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! II. “What steps on the waste are beating?” He listened not long on the ground, ’Ere he fearfully heard a sound, As of trampling hoofs retreating: And a dismal cry and a foot draw nigh; “Stand ho!” ’twas an armed man passed by: But he spoke no sound of greeting, And seemed like a death-shade fleeting. III.