'Twas a ballad, with little in the
words; but the air was sweet and plaintive, and so was the singer's
voice:--
'A star so High,
In my sad sky,
I've early loved and late:
A clear lone star,
Serene and far,
Doth rule my wayward fate.
'Tho' dark and chill
The night be still,
A light comes up for me:
In eastern skies
My star doth rise,
And fortune dawns for me.
'And proud and bold,
My way I hold;
For o'er me high I see,
In night's deep blue,
My star shine true,
And fortune beams on me.
'Now onward still,
Thro' dark and chill,
My lonely way must be;
In vain regret,
My star will set,
And fortune's dark for me.
'And whether glad,
Or proud, or sad,
Or howsoe'er I be;
In dawn or noon,
Or setting soon,
My star, I'll follow thee.'
And so there was a pause and a silence. In the silvery notes of the
singer there was the ring of a prophecy; and Toole half read its
meaning. And himself loving a song, and being soft over his music, he
remained fixed for a few seconds, and then sighed, smiling, and dried
his light blue eyes covertly; and he praised the song and singer
briskly; and sighed again, with his fingers on the stem of his glass.
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