University of Virginia Library

Short was the pause; the stranger youth,
The gaudy minstrel of the south,
Whose glossy eye and lady form
Had never braved the northern storm,
Stepped lightly forth—kneeled three times low—
And then, with many a smile and bow,
Mounted the form amid the ring,
And rung his harp's responsive string.
Though true the chords, and mellow-toned,
Long, long he twisted, long he conned;
Well pleased to hear his name they knew;
“'Tis Rizzio!” round in whispers flew.