Britain ... - Blue-Lite

Scene I.I THE VARANGIAN. 36?
OSMOND.
And has my lovely Countess, by the songs
Of this wild harper, been amused and pleased ?
JUDITH.
Little, forsooth, the strains of northmen charm
Those who have heard the melodies and lays
Of tuneful Troubadour. (39) Say, to what land,
Minstrel, owest thou thy birth ?
LAN-IVAN.
I, lady, from
The ancient line of British bards am sprung,
Who in the Earldom of Lord Dorset once,
Amid the woods of Purbeck's Druid isle,
Flourished beloved and honoured. I alone
Of all my race remain, the last to strike
The magic harp of yore ;
and now mine age
Hath fallen on sad and evil times, for none
In all the Earldom heed the son of Song,
Or pay him grateful kindness.
OSMOND.
Then adopt
Some other calling. Riches, once obtained,
No matter how, will win respect and worship.
Fling on the fire thy barren harp, and quit
The minstrel craft ;
then wealth and booty seek,
By the brave soldier's far more gainful trade.
LAN-IVAN.
Sorry advice to one of my years given,
And by an Earl, who should stand forth the first
To cherish and protect the child of Song.
Titles, and rank, and wealth the sword may win ;
But they are bloody spoils, which in their glory,
Like the red comet's prophet-warning beams,