Volume 60 — THE MINSTREL'S CURSE.

From Uhland. By A. Lodge.

A castle of the olden time, o'er subject regions wide, Throned on its rocky height afar looked forth in feudal pride; And fragrant gardens decked the plain, where lakes, with crystal sheen, Mirrored the pleasant sylvan glades and lawns of living green. Here dwelt, of jealous fears the prey, in pomp of moody state, A King, by realms and cities fair, and conquest's laurels great; His glance bespoke the tyrant soul to pity ne'er subdued; His words were chains and torments—his characters were blood! Once to these lordly towers at eve approached a tuneful pair, Of reverend silvery tresses one, and one with golden hair; The old man on a palfrey sate—his harp, the Minstrel's pride, He bore—his comrade, young and blithe, tripped lightly at his side. Thus to the youth the old man spoke—"My son, it boots to-day, To try our deepest melodies, our most impassioned lay; With cunning'st art essay the notes of blended joy and pain; Perchance this royal heart may own the magic of the strain." Soon in the pillared regal hall, amid the courtly throng Of belted knights and beauteous dames, they range the sons of song:— The King, in fearful majesty, recalled the meteor's blaze; His spouse, with beaming loveliness, the moonlight's gentle rays. The old man swept the chords—and quick, responsive to the tone, Through all the train each heart confessed the spell of power unknown; And when a clear angelic voice chimed in with youthful fire, 'Twas like the unseen minstrelsy of some ethereal quire! They sang of Love's delightful spring—of the old golden time; Of knightly leal, and maiden's truth, and chivalry sublime; Of each high thought that stirs the soul informed with heavenly flame; Of man's exalted destinies—of freedom, worth, and fame! They paused:—in rapt attention hushed, the crowd had clustered near; The courtier smoothed the lip of scorn, the warrior dropped a tear; The Queen, with trembling extasy, took from her breast a rose; And see! at the young Minstrel's feet the guerdon flower she throws. "Ha!" shrieked the King—"my lieges first, with your detested lays, Ye have seduced—and now my Queen their witchery betrays; Die, tuneful minion!"—at the youth he hurled the gleaming sword, And from the fount of golden strains the crimson tide was poured. While scared, as by the lightning's flash, all stood in mute dismay, The boy on his loved master's breast had breathed his soul away:— The old man round the bleeding form his mantle wrapped with speed; Raised the dear victim in his arms, and bound him on his steed. The portals passed, he stood awhile, and gazed with tearful eyes— And grasped his harp—the master harp—of thousand harps the prize: Then frantic on a column's base he dashed the useless lyre, And thus the curse of Poesy spoke with a prophet's fire! "Woe! Woe! proud towers—dire House of blood! thy guilty courts among, Ne'er may the chords of harmony be waked—the voice of song; The tread of silent slaves alone shall echo mid the gloom, Till Ruin waits, and hovering fiends of vengeance shriek thy doom! "Woe! Woe! ye blooming gardens fair—decked in the pride of May, Behold this flower untimely cropped—look—and no more be gay! The sight should wither every leaf—make all your fountains dry, And bid the bright enchantment round in wasteful horror lie! "And thou, fell Tyrant, curst for aye of all the tuneful train— May blighted bays, and bitter scorn, mock thy inglorious reign! Perish thy hated name with thee—from songs and annals fade— Thy race—thy power—thy very crimes—lost in oblivion's shade!" The aged Bard has spoken—and Heaven has heard the prayer; The haughty towers are crumbling low—no regal dome is there! A single column soars on high, to tell of splendours past— And see! 'tis cracked—it nods the head—this hour may be it's last! Where once the fairy garden smiled, a mournful desert lies— No rills refresh the barren sand—no graceful stems arise— From storied page, and legend strain, this King has vanished long; His race is dead—his power forgot:—such is the might of song!