"Now, what do you sell, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, Tinged with that true and native blue "Look from your door, and tell me now Where can I buy that wondrous dye, "And where can I buy that rustling sound, In this city by the sea, Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free "Of the bearers who go up and down, Silent as mystery, Burden on head, with naked tread, In the white streets by the sea? "And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, The sunlight's fall on the old pink wall, "Ah, that is more than I've heard tell In Bay Street by the sea, Since I began, my roving man, A trafficker to be. "As sure as I'm John Camplejohn, Those things for gold have not been sold, "But what would you give, my roving man From countries over-sea, For the things you name, the life of the same, "I'd give my hand, John Camplejohn, For the smallest dower of that dear power To paint the things I see." "My roving man, I never heard, On any land or sea Under the sun, of any one Could sell that power to thee.” "Tis sorry news, John Camplejohn, That every mart should know the art, "But look you, here's the grace of God: Duty nor toll, that can control "To each his luck, John Camplejohn, Give me the pay of an idle day In Bay Street by the sea." Ba ha' man, water between Cuba and the Bahama Islands. dow' er, gift. lapis lazu li, a beautiful azure stone. mart, market. traf' fick er, one who buys and sells. THE OLD MINSTREL. SIR WALTER SCOTT. (From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel.") The way was long, the wind was cold, His withered cheek and tresses gray The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone; Had called his harmless art a crime. The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye- The embattled portal arch he passed, The Duchess marked his weary pace, Though born in such a high degree; When kindness had his wants supplied, Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone, Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, He could make music to her ear. The humble boon was soon obtained; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain And then, he said, he would full fain He never thought to sing again. It was not framed for village churls, He had played it to King Charles the Good And much he wished, yet feared, to try The long-forgotten melody. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, And an uncertain warbling made, And oft he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild, With all a poet's ecstasy! In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along: |