A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD: Он TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR. Non voglio cento scudi.-Song. say not that the minstrel's art, The pleasant gift of verse, Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart, Can ever be a curse;― Though sorrow reign within his heart, And Penury hold his purse. Say not his toil is profitless;- The Fairies all his labors bless Annuities, and three per cents, Little cares he about them; Young Florice rose from his humble bed, And prayed as a good youth should; He knew where the berries were ripe and red, And as he lay at the noon of day, A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way; Oh, his was a weary wandering, And a song or two might cheer him. The pious youth began to sing, As the ancient man drew near him ; The lark was mute as he touched the string, He sang high tales of the martyred brave; In such deep faith and trust, That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save Spring from their buried dust. The fair of face, and the stout of limb, Meek maids, and grandsires hoary; Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn, As they passed to their doom of glory ; Their radiant fame is never dim, Nor their names erased from story. Time spares the stone where sleep the dead The mourner's grief is comforted, As he looks on the chains that bound them; And peace is shed on the murderer's head, And he kisses the thorns that crowned them. Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred, "I give thee my blessing,"-was his word; "It is all I have of treasure!" A little child came bounding by; Rare spoil for a nursery dower, Which, with fierce step, and eager eye, "Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call; And the urchin left his fun; So from the hall of poor Sir Paul Retreats the baffled dun ; So Ellen parts from the village ball, Where she leaves a heart half won. Then Florice did the child caress, And sang his sweetest songs: Ere yet it knows the name or dress And of the wants which make agree And only life in man :— What matter where the less may be, And how the heart grows hard without Soft Pity's freshening dews; And how when any life goes out Some little pang ensues ; Facts which great soldiers often doubt, Oh, Song hath power o'er Nature's springs, Though deep the Nymph has laid them! The child gazed, gazed, on gilded wings, As the next light breeze displayed them; But he felt the while that the meanest things Are dear to him that made them! The sun went down behind the hill, But there the minstrel lingered still; And amazed the chance beholder, Musing beside a rippling rill, With a harp upon his shoulder. And soon, on a graceful steed and tame, A sleek Arabian mare, The Lady Juliana came, With lords of fame, at whose proud name The minstrel touched his lute again.- He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes, Than the gems of Persia's throne; He told how the valiant scoff at fear, When the sob of her grief is heard; How they couch the spear for a smile or tear |