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Ernest

The Rule of Right. Second Edition [by Capel Lofft]

Lofft, Capel (1806-1873)

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I

“Yes, gladly will I go with thee:
For, Master, thou art dear to me:
And be it sun or be it snow,
With thee full gladly will I go.

II

For ever cheerly do I play,
When thou dost listen to my lay:
And there my fancy's liveliest,
Where thou art bidden for a guest.

III

For thou art come of high degree,
A royal spirit breathes from thee;
And lines of kingship I might trace,
Ere vision failed me, in thy face.

IV

Then on that face I loved to look,
Like one who reads an old-world book:
And now I love thy voice to hear,
It tells old histories to my ear:

V

And be the strain whate'er it may,
Ever thou feelest as I play:
For thou hast fire within thy heart:
But others are not as thou art.

VI

No—for tho' many a one doth call
The lonely harper to his hall,
That he may be a stranger's show,
Yet, Master, am I loath to go.

VII

For 'tis not that they love my skill;
But their pride wantons so its will;
And they would welcome all as well
Some trickster with his wizard spell.

VIII

Nor e'er, as they sit idly by,
Doth the fire kindle in their eye:
They would but mock the gifted glance
Of the wild spirit in its trance.

IX

For, tho' such tale be strange to tell,
I know it for a truth full well:
There dwells a Spirit in these strings,
And when I strike the Spirit sings.

X

It sings—and if the guests among
It find an answer to its song,
Ah, then, how raptured is the lay!
Else must it sink and die away.

XI

And when it dies, then all is dead;
My heart within me droops to lead:
My fingers, like the idiot lad,
Play idly while my heart is sad:

XII

Yes—in the corner be it flung,
This harp where hearts are tamely strung:
For sooner fire may live in snow,
Than Harper breathe his spirit so.

XIII

Oh, then my soul was blithe and gay,
When Honour spirited my lay,
And every silver piece I told
Was changed by courtesy to gold.

XIV

But I am not in honour now—
And thou my harp—yes, even thou—
In my disgrace must bear thy part—
Oh, shame on them who scorn our art.

XV

Their largess is a very loss—
Their choicest gifts to me are dross.
For poor I am, yet proud of soul,
And brook but ill their beggar's dole.

XVI

They flout me like a crazed old wife,
For my attire and wandering life:
Sure I were better in its stead
To break my harp and beg my bread.

XVII

Oh gentle Sir, thy heart had glowed
To see our festivals of o'd
A hundred harpers in the hall—
And I was crowned the chief all.

XVIII

Now perished is the dyke should be
'Twixt clownish men and high degree:
The nobles cherish us no more
Than did the dullest churl of yore.

XIX

Noble—ah no—for they are gone—
And only churlish blood lives on—
And men who know not their own sires
Now lord it from their furnace fires.

XX

Our breezes speak not of their fame;
Our mountains answer not their name:
In blood and tongue and spirit strange—
Oh what sad chance hath brought this change?

XXI

Nor love they mountain, tower, or rill:
Nor heed they of the harper's skill:
And tho' they prized it e'er so much,
Yet not for them were its true touch.

XXII

Oh for Llewellyn's stirring strain,
To wake the dead to life again!
A Spirit starting from the stone,
To rise and strike and seize its own.

XXIII

And kindle patriot souls like thee,
To bid their Fatherland “be free,”
Free as the burst of my own song;
As yon wild torrent pours along.

XXIV

Then, tho' that sight were doomed for me,
The latest of my life to be;
Welcome—for gladly would we die
In that heart-glow, my harp and I.”