The Troubadour
It was the Christmas of the year;
The wind blew chill, the night was drear;
And round the strong walls of the keep
The silent snow fell white and deep.
But well the Baron’s board was spread,
Of winter ways he had no dread.
Good meat, good wine, good company—
What more could heart desire? Yet he
Sat frowning by the yule-log’s flame,
That lit the cheek of squire and dame.
And too, his lady, pouting, pressed
Against the window, facing west,
As though in vain she sought to see
Some guest belated on the lee.
‘And have we never tale nor song
To break the hours lest they prove long?’
The Baron cried. ‘Come, Harper, rise,
Lest heavy grow these ladies’ eyes,
And if they close, ’twere night indeed
Bereft of stars. Throw thou with speed
From thy sweet harp its magic noose
To thrall them with. Some song they choose.’
Then did each lady bid him sing
Of nought save love’s sweet happening.
But loud each knight did smiling chide,
‘Let him but tell of war,’ they cried.
The Baron laughed. ‘Lest this dispute
Should keep the precious music mute,
Come sing the passion of the soul,
And thus content each rantipole.
For here is love and war, I wot,
Good Harper, take thou for thy plot
A jealous heart. And one that fain
Would ease its most impious pain.’
He looked to where his lady sighed
Against the western window wide.
‘Tell thou some tale so full of fear
The foolish heart shall quake to hear,
Shall stay on its uncertain path
Before thy song of tears and wrath,
And turn before it be too late,
To its aggrieved and jealous mate.’
Thus did the Baron say and pause
Before the murmur of applause.
The minstrel to his knee did take
His harp in hand, some tune to wake,
And held it to his bosom pressed,
As though a gentle head did rest
Beside his heart. Into whose ear
He sung this song of wrath and fear,
Till each sweet chord responsive spoke
The love and passion he awoke.
And silence held them one and all
At Christmas in the Baron’s hall.
