More than the birds are. As th' astrologer
Worships the half-seen star that in its sphere
Dreams not of him, and tramples on the lily
That flings, unask'd, its fragrance in his way,
Yet both (as are the high-born and the low)
Wrought of the same fine Hand-so, daringly,
Flew my boy-hopes beyond me. You are here
In a brave palace, Isidore! The gem
That sparkles in your hair imprisons light
Drunk in the flaming Orient; and gold
Waits on the bidding of those girlish lips
In measure that Aladdin never knew

Yet was I-lowly born!

ISIDORE.

Lord Ivon!

LORD IVON.

Ay,

You wonder; but I tell you that the Lord

Of this tall palace was a peasant's child!

And, looking sometimes on his fair domain,
Thy sire bethinks him of a sickly boy,
Nursed by his mother on a mountain side,
His only wealth a book of poetry,

With which he daily crept into the sun,

To cheat sharp pains with the bewildering dream Of beauty he had only read of there!

ISIDORE.

Have you the volume still, sir?

LORD IVON.

"Twas the gift

Of a poor scholar, wandering in the hills,

Who pitied my sick idleness. I fed

My inmost soul upon the witching rhyme

A silly tale of a low minstrel boy,

Who broke his heart in singing at a bridal.

Loved he the lady, sir?

ISIDORE.

I never thought to pity him.

The bride was a duke's sister; and I mused
Upon the wonder of his daring love,

Till my heart changed within me. I became
Restless and sad; and in my sleep I saw
Beautiful dames all scornfully go by ;
And one o'er-weary morn I crept away
Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock,
Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters
Fill'd me with energy, I swore my soul
To better that false vision, if there were
Manhood or fire within my wretched frame.

I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour,
Changed-for the thought had conquer'd ev'n disease;
And my poor mother check'd her busy wheel,
To wonder at the step with which I came.

Oh, heavens! that soft and dewy April eve,
When, in a minstrel's garb, but with a heart
As lofty as the marble shafts upreared
Beneath the stately portico, I stood
At this same palace door!

A minstrel boy!

ISIDORE.

Our own! and you

LORD IVON.

Yes-I had wandered far

Since I shook off my sickness in the hills,

And, with some cunning on the lute, had learn'd

A subtler lesson than humility

In the quick school of want. A menial stood

D

LORD IVON.

Well!

A summer, and a winter, and a spring,
Went over me like brief and noteless hours.
For ever at the side of one who grew

With every morn more beautiful; the slave,
Willing and quick, of every idle whim ;
Singing for no one's bidding but her own,

And then a song from my own passionate heart,
Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named

As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear;

Riding beside her, sleeping at her door,

Doing her maddest bidding at the risk
Of life-what marvel if at last I grew
Presumptuous?

A messenger one morn

Spurr'd through the gate-" A revel at the court!

And many minstrels, come from many lands,

Will try their harps in presence of the king;

And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord