Poems.
49
"Thou hast my folk corrupted, enticest thou my queen,"Loud cries the king, his dreadful rage by all the court is seen,He draws his sword and downwards hurls it through the minstrel's breast—And where the golden song burst forth, now red the life stream prest!
The courtly throng stood dumb, as from a storm's alarms,The youthful form lay dead, within the minstrel's arms,He threw his mantle o'er the corse, then it he gently bore,And bound upon the gallant steed and slowly walked before
On to the massive gates; then stood, his harp in hand,That harp of sweetest tone, and priceless in the land,Against a marble column he broke its silver strings!Then clarion like his wailing voice through court and palace rings,
"Woe to your stately corridors, for never tender tone,Of harp or song your walls shall hear, these be the sounds alone—The tread of slaves, and sighs and groans, be heard within your halls,Until to ruin and murder th' avenging spirit calls!
"And thou, Oh maddened murderer! Look thou upon the dead!A kingdom great—the realm of Song—hurls curses on thy head!
