iden took
The harp, with grace in act and look,--
But waked its echoes tremulously,--
Singing no noisy jubilee,--
But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain--
So sweet--when ended all were fain
To hear her chaunt it o'er again.

The Baron's Daughter's Song.

I own the gay lark is the blythest bird
That welcomes the purple dawn;
But a sweeter chorister far is heard
When the veil of eve is drawn:

When the last lone traveller homeward wends
O'er the moorland, drowsily;
And the pale bright moon her crescent bends,
And silvers the soft gray sky;

And in silence the wakeful starry crowd
Their vigil begin to keep;
And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud,
And their buds in dew-drops weep;

Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild,
In the depth of the forest dark,
Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child,
Than the song of the cheerful lark!

* * * * *

"'Twas sweet, but somewhat sad," said some;
And the Baron sought his daughter's eye,--
But, now, there fell a shade of gloom
On the cheek of Edith;--and tearfully,
He thought she turned to shun his look.

He would have asked his darling's woe,--
But the harp, again, the minstrel took;
And with such prelude as awoke
Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe
In Thorold's soul,--the minstrel stranger--
In spite of fear, in spite of danger,--
In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,--
Responded thus to Edith's plaint:--

The Minstrel's Response.

What meant that glancing of thine eye,
That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh?
Hast thou a thought of woe or weal,
Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel?
Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal,
Or hide it from my mind, Love?

Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me,
And I not breathe as deep to thee?
Or hast thou whispered in mine ear
A word of sorrow or of fear,--
Or have I seen thee shed a tear,--
And looked a thought unkind, Love?

Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray
Across thy beaming countenance play,--
Or joy its seriousness beguile,
And o'er it cast a radiant smile,--
And mine with kindred joy, the while,
Not glow as bright as thine, Love?

Why would'st thou, then, that something seek
To hide within thy breast,--nor speak,
Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear,
Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,--
Assured thi