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"I heard harp-chords," the tottering wayfarer speaks to himself; "How mournful they sounded! Hardly might such music come from her!" "Who are you, pilgrim, wandering thus alone?" Wolfram addresses the shadowy figure. "Who I am?" comes the reply, "And yet I know you well enough. You are Wolfram, that highly-accomplished minstrel!"
Every heart praised the poet for giving his services to his young and beautiful friend. They applauded also the lovely woman who made her harp-chords vibrate with her minstrel's music. The pair went to Montauban, Albi, Toulouse, and Nimes; they were welcomed at Avignon, the city of Petrarch and the Popes.
Imagine finding Browning's familiar phrases in Scripture: "The lilies we twine round the harp-chords, lest they snap neath the stress of the noontide those sunbeams like swords"; "Oh, the wild joy of living!" "Spring's arrowy summons," going "straight to the aim." That is very well for Browning, but it is not the Scripture way; it is too complicated.
All this time the wind, out of the north-west, was breezing up. The old familiar harp-chords of a rising gale were strumming along the rigging, and the men, I verily believe from lack of practice, were particularly slow at their work. "It would be better if the upper-and-lower top-sails are set so that we can heave to," Margaret suggested.
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