Rienzi [99]
levity, roused into war and desolation, or lulled into repose and smoothness, with all the suddenness of chance, and all the fickleness of caprice.
Sauntering down to the beach, the music of Adeline's lute sounded more distinctly in their ears, and involuntarily they hushed their steps upon the rich and odorous turf, as in a voice, though not powerful, marvellously sweet and clear, and well adapted to the simple fashion of the words and melody, she sang the following stanzas: -
Lay of the Lady of Provence.
1.
Ah, why art thou sad, my heart? Why Darksome and lonely? Frowns the face of the happy sky Over thee only? Ah me, ah me! Render to joy the earth! Grief shuns, not envies, Mirth; But leave one quiet spot, Where Mirth may enter not, To sigh, Ah, me! - Ah me.
2.
As a bird, though the sky be clear, Feels the storm lower; My soul bodes the tempest near, In the sunny hour; Ah me, ah me! Be glad while yet we may! I bid thee, my heart, be gay; And still I know not why, - Thou answerest with a sigh, (Fond heart!) Ah me! - Ah me!
3.
As this twilight o'er the skies, Doubt brings the sorrow; Who knows when the daylight dies, What waits the morrow? Ah me, ah me! Be blithe, be blithe, my lute, Thy strings will soon be mute; Be blithe - hark! while it dies, The note forewarning, sighs Its last - Ah me! Ah me!
"My own Adeline - my sweetest night-bird," half-whispered Montreal, and softly approaching, he threw himself at his lady's feet - "thy song is too sad for this golden eve."
"No sound ever went to the heart," said Adrian, "whose arrow was not feathered by sadness. True sentiment, Montreal, is twin with melancholy, though not with gloom."
The lady looked softly and approvingly up at Adrian's face; she was pleased with its expression; she was pleased yet more with words of which women rather than men would acknowledge the truth. Adrian returned the look with one of deep and eloquent sympathy and respect; in fact, the short story he had heard from Montreal had interested him deeply in her; and never to the brilliant queen, to whose court he was bound, did his manner wear so chivalric and earnest a homage as it did to that lone and ill-fated lady on the twilight shores of Terracina.
Adeline blushed slightly and sighed; and then, to break the awkwardness of a pause which had stolen over them, as Montreal, unheeding the last remark of Adrian, was tuning the strings of the lute, she said - "Of course the Signor di Castello shares the universal enthusiasm for Petrarch?"
"Ay," cried Montreal; "my lady is Petrarch mad, like the rest of them: but all I know is, that never did belted knight and honest lover woo in such fantastic and tortured strains."
"In Italy," answered Adrian, "common language is exaggeration; - but even your own Troubadour poetry might tell you that love, ever seeking a new language of its own, cannot but often run into what to all but lovers seems distortion and conceit."
"Come, dear Signor," said Montreal, placing the lute in Adrian's hands, "let Adeline be the umpire between us, which music - yours or mine - can woo the more blandly."
"Ah," said Adrian, laughing; "I fear me, Sir Knight, you have already bribed the umpire."
Montreal's eyes and Adeline's met; and in that gaze Adeline forgot all her sorrows.
With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit, and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to Adeline, he sang as follows: -
Love's Excuse for Sadness.
Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye the heart that's fill'd with love, Runs o'er in melancholy. To streams that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my breast reflects the cloud, 'Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image glass'd within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide
Sauntering down to the beach, the music of Adeline's lute sounded more distinctly in their ears, and involuntarily they hushed their steps upon the rich and odorous turf, as in a voice, though not powerful, marvellously sweet and clear, and well adapted to the simple fashion of the words and melody, she sang the following stanzas: -
Lay of the Lady of Provence.
1.
Ah, why art thou sad, my heart? Why Darksome and lonely? Frowns the face of the happy sky Over thee only? Ah me, ah me! Render to joy the earth! Grief shuns, not envies, Mirth; But leave one quiet spot, Where Mirth may enter not, To sigh, Ah, me! - Ah me.
2.
As a bird, though the sky be clear, Feels the storm lower; My soul bodes the tempest near, In the sunny hour; Ah me, ah me! Be glad while yet we may! I bid thee, my heart, be gay; And still I know not why, - Thou answerest with a sigh, (Fond heart!) Ah me! - Ah me!
3.
As this twilight o'er the skies, Doubt brings the sorrow; Who knows when the daylight dies, What waits the morrow? Ah me, ah me! Be blithe, be blithe, my lute, Thy strings will soon be mute; Be blithe - hark! while it dies, The note forewarning, sighs Its last - Ah me! Ah me!
"My own Adeline - my sweetest night-bird," half-whispered Montreal, and softly approaching, he threw himself at his lady's feet - "thy song is too sad for this golden eve."
"No sound ever went to the heart," said Adrian, "whose arrow was not feathered by sadness. True sentiment, Montreal, is twin with melancholy, though not with gloom."
The lady looked softly and approvingly up at Adrian's face; she was pleased with its expression; she was pleased yet more with words of which women rather than men would acknowledge the truth. Adrian returned the look with one of deep and eloquent sympathy and respect; in fact, the short story he had heard from Montreal had interested him deeply in her; and never to the brilliant queen, to whose court he was bound, did his manner wear so chivalric and earnest a homage as it did to that lone and ill-fated lady on the twilight shores of Terracina.
Adeline blushed slightly and sighed; and then, to break the awkwardness of a pause which had stolen over them, as Montreal, unheeding the last remark of Adrian, was tuning the strings of the lute, she said - "Of course the Signor di Castello shares the universal enthusiasm for Petrarch?"
"Ay," cried Montreal; "my lady is Petrarch mad, like the rest of them: but all I know is, that never did belted knight and honest lover woo in such fantastic and tortured strains."
"In Italy," answered Adrian, "common language is exaggeration; - but even your own Troubadour poetry might tell you that love, ever seeking a new language of its own, cannot but often run into what to all but lovers seems distortion and conceit."
"Come, dear Signor," said Montreal, placing the lute in Adrian's hands, "let Adeline be the umpire between us, which music - yours or mine - can woo the more blandly."
"Ah," said Adrian, laughing; "I fear me, Sir Knight, you have already bribed the umpire."
Montreal's eyes and Adeline's met; and in that gaze Adeline forgot all her sorrows.
With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit, and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to Adeline, he sang as follows: -
Love's Excuse for Sadness.
Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye the heart that's fill'd with love, Runs o'er in melancholy. To streams that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my breast reflects the cloud, 'Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image glass'd within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide