The Baron's jester, who was clever At blighting characters for ever, And whom all people thought delightful, Because he was so very spiteful,
Stooped down to tie his sandal's string, And found by chance a lady's ring; So small and slight, it scarce had spanned The finger of a fairy's hand,-
Or thine, sweet Rose, whose hand and wrist
Are much the least I ever kissed :
Upon the ruby it enclosed
A bleeding heart in peace reposed,
And round was graved in letters clear: "Let by the month, or by the year."
Young Pacolet, from ring and song,
Thought something might be somewhere wrong,
And round the room in transport flitted
To find whose hand the bauble fitted.
He was an ugly dwarfish knave, Most gravely wild, most wildly grave; It seemed that Nature, in a whim, Had mixed a dozen shapes in him ; One arm was longer than the other, One leg was running from his brother, And one dark eye, with fondest labour, Coquetted with his fairer neighbour:
His colour ever came and went, Like clouds upon the firmament,
And yet his cheeks, in any weather, Were never known to blush together: To-day his voice was shrill and harsh, Like homilies from Doctor Marsh; To-morrow from his rosy lip
The sweetest of sweet sounds would trip; Far sweeter than the song of birds, Or the first lisp of Childhood's words, Or Zephyrs soft, or waters clear,
Or Love's own vow to Love's own ear. Such were the tones he murmured now, As, wreathing lip and cheek and brow Into a smile of wicked glee, He begged upon his bended knee That maid and matron, young and old, Would try the glittering hoop of gold.
But then, as usual in such cases, All sorts of pretty airs and graces
Were played by nymphs, whose hands and arms Had, or had not, a host of charms :
And there were frowns, as wrists were bared, And wonderings "how some people dared," And much reluctance and disdain,
Which some might feel, and all could feign;
And witty looks, and whispered guesses, And running into dark recesses,
And pointless gibes, and toothless chuckles, And pinching disobedient knuckles,
And cunning thefts by watchful lovers, Which filled the pockets of the glovers. 'Twas very vain; it seemed that all, Except the mistress of the Hall,
Had done the utmost they could do, And made their fingers black and, blue, And there they were, the gem and donor, Without a mistress, or an owner.
But while the toy was vainly tried, The ugly Baron's handsome bride Had sate apart from that rude game And listened to the sighs of flame, Which followed her from night to morning, In spite of frowning and of scorning. Bred up from youth with nought before her But humble slave and fond adorer,
Ill could that haughty Lady brook A bantering phrase or brazen look;
Day passed, and Night came hurrying down With her heaviest step, and her darkest frown; Not witchingly mild, as when she hushes The first warm thrill of woman's blushes; Or mellows the eloquent murmur made By some mad minstrel's serenade; But robed in the clouds her anger flings O'er the murderer's midnight wanderings, The stealthy step, and the naked knife, The sudden blow, and the parting life !— On the snow that was sleeping its frozen sleep Round cabin and castle, white and deep, The love-stricken boy might have wandered far Ere he found for his sonnet a single star;
And over the copse, and over the dell, The mantle of mist so drearily fell,
That the fondest and bravest could hardly know The smile of his queen from the sneer of his foe. In the lonely cot on the lorn hill-side
The serf grew pale as he looked on his bride; And oft, as the Baron's courtly throng Were loud in the revel of wine and song, The blast at the gate made such a din As changed to horror the mirth within!
As in the calm the mariner sighs For rushing waves and groaning skies. Oh for the lists, the lists of fame ! Oh for the herald's glad acclaim !
For floating pennon, and prancing steed, And Beauty's wonder at Manhood's deed!"
Beneath an ancient oak he lay;
More years than man can count, they say, On the verge of the dim and solemn wood, Through sunshine and storm, that oak had stood. Yet were it hard to trace a sign
On trunk or bough of that oak's decline: Many a loving, laughing sprite,
Tended the branches by day and by night,
Fettered the winds that would invade
The quiet of its sacred shade,
And drove in a serried phalanx back
The red-eyed lightning's fierce attack:
So the leaves of its age were as fresh and as green
As the leaves of its early youth had been.
Fretful brain and turbid breast
Under its canopy ill would rest ;
For she that ruled the revels therein
Loved not the taint of human sin :
Moody brow with an evil eye
Would the Queen of the Fairy people spy;
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