Classic Poem

The Duke, far in the forest,
Sat 'neath an oaktree's shade;
Whilst near him, gathering berries,
A maiden singing strayed.
The fresh and fragrant berries
She to the graybeard bore;
Her dulcet tones around him
Still floated evermore.

Then spake he—“Gentle maiden,
At thy sweet voices sound,
Of huntsman's toil a-weary,
My spirit peace hath found.
The strawberries thou bringest
Are fresh and cool, y-wis;
But sing again—thou soothest
My soul with dreams of bliss.

When 'neath this oaktree's shadow
My ivory horn is blown,
Where'er its sound re-echoes,
The vale is all mine own.
Where'er from yonder birch-tree
Thy thrilling song shall sound,
I give to thee in guerdon
The land that lies around.”

The gray-beard's horn resounded
Adown the pleasant vale,
In distant rocky gullies
It pealed like thunder's wail;
Then from the birch-crowned hillock
Was heard the maiden's strain,
As though the wings of angels
Swept o'er the peaceful plain.

His seal-ring, as an earnest,
He laid within her hand:—
“My hunting her is ended,
Thine own is all the land.”
The maiden bowed to thank him,
And home, rejoicing, went;
Fresh strawberries she carried
I' the golden circlet pent.

What time the pealing bugle
There reigned with sombre might,
The wild-boar fled to hide him
I' the forest's deepest night;
Then loudly bayed the beagles,
The startled hind dashed out,
And, as the prey fell bleeding,
Arose a lusty shout.

But since the maiden's carol,
There flourish meadows green,
The playful lambs are frisking,
And cherry-groves are seen;
There dances are enwoven
In springtide's golden light,
And—won by song—the valley
The “Vale of Song” is hight.