THE MINSTRELS.

The minstrels in the gallery, The revellers in the hall: Across the pauses of the feast The singers’ voices fall, But in the tide of mirth below, They have no share at all. They sing of battle and of joust, Of deeds of high emprise; They sing of honours bravely won, Of lovers’ happy sighs, Of banquet when the fight is o’er, And light of ladies’ eyes. Their stirring thoughts, their tender words Float down on music’s wing. Alas! the joys, the gallant deeds Wherewith their verses ring, They know not. Those who hear the song, Have known, but cannot sing. Thus every day, in every age, Throbs on the world’s fierce heart, In passion-heat of joy or grief At banquet, fight, or mart; But there the minstrel has no place— He needs must stand apart. Too soft his flesh to bear life’s storms, Too keen his restless brain, His heart too ready to perceive Joy’s inmost heart of pain; But the lone sorrow of his lot Makes sad his merriest strain. And in his darker hours, the wish Consumes him like a fire, To cast away for evermore The burden of the lyre, To share the life of other men, Its fullness, its desire. In vain! The gladness of the loved, The conquest of the strong, Life’s heavy tasks and fair rewards, Not unto him belong. He sighs; and as it leaves his lips, The sigh becomes a song. Catherine Grant Furley.