Page:The Galaxy, Volume 5.djvu/340



T was when leaves are large and long, the month y-clepen May, The Lady Florence Percy sang her magic-woven lay; And for the lady's heart was full with woes ye know not of, She sang of dark and gentle Death, the comforter of Love. O fair was Florence Percy, with her eyes of pansied blue, Her face of pale forget-me-not, her soul of love-me-true! And sad and sweet the magic song that plaining from her bower, Remained in air, a spirit voice, that sings this very hour— Sings passionate, lone, aloft, alow, till every heart is stirred, And marvels, is it lady then, or deathful love his bird?

It was the good Sir Public, the gentle old man gray; He loves the lutes of troubadours, or knight's or lady's lay; And though with dire cacophanies his patient ears are sore, He only loves great harmonies, sweet melodies, the more. And hearkening that aërial song, all rapt and passion-pale. He spake—"And is it a lady's voice, or is it the nightingale?— And tell me where she preens her plumes or combs her hair this hour?— And is it in some mournful wood, or in some silken bower? O hie, my messengers, and find or if it lady be!— This singer true and tender must be better known to me."

It was Sir Ball, the enchanter curst, whose carols murder joy For households in the jovial realm of Camden and Amboy: