The minstrel touched his lute again.-- It was more than a Sultan's crown, When the lady checked her bridle rein, And lit from her palfrey down:-- What would you give for such a strain, Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown? He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes, Of Beauty's melting tone; And how her praise is a richer prize Then the gems of Persia's throne: And her love a bliss which the coldly wise Have never, never, known. He told how the valiant scoff at fear, When the sob of her grief is heard; How they couch the spear for a smile or tear How they die for a single word;-- Things which, I own, to me appear Exceedingly absurd. The Lady soon had heard enough: She turned to hear Sir Denys Discourse, in language vastly gruff, About his skill at Tennis-- While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff His mistress wore at Venice. The Lady smiled one radiant smile, And the Lady rode away.-- There is not a lady in all our Isle, I have heard a Poet say, Who can listen more than a little while To a poet's sweetest lay. * * * * * His mother's voice was fierce and shrill, As she set the milk and fruit: "Out on thine unrewarded skill, And on thy vagrant lute; Let the strings be broken an they will, And the beggar lips be mute!" Peace, peace!--the Pilgrim as he went Forgot the minstrel's song; But the blessing that his wan lips sent Will guard the minstrel long; And keep his spirit innocent, And turn his hand from wrong. Belike the child had little thought Of the moral the minstrel drew; But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought-- Brings it not peace to you? And doth not a lesson of virture taught Teach him that reaches too? And if the Lady sighed no sigh For the minstrel or his hymn;-- But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky, Or lip the goblet's brim, What a star in the mist of memory Her smile will be to him! * * * * * THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG. The men of sin prevail! Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn: Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne Before the stormy gale. Where are our brethren? where The good and true, the terrible and fleet? They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat, With whom we kneeled in prayer? Mangled and marred they lie, Upon the bloody pillow of their rest: Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest Spurs his fierce charger by. So let our foes rejoice;-- We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts. Will call for comfort: to the God of Hosts We will lift up our voice. Give ear unto our song; For we are wandering o'er our native land, As sheep that have no shepherd: and the hand Of wicked men is strong.