The guests are met, the feast is near, But Marie does not yet appear! And to her vacant seat on high Is lifted many an anxious eye. The splendid show, the sumptuous board, The long details which feuds afford, And discontent is prone to hold, Absorb the factious and the cold;-- Absorb dull minds, who, in despair, The standard grasp of worldly care, Which none can quit who once adore-- They love, confide, and hope no more; Seek not for truth, nor e'er aspire To nurse that immaterial fire, From whose most healthful warmth proceed Each real joy and generous deed; Which, once extinct, no toil or pain Can kindle into life again, To light the then unvarying eye, To melt, in question or reply, Those tones, so subtil and so sweet, That none can look for, none repeat; Which, self-impell'd, defy controul,-- They bear the signet of the soul; And, as attendants of their flight, Enforce persuasion and delight. Words that an instant have reclin'd Upon the pillow of the mind, Or caught, upon their rapid way, The beams of intellectual day, Pour fresh upon the thirsty ear, O'erjoy'd, and all awake to hear, Proof that in other hearts is known The secret language of our own. They to the way-worn pilgrim bring A draught from Rapture's sparkling spring; And, ever welcome, are, when given, Like some few scatter'd flowers from heaven; Could such in earthly garlands twine, To bloom by others less divine. Where does this idle Minstrel stay? Proud are the guests, august the day; And princes of the realm attend The triumph of their sovereign's friend;-- Triumph of stratagem and fight Gain'd o'er a young and gallant knight, Who, the last fort compell'd to yield, Perish'd, despairing, in the field. The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow Had laid fair England's banner low; Spite of resistance firm and bold Secur'd the latest, surest hold Its sceptre touch'd across the main, Important, difficult to gain, Easy against her to retain;-- Baron de Brehan--seem'd to stand An alien in his native land; One whom no social ties endear'd Except his child; and she appear'd Unconsciously to prompt his toil,-- Unconsciously to take the spoil Of hate and treason; and, 'twas said, The pillage of a kinsman dead, Whom, for his large domain, he slew: 'Twas whisper'd only,--no one knew. At tale of murderous deed, his ear No startling summons seem'd to hear; Yet should some sudden theme intrude Of friend betray'd--ingratitude;-- Or treacherous counsel--follies nurs'd In ardent minds, who, dying, curs'd The guileful author of their woes; His troubled look would then disclose Some secret anguish, inward care, Which mutely, sternly, said, Forbear!