Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and Songs of a Troubadour By Evelyn Douglas [i.e. J. E. Barlas] |
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The Death of Garth.
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 | Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and Songs of a Troubadour |  |
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The Death of Garth.
King Sigmund sailed forth in the foam
Unto a far-off strand,
And brought a strange king's daughter home,
A wonder to the land.
Unto a far-off strand,
And brought a strange king's daughter home,
A wonder to the land.
“Now, call ye Garth, my minstrel fair,
To play before my queen;
For well I wot, though white his hair,
Such eyes he hath not seen.”
To play before my queen;
For well I wot, though white his hair,
Such eyes he hath not seen.”
White was the poet's hair; the shade
Deep on his brows had grown;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
Deep on his brows had grown;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
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For he had sung and he had fought
Until his hair was white;
But never seen the eyes he sought,
Save in the dreams of night.
Until his hair was white;
But never seen the eyes he sought,
Save in the dreams of night.
The harp was brought, the bard obeyed,
And bowed before the throne;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
And bowed before the throne;
And many a love-song he had made,
But love he had not known.
But when he raised his voice to sing,
His eyes to hers, with pain
His hand was numbed upon the string,
The song within his brain.
His eyes to hers, with pain
His hand was numbed upon the string,
The song within his brain.
Then cried the king: “Is song divine?
Can age prevail o'er art?
Go, fetch a bowl of royal wine
To cheer the poet's heart.”
Can age prevail o'er art?
Go, fetch a bowl of royal wine
To cheer the poet's heart.”
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“It is not age,” the poet said,
“Not age,” he cried,—“despair!
For I shall soon be with the dead,
And, ah! she is too fair.”
“Not age,” he cried,—“despair!
For I shall soon be with the dead,
And, ah! she is too fair.”
They brought the wine; the minstrel quaffed,
But ere he lipped the bowl,
He cast a poison in the draught
That freed his tortured soul.
But ere he lipped the bowl,
He cast a poison in the draught
That freed his tortured soul.
And now he treads the deathless plain
And drinks the deathless air,
Chanting his lonely last refrain—
“For, ah! she is too fair.”
And drinks the deathless air,
Chanting his lonely last refrain—
“For, ah! she is too fair.”
| Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and Songs of a Troubadour | |