The Pilgrim Harper

The night was cold and dreary–no star was in the sky,
When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised his cry.
He raised his cry without the gate, his night’s repose to win,
And plaintive was the voice that cried, “Ah! won’t you let me in?”

The portal soon was open’d, for in the land of song
The minstrel at the outer gate yet never lingered long;
And inner doors were seldom closed ‘gainst wand’rers such as he,
For locks or hearts to open soon, sweet music is the key!

But gates if ope’d by melody, are closed by grief as fast,
And sorrow o’er that once bright hall its silent spell had cast;
All undisturb’d the spider there his web might safely spin,
For many a day no festive lay–no harper was let in.

But when this harper enter’d, and said he came from far,
And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of the war;
And he could tell of all who fell, or glory there did win,
The warder knew his noble dame would let that harper in.

They led him to the bower, the lady knelt in prayer;
The harper raised a well-known lay upon the turret stair;
The door was ope’d with hasty hand, true love its meed did win,
For the lady saw her own true knight, when that harper was let in!