combined
Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
First taught'st my sighing soul to move
With hope towards the heaven of love!
Now years have given my Mary's face
A thoughtful and a quiet grace :—
Though happy still,-yet chance distress
Hath left a pensive loveliness;
Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,
And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hushed infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own,
Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!
By thy glad youth and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary time!
For thou art doomed in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from woe;
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