I own the gay lark is the blythest bird
That welcomes the purple dawn;
But a sweeter chorister far is heard
When the veil of eve is drawn:
When the last lone traveller homeward wends
O'er the moorland, drowsily;
And the pale bright moon her crescent bends,
And silvers the soft gray sky;
And in silence the wakeful starry crowd
Their vigil begin to keep;
And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud,
And their buds in dew-drops weep;
Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild,
In the depth of the forest dark,
Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child,
Than the song of the cheerful lark!
“‘ Twas sweet, but somewhat sad,” said some;
And the Baron sought his daughter's eye,—
But, now, there fell a shade of gloom
On the cheek of Edith;— and tearfully,
He thought she turned to shun his look.
He would have asked his darling's woe,—
But the harp, again, the minstrel took;
And with such prelude as awoke
Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe
In Thorold's soul,— the minstrel stranger —
In spite of fear, in spite of danger,—
In measures sweet and soft, but quaint,—
Responded thus to Edith's plaint:—