sweetness,
producing a soothing, gentle sadness, as though we listened to distant
bells, whose music is borne in surges on the breeze that sways the
golden corn on a sunny Sabbath, when our pathway lies through the
undulating fields, already "white unto the harvest;" where the pleasant
rustling of the ripened grain, as it is stirred by the soft wind, is
sweet and soothing; and the gay poppy, and other less obtrusive, though
not less beautiful wild-flowers, bloom at our loitering feet. In the
power of exciting such feeling, what can equal our old English ballads?
There is an inexpressible charm in these, and we would almost give our
fingers to be able to describe that indescribable _something_, which
constitutes their peculiar fascination and power over the imagination.
Most plain, most artless, does their composition appear; like the
natural out-breathing of the heart in its sunny moments; and yet--as
with all earthly brightness--with a trace of cloud on that sunshine.
They are redolent of the "olden time;" and as they fall softly on the
ear, the antique hall, with its groined roof, and mullioned window,
glowing with rich heraldic devices, through which the many-tinted lights
fall tenderly on arch and pillar, and elaborately fretted walls, studded
with ancestral armour, rises up before us; and with the melting tones of
the lute, mingles the low, clear voice of a gentle maiden, whose small
foot and brocaded train are just seen from behind yonder deeply
sculptured oaken screen. What innocence is in that voice! and how
expressive are the chords that accompany it--less elaborate and
fantastic, perchance, than might win favour in our vitiated ears; but
natural, harmonious, full, and in exquisite subordination to the air,
which they fill up and enrich, instead of overpowering with misplaced
beauty.

And now a movement of the singer reveals still more of the quaint,
beautiful costume, with its heavy, yet graceful folds, while--aha! what
else do we see?--a plumed hat thrown carelessly on the ground; the armed
heel, glittering rapier, and slashed sleeve, just visible, betokening
that its owner is not far off, and that the lady fair has not, as we had
thought, been wasting her sweetness, either of voice or countenance, on
that comfortable-looking pet dog or caged linnet. Sing on, pretty one!
for well do gallant knights love to hear their stern deeds sung by
innocent lips; and _right well_, to listen to the strain that tells how