University of Virginia Library

XXXIX.

He rose, and tried to read; the gorgeous book
Pleased for a moment, then his hold forsook:
He touch'd, with eager hand, his loved guitar,
'Twas tuneless now, his thoughts were straying far;
He sank upon his couch to wear away
A sick man's heavy hours till tardy day.
He spoke in fever. “Fabian, slumberer!
How can you linger? Must I perish here?”
Pain check'd his voice. An humble tone replied;
He raised his eye; the leech was at his side.
“Boy, this is misery;—to the grave to creep!
Oh, half my wealth but for one hour of sleep.
Here, try that pulse, these temple-throbs.—'Tis vain;—
The medicine's not on earth that lulls this pain.”
The wind breathed fresher through the lattice bower;
He ask'd a tale to linger out the hour.
The peasant-leech had none; “nor fay nor knight
Had ever glitter'd on his lowly sight.
Yet on his lord's guitar he might recall
Some song,—his humble skill the skill of all.”
On the light strings his fingers feebly move,
“Sing then,” Sebastian said, “but not of love.”
“My lord shall be obeyed,” the youth replied;
The tone was mingled with offended pride;—
“He scorns not more than I the idle strains
Where perfidy of perfidy complains;—
Woes of weak hearts, that never should be won;
Wrongs of deluders by themselves undone.—
Yet there is one, but scarcely song or tale,
A pageant, now upon my memory pale,
Yet brilliant once.” Sebastian murmur'd, “Sing.”
The peasant bow'd, and chaunted to the string.