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TROUBADOUR.

And knelt me down beside, to gaze
On all the mockery death displays,
Until it seem'd but sleep to me.
Death,-oh, no! death it could not be.

The cold gray light the dawn had shed,
Changed gradual into melting red;
I watch'd the morning-colour-streak
With crimson dye her marble cheek;
The freshness of the stirring air
Lifted her curls of raven-hair;
Her head lay pillow'd on her arm,
Sweetly, as if with life yet warm ;-
I kiss'd her lips: oh, God, the chill!
My heart is frozen with it still:-
It was as suddenly on me
Open'd my depths of misery.

I flung me on the ground, and raved,
And of the wind that past me craved
One breath of poison, till my blood
From lip and brow gush'd in one flood.
I watch'd the warm stream of my veins
Mix with the death-wounds clotted stains;
Oh! how I pray'd that I might pour
My heart's tide, and her life restore!

And night came on:--with what dim fear
I mark'd the darkling hours appear,-
I could not gaze on the dear brow,
And seeing was all left me now.

I grasp'd the cold hand in mine own,
Till both alike seem'd turn'd to stone.
Night, morn, and noontide pass'd away,
Then came the tokens of decay.

"Twas the third night that I had kept
My watch, and, like a child, had wept
Sorrow to sleep, and in my dream
I saw her as she once could seem,
Fair as an angel: there she bent
As if sprung from the element,
The bright clear fountain, whose pure wave
Her soft and shadowy image gave.
Methought that conscious beauty threw
Upon her cheek its own sweet hue,
Its loveliness of morning-red;

I woke, and gazed upon the dead.

I mark'd the fearful stains which now
Were dark'ning o'er the once white brow,
The livid colours that declare
The soul no longer dwelleth there.
The gaze of even my fond eye,
Seem'd almost like impiety,
As it were sin for looks to be
On what the earth alone should see.
I thought upon the loathsome doom
Of the grave's cold, corrupted gloom ;-
Oh, never shall the vile worm rest
A lover on thy lip and breast!
Oh, never shall a careless tread
Soil with its step thy sacred bed!
Never shall leaf or blossom bloom
With vainest mockery o'er thy tomb!

And forth I went, and raised a shrine
Of the dried branches of the pine,—
I laid her there, and o'er her flung
The wild flowers that around her sprung;
I tore them up, and root and all,
I bade them wait her funeral,

With a strange joy that each fair thing
Should, like herself, be withering.
I lit the pyre,-the evening-skies
Rain'd tears upon the sacrifice;
How did its wild and awful light
Struggle with the fierce winds of night;
Red was the battle, but in vain
Hiss'd the hot embers with the rain.
It wasted to a simple spark;

That faded, and all round was dark:
Then, like a madman who has burst
The chain which made him doubly curst,
fled away. I may not tell
The agony that on me fell:-

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I fled away, for fiends were near,
My brain was fire, my heart was fear!

I was borne on an eagle's wing,
Till with the noon-sun perishing;
Then I stood in a world alone,
From which all other life was gone,
Whence warmth, and breath, and light were
fled,

A world o'er which a curse was said:
The trees stood leafless all, and bare,
The sky spread, but no sun was there:
Night came, no stars were on her way,
Morn came without a look of day,—
As night and day shared one pale shroud,
Without a colour or a cloud.

And there were rivers, but they stood
Without a murmur on the flood,
Waveless and dark, their task was o'er-
The sea lay silent on the shore,
Without a sign upon its breast
Save of interminable rest:
And there were palaces and halls,
But silence reign'd amid their walls,
Though crowds yet fill'd them; for no sound
Rose from the thousands gather'd round;
All wore the same white, bloodless hue,
All the same eyes of glassy blue,
Meaningless, cold, corpse-like as those
No gentle hand was near to close.
And all seem'd, as they look'd on me,
In wonder that I yet could be
A moving shape of warmth and breath
Alone amid a world of death.

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I waken'd scarce to consciousness,-
Memory had fainted with excess:
I only saw that I was laid

Beneath an olive-tree's green shade;
I knew I was where flowers grew fair,
I felt their balm upon the air,
I drank it as it had been wine;
I saw a gift of red sunshine
Glittering upon a fountain's brim;
I heard the small birds' vesper-hymn,
As they a vigil o'er me kept,—
I heard their music, and I wept.
I felt a friendly arm upraise
My head, a kind look on me gaze!

RAYMOND, it has been mine to see
The godlike heads which Italy
Has given to prophet and to saint,
All of least earthly art could paint!
But never saw I such a brow

As that which gazed upon me now ;—
It was an aged man, his hair
Was white with time, perhaps with care;
For over his pale face were wrought
The characters of painful thought;
But on that lip and in that eye
Were patience, peace, and piety,
The hope which was not of this earth,
The peace which has in pangs its birth,
As if in its last stage the mind,
Like silver seven times refined
In life's red furnace, all its clay,
All its dross purified away,
Paused yet a little while below,
Its beanty and its power to show.
As if the tumult of this life,
Its sorrow, vanity, and strife,
Had been but as the lightning's shock
Shedding rich ore upon the rock,
Though in the trial scorch'd and riven,
The gold it wins is gold from heaven.
He watch'd, he soothed me day to day,
How kindly words may never say:
All angel ministering could be
That old man's succour was to me;
I dwelt with him; for all in vain
He urged me to return again
And mix with life:-and months past on
Without a trace to mark them gone;
1 had one only wish, to be

Left to my grief's monotony.
There is a calm which is not peace,
Like that when ocean's tempests cease,
When worn out with the storm, the sea
Sleeps in her dark tranquillity,
As dreading that the lightest stir
Would bring again the winds on her.
I felt as if I could not brook

A sound, a breath, a voice, a look,
As I fear'd they would bring again
Madness upon my heart and brain.
It was a haunting curse to me,
The simoon of insanity.

The links of life's enchanted chain,
Its hope, its pleasure, fear or pain,

Connected but with what had been,
Clung not to any future scene.
There is an indolence in grief
Which will not even seek relief:
I sat me down, like one who knows
The poison-tree above him grows,
Yet moves not; my life-task was done
With that hour which left me alone.

It was one glad and glorious noon,
Fill'd with the golden airs of June,
When leaf and flower look to the sun
As if his light and life were one,—
A day of those diviner days

When breath seems only given for praise,
Beneath a stately tree which shed
A cool green shadow over-head
I listen'd to that old man's words
Till my heart's pulses were as chords
Of a lute waked at the command
Of some thrice powerful master's hand.
He paused: I saw his face was bright
With even more than morning's light,
As his cheek felt the spirit's glow;
A glory sate upon his brow,
His eye flash'd as to it were given
A vision of his coming heaven.
I turn'd away in awe and fear,
My spirit was not of his sphere;
Ill might an earthly care intrude
Upon such high and holy mood:
I felt the same as I had done
Had angel-face upon me shone,
When sudden, as sent from on high,
Music came slowly sweeping by.
It was not harp, it was not song,
Nor aught that might to earth belong!
The birds sang not, the leaves were still,
Silence was sleeping on the rill;
But with a deep and solemn sound
The viewless music swept around.
Oh never yet was such a tone
To hand or lip of mortal known!
It was as if a hymn were sent
From heaven's starry instrument,
In joy, such joy as seraphs feel
For some pure soul's immortal weal,
When that its human task is done,
Earth's trials past, and heaven won.
I felt, before I fear'd, my dread,
I turn'd and saw the old man dead!
Without a struggle or a sigh,
And is it thus the righteous die?
There he lay in the sun, calm, pale,
As if life had been like a tale
Which, whatsoe'er its sorrows past,
Breaks off in hope and peace at last.

I stretch'd him by the olive-tree, Where his death, there his grave should be; The place was a thrice hallowed spot, There had he drawn his golden lot Of immortality; 'twas blest,

A green and holy place of rest.

But ill my burthen'd heart could bear Its after-loneliness of care;

The calmness round seem'd but to be
A mockery of grief and me,—
The azure flowers, the sunlit sky,
The rill, with its still melody,

The leaves, the birds,- with my despair,
The light and freshness had no share:
The one unbidden of them all
To join in summer's festival.

I wander'd first to many a shrine By zeal or ages made divine; And then I visited each place Where valour's deeds had left a trace; Or sought the spots renown'd no less For nature's lasting loveliness. In vain that all things changed around, No change in my own heart was found. In sad or gay, in dark or fair, My spirit found a likeness there.

At last my bosom yearn'd to see My Eva's blooming infancy; I saw, myself unseen the while, Oh, God! it was her mother's smile! Wherefore, oh, wherefore had they flung The veil just as her mother's hung!— Another look I dared not take, Another look my heart would break! I rush'd away to the lime-grove Where first I told my tale of love; And leaves and flowers breathed of spring As in our first sweet wandering. I look'd towards the clear blue sky, I saw the gem-like stream run by; How did I wish that, like these, fate Had made the heart inanimate. Oh! why should spring for others be, When there can come no spring to thee.

Again, again, I rush'd away;
Madness was on an instant's stay!
And since that moment, near and far,
In rest, in toil, in peace, in war,
I've wander'd on without an aim,
In all, save lapse of years the same.
Where was the star to rise and shine
Upon a night so dark as mine?—
My life was as a frozen stream,
Which shares but feels not the sun-beam,
All careless where its course may tend,
So that it leads but to an end.

I fear my fate too much to crave
More than it must bestow-the grave.

And AMIRALD from that hour sought A refuge from each mournful thought In RAYMOND's sad but soothing smile; And listening what might well beguile

The spirit from its last recess
Of dark and silent wretchedness.
He spoke of EVA, and he tried
To rouse her father into pride
Of her fair beauty; rather strove
To waken hope yet more than love.

He saw how deeply AMIRALD fear'd
To touch a wound not heal'd but sear'd:
His gentle care was not in vain,
And AMIRALD learn'd to think again
Of hope, if not of happiness;
And soon his bosom pined to press
The child whom he so long had left
An orphan doubly thus bereft.

He mark'd with what enamour'd tongue
RAYMOND on Eva's mention hung,-
The softened tone, the downward gaze,
All that so well the heart betrays;
And a reviving future stole
Like dew and sunlight on his soul.

Soon the Crusaders would be met Where winter's rest from war was set; And then farewell to arms and Spain ;Then for their own fair France again.

One morn there swell'd the trumpet's blast,
Calling to battle, but the last;
And AMIRALD watch'd the youthful knight
Spur his proud courser to the fight:
Tall as the young pine yet unbent
By strife with its mountain-element,—
His vizor was up, and his full dark eye
Flash'd as its flashing were victory;
And hope and pride sate on his brow
As his earlier war-dreams were on him now.
Well might he be proud, for where was
there one

Who had won the honour that he had won?
And first of the line it was his to lead
His band to many a daring deed.

But rose on the breath of the evening-gale,
Not the trumpet's salute,but a mournful tale
Of treachery, that had betray'd the flower
Of the Christian force to the Infidel's power
One came who told he saw RAYMOND fall,
Left in the battle the last of all;
His helm was gone, and his wearied hand
Held a red but a broken brand.—
What could a warrior do alone?
And AMIRALD felt all hope was gone.
Alas for the young! alas for the brave!
For the morning's hope, and the evening's
grave!

And gush'd for him hot briny tears,
Such as AMIKALD had not shed for years;
With heavy step and alter'd heart,
Again he turn'd him to depart.
He sought his child, but half her bloom
Was withering in RAYMOND's tomb.

Albeit not with those who fled, Yet was not RAYMOND with the dead. There is a lofty castle stands On the verge of Grenada's lands; It has a dungeon, and a chain, And there the young knight must remain. Day after day,—or rather night,Can morning come without its light? Pass'd on without a sound or sight. The only thing that he could feel, Was the same weight of fettering steel,The only sound that he could hear Was when his own voice mock'd his ear,His only sight was the drear lamp That faintly show'd the dungeon's damp, When by his side the jailor stood, And brought his loathed and scanty food.

What is the toil, or care, or pain, The human heart cannot sustain? Enough if struggling can create A change of colour in our fate; But where's the spirit that can cope With listless suffering, when hope, The last of misery's allies, Sickens of its sweet self, and dies.

He thought on Eva:-tell not me Of happiness in memory! Oh what is memory but a gift Within a ruin'd temple left, Recalling what its beauties were, And then presenting what they are. And many hours pass'd by,-each one Sad counterpart of others gone; Till even to his dreams was brought The sameness of his waking thought; And in his sleep he felt again The dungeon, darkness, damp, and chain.

One weary time, when he had thrown Himself on his cold bed of stone, Sudden he heard a stranger hand Undo the grating's iron band: He knew 'twas stranger, for no jar Came from the hastily drawn bar. Too faintly gleam'd the lamp to show The face of either friend or foe; But there was softness in the tread, And RAYMOND raised his weary head, And saw a muffled figure kneel, And loose the heavy links of steel. He heard a whisper, to which heaven Had surely all its music given:"Vow to thy saints for liberty, Sir knight, and softly follow me!" He heard her light step on the stair, And felt 'twas woman led him there. And dim and dark the way they past Till on the dazed sight flash'd at last A burst of light, and RAYMOND stood Where censers burn'd with sandal-wood,

And silver lamps like moonshine fell O'er mirrors and the tapestried swell Of gold and purple: on they went Through rooms each more magnificent.

And RAYMOND look'd upon the brow Of the fair guide who led him now: It was a pale but lovely face, Yet in its first fresh spring of grace, That spring before or leaf or flower Has known a single withering hour: With lips red as the earliest rose That opens for the bee's repose. But it was not on lip, or cheek Too marble-fair, too soft, too meek, That aught was traced that might express More than unconscious loveliness; But her dark eyes! as the wild light Streams from the stars at deep midnight, Speaks of the future,-so those eyes Seem'd with their fate to sympathise, As mocking with their conscious shade The smile that on the red lip play'd, As that they knew their destiny Was love, and that such love would be The uttermost of misery.

There came a new burst of perfume,
But different, from one stately room,
Not of sweet woods, waters distill'd,
But with fresh flowers' breathings fill'd;
And there the maiden paused, as thought
Some painful memory to her brought.
Around all spoke of woman's hand:
There a guitar lay on a stand
Of polish'd ebony, and raised

In rainbow ranks the hyacinth blazed
Like banner'd lancers of the spring,
Save that they were too languishing.
And gush'd the tears from her dark eyes,
And swell'd her lip and breast with sighs;
But RAYMOND spoke, and at the sound
The maiden's eye glanced hurried round.

Motioning with her hand she led, With watching gaze and noiseless tread, Along a flower-fill'd terrace, where Flow'd the first tide of open air. They reach'd the garden; there was all That gold could win, or luxury call From northern or from southern skies To make an earthly paradise. Their path was through a little grove, Where cypress-branches met above, Green, shadowy, as Nature meant To make the rose a summer-tent, In fear and care, lest the hot noon Should kiss her fragrant brow too soon. Oh! passion's history, ever thus Love's light and breath were perilous! On the one side a fountain play'd As if it were a Fairy's shade, Who shower'd diamonds to streak The red pomegranate's ruby cheek.

TROUBADOUR.

The grove led to a lake, one side

Sweet scented shrubs and willows hide:
There winds a path, the clear moonshine
Pierces not its dim serpentine.
The garden lay behind in light,

With flower and with fountain bright;
The lake like sheeted silver gave
The stars a mirror in each wave;
And distant far the torchlight fell,
Where paced the walls the centinel:
And as each scene met RAYMOND's view,
He deem'd the tales of magic true,—
With such a path, and such a night,
And such a guide, and such a flight.

The way led to a grotto's shade,
Just for a noon in summer made;
For scarcely might its arch be seen
Through the thick ivy's curtain green,
And not a sunbeam might intrude
Upon its twilight-solitude.

It was the very place to strew
The latest violets that grew
Upon the feathery moss, then dream,-
Lull'd by the music of the stream,-
Fann'd by those scented gales which bring
The garden's wealth upon their wing,
Till languid with its own delight,
Sleep steals like love upon the sight,
Bearing those visionings of bliss
That only visit sleep like this.

And paused the maid,—the moonlight shed
Its light where leaves and flowers were spread,
As there she had their sweetness borne,
A pillow for a summer-morn;
But when those leaves and flowers were raised,
A lamp beneath their covering blazed.
She led through a small path whose birth
Seem'd in the hidden depths of earth,-
'Twas dark and damp, and on the ear
There came a rush of waters near.
At length the drear path finds an end,—
Beneath a dark low arch they bend;
Safe, safe! the maiden cried, and prest
The red cross to her panting breast!
Yes, we are safe!-on, stranger, on,
The worst is past, and freedom won!
Somewhat of peril yet remains,
But peril not from Moorish chains;
With hope and heaven be our lot!
She spoke, but RAYMOND answer'd not:
It was as he at once had come
Into some star's eternal home,-
He look'd upon a spacious cave,
Rich with the gifts wherewith the wave
Had heap'd the temple of that source
Which gave it to its daylight course.
Here pillars crowded round the hall,
Each with a glistening capital:-
The roof was set with thousand spars,
A very midnight-heaven of stars;
The walls were bright with every gem
That ever graced a diadem;

Snow turn'd to treasure,-crystal flowers
With every hue of summer-hours.
While light and colour round him blazed,
It seem'd to RAYMOND that he gazed
Upon a fairy's palace, raised

By spells from ore and jewels, that shine
In Afric's stream and Indian mine:
And she, his dark-eyed guide, were queen
Alone in the enchanted scene.

They past the columns, and they stood
By the depths of a pitchy flood,
Where silent, leaning on his oar,
An Ethiop slave stood hy the shore.
My faithful ALI! cried the maid,
And then to gain the boat essay'd,
Then paused, as in her heart afraid
To trust that slight and fragile bark
Upon a stream so fierce, so dark:
Such sullen waves, the torch's glare
Fell wholly unreflected there.
'Twas but a moment; on they went
Over the grave-like element
At first in silence, for so drear
Was all that met the eye and ear,-
Before, behind, all was like night,
And the red torch's cheerless light,
Fitful and dim, but served to show
How the black waters roll'd below;
And how the cavern-roof o'erhead
Seem'd like the tomb above them spread,
And ever as each heavy stroke
Of the oar upon these waters broke,
Ten thousand echoes sent the sound
Like omens through the hollows round,
Till RAYMOND, who awhile subdued
His spirit's earnest gratitude,
Now pour'd his hurried thanks to her,
Heaven's own loveliest minister.
E'en by that torch he could espy
The burning cheek, the downcast eye,—
The faltering lip, which owns too well
All that its words might never tell;-
Once her dark eye met his, and then
Sank 'neath its silken shade again;
She spoke a few short hurried words,
But indistinct, like those low chords
Waked from the lute or ere the hand
Knows yet what song it shall command.
Was it in maiden fearfulness

He might her bosom's secret guess,
Or but in maiden modesty

At what a stranger's thought might be
Of this a Moorish maiden's flight
In secret with a Christian knight?
And the bright colour on her cheek
Was various as the morning-break,—
Now spring-rose red, now lily pale,
As thus the maiden told her tale.

MOORISH MAIDEN'S TALE.

Albeit on my brow and breast
Is Moorish turban, Moorish vest;

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