And, looking sometimes on his fair domain, Nursed by his mother on a mountain side, 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 Till my heart changed within me. I became I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour, Changed-for the thought had conquer'd ev'n disease; Oh, heavens! that soft and dewy April eve, 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 By the Egyptian sphinx; and when I came And pray'd to sing beneath the balcony A song of love for a fair lady's ear, He insolently bade me to begone. Listening not, I swept my fingers o'er The strings in prelude, when the base-born slave Struck me! ISIDORE. Impossible! LORD IVON. I dash'd my lute Into his face, and o'er the threshold flew ; Was't so indeed ? ISIDORE. Nay, dear father! LORD IVON. I thank'd my blessed star! And, as the fair, transcendent creature stood To her white hands: and, with a rapid thought, Turn'd the strange chance to a similitude Of my own story. Her slight, haughty lip The rose flush'd outward with a deeper red; And from that hour the minstrel was at home, And horse and hound were his, and none might cross The minion of the noble Lady Clare. Art weary of my tale? ISIDORE. Dear father! D 2 |