Part 4 (1/2)

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village-youth were joined, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind.

Ah then, all jollity seemed noise and folly.

To the pure soul, by Fancy's fire refined, Ah, what is mirth, but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!

LVI.

Is there a heart that music cannot melt?

Ah me! how is that rugged heart forlorn!

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt, Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.

The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

LVII.

For Edwin, Fate a n.o.bler doom had planned; Song was his favourite and first pursuit.

The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languished to his breath the plaintive flute.

His infant muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance, as yet, he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit; And Edwin gained, at last, this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

LVIII.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance, or search, was offered to his view, He scanned with curious and romantic eye.

Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry.

At last, though long by penury controuled, And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

LIX.

Thus, on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurled; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

LX.

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while.

The leisure hour is all that thou can'st claim.

But on this verse if MONTAGU should smile, New strains, ere long, shall animate thy frame: And his applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords his taste refined.

At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind.

THE MINSTREL; BOOK SECOND.