Oh, Song hath power o’er Nature’s springs
    Though deep the Nymph has laid them! 
  The child gazed, gazed, on the 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,
    The breeze was growing colder
  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,
    Riding to take the air,
  With Lords of fame, at whose proud name
    A radical would swear.

  The minstrel touched his lute again.—­
    It was more than a Sultan’s crown,
  When the lady checked her bridle rein,
    And lit from her palfrey down:—­
  What would you give for such a strain,
    Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

  He sang of Beauty’s dazzling eyes,
    Of Beauty’s melting tone;
  And how her praise is a richer prize
    Then the gems of Persia’s throne: 
  And her love a bliss which the coldly wise
    Have never, never, known. 
  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
    How they die for a single word;—­
  Things which, I own, to me appear
    Exceedingly absurd.

  The Lady soon had heard enough: 
    She turned to hear Sir Denys
  Discourse, in language vastly gruff,
    About his skill at Tennis—­
  While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
    His mistress wore at Venice.

  The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
    And the Lady rode away.—­
  There is not a lady in all our Isle,
    I have heard a Poet say,
  Who can listen more than a little while
    To a poet’s sweetest lay.

* * * * *

  His mother’s voice was fierce and shrill,
    As she set the milk and fruit: 
  “Out on thine unrewarded skill,
    And on thy vagrant lute;
  Let the strings be broken an they will,
    And the beggar lips be mute!”

  Peace, peace!—­the Pilgrim as he went
    Forgot the minstrel’s song;
  But the blessing that his wan lips sent
    Will guard the minstrel long;
  And keep his spirit innocent,
    And turn his hand from wrong.

  Belike the child had little thought
    Of the moral the minstrel drew;
  But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—­
    Brings it not peace to you? 
  And doth not a lesson of virture taught
    Teach him that reaches too?

  And if the Lady sighed no sigh
    For the minstrel or his hymn;—­
  But when he shall lie ’neath the moonlit sky,
    Or lip the goblet’s brim,
  What a star in the mist of memory
    Her smile will be to him!