 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
108
THE MINSTREL.
Oh! see'st thou not yon wayward wight?
He wanders forth at waning light,
And leaves the world of gladness,
To mark the calm of eventide,
To hear the waters' peaceful glide,
When all is hush'd and calm, beside
The gale's low sigh of sadness.
He wanders forth at waning light,
And leaves the world of gladness,
To mark the calm of eventide,
To hear the waters' peaceful glide,
When all is hush'd and calm, beside
The gale's low sigh of sadness.
No living thing is wand'ring there,
Yet, on the still and moonlit air
Are thousand voices stealing,
That o'er him pass like soothing balm,
Or music with its dearest charm,
Softening the tumult into calm,
His wounded spirit healing.
Yet, on the still and moonlit air
Are thousand voices stealing,
That o'er him pass like soothing balm,
Or music with its dearest charm,
Softening the tumult into calm,
His wounded spirit healing.
109
Far o'er some mountain's heathy scene,
Where woman's foot hath never been,
Is beauty gathering round him;
And fairer forms than shine by day
Glide through his deep and lonely way,
And gentle bands of seraphs play
In gladsome maze around him.
Where woman's foot hath never been,
Is beauty gathering round him;
And fairer forms than shine by day
Glide through his deep and lonely way,
And gentle bands of seraphs play
In gladsome maze around him.
Thence to some sea-beat cavern'd hold,
Of which a tale's mysterious told,
He strays at midnight lonely;
And converse holds with spectred shade,
And sees the mystic gambols play'd,
And marks the death-inflicting blade
By bandit wielded only.
Of which a tale's mysterious told,
He strays at midnight lonely;
And converse holds with spectred shade,
And sees the mystic gambols play'd,
And marks the death-inflicting blade
By bandit wielded only.
And when the gleesome morn is red,
And May-day's witching dame is led,
How many a spell has bound him!
Be it in wit, or merry lay,
Or jocund rite, or gambol gay,
He is the sun that shines that day,
And fairy mirth is round him.
And May-day's witching dame is led,
How many a spell has bound him!
Be it in wit, or merry lay,
Or jocund rite, or gambol gay,
He is the sun that shines that day,
And fairy mirth is round him.
But most he loves, in solemn hour,
When o'er the haunted giant tower
The thunder-storm is raving,
To watch the arrowy light'ning glare
O'er mould'ring stone, and arches bare,
And troublous sea, and forest lair,
Even scarce its fury braving.
When o'er the haunted giant tower
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To watch the arrowy light'ning glare
O'er mould'ring stone, and arches bare,
And troublous sea, and forest lair,
Even scarce its fury braving.
To hear the mountain echoes ring
With cry of each alarmed thing,
And thunder's hollow moaning;
To watch the black'ning clouds that rest
On rifted rock, like sable crest,
Or eagle cowering o'er her nest,
When night's pale queen is throning.
With cry of each alarmed thing,
And thunder's hollow moaning;
To watch the black'ning clouds that rest
On rifted rock, like sable crest,
Or eagle cowering o'er her nest,
When night's pale queen is throning.
This is the wayward child of song,
And thus he wiles his life along,
Regardless of the morrow:
Nature's most wild enthusiast he,
In friendship warm, in spirit free;
More blest than Mammon's sons can be,
Though oft the mate of sorrow.
And thus he wiles his life along,
Regardless of the morrow:
Nature's most wild enthusiast he,
In friendship warm, in spirit free;
More blest than Mammon's sons can be,
Though oft the mate of sorrow.
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