Classic Poem

He rose, and tried to read; the gorgeous book
Pleased for a moment, then his hold forsook:
He touch'd, with eager hand, his loved guitar,
'Twas tuneless now, his thoughts were straying far;
He sank upon his couch to wear away
A sick man's heavy hours till tardy day.
He spoke in fever. " Fabian, slumberer!
How can you linger? Must I perish here? "
Pain check'd his voice. An humble tone replied;
He raised his eye; the leech was at his side.
" Boy, this is misery; — to the grave to creep!
Oh, half my wealth but for one hour of sleep.
Here, try that pulse, these temple-throbs. — 'Tis vain; —
The medicine 's not on earth that lulls this pain. "
The wind breathed fresher through the lattice bower;
He ask'd a tale to linger out the hour.
The peasant-leech had none; " nor fay nor knight
Had ever glitter'd on his lowly sight.
Yet on his lord's guitar he might recall
Some song, — his humble skill the skill of all. "
On the light strings his fingers feebly move,
" Sing then, " Sebastian said, " but not of love. "
" My lord shall be obeyed, " the youth replied;
The tone was mingled with offended pride; —
" He scorns not more than I the idle strains
Where perfidy of perfidy complains; —
Woes of weak hearts, that never should be won;
Wrongs of deluders by themselves undone. —
Yet there is one, but scarcely song or tale,
A pageant, now upon my memory pale,
Yet brilliant once. " Sebastian murmur'd, " Sing. "
The peasant bow'd, and chaunted to the string.