Lightly, lightly, bounded the roe,
The hind o’er the forest was fleeing;
The small birds tuned on every bough,
In sun and shade their gleeing.
And purple cups, and silver bells
From the green leaves were peeping;
The wild-rose smiled in the mossy dells:
Nought but the thorn was weeping.
And so bright in the sun its tears did shine,
They showed like tears of pleasure;
And the airs of May, through the budding spray,
Breathed joyance, without measure.
For this was Isabel’s bridal morn
Who loved each bud and flower,
The wild-wood shade, the mountain head,
The deep vale’s mead and bower.
And now was her festival gaily kept
By hagled brook and fountain,
From the low green bank, where the violet slept,
To the blue hill-top and mountain.
And lightly, lightly, bounded the roe,
His footstep wing’d with pleasure,
And small birds sang from every bough,
Welcomes beyond all measure.
At the end of this ballad, the minstrel rang out his harp in full
joyance; and then, falling note by note, he dropped into a faltering
murmur, as of deep sorrow, and so continued for some space, till those
who heard him, perceived the witch of melancholy stealing upon them.
The Queen, deeming such strain unsuitable to the time, commanded him to
change the measure, and sound forth one more gay, a lay of Provence, her
native land, whither she knew he had been for his learning; but he,
enthralled by the magic of his own mood, loving not to be commanded,
still hung his head over the harp, listening to that pleasure-full
melancholy and heeding nothing but its sweet sound.
At last, being made to know fully her Highness’s will, he sang the song
of a Troubadour; for, though he loved best the ditties of Normandy, his
own land, there was scarce one of Provence, which he had not gained; and
the Queen did not let him forget them, so often did she command those,
which she affected best. And now he sang forth to his harp a “roundel”
in the Provençal tongue, made by a knight of the “Order of Fine Eyes.”
They, who then heard him, would have thought he loved any thing less
than melancholy, so light and debonnaire was the music he rang out; and
many could hardly keep their steps from dancing to that gallant measure.
But it lasted not long; for, making a pause and looking wistfully at the
Lady Barbara, he struck forth, on a sudden, some of his deepest tones,
with a wild yet solemn grace, such as brought tears into the eyes of
many a fair lady, and darted dread into the heart of one there present.
It seemed as if the shadows of prophecy were moving over the strings,
and calling from them some strange and fearful story yet to be. And then
again did the harper’s voice steal trembling forth, as do the moon’s
beams, when pale clouds pass over, saddening, but not fully obscuring
their brightness: yet might every one hear plainly all his words. Here
it is done into English by the same hand; but the verses be not all
divided into equal numbers:—
I.
O’er the high western wolds afar,
Glimmer’d some lights of yesterday;
And there, one bright, but trembling star
Among the streaky shadows lay,
The traveller’s lonely warning.
But soon the winds, that sing day’s dirge,
Did o’er that star the shadows urge,
And hung the night with mourning!