I'll soon pluck from its bower

In secrecy ;

And bear it to some isle
Far o'er the sea,

To feast upon its smile

Unceasingly.

ΠΙ.

While LEON sang, a minstrel old,
Whose wrinkled brow a story told

Of wonder, woe and want, drew near,

To give his song attentive ear.

IV.

His frame was bowed, his limbs were weak, Sorrow had furrowed deep his cheek;

And o'er his thin, dishevelled hair,

That bore no marks of recent care,

And beard that on his bosom hung,

A century her frost had flung.

He may have been descendant of

The wandering tribe of troubadours,

Who sang of war and ladye love,

And knightly feats on Paynim shores.

V.

His harp he loosened from his arm,

And while he eyed young LEON'S form,
His flashing features closely scanned,
He touched the strings with trembling hand.

SONG.

In Sicily there lives a maid
Of youth and beauty rare :
With step as light as Elfin fawn's,
With form beyond compare.

Her hair is fair as the fairy floss

Her skin like ivory,

Her cheeks more fresh than freshest rose

Of spicy Araby.

Her sire-he is of noble birth,

His gold and lands are great ;

Young ROSALIE the only heir

Of all his high estate.

And many a lofty knight, and lord,

And baron of the land,

Have sought upon their bended knee

That lovely lady's hand.

But she doth turn away from all,
With a tear in her blue eye,
And vows that she will never wed
But the Lord of Italy.

He is a youthful nobleman

Who follows much the sea,

And often anchors in the bay

Of rocky Sicily.

'Tis said he soon will wed maid

Fair as his native sky-

If this be so, young ROSALIE

With grief will pine and die.

The song

lit up

VI.

Lord LEON's eye,

His pulse beat quick-he knew not why.

He gently waved the harper near,
That he the song might better hear;
Prayed, if it were not too much pain,
The minstrel would repeat the strain.
The veteran moved his harp along,
Twice o'er again he sang the song;
And while Lord LEON lauds his skill,
Thoughts dark and deep his bosom thrill.

VII.

"Where dost thou dwell? where hast thou been?

A minstrel so infirm and gray As thou, before I ne'er have seen

Or heard of, save in harper's lay Or legend old;" the youthful lord With gentle seeming, asked the bard.

VIII.

66 Stranger in sooth this frame is weak,
These trembling limbs great age bespeak;
Yet oft I dare the stormy deep,

And strive my mournful lyre to sweep.
Save it, my only source of bliss,
I roam the world companionless;
The minstrel's fire, his dreams divine,
His heritage of woe are mine.

Stranger for years my care hath been,
The heart from love's despair to win;
My harp on Hellas' shore I've strung,
Afar in Palestine have sung;
And where the Hakim's art hath failed,
My melody hath oft prevailed;
Me far on land and sea they've sought,
Many the mighty cures I've wrought,
And timid love to Hymen brought.

IX.

I have been to AUSONIA's shore,
To heal the lovely EMILIE;

To Sicily am crossing o'er,

To see the Lady ROSALIE.
And when I dissipate her fears,
Relieve her heart, and dry her tears,
By speaking many a cheering word

Of love, and the Italian lord,

I shall return to Italy

To soothe the mournful EMILIE."

"I'd fain, sweet minstrel, thou would'st call,

And sweep thy lyre in UGo's hall;

There dwells a lady young and fair,

Who'll give thy song attentive ear."
""Tis FLORENCE, UGO's child," he said,
"Whom Leonardo soon will wed.
Beneath her window many a night
I've tuned my harp to her delight-
When thou wert coming from her tower
Last night we stood beneath a bower—
He made at thee a sabre stroke
Which nearly grazed thy sable cloak--
And, seizing him, the blade I broke."