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Updated: May 4, 2025
No jingling serenader's art Nor tinkling of piano-strings Can make the wild blood start In its mystic springs; The kingly bard Must smite the chords rudely and hard, As with hammer or with mace; That they may render back Artful thunder, which conveys Secrets of the solar track, Sparks of the supersolar blaze. Great is the art, Great be the manners of the bard.
No jingling serenader's art Nor tinkling of piano-strings Can make the wild blood start In its mystic springs; The kingly bard Must smite the chords rudely and hard, As with hammer or with mace; That they may render back Artful thunder, which conveys Secrets of the solar track, Sparks of the supersolar blaze. Great is the art, Great be the manners of the bard.
Unfortunately for him, Leander suddenly reappears, and highly indignant that this miserable rascal should presume to serenade HIS mistress, snatches the guitar from his hands and begins whacking him over the head with it, so furiously that it is quickly broken through, and slipping over the unhappy serenader's head remains fixed round his neck, so that he is completely at the mercy of his assailant.
'And of course you will expect me to help you in carrying the young woman off? 'Naturally! Should you feel any scruples about it? 'No, Gambardella answered, in an indifferent tone, but he changed the subject and went back to the question of the rival serenader's identity. 'It might be as well to think of more practical matters, he said.
The strong white pepper, which Romanzo managed to procure from Hannah, had been cunningly secreted by Aileen between the imbricate petals, and then tied, in a manner invisible at night, with a fine thread of pink silk begged from Ann. It was now acting and re-acting on the lining of the serenader's olfactory organ in a manner to threaten final decapitation.
Hark! from lattices guitars are tinkling, And though in heaven the stars are twinkling, No tell tale moon looks over the mountain, To peer at her pale cold face in the fountain; And serenader's mellow voice, Wailing of war, or warbling of love, Of love, while the melting maid of his choice, Leans out from her bower above.
From the melody it appeared that the musician had at some date not indicated, and under some unaccountable influence, dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls with vassals and serfs at his side. The man at his back had come as near as the darkness would cover him, but there had stopped. Presently the music ceased, but another sound, sweeter than all music, kissed, as it were, the serenader's ear.
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