That heart I would choose, which is stricken and slighted; Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all blighted; For that heart alone Would in sympathy thrill With one like my own That sorrow doth fill;-- With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been spurned,-- And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned. The harp of my heart is unstrung; and to gladness Respond not its chords--but to sorrow and sadness:-- Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath forsaken! Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken? * * * * * It is the shriek of deathful danger! None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger! All start aghast, with deadly fear, While they, again, that wild shriek hear! "He drowns--Sir Wilfrid!" cries a hind: "The ferryman is weak: He cannot stem the stream and wind: Help, help! for Jesu's sake!" "Help one,--help all!" the Baron cries; "Whatever boon he craves, I swear, by Christ, that man shall win, My ferryman who saves!"-- Out rush the guests: but one was forth Who heard no word of boon: His manly heart to deeds of worth Needed no clarion. He dashed into the surging Trent-- Nor feared the hurricane; And, ere the breath of life was spent, He seized the drowning man.-- "What is thy boon?" said Torksey's lord,-- But his cheek was deadly pale; "Tell forth thy heart,--and to keep his word De Thorold will not fail."-- "I rushed to save my brother-man, And not to win thy boon: My just desert had been Heaven's ban-- If thus I had not done!"-- Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall The Baron's guests had gained: And, now, De Thorold's noble soul Spoke out, all unrestrained. "Then for thy own heart's nobleness Tell forth thy boon," he said; "Before thou tell'st thy thought, I guess What wish doth it pervade."-- "Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love, Romara asks of thee! What though my kindred with thee strove, And wrought thee misery? "Our Lord, for whom we keep this day, When nailed upon the tree; Did he foredoom his foes, or pray That they might pardoned be?"-- "Son of my ancient foe!" replied The Baron to the youth,-- I glad me that my ireful pride Already bows to truth: "Deep zeal to save our brother-man-- Generous self-sacrifice For other's weal--is nobler than All blood-stained victories! "Take thy fair boon!--for thou hast spoiled Death,--greedy Death--of prey-- This poor man who for me hath toiled Full many a stormy day! "I feel--to quell the heart's bad flame, And bless an enemy, Is richer than all earthly fame-- Though the world should be its fee! "My sire was by thy kinsman slain;-- Yet, as thy tale hath told, Thy kinsman's usurping act was vain-- He died in the dungeon cold.