Or for Tradition's dubious light, That hovers 'twixt the day and night: Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, Knights, squires, and lovely dames to see, Creation of my fantasy, Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, Who loves not more the night of June But who shall teach my harp to gain Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved The minstrel, and his lay approved? Who shall these lingering notes redeem, Decaying on Oblivion's stream; Such notes as from the Breton tongue The weapon from his hand could wring, The gentle poet live again; Thou, who canst give to lightest lay An unpedantic moral gay, Nor less the dullest theme bid flit To win at once the head and heart,- Such minstrel lesson to bestow Be long thy pleasing task,-but, O! Lingering disease, and painful cure, Come listen, then! for thou hast known, And loved the Minstrel's varying tone; Who, like his Border sires of old, Waked a wild measure, rude and bold, Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, With wonder heard the northern strain. Come, listen!-bold in thy applause, The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws; And, as the ancient art could stain Achievements on the storied pane, Irregularly traced and planned, But yet so glowing and so grand; |