<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447618" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Troubadour. Canto 1</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">CALL to mind your loveliest dream,--<br>When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream,<br>When your pillow is made of the violet,<br>And over your head the branches are met<br>Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees,<br>When the roses' breath is on the breeze,<br>When odours and light on your eyelids press<br>With summer's delicious idleness;<br>And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance<br>Of the faery banks of the bright Durance;<br>Just where at first its current flows<br>'Mid willows and its own white rose,-- <br>Its clear and early tide, or ere<br>A shade, save trees, its waters bear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sun, like an Indian king, has left<br>To that fair river a royal gift<br>Of gold and purple; no longer shines<br>His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines<br>Sweeping beneath the burning sky<br>Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie<br>Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep<br>When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep.<br>--And with its towers cleaving the red<br>Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread<br>Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks<br>Of the light young trees on the river's banks,<br>And ending there, as the waters shone<br>Too bright for shadows to rest upon,<br>A castle stands; whose windows gleam<br>Like the golden flash of a noon-lit stream<br>Seen through the lily and water-flags' screen:<br>Just so shine those panes through the ivy green,<br>A curtain to shut out sun and air,<br>Which the work of years has woven there.<br>--But not in the lighted pomp of the west<br>Looks the evening its loveliest;<br>Enter yon turret, and round you gaze<br>On what the twilight east displays:<br>One star, pure, clear, as if it shed<br>The dew on each young flower's head;<br>And, like a beauty of southern clime,<br>Her veil thrown back for the first time,<br>Pale, timid as she feared to own<br>Her claim upon the midnight throne,<br>Shows the fair moon her crescent sign.<br>--Beneath, in many a serpentine,<br>The river wanders; chesnut trees<br>Spread their old boughs o'er cottages<br>Where the low roofs and porticoes<br>Are cover'd with the Provence rose.<br>And there are vineyards: none might view<br>The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves;<br>And olive groves, pale as the dew<br>Crusted its silver o'er the leaves.<br>And there the castle garden lay<br>With tints in beautiful array:<br>Its dark green walks, its fountains falling,<br>Its tame birds to each other calling;<br>The peacock with its orient rings,<br>The silver pheasant's gleaming wings;<br>And on the breeze rich odours sent<br>Sweet messages, as if they meant<br>To rouse each sleeping sense to all<br>The loveliness of evening's fall.--<br>That lonely turret, is it not<br>A minstrel's own peculiar spot?<br>Thus with the light of shadowy grey<br>To dream the pleasant hours away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Slight columns were around the hall<br>With wreathed and fluted pedestal<br>Of green Italian marble made,<br>In likeness of the palm-trees' shade;<br>And o'er the ceiling starry showers<br>Mingled with many-colour'd flowers,<br>With crimson roses o'er her weeping,<br>There lay that royal maiden sleeping--<br>DANAE , she whom gold could move--<br>How could it move her heart to love?<br>Between the pillars the rich fold<br>Of tapestry fell, inwrought with gold,<br>And many-colour'd silks which gave,<br>Strange legends of the fair and brave.<br>And there the terrace covered o'er<br>With summer's fair and scented store;<br>As grateful for the gentle care<br>That had such pride to keep it fair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, gazing, as if heart and eye<br>Were mingled with that lovley sky,<br>There stood a youth, slight as not yet<br>With manhood's strength and firmness set;<br>But on his cold, pale cheek were caught<br>The traces of some deeper thought,<br>A something seen of pride and gloom,<br>Not like youth's hour of light and bloom:<br>A brow of pride, a lip of scorn,--<br>Yet beautiful in scorn and pride--<br>A conscious pride, as if he own'd<br>Gems hidden from the world beside;<br>And scorn, as he cared not to learn<br>Should others prize those gems or spurn.<br>He was the last of a proud race<br>Who left him but his sword and name,<br>And boyhood past in restless dreams<br>Of future deeds and future fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there were other dearer dreams<br>Than the light'ning flash of these war gleams<br>That fill'd the depths of RAYMOND'S heart;<br>For his was now the loveliest part<br>Of the young poet's life, when first,<br>In solitude and silence nurst,<br>His genius rises like a spring<br>Unnoticed in its wandering;<br>Ere winter cloud or summer ray<br>Have chill'd, or wasted it away,<br>When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd<br>Shed their own richness over all,<br>As waters from sweet woods distill'd<br>Breathe perfume out where'er they fall.<br>I know not whether Love can fling<br>A deeper witchery from his wing<br>Than falls sweet Power of Song from thine.<br>Yet, ah! the wreath that binds thy shrine,<br>Though seemingly all bloom and light,<br>Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight.<br>Planet of wayward destinies<br>Thy victims are thy votaries!<br>Alas! for him whose youthful fire<br>Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,--<br>Alas! for him who shall essay,<br>The laurel's long and dreary way!<br>Mocking will greet, neglect will chill<br>His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;<br>And, worst of all, that heartless praise<br>Echoed from what another says.<br>He dreams a dream of life and light,<br>And grasps the rainbow that appears<br>Afar all beautiful and bright,<br>And finds it only formed of tears.<br>Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame<br>Pour glory's sunlight on his name,<br>Let his songs be on every tongue,<br>And wealth and honours round him flung:<br>Then let him show his secret thought,<br>Will it not own them dearly bought?<br>See him in weariness fling down<br>The golden harp, the violet crown;<br>And sigh for all the toil, the care,<br>The wrong that he has had to bear;<br>Then wish the treasures of his lute<br>Had been, like his own feelings, mute,<br>And curse the hour when that he gave<br>To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But RAYMOND was in the first stage<br>Of life's enchanted pilgrimage:<br>'Tis not for Spring to think on all<br>The sear and waste of Autumn's fall:--<br>Enough for him to watch beside<br>The bursting of the mountain tide,<br>To wander through the twilight shade<br>By the dark, arching pine-boughs made,<br>And at the evening's starlit hour<br>To seek for some less shadowy bower,<br>Where dewy leaf, and flower pale,<br>Made the home of the nightingale.<br>Or he would seek the turret hall,<br>And there, unheard, unseen of all,<br>When even the night winds were mute,<br>His rich tones answer'd to the lute;<br>And in his pleasant solitude<br>He would forget his wayward mood,<br>And pour his spirit forth when none<br>Broke on his solitude, save one.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a light step passing by<br>Like the distant sound of music's sigh;<br>It is that fair and gentle child,<br>Whose sweetness has so oft beguiled,<br>Like sunlight on a stormy day,<br>His almost sullenness away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They said she was not of mortal birth,<br>And her face was fairer than face of earth:<br>What is the thing to liken it to?<br>A lily just dipp'd in the summer dew--<br>Parian marble--snow's first fall?--<br>Her brow was fairer than each and all.<br>And so delicate was each vein's soft blue,<br>'Twas not like blood that wander'd through.<br>Rarely upon that cheek was shed,<br>By health or by youth, one tinge of red;<br>And never closest look could descry,<br>In shine, or in shade, the hue of her eye:<br>But as it were made of light, it changed,<br>With every sunbeam that over it ranged;<br>And that eye could look through the long dark lash,<br>With the moon's dewy smile, or the lightning's flash.<br>Her silken tresses, so bright and so fair,<br>Stream'd like a banner of light on the air,<br>And seldom its sunny wealth around<br>Was chaplet of flowers or ribbon bound;<br>But amid the gold of its thousand curls<br>Was twisted a braid of snow-white pearls,--<br>They said 'twas a charmed spell; that before,<br>This braid her nameless mother wore;<br>And many were the stories wild<br>Whisper'd of the neglected child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">LORD AMIRALD , (thus the tale was told),<br>The former lord of the castle-hold,--<br>LORD AMIRALD had followed the chase<br>Till he was first and last in the race;<br>The blood-dy'd sweat hung on his steed,<br>Each breath was a gasp, yet he stay'd not his speed.<br>Twice the dust and foam had been wash'd<br>By the mountain torrent that over them dash'd;<br>But still the stag held on his way,<br>Till a forest of pine trees before them lay,<br>And bounding and crashing boughs declare<br>The stag and the hunter have enter'd there.<br>On, on they went, till a greenwood screen<br>Lay AMIRALD and his prey between:<br>He has heard the creature sink on the ground,<br>And the branches give way at his courser's bound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The spent stag on the grass is laid;<br>But over him is leant a maid,<br>Her arms and fair hair glistening<br>With the bright waters of the spring;<br>And AMIRALD paused, and gazed, as seeing<br>Were grown the sole sense of his being.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At first she heard him not, but bent<br>Upon her pitying task intent;<br>The summer clouds of hair that hung<br>Over her brow were backwards flung,<br>She saw him! Her first words were prayer<br>Her gasping favourite's life to spare;<br>But her next tones were soft and low,<br>And on her cheek a mantling glow<br>Play'd like a rainbow; and the eye<br>That raised in pleading energy,<br>Shed, starlike, its deep beauty round,<br>Seem'd now as if to earth spell-bound.--<br>They parted: but each one that night<br>Thought on the meeting at twilight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It matters not, how, day by day,<br>Love made his sure but secret way.<br>Oh, where is there the heart but knows<br>Love's first steps are upon the rose!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And here were all which still should be<br>Nurses to Love's sweet infancy,--<br>Hope, mystery, absence:--then each thought<br>A something holy with it brought.<br>Their sighs were breathed, their vows were given<br>Before the face of the high Heaven,<br>Link'd not with courtly vanities,<br>But birds and blossoms, leaves and trees:--<br>Love was not made for palace pride,<br>For halls and domes--they met beside<br>A marble fountain, overgrown<br>With moss, that made it nature's own,<br>Though through the green shone veins of snow,<br>Like the small Fairy's paved ways,<br>As if a relic left to show<br>The luxury of departed days,<br>And show its nothingness. The wave<br>That princely brows was wont to lave<br>Was left now for the wild bird's bill,<br>And the red deer to drink their fill.<br>Yet still it was as fair a spot<br>As in its once more splendid lot:<br>Around, the dark sweep of the pine<br>Guarded it like a wood-nymph's shrine,<br>And the gold-spotted moss was set<br>With crowds of the white violet.<br>One only oak grew by the spring,<br>The forest's patriarch and king;<br>A nightingale had built her nest<br>In the green shadow of its rest;<br>And in its hollow trunk the bees<br>Dwelt in their honey palaces;<br>And underneath its shelter stood,<br>Leant like a beauty o'er the flood<br>Watching each tender bud unclose,<br>A beautiful white Provence rose;--<br>Yet wan and pale as that it knew<br>What changing skies and sun could do;<br>As that it knew, and, knowing, sigh'd,<br>The vanity of summer pride;<br>As watching could put off the hour<br>When falls the leaf and fades the flower.<br>Alas! that every lovely thing<br>Lives only but for withering,--<br>That spring rainbows and summer shine<br>End but in autumn's pale decline.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And here the lovers met, what hour<br>The bee departed from the flower,<br>And droop'd the bud at being left,<br>Or as ashamed of each sweet theft,<br>What hour the soft wind bore along<br>The nightingale's moonlighted song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And AMIRALD heard her father's name,<br>He whose it was, was link'd with fame:<br>Though driven from his heritage,<br>A hunted exile in his age,<br>For that he would not bend the knee,<br>And draw the sword at Rome's decree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She led him to the lonely cot,<br>And almost AMIRALD wish'd his lot<br>Had been cast in that humbler life,<br>Over whose peace the hour of strife<br>Passes but like the storm at sea<br>That wakes not earth's tranquillity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In secret were they wed, not then<br>Had AMIRALD power to fling again<br>The banner of defiance wide<br>To priestly pomp and priestly pride;<br>But day by day more strong his hand,<br>And more his friends, and soon the brand<br>That in its wrongs and silence slept<br>Had from its blood-stain'd scabbard leapt.<br>But here are told such varying tales<br>That none may know where truth prevails;<br>For there were hints of murder done,<br>And deeds of blood that well might shun<br>All knowledge; but the wildest one<br>Was most believed: 'twas whisper'd round<br>Lord AMIRALD in hunting found<br>An evil spirit, but array'd<br>In semblance of a human maid;<br>That 'twas some holy word whose force<br>Broke off their sinful intercourse.<br>But this is sure, one evening late<br>Lord AMIRALD reach'd his castle gate,<br>And blood was on his spurs of gold,<br>And blood was on his mantle's fold,--<br>He flung it back, and on his arm<br>A fair young child lay pillow'd warm;<br>It stretch'd its little hands and smiled,<br>And AMIRALD said it was his child,<br>And bade the train their aid afford<br>Suiting the daughter of their Lord.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then sought his brother, but alone;<br>Yet there were some who heard a tone<br>Of stifled agony, a prayer<br>His child should meet a father's care;<br>And as he past the hall again<br>He call'd around his vassal train,<br>And bade them own his brother's sway.<br>Then past himself like a dream away,--<br>And from that hour none heard his name,<br>No tale, no tidings of him came,<br>Save a vague murmur, that he fell<br>In fighting with the Infidel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But his fair child grew like a flower<br>Springing in March's earlier hour,<br>'Mid storm and chill, yet loveliest--<br>Though somewhat paler than the rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps it was her orphan'd state,<br>So young, so fair, so desolate,--<br>Somewhat of likeness in their fate<br>Made RAYMOND'S heart for her confess<br>Its hidden depths of tenderness.<br>Neglected both; and those that pine<br>In love's despair and hope's decline,<br>Can love the most when some sweet spell<br>Breaks the seal on affection's well,<br>And bids its waters flow like light<br>Returning to the darken'd sight.<br>And while his fallen fortunes taught<br>RAYMOND'S proud solitude of thought,<br>His spirit's cold, stern haughtiness<br>In her was gentle mournfulness.<br>The cold north wind which bows to earth<br>The lightness of the willow's birth<br>Bends not the mountain cedar trees;<br>Folding their branches from the breeze,<br>They stand as if they could defy<br>The utmost rage of storm and sky.<br>And she, she would have thought it sin<br>To harbour one sweet thought within,<br>In whose delight he had no part,--<br>He was the world of her young heart.<br>A childish fondness, yet revealing<br>Somewhat of woman's deeper feeling,--<br>Else wherefore is that crimson blush,<br>As her cheek felt her bosom's rush<br>Upon her face, while pausing now<br>Her eyes are raised to RAYMOND'S brow,<br>Who, lute-waked to a ballad old,<br>A legend of the fair and bold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">BALLAD. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE raised the golden cup from the board,<br>It sparkled with purple wealth,<br>He kist the brim her lip had prest,<br>And drank to his ladye's health.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name,<br>To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine;<br>Ever the smile of beauty should light<br>The victor's blood-red wine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are some flowers of brightest bloom<br>Amid thy beautiful hair,<br>Give me those roses, they shall be<br>The favour I will wear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For ere their colour is wholly gone,<br>Or the breath of their sweetness fled,<br>They shall be placed in thy curls again,<br>But dy'd of a deeper red.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The warrior rode forth in the morning light,<br>And beside his snow-white plume<br>Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew,<br>Like pearls on their crimson bloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The maiden stood on her highest tower,<br>And watch'd her knight depart;<br>She dash'd the tear aside, but her hand<br>Might not still her beating heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day she watch'd the distant clouds<br>Float on the distant air,<br>A crucifix upon her neck,<br>And on her lips a prayer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sun went down, and twilight came<br>With her banner of pearlin grey,<br>And then afar she saw a band<br>Wind down the vale their way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks<br>Were their crimson colours borne;<br>And a stranger penon droop'd beneath,<br>But that was bow'd and torn:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But she saw no white steed first in the ranks,<br>No rider that spurr'd before;<br>But the evening shadows were closing fast,<br>And she could see no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower<br>In haste to reach the hall,<br>And as she sprang down the winding stair<br>She heard the drawbridge fall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A hundred harps their welcome rung,<br>Then paused as if in fear;<br>The ladye enter'd the hall, and saw<br>Her true knight stretch'd on his bier!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE song ceased, yet not with its tone<br>Is the minstrel's vision wholly flown;<br>But there he stood as if he had sent<br>His spirit to rove on the element.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But EVA broke on his trance, and the while<br>Play'd o'er her lip a sigh and a smile;--<br>'Now turn thee from that evening sky,<br>And the dreaming thoughts that are passing by,<br>And give me those buds, thou hast pluck'd away<br>The leaves of the rose round which they lay;<br>Yet still the boon thrice fair will be,<br>And give them for my tidings to me.<br>A herald waits in the court to claim<br>Aid in the Lady of Clarin's name;<br>And well you know the fair CLOTILDE <br>Will have her utmost prayer fulfill'd.<br>Go to the hall at once, and ask<br>That thine may be the glorious task<br>To spread the banner to the day<br>And lead the vassals to the fray.'-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He rush'd to the crowded hall, and there<br>He heard the herald's words declare<br>The inroad on her lands, the wrong<br>The lonely Countess suffer'd long,<br>And now SIR HERBERT'S arm'd array<br>Before her very castle lay;<br>But surely there was many a knight<br>Whose sword would strike for lady's right;<br>And surely many a lover's hand<br>In such a cause would draw the brand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And rush'd the blood, and flash'd the light<br>To RAYMOND'S cheek, from RAYMOND'S eye,<br>When he stood forth and claim'd the fight,<br>And spoke of death and victory,<br>Those words that thrill the heart when first<br>Forth the young warrior's soul has burst.<br>And smiled the castle lord to see<br>His ward's impetuous energy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Well! get thy sword, the dawning day<br>Shall see thee lead my best array;<br>Suits it young warrior well to fight<br>For lady's cause and lady's right?<br>'Tis just a field for knight to win<br>His maiden spurs and honours in.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And RAYMOND felt as if a gush<br>Of thousand waters in one rush<br>Were on his heart, as if the dreams<br>Of what, alas! life only seems,<br>Wild thoughts and noontide revelries,<br>Were turn'd into realities.<br>Impatient, restless, first his steed<br>Was hurried to its utmost speed:<br>And next his falchion's edge was tried,<br>Then waved the helmet's plume of pride,<br>Then wandering through the courts and hall,<br>He paused in none yet pass'd through all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there was one whose gentle heart<br>Could ill take its accustom'd part<br>In RAYMOND'S feelings, one who deem'd<br>That almost unkind RAYMOND seem'd:--<br>If thus the very name of war,<br>Could fill so utterly each thought,<br>How durst she hope, that when afar<br>EVA would be to memory brought.<br>Oh, she had yet the task to learn<br>How often woman's heart must turn<br>To feed upon its own excess<br>Of deep yet passionate tenderness!<br>How much of grief the heart must prove<br>That yields a sanctuary to love!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And ever since the crimson day<br>Had faded into twilight grey,<br>She had been in the gallery, where<br>Hung, pictured, knight and lady fair,<br>Where haughty brow, and lovely face,<br>Show'd youth and maiden of her race.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With both it was a favourite spot,<br>And names and histories which had not<br>A record save in the dim light<br>Tradition throws on memory's night<br>To them were treasures; they could tell<br>What from the first crusade befell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There could not be a solitude<br>More fitted for a pensive mood<br>Than this old gallery,--the light<br>Of the full moon came coldly bright--<br>A silvery stream, save where a stain<br>Fell from the pictured window pane,--<br>A ruby flush, a purple dye,<br>Like the last sun-streak on the sky,<br>And lighted lip, and cheek of bloom<br>Almost in mockery of the tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How sad, how strange to think the shade,<br>The copy faint of beauty made,<br>Should be the only wreck that death<br>Shall leave of so much bloom and breath.<br>The cheek, long since the earth-worm's prey,<br>Beside the lovely of to-day<br>Here smiles as bright, as fresh, as fair,<br>As if of the same hour it were.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There pass'd a step along the hall,<br>And EVA started as if all<br>Her treasures, secret until now,<br>Burnt in the blush upon her brow.<br>There was a something in their meeting,<br>A conscious trembling in her greeting,<br>As coldness from his eye might hide<br>The struggle of her love and pride;<br>Then fears of all too much revealing<br>Vanish'd with a reproachful feeling.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What, coldness! when another day<br>And RAYMOND would be far away,<br>When that to-morrow's rising sun<br>Might be the last he look'd upon!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Come, EVA , dear! by the moonlight<br>We'll visit all our haunts to night.<br>I could not lay me down to rest,<br>For, like the feathers in my crest,<br>My thoughts are waving to and fro.<br>Come, EVA , dear! I could not go<br>Without a pilgrimage to all<br>Of garden, nook, and waterfall,--<br>Where, amid birds, and leaves, and flowers,<br>And gales that cool'd the sunny hours,<br>With legend old, and plaining song,<br>We found not summer's day too long.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Through many a shadowy spot they past,<br>Looking its loveliest and its last,<br>Until they paused beneath the shade<br>Of cypress and of roses made,--<br>The one so sad, the one so fair,<br>Just blent as love and sorrow are.<br>And RAYMOND prayed the maiden gather,<br>And twine in a red wreath together<br>The roses. 'No,' she sigh'd 'not these<br>Sweet children of the sun and breeze,<br>Born for the beauty of a day,<br>Dying as all fair things decay<br>When loveliest,--these may not be,<br>RAYMOND , my parting gift to thee.'<br>From next her heart, where it had lain,<br>She took an amber scented chain,<br>To which a cross of gold was hung,<br>And round the warrior's neck she flung<br>The relique, while he kiss'd away<br>The warm tears that upon it lay.<br>And mark'd they not the pale, dim sky<br>Had lost its moonlit brilliancy,<br>When suddenly a bugle rang,--<br>Forth at its summons RAYMOND sprang,<br>But turn'd again to say farewell<br>To her whose gushing teardrops fell<br>Like summer rain,--but he is gone!<br>And EVA weeps, and weeps alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dark was the shade of that old tower<br>In the grey light of morning's hour;<br>And cold and pale the maiden leant<br>Over the heavy battlement,<br>And look'd upon the armed show<br>That hurrying throng'd the court below:<br>With her white robe and long bright hair,<br>A golden veil flung on the air,<br>Like Peace prepared from earth to fly,<br>Yet pausing, ere she wing'd on high,<br>In pity for the rage and crime<br>That forced her to some fairer clime.<br>When suddenly her pale cheek burn'd,<br>For RAYMOND'S eye to her's was turn'd;<br>But like a meteor past its flame--<br>She was too sad for maiden shame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She heard the heavy drawbridge fall,<br>And RAYMOND rode the first of all;<br>But when he came to the green height<br>Which hid the castle from his sight,<br>With useless spur and slacken'd rein,<br>He was the laggard of the train.<br>They paused upon the steep ascent,<br>And spear, and shield, and breast-plate sent<br>A light, as if the rising day<br>Upon a mirror flash'd its ray.<br>They pass on, EVA only sees<br>A chance plume waving in the breeze,<br>And then can see no more--but borne<br>Upon the echo, came the horn;<br>At last nor sight nor sound declare<br>Aught of what pass'd that morning there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweet sang the birds, light swept the breeze,<br>And play'd the sunlight o'er the trees,<br>And roll'd the river's depths of blue<br>Quiet as they were wont to do.<br>And EVA felt as if of all<br>Her heart were sole memorial.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Letitia+Elizabeth+Landon">Letitia Elizabeth Landon</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447618" data-title="The Troubadour. Canto 1 de Letitia Elizabeth Landon" data-description="CALL to mind your loveliest dream,-- When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream, When your pillow is made of the violet, And over your head the branches are met Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees, When the roses' breath is on the breez..."></div> </div> </div>

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