Infantine effusions By Ernest Charles Jones, written by him, between the eighth and tenth years of his age |
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THE MINSTREL.
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 | Infantine effusions |  |
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THE MINSTREL.
A Ballad.
The blast was chill—the blast was cold—
The dogs bay'd o'er the land;
And dun—the threat'ning war-clouds roll'd—
And gleam'd—the distant brand.
The dogs bay'd o'er the land;
And dun—the threat'ning war-clouds roll'd—
And gleam'd—the distant brand.
Two chieftains were in fight engaged
And nobly now they fought
And as the ruthless war they waged
Each others death they sought.
And nobly now they fought
And as the ruthless war they waged
Each others death they sought.
A Pilgrim wander'd by the scene
And view'd the distant fight
Reclin'd upon the dewy green—
Beneath day's fading light.
And view'd the distant fight
Reclin'd upon the dewy green—
Beneath day's fading light.
And saw the distant cypress wave—
And shake—at ev'ry blast
O'er many a mould'ring warriors grave—
Who long had breath'd their last.
And shake—at ev'ry blast
O'er many a mould'ring warriors grave—
Who long had breath'd their last.
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And view'd the distant Castles rise—
Of feudal Chieftains bold,
And tower to the azure skies—
Full many ages old.
Of feudal Chieftains bold,
And tower to the azure skies—
Full many ages old.
Then thus—as it was close of day—
—And louder grew the clashing sound—
And nearer still—he heard the fray—
And Coursers hoofs—that spurn the ground,—
—And louder grew the clashing sound—
And nearer still—he heard the fray—
And Coursers hoofs—that spurn the ground,—
“Had I been—yon Chieftain bold—
And train'd to arms like he—
Thus would I not—my life have sold—
Yet—would I—have been free.”
And train'd to arms like he—
Thus would I not—my life have sold—
Yet—would I—have been free.”
“But—speed then Chieftain—to thy end—
By fate thou vanquish'd art!—
To death thou'rt doom'd!—this is thy end—
The weapon's—in thy heart!”
By fate thou vanquish'd art!—
To death thou'rt doom'd!—this is thy end—
The weapon's—in thy heart!”
Thus spoke he—with prophetic fire—
—He was a minstrel bred—
And Phoebus did his soul inspire—
Alas!—too true—he said.—
—He was a minstrel bred—
And Phoebus did his soul inspire—
Alas!—too true—he said.—
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Eeach murmuring wind convey'd the strain—
Which with a mournful sound—
They wafted o'er the distant plain—
And echoed all around.
Which with a mournful sound—
They wafted o'er the distant plain—
And echoed all around.
It struck prophetic in the air—
It struck—foreboding slow—
And far its sound did zephyr bear
Where drooping willows grow.
It struck—foreboding slow—
And far its sound did zephyr bear
Where drooping willows grow.
The Minstrel now look'd round again—
A different scene beheld—
He saw—the Chieftain on the plain
To earth by Targa fell'd!
A different scene beheld—
He saw—the Chieftain on the plain
To earth by Targa fell'd!
Wave! proud Targean banners wave!—
Your streaming honours far—
And mantle o'er Barente's grave—
—Proud Symbols of the war!
Your streaming honours far—
And mantle o'er Barente's grave—
—Proud Symbols of the war!
Thus—sung the Minstrel loud and shrill—
And far its sound convey'd
—It murmur'd o'er the gentle rill—
And echo'd through the glade.
And far its sound convey'd
—It murmur'd o'er the gentle rill—
And echo'd through the glade.
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As Targa's troops—retired had—
From off the blood-stain'd field—
And left Owellin—pensive—sad—
His Lyre, was his shield.
From off the blood-stain'd field—
And left Owellin—pensive—sad—
His Lyre, was his shield.
He ran unto Barente's aid—
And rais'd his drooping head
—No smile—no look—his cares repaid
It was—Barente's—dead!
And rais'd his drooping head
—No smile—no look—his cares repaid
It was—Barente's—dead!
He fell—upon the mossy plain—
“My prophecy—was true!”
He look'd unto the dark blue main—
Where screaming sea-gulls flew.
“My prophecy—was true!”
He look'd unto the dark blue main—
Where screaming sea-gulls flew.
“A burial—I must bestow—
Upon this Chieftain slain—
And a tombstone—shall o'er him grow—
And look across the plain.”
Upon this Chieftain slain—
And a tombstone—shall o'er him grow—
And look across the plain.”
This said—he dug where myrtles sigh'd—
A sepulchre of clay
Where roses with each other vie'd—
Nor faded with the day.
A sepulchre of clay
Where roses with each other vie'd—
Nor faded with the day.
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Hurried his Lyre—strings—he swept
And look'd upon the mound
Then gazing back—he sadly wept—
And sunk—upon the ground.
And look'd upon the mound
Then gazing back—he sadly wept—
And sunk—upon the ground.
And thus to Heaven—a prayer address'd
And breath'd a fervent sigh—
“O!—may his soul—in peace be blest!”
“—His spirit—soar on high!”
And breath'd a fervent sigh—
“O!—may his soul—in peace be blest!”
“—His spirit—soar on high!”
His way the aged Minstrel winds—
'Mongst rocks and ruins high
And leaves the battle plain behind
And heav'd a parting sigh.
'Mongst rocks and ruins high
And leaves the battle plain behind
And heav'd a parting sigh.
His nightly lodge—a ruin makes—
Content with that he finds—
Again his Lyre-strings he wakes—
Which tremble on the winds.
Content with that he finds—
Again his Lyre-strings he wakes—
Which tremble on the winds.
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