From the cold, bare rock on which she lay. He was but a mile from his castle gate, And the lady was scarcely five stone weight; He stopped, in less than half an hour,
With his beauteous burden, at Belmont Tower.
Gay, I ween, was the chamber dressed, As the Count gave order for his guest; But scarcely on the couch 'tis said, That gentle guest was fairly laid,
When she opened at once her great blue eyes, And, after a glance of brief surprise,
Ere she had spoken, and ere she had heard
Of wisdom or wit a single word,
She laughed so long, and laughed so loud, That Dame Ulrica often vowed
A dirge is a merrier thing by half Than such a senseless, soulless laugh. Around the tower the elfin crew
Seemed shouting in mirthful concert too; And echoed roof, and trembled rafter, With that unsentimental laughter.
As soon as that droll tumult passed, The maiden's tongue, unchained at last, Asserted all its female right,
And talked and talked with all its might.
Oh, how her low and liquid voice Made the rapt hearer's soul rejoice!
'Twas full of those clear tones that start From innocent childhood's happy heart, Ere passion and sin disturb the well In which their mirth and music dwell. But man nor master could make out
What the eloquent maiden talked about; The things she uttered like did seem
To the babbling waves of a limpid stream;
For the words of her speech, if words they might be,
Were the words of a speech of a far countrie;
And when she had said them o’er and o’er,
Count Otto understood no more
Than you or I of the slang that falls From dukes and dupes at Tattersall's,
Of Hebrew from a bearded Jew, Or metaphysics from a Blue.
Count Otto swore, (Count Otto's reading Might well have taught him better breeding,) That whether the maiden should fume or fret, The maiden should not leave him yet; And so he took prodigious pains To make her happy in her chains;
From Paris came a pair of cooks,
From Gottingen a load of books; From Venice stores of gorgeous suits, From Florence minstrels and their lutes; The youth himself had special pride
In breaking horses for his bride; And his old tutor, Doctor Hermann,
Was brought from Bonn to teach her German.
And there in her beauty and her grace
The wayward maiden grew;
And every day, of her form or face Some charm seemed fresh and new; Over her cold and colorless cheek
The blush of the rose was shed, And her quickened pulse began to speak Of human hope and dread!
And soon she grasped the learned lore The old gray pedant taught,
And turned from the volume to explore The hidden mine of thought. Alas! her bliss was not the same
As it was in other years,
For with new knowledge sorrow came, And with new passion tears.
Oft, till the Count came up from wine, She would sit by the lattice high, And watch the windings of the Rhine With a very wistful eye;
And oft on some rude cliff she stood,
Her light harp in her hand,
And still as she looked on the gurgling flood, She sang of her native land.
And when Count Otto pleaded well
For priest, and ring, and vow, She heard the knight that fond tale tell, With a pale and pensive brow: "Henceforth my spirit may not sleep, As ever till now it slept;
Henceforth mine eyes have learned to weep,
As never till now they wept.
Twelve months, dear Otto, let me grieve For my own, my childhood's home, Where the sun at noon, or the frost at eve, Did never dare to come;
And when the Spring its smiles recalls,
Thy maiden will resign
The holy hush of her father's halls For the stormy joys of thine." But where that father's halls ?-vain, vain! She threw her sad eyes down;
And if you dared to ask again, She answered with a frown.
Some people have a knack, we know, Of saying things mal-a-propos, And making all the world reflect On what it hates to recollect: They talk to misers of their heir, To women of the times that were, To ruined gamblers of the box, To thin defaulters of the stocks, To cowards of their neighbors' duels, To Hayne of Lady H.'s jewels, To poets of the wrong Review,
And to the French of Waterloo. The Count was not of these; he never Was half so clumsy, half so clever; And when he found the girl had rather Say nothing more about her father,
He changed the subject-told a fable- Believed that dinner was on the table- Or whispered, with an air of sorrow, That it would surely rain to-morrow.
The Winter storms went darkly by,
And, from a blue and cloudless sky, Again the sun looked cheerfully
Upon the rolling Rhine;
And Spring brought back to the budding fl wers Its genial light and freshening showers, And music to the shady bowers,
And verdure to the vine.
And now it was the First of May For twenty miles round all is gay, Cottage and castle keep holiday;
For how should sorrow lower
On brow of rustic or of knight, When heaven itself looks all so bright, Where Otto's wedding feast is dight In the hall of Belmont Tower? Stately matron and warrior tall Come to the joyous festival; Good Count Otto welcomes all,
As through the gate they throng; He fills to the brim the wassail cup; In the bright wine Pleasure sparkles up, And draughts and tales grow long; But grizly knights are still and mute, And dames set down the untasted fruit,
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