The Minstrel's Curse
S O loftily in olden times a royal castle stood,
Wide looked it o'er a landscape of hill, and plain, and flood;
And round it lay a garden, a bright and flowery ring,
Where flashed in rainbow splendour the gush of many a spring.
There dwelt a haughty monarch who ruled o'er far and near,
So pale he sate upon his throne, so gloomy was his cheer;
And what he thinks is terror, and what he looks is wrath—
And what he speaks is cruelty, and what he writes is death.
Once came there to the castle a noble ministrel pair
The one with golden ringlets, the other gray of hair;
The old man bore his cherished harp, and gaily did he ride,
And his young and gallant comrade went ever by his side.
Then spake the aged minstrel—‘Now be prepared, my son,
Think o'er our choicest melodies—collect thy deepest tone—
Thy mirthful and thy passion'd lays be ready thou to sing,
For all we need to soften the heart of yonder king.’
And soon within the pillar'd hall the minstrels both were seen,
Where sate the throned monarch, and by his side the queen;
The monarch fearfully arrayed, like the blood-red Northern glare,
The lady like the glorious moon, so gentle and so fair!
The old man touch'd his favourite harp, he touch'd it wondrous well,
That richer, ever richer rose the music's kindling swell;
Then poured with heavenly clearness the young man's strain along,
Betwixt his master's melody, like a happy spirit's song.
They sang of spring, they sang of love, of the golden days of youth,
Of freedom and immortal deeds, of virtue and of truth;
They sang of every tender thought that makes the bosom thrill,
They sang of every lofty deed which makes it loftier still.
The courtiers ceased from jesting—their hearts were overawed—
The warriors of the monarch they bowed themselves to God;
The queen, in love and transport, more melted than the rest,
Threw down unto the minstrel the rose from out her breast.
‘Ye have misled my people, and dare ye shame my queen!’
The king cried out in anger, he stepped in wrath between;
He plunged his weapon, lightning-swift, into the young man's side,
And marr'd the gush of golden song in nature's ruddiest tide.
The courtier crowd are scattered in terror and alarm—
The youth hath fallen senseless into his master's arm,
Who wrapp'd his mantle round him, and placed him on his steed,
And bound the body upright, and left the place with speed.
But by the lofty portal, there stopped the minstrel gray,
There seized he on his harp which bore the prize from all away;
And 'gainst a marble pillar that jewel hath he flung,
And spoke, till with his prophet voice the hall and garden rung—
‘Wo to thee, haughty palace! O never may the strain
Of harp, or lute, or melody be raised in thee again!
No! only may the step of slaves, the sigh and bitter groan,
Be heard 'till the avenging sprite hath torn thee stone from stone.
‘Wo to ye, airy gardens, in the glorious light of May!
To you this bleeding corpse, this sight of ruin I display;
That a spell may come upon ye, that your fountains may abate,
And that for ever ye may lie destroyed and desolate!
‘Wo to thee, wicked murderer! To bards a curse and shame—
In vain be all thy strivings for a bloody wreath of fame:
Forgotten be thy very name—forgotten and for aye,
Lost utterly in empty air, like a wretch's latest sigh!’
The old man hath proclaimed it, and heaven hath heard his call;
Low lies the haughty palace, and ruin'd is the hall;
And but one pillar standeth yet of all its perished might,
And that, already cleft in twain, may fall before the night.
And round, instead of gardens, is a dry and barren land;
No tree gives shade or shelter, no fountain slakes the sand;
No song, no roll of chivalry, that monarch's name rehearse,
Unnoticed—unremembered—that is the Minstrel's Curse!
S O loftily in olden times a royal castle stood,
Wide looked it o'er a landscape of hill, and plain, and flood;
And round it lay a garden, a bright and flowery ring,
Where flashed in rainbow splendour the gush of many a spring.
There dwelt a haughty monarch who ruled o'er far and near,
So pale he sate upon his throne, so gloomy was his cheer;
And what he thinks is terror, and what he looks is wrath—
And what he speaks is cruelty, and what he writes is death.
Once came there to the castle a noble ministrel pair
The one with golden ringlets, the other gray of hair;
The old man bore his cherished harp, and gaily did he ride,
And his young and gallant comrade went ever by his side.
Then spake the aged minstrel—‘Now be prepared, my son,
Think o'er our choicest melodies—collect thy deepest tone—
Thy mirthful and thy passion'd lays be ready thou to sing,
For all we need to soften the heart of yonder king.’
And soon within the pillar'd hall the minstrels both were seen,
Where sate the throned monarch, and by his side the queen;
The monarch fearfully arrayed, like the blood-red Northern glare,
The lady like the glorious moon, so gentle and so fair!
The old man touch'd his favourite harp, he touch'd it wondrous well,
That richer, ever richer rose the music's kindling swell;
Then poured with heavenly clearness the young man's strain along,
Betwixt his master's melody, like a happy spirit's song.
They sang of spring, they sang of love, of the golden days of youth,
Of freedom and immortal deeds, of virtue and of truth;
They sang of every tender thought that makes the bosom thrill,
They sang of every lofty deed which makes it loftier still.
The courtiers ceased from jesting—their hearts were overawed—
The warriors of the monarch they bowed themselves to God;
The queen, in love and transport, more melted than the rest,
Threw down unto the minstrel the rose from out her breast.
‘Ye have misled my people, and dare ye shame my queen!’
The king cried out in anger, he stepped in wrath between;
He plunged his weapon, lightning-swift, into the young man's side,
And marr'd the gush of golden song in nature's ruddiest tide.
The courtier crowd are scattered in terror and alarm—
The youth hath fallen senseless into his master's arm,
Who wrapp'd his mantle round him, and placed him on his steed,
And bound the body upright, and left the place with speed.
But by the lofty portal, there stopped the minstrel gray,
There seized he on his harp which bore the prize from all away;
And 'gainst a marble pillar that jewel hath he flung,
And spoke, till with his prophet voice the hall and garden rung—
‘Wo to thee, haughty palace! O never may the strain
Of harp, or lute, or melody be raised in thee again!
No! only may the step of slaves, the sigh and bitter groan,
Be heard 'till the avenging sprite hath torn thee stone from stone.
‘Wo to ye, airy gardens, in the glorious light of May!
To you this bleeding corpse, this sight of ruin I display;
That a spell may come upon ye, that your fountains may abate,
And that for ever ye may lie destroyed and desolate!
‘Wo to thee, wicked murderer! To bards a curse and shame—
In vain be all thy strivings for a bloody wreath of fame:
Forgotten be thy very name—forgotten and for aye,
Lost utterly in empty air, like a wretch's latest sigh!’
The old man hath proclaimed it, and heaven hath heard his call;
Low lies the haughty palace, and ruin'd is the hall;
And but one pillar standeth yet of all its perished might,
And that, already cleft in twain, may fall before the night.
And round, instead of gardens, is a dry and barren land;
No tree gives shade or shelter, no fountain slakes the sand;
No song, no roll of chivalry, that monarch's name rehearse,
Unnoticed—unremembered—that is the Minstrel's Curse!
Wide looked it o'er a landscape of hill, and plain, and flood;
And round it lay a garden, a bright and flowery ring,
Where flashed in rainbow splendour the gush of many a spring.
There dwelt a haughty monarch who ruled o'er far and near,
So pale he sate upon his throne, so gloomy was his cheer;
And what he thinks is terror, and what he looks is wrath—
And what he speaks is cruelty, and what he writes is death.
Once came there to the castle a noble ministrel pair
The one with golden ringlets, the other gray of hair;
The old man bore his cherished harp, and gaily did he ride,
And his young and gallant comrade went ever by his side.
Then spake the aged minstrel—‘Now be prepared, my son,
Think o'er our choicest melodies—collect thy deepest tone—
Thy mirthful and thy passion'd lays be ready thou to sing,
For all we need to soften the heart of yonder king.’
And soon within the pillar'd hall the minstrels both were seen,
Where sate the throned monarch, and by his side the queen;
The monarch fearfully arrayed, like the blood-red Northern glare,
The lady like the glorious moon, so gentle and so fair!
The old man touch'd his favourite harp, he touch'd it wondrous well,
That richer, ever richer rose the music's kindling swell;
Then poured with heavenly clearness the young man's strain along,
Betwixt his master's melody, like a happy spirit's song.
They sang of spring, they sang of love, of the golden days of youth,
Of freedom and immortal deeds, of virtue and of truth;
They sang of every tender thought that makes the bosom thrill,
They sang of every lofty deed which makes it loftier still.
The courtiers ceased from jesting—their hearts were overawed—
The warriors of the monarch they bowed themselves to God;
The queen, in love and transport, more melted than the rest,
Threw down unto the minstrel the rose from out her breast.
‘Ye have misled my people, and dare ye shame my queen!’
The king cried out in anger, he stepped in wrath between;
He plunged his weapon, lightning-swift, into the young man's side,
And marr'd the gush of golden song in nature's ruddiest tide.
The courtier crowd are scattered in terror and alarm—
The youth hath fallen senseless into his master's arm,
Who wrapp'd his mantle round him, and placed him on his steed,
And bound the body upright, and left the place with speed.
But by the lofty portal, there stopped the minstrel gray,
There seized he on his harp which bore the prize from all away;
And 'gainst a marble pillar that jewel hath he flung,
And spoke, till with his prophet voice the hall and garden rung—
‘Wo to thee, haughty palace! O never may the strain
Of harp, or lute, or melody be raised in thee again!
No! only may the step of slaves, the sigh and bitter groan,
Be heard 'till the avenging sprite hath torn thee stone from stone.
‘Wo to ye, airy gardens, in the glorious light of May!
To you this bleeding corpse, this sight of ruin I display;
That a spell may come upon ye, that your fountains may abate,
And that for ever ye may lie destroyed and desolate!
‘Wo to thee, wicked murderer! To bards a curse and shame—
In vain be all thy strivings for a bloody wreath of fame:
Forgotten be thy very name—forgotten and for aye,
Lost utterly in empty air, like a wretch's latest sigh!’
The old man hath proclaimed it, and heaven hath heard his call;
Low lies the haughty palace, and ruin'd is the hall;
And but one pillar standeth yet of all its perished might,
And that, already cleft in twain, may fall before the night.
And round, instead of gardens, is a dry and barren land;
No tree gives shade or shelter, no fountain slakes the sand;
No song, no roll of chivalry, that monarch's name rehearse,
Unnoticed—unremembered—that is the Minstrel's Curse!
S O loftily in olden times a royal castle stood,
Wide looked it o'er a landscape of hill, and plain, and flood;
And round it lay a garden, a bright and flowery ring,
Where flashed in rainbow splendour the gush of many a spring.
There dwelt a haughty monarch who ruled o'er far and near,
So pale he sate upon his throne, so gloomy was his cheer;
And what he thinks is terror, and what he looks is wrath—
And what he speaks is cruelty, and what he writes is death.
Once came there to the castle a noble ministrel pair
The one with golden ringlets, the other gray of hair;
The old man bore his cherished harp, and gaily did he ride,
And his young and gallant comrade went ever by his side.
Then spake the aged minstrel—‘Now be prepared, my son,
Think o'er our choicest melodies—collect thy deepest tone—
Thy mirthful and thy passion'd lays be ready thou to sing,
For all we need to soften the heart of yonder king.’
And soon within the pillar'd hall the minstrels both were seen,
Where sate the throned monarch, and by his side the queen;
The monarch fearfully arrayed, like the blood-red Northern glare,
The lady like the glorious moon, so gentle and so fair!
The old man touch'd his favourite harp, he touch'd it wondrous well,
That richer, ever richer rose the music's kindling swell;
Then poured with heavenly clearness the young man's strain along,
Betwixt his master's melody, like a happy spirit's song.
They sang of spring, they sang of love, of the golden days of youth,
Of freedom and immortal deeds, of virtue and of truth;
They sang of every tender thought that makes the bosom thrill,
They sang of every lofty deed which makes it loftier still.
The courtiers ceased from jesting—their hearts were overawed—
The warriors of the monarch they bowed themselves to God;
The queen, in love and transport, more melted than the rest,
Threw down unto the minstrel the rose from out her breast.
‘Ye have misled my people, and dare ye shame my queen!’
The king cried out in anger, he stepped in wrath between;
He plunged his weapon, lightning-swift, into the young man's side,
And marr'd the gush of golden song in nature's ruddiest tide.
The courtier crowd are scattered in terror and alarm—
The youth hath fallen senseless into his master's arm,
Who wrapp'd his mantle round him, and placed him on his steed,
And bound the body upright, and left the place with speed.
But by the lofty portal, there stopped the minstrel gray,
There seized he on his harp which bore the prize from all away;
And 'gainst a marble pillar that jewel hath he flung,
And spoke, till with his prophet voice the hall and garden rung—
‘Wo to thee, haughty palace! O never may the strain
Of harp, or lute, or melody be raised in thee again!
No! only may the step of slaves, the sigh and bitter groan,
Be heard 'till the avenging sprite hath torn thee stone from stone.
‘Wo to ye, airy gardens, in the glorious light of May!
To you this bleeding corpse, this sight of ruin I display;
That a spell may come upon ye, that your fountains may abate,
And that for ever ye may lie destroyed and desolate!
‘Wo to thee, wicked murderer! To bards a curse and shame—
In vain be all thy strivings for a bloody wreath of fame:
Forgotten be thy very name—forgotten and for aye,
Lost utterly in empty air, like a wretch's latest sigh!’
The old man hath proclaimed it, and heaven hath heard his call;
Low lies the haughty palace, and ruin'd is the hall;
And but one pillar standeth yet of all its perished might,
And that, already cleft in twain, may fall before the night.
And round, instead of gardens, is a dry and barren land;
No tree gives shade or shelter, no fountain slakes the sand;
No song, no roll of chivalry, that monarch's name rehearse,
Unnoticed—unremembered—that is the Minstrel's Curse!
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