Night the First

Hushed was the Court — the courtiers gazed —
Each eye was bent, each soul amazed,
To see that group of genuine worth,
Those far-famed minstrels of the north.
So motley wild their garments seemed ;
Their eyes, where tints of madness gleamed,
Fired with impatience every breast,
And expectation stood confest.

Short was the pause ; the stranger youth,
The gaudy minstrel of the south,
Whose glossy eye and lady form
Had never braved the northern storm,
Stepped lightly forth, — kneeled three times low, —
And then, with many a smile and bow,
Mounted the form amid the ring,
And rung his harp's responsive string.
Though true the chords, and mellow-toned,
Long, long he twisted, long he conned ;
Well pleased to hear his name they knew ;
"'Tis Rizzio !" round in whispers flew.

Valet with Parma's knight he came,
An angler in the tides of fame ;
And oft had tried, with anxious pain,
Respect of Scotland's Queen to gain.
Too well his eye, with searching art,
Perceived her fond, her wareless heart ;
And, though unskilled in Scottish song,
Her notice he had wooed so long,
With pain by night, and care by day.
He framed this fervid, flowery lay. —