One maid there was who faintly smiled, But never joined their laughter: And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled, Sits the Baron's beauteous daughter? Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet, And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet? "My darling Edith,--hast no song?" Saith Thorold, tenderly; "Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long, And looked with wistful eye!" Soft words the peerless damosel Breathes of imperfect skill: "Sweet birds," smiles the Baron, "all know--right well, Can sweetly sing an' they will." And the stranger minstrel, on his knee, Offers his harp, with courtesy So rare and gentle, that the hall Rings with applause which one and all Render who share the festival. De Thorold smiled; and the maiden 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?