Courtiers were there, the old and young,
    Of high and haughty lineage sprung;
    And jewell’d matrons:  some had been,
    Erewhile, spectators of a scene
    Like this, with mien and manners gay;
    Who now, their hearts consum’d away,
    Held all the pageant in disdain,
    And seem’d to smile and speak with pain. 
    Of such were widows, who deplor’d
    Husbands long lost, but still ador’d;
    To grace their children, fierce and proud,
    Like martyrs led into the crowd: 
    Mothers, their sole remaining stay,
    In some dear son, late snatch’d away;
    Whose duty made them better brook
    Their lords’ high tone and careless look;
    Whose praises had awaken’d pride
    In bosoms dead to all beside.

      Warriors, infirm with battles grown,
    Were there, in languid grandeur thrown
    On the low bench, who seem’d to say,
    “Our mortal vigour wanes away;”
    And gentle maid, with aspect meek,
    While cloud-like blushes cross her cheek,
    Restless awaits the Minstrel’s power
    To dispossess the present hour,
    And by a spirit-seizing charm,
    Her thoughts employ, her fancy warm,
    And snatch her from the mute distress
    Of conscious, breathless bashfulness.

      Young knights, who never tamely wait,
    Crowd in the porch, or near the gate,
    By quick return, and sudden throng,
    Announcing the expected song.

      The Minstrel comes, and, by command,
    Before the nobles of the land,
    In her poor order’s simple dress,
    Grac’d only by the native tress,
    A flowing mass of yellow’d light,
    Whose bold swells gleam with silver bright,
    And dove-like shadows sink from sight. 
    Those long, soft locks, in many a wave
    Curv’d with each turn her figure gave;
    Thick, or if threatening to divide,
    They still by sunny meshes hide;
    Eluding, by commingling lines,
    Whatever severs or defines.

    Amid the crowd of beauties there,
    None were so exquisitely fair;
    And, with the tender, mellow’d air,
    The taper, flexile, polish’d limb,
    The form so perfect, yet so slim,
    And movement, only thought to grace
    The dark and yielding Eastern race;
    As if on pure and brilliant day
    Repose, as soft as moonlight, lay.

      Reluctant still she seem’d,—­her feet
    Sought slowly the appointed seat: 
    Her hand, oft lifting to her head,
    She lightly o’er her forehead spread;
    Then the unconscious motion check’d,
    And, struggling with her own neglect,
    Seem’d as she but by effort found
    The presence of an audience round.