But my lyre lacketh lust betimes;
'Twere meet I polish all its gentle lines!
A song, fair damsel, aye, anon, anon. (Takes out lyre and polishes it with his cape, running the corner of the cloth between the strings and humming. Then tightens a string, plucks, and sings a ditty, glancing at the assorted scones about brightly):
Sir Russel, and not I, did author this;
but I will borrow it to please the house, appended with a kiss! (strums)
WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
I am one with the twilight's dream.
When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
Every heart of man is rapt within the mother's breast:
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
I am one with their hearts at rest.
Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw
From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,
Such primæval being as o'erfills the heart with awe,
Growing one with its silent stream.
From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
Stray'd away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
Word or touch from the lips beside.
(Ends with minor flourish and bows to a light patter of applause, Retireth unto his Klugle Rauschelle.)
A