The minstrel
engrossed her attention, absorbing her whole thoughts, it might seem,
with the display of his cunning. Her cheek was flushed, and her lip
trembled. Some mysterious faculty there was either in the song or the
performer.
Again he poured forth a strain more touching, and of ravishing
sweetness:--
Song.
1.
"Smile on, my love; that sunny smile
Is light and life and joy to thee;
But, oh, its glance of witchery the while,
Is maddening, hopeless misery to me.
2.
"Another bosom thou mayest bless,
Whose chords shall wake with ecstasy;
On mine, each thrilling thought thy looks impress
Wakes but the pang of hopeless destiny.
3.
"Smile on, my love; that sunny smile
Is light and life and joy to thee;
But, oh, its glance of witchery the while,
Is hopeless, maddening misery to me."
These were burning thoughts from the bosom of age; and had not the old
lady's perceptions been somewhat obtuse, she might have guessed the
minstrel's purpose. His despair was not so utterly hopeless and without
remedy as the purport of his song seemed to forebode--for the morning
light saw the bower of Isabella vacant, and her bed undisturbed.
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