  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! 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 blythe 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 ribbands deck'd, was there to lead His dark steps,—and secure 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 deck'd, 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!— To hear from that kind-hearted maid His own dear native tongue. He seem'd as if restored to sight, So suddenly his eyes grew bright When that music touch'd 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 crush'd his heart, no wish he had To feel for one short moment glad, That hopeless Emigrant! —The aged man is young again, And cheerily chaunts a playful strain While his face with rapture shines;— How rapidly his fingers glance O'er the glad strings! his giddy brain Beneath his clustering vines. We saw it was a darling tune With his old heart,—a chear That made all pains forgotten soon;— Gay look'd he as a bird in June That loves itself to hear. Nor undelightful were the lays That warm and flowery sung 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! His aged visage dimm'd 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 own'd she could not chuse 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 play'd Around her face, pierced not the shade That veil'd his eyeballs dim,— Yet to his ear her murmurs stole, And, with a faultering voice, he said That he felt them sink into his soul Like the blessed Virgin's hymn! He pray'd 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 Encountering oft in fierce array, Would not from home or quiet grave Her exiled sons deba |
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