Thus to the youth the old man spoke--"My son, it boots to-day, To try our deepest melodies, our most impassioned lay; With cunning'st art essay the notes of blended joy and pain; Perchance this royal heart may own the magic of the strain." Soon in the pillared regal hall, amid the courtly throng Of belted knights and beauteous dames, they range the sons of song:-- The King, in fearful majesty, recalled the meteor's blaze; His spouse, with beaming loveliness, the moonlight's gentle rays. The old man swept the chords--and quick, responsive to the tone, Through all the train each heart confessed the spell of power unknown; And when a clear angelic voice chimed in with youthful fire, 'Twas like the unseen minstrelsy of some ethereal quire! They sang of Love's delightful spring--of the old golden time; Of knightly leal, and maiden's truth, and chivalry sublime; Of each high thought that stirs the soul informed with heavenly flame; Of man's exalted destinies--of freedom, worth, and fame! They paused:--in rapt attention hushed, the crowd had clustered near; The courtier smoothed the lip of scorn, the warrior dropped a tear; The Queen, with trembling extasy, took from her breast a rose; And see! at the young Minstrel's feet the guerdon flower she throws. "Ha!" shrieked the King--"my lieges first, with your detested lays, Ye have seduced--and now my Queen their witchery betrays; Die, tuneful minion!"--at the youth he hurled the gleaming sword, And from the fount of golden strains the crimson tide was poured. While scared, as by the lightning's flash, all stood in mute dismay, The boy on his loved master's breast had breathed his soul away:-- The old man round the bleeding form his mantle wrapped with speed; Raised the dear victim in his arms, and bound him on his steed. The portals passed, he stood awhile, and gazed with tearful eyes-- And grasped his harp--the master harp--of thousand harps the prize: Then frantic on a column's base he dashed the useless lyre, And thus the curse of Poesy spoke with a prophet's fire! "Woe! Woe! proud towers--dire House of blood! thy guilty courts among, Ne'er may the chords of harmony be waked--the voice of song; The tread of silent slaves alone shall echo mid the gloom, Till Ruin waits, and hovering fiends of vengeance shriek thy doom! "Woe! Woe! ye blooming gardens fair--decked in the pride of May, Behold this flower untimely cropped--look--and no more be gay! The sight should wither every leaf--make all your fountains dry, And bid the bright enchantment round in wasteful horror lie! "And thou, fell Tyrant, curst for aye of all the tuneful train-- May blighted bays, and bitter scorn, mock thy inglorious reign! Perish thy hated name with thee--from songs and annals fade-- Thy race--thy power--thy very crimes--lost in oblivion's shade!"