Report books

He struck a few wild
chords.
"Not that--not that, good Altdorff. It bids one linger too much of
home-longings."
Here the boy's eyes glistened, and a tremulous motion of the lip showed
how his heart bounded at the word.
"Prythee, give us the song thou wast conning yesterday."
The page began with a low prelude, but was again interrupted.
"Nay, 'tis not thus. Give me that wild love-ditty thou knowest so well.
I did use to bid thee be silent when thou wouldest have worried mine
ears with it. But in sooth the morning looks so languishing and tender
that it constrains the bosom, I verily think, to its own softness."
The page seemed to throw his whole soul into the wild melody which
followed this request. We give it, with a few verbal alterations, as
follows:--
SONG.
1.
Fair star, that beamest
In my ladye's bower,
Pale ray, that streamest
In her lonely tower;
Bright cloud, when like the eye of Heaven
Floating in depths of azure light,
Let me but on her beauty gaze
Like ye unchidden. Day and night
I'd watch, till no intruding rays
Should bless my sight.


Pages:
428 429 430 431 432 433 434 435 436 437 438 439 440 441 442 443 444 445 446 447 448 449 450 451 452