The Minstrel and the Princess

I

He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a loveless land,
And yet he sang of love;
And marked the blue vein of her throat
Swell with mute rage at every note:
And when he ceased she spake him then,--
"Such whining slaves are less than men!"
And anger in her dark eyes wrote
Contempt thereof.

II

He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a hostile land,
And yet he sang of peace;
And marked how mock'ry curled her lip
With scorn as, 'neath each finger-tip,
The chords breathed pastoral content:
Till haughtiness, that beauty lent
To beauty, sneered, "Would'st feel the whip?--
O fool, surcease!"

III

He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a tyrant's land,
And so he sang of war--
"Oh, fling thy harp away!" she said.
"O war, thy singers are not dead!--
Seat thee beside me; now I see
Thou art for battle, and must be
Brave as thy song.--Well hast thou pled.
My warrior!"