deed;
    Which, once extinct, no toil or pain
    Can kindle into life again,
    To light the then unvarying eye,
    To melt, in question or reply,
    Those tones, so subtil and so sweet,
    That none can look for, none repeat;
    Which, self-impell’d, defy controul,—­
    They bear the signet of the soul;
    And, as attendants of their flight,
    Enforce persuasion and delight.

      Words that an instant have reclin’d
    Upon the pillow of the mind,
    Or caught, upon their rapid way,
    The beams of intellectual day,
    Pour fresh upon the thirsty ear,
    O’erjoy’d, and all awake to hear,
    Proof that in other hearts is known
    The secret language of our own. 
    They to the way-worn pilgrim bring
    A draught from Rapture’s sparkling spring;
    And, ever welcome, are, when given,
    Like some few scatter’d flowers from heaven;
    Could such in earthly garlands twine,
    To bloom by others less divine.

      Where does this idle Minstrel stay? 
    Proud are the guests, august the day;
    And princes of the realm attend
    The triumph of their sovereign’s friend;—­
    Triumph of stratagem and fight
    Gain’d o’er a young and gallant knight,
    Who, the last fort compell’d to yield,
    Perish’d, despairing, in the field.

      The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow
    Had laid fair England’s banner low;
    Spite of resistance firm and bold
    Secur’d the latest, surest hold
    Its sceptre touch’d across the main,
    Important, difficult to gain,
    Easy against her to retain;—­
    Baron de Brehan—­seem’d to stand
    An alien in his native land;
    One whom no social ties endear’d
    Except his child; and she appear’d
    Unconsciously to prompt his toil,—­
    Unconsciously to take the spoil
    Of hate and treason; and, ’twas said,
    The pillage of a kinsman dead,
    Whom, for his large domain, he slew: 
    ’Twas whisper’d only,—­no one knew. 
    At tale of murderous deed, his ear
    No startling summons seem’d to hear;
    Yet should some sudden theme intrude
    Of friend betray’d—­ingratitude;—­
    Or treacherous counsel—­follies nurs’d
    In ardent minds, who, dying, curs’d
    The guileful author of their woes;
    His troubled look would then disclose
    Some secret anguish, inward care,
    Which mutely, sternly, said, Forbear!

      He spake of policy and right,
    Of bold exploits in recent fight,—­
    Of interest, and the common weal,
    Of distant empire, slow appeal. 
    Skill’d to elicit thoughts unknown
    In other minds, and hide his own,
    His brighter eye, in darting round
    Their purposes and wishes found. 
    Praises, and smiles, and promise play’d
    Around his speech; which yet convey’d
    No meaning, when, the moment past,
    Memory retold her stores at last.