Poems (Cary)/The Minstrel
THE MINSTREL.
Beneath a silvery sycamore His willow pipe I saw him playing. The heifer down the hill was straying—Her lengthening shadow went before,— Toward the near stubble-land: the lowingOf labored oxen, pasturing, Called her that way. The wind was blowing,And the tall reeds against a spring Of unsunned waters, slantwise fell, But you might hear his song right well— "I would that I were bird or bee, Or anything that I am not— Sweet lady-love, I care not what, So I might live and die with thee."
The grass beneath its flowery cover Was softly musical with bees; But well-a-day! what sights may pleaseThe eyes of an enchanted lover?In dusty hollows, here and there, Among gnarled roots the flocks were lying, O'erclomb by lambs; and homeward flying, The birds made dusky all the air;The yellow light began to fade From the low tarn—the day was o'er;And still his willow pipe he played, Under the silvery sycamore: "I would that I were bird or bee, Or anything that I am not— Lost lady-love, I care not what, So I might live and die with thee."
Down through the long blue silences Came the owl's cry; fire-flies were trimming Their torches for the night, and skimmingAthwart the glooms; between the trees, Went the blind, wretched bat: Ah me, The night and sorrow well agree!The meadow king-cups and the furze Were pretty with the harvest dew, And in the brook the thistle threwThe shadows of its many burs.I wis, he lovely was to see, In the gray twilight's pallid shade, As on his willow pipe he played,Crownéd with "buds of poesy"— "I would that I were bird or bee, Or anything that I am not— A sound, a breeze, I care not what, So I might live and die with thee."
Faint gales of starlight from above Blew softly from the casement light Across the pillow, milky white,Where slept the lady of his love, The floating tresses, black as sloe, Fell tangled round the dainty snowOf cheek and bosom. Gentle seemedThe lady, smiling as she dreamed. But not of him her visions are, Who, for the sake of the sweet light Within her casement, vexed the night— Her thoughts are travellers otherwhere.
At midnight on a jutting cliff, A raven flapped his wings and cried; Faintly the willow pipe replied—The hands upon its stops were stiff. Under the silvery sycamore The mournful playing was all done— If there be angels, he was one, For surely all his pain was o'er.
At morn a lady walked that way, And when she saw his quiet sleeping, Upon the flowers, she fell a-weeping,And for her tears she could not pray.I had been little used to speak Of comfort, but was moved to seeHer piteous heart so near to break, For the pale corse beneath the tree;And so, to soothe her grief, I said The way he died, and told his song; "Alas, he loved me well and long,"
She sighed; "I would that we were wed As lovers use, or else that I Were anything that I am not, Or bird, or bee, I care not what, Here in the pleasant flowers to die."
The mist, with many a soft fold, shrouds The eastern hills, birds wake their hymns, And through the sycamore's white limbsShines the red climbing of the clouds. Making my rhymes, I heard her sigh,"Ah, well-a-day, that we were wed As lovers use, or else that IHere on the pleasant flowers were dead!"