What meant that glancing of thine eye, That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh? Hast thou a thought of woe or weal, Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel?
Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal, Or hide it from my mind, Love? Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me, And I not breathe as deep to thee?
Or hast thou whispered in mine ear A word of sorrow or of fear,— Or have I seen thee shed a tear,— And looked a thought unkind, Love?
Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray Across thy beaming countenance play,— Or joy its seriousness beguile, And o'er it cast a radiant smile,—
And mine with kindred joy, the while, Not glow as bright as thine, Love? Why would'st thou, then, that something seek To hide within thy breast,— nor speak,
Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear, Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear,— Assured this heart would gladly bear A burthen borne by thine, Love?
Sir Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood, When the youthful minstrel's song was ended; While Edith by her loved sire stood, And o'er his chair in sadness bended.
The guests were silent;— for the chaunt, Where all, of late, were jubilant, Had kindled quick imagining Who he might be that thus dared sing —
Breathing of deep and fervent feeling — His tender passion half-revealing. Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke: Saint Leonard's lay-brother,
Who seldom could smother Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke, Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak,— And touching the chords
To brain-sick words,— While he mimicked a lover's phantasy, Upward rolling his lustrous eye,— With warblings wild
He flourished and trilled,— Till mother and maiden aloud‘ gan to laugh, And clown challenged clown more good liquor to quaff. These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure,
He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure.
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