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And what were Raymond's dreams that night ¥ The morning's gift of crimson lip-lit Waked not his sleep, for his |inle cheek Did not of aught like slumber speak; Though not upon a morn like this Should Raymond turn to aught but bliss. To-day, when Eva will be prcst, Ere evening, to his throbbing breast,— To-day, when all his own will be That cheer'd his long captivity. Care to the wind of heaven was flung As the young knight to stirrup sprung.

He reach'd the castle; save one, all Rush'd to his welcome in the hnll. He gazed, but there no Eva came, Scarce his low voice named Eva's name!

"Our Eva, she is far away Amid the young, the fair, the gay. At Toulouse, now the bright resort Of beauty and the Minstrel-Court; For this time it is hers to set The victor's brow with violet. Her father,—but you're worn and pale,— Come, the wine-cup will aid my tale." The greeting of the elder knight, The cheerful board, the vintage bright. Not all could chase from Raymond's soul The cloud that o'er its gladness stole; And soon, pretending toil, lie sought A solitude for lonely thought.— 'Tis strange how much of vanity Almost unconsciously will be With our best feelings mix'd, and now But that, what shadows Raymond's brow?

_He had dcem'd a declining flower, Pining in solitary bower. He should find Eva, sad and lone,— He sought the cage, the bird had flown. With burnish'd plume, nnd careless Ming, A follower of the sunny Spring. He pictured her the first of nil In masque, and dance, nnd festival,— With check at its own praises burning, And eyes but on adorers turning, The lady of the tournament, For whose bright sake the lance was sent; While minstrels borrow'd from her mime The beauty which they paid by fame: Beloved! not even his hot brain Dared whisper,—loving too again.

But the next morn, and Raymond bent His steps to that fair Parliament, While pride nnd hasty anger strove

Against his me ry and his love.

But leave we him awhile to rave Against the faith which, like the wave,

By every grain of sand can ho
Moved from its own tranquillity,
Till settled he that woman's mind
Was but a leaf before the wind,—
Left to remain, retreat, advance.
Without a destiny but chance

And where is Eva '( on her cheek
Is there aught that of love may speak?
Amid the music and perfume
That, mingling, fill yon stately room
A maiden sits, around her chair
Stand others who, with graceful care,
Mind Indian jewels in her hair.
'Tis Eva! on one side a stand
Of dark wood from the Ethiop'g land
Is cover'd with all gems that deck
A maiden's arm, or maiden's neck:
The diamond with its veins of light,
The sapphir like a suinracr-night.
The ruby rich as it had won
A red gift from the setting sun,
And white pearls, such as might have becu
A bridal offering for a queen.
On the side opposite were thrown,
Kainbow-like mix'd, a sparkling zone,
A snow-white veil, a purple vest
Embroider'd with a golden crest.
Before, the silver mirror's trace
Is the sweet shadow of her face,
Placed as appealing to her eyes
For the truth of the flatteries,
With which her gay attendants seek
To drive all sadness from her check.—
She heard them not'; she reck'd not how
They wrcath'd the bright hair o'er her brow,
Whate'er its sunny grace might be
There was an eye that would not see.
They told of words of royal praise,
They told of minstrel's moonlight-lays,
Of youthful knights who swore to die
For her least smile, her lightest sigh.
But he was gone, her young, her brave.
Her heart was with him in the grave.

Wearied, for ill the heart may bear
Light words in which it has no share,
She turn'd to a pale maid, who, mule.
Dreaming of song leant o'er her lute;
And at her sign, that maiden's words
Came echo-like to its sweet chords,—
It was a low and silver tone,
And very sad, like sorrow's own;
She sang of love as it will be,
And has been in reality,—
Of fond hearts broken and betray'd,
Of roses opening but to fade,
Of wither'd hope, and wasted bloom,
Of the young warrior's early tomb;
And the while her dark mournful eve
Held with her words deep sympathy.

And Eva listcu'd :— music's pouer
Is little felt in sunlit hour;

Bat hear its voice when hopes depart,

Like swallows, flying from the heart

On which the summer's late decline

Has set a sadness and a sign;

When friends whose commune once we sought

For every bosom-wish and thought,

Have given in our hour of need

Such a support as gives the reed,—

When we have seen the green grass grow

Over what once was life below;

How deeply will the spirit feel

The lute, the song's sweet-voiced appeal;

And how the heart drink in their sighs

As echoes they from Paradise.

'Tis done: the last bright gem is set In Eva's sparkling coronet; A soil on her rich veil appears,— Unsuiting here—and is it tears!

Her father met her, he was proud To lead his daughter through the crowd, And see the many eyes that gazed. Then mark the blush their gazing raised; And for his sake, she forced away The clouds that on her forehead lay, The sob rose in her throat, 'twas all, The tears swam, but they dared not fall; And the pale lip put on a smile, Alas it was.too sad for guile!

A beautiful and festal day Shone summer-bright o'er the array, And purple banners, work'd in gold, And azure pennons spread their fold O'er the rich awnings which were round The galleries that hemm'd in the ground, The green and open space, where met The Minstrels of the Violet; And two or three old stately trees Soften'd the sun, screen'd from the breeze. And there came many a lovely dame, With cheek of rose, and eye of flame; And many a radiant nrm was raised. Whose rubies in the sunshine blazed; And many a white veil swept the air Only than whnt they hid less fair; And placed at his own beauty's feet Found many a youthful knight his seat. And flung his jewell'd cap aside, And wore his scarf with gayer pride, And whispcr'd soft and gallant things, And bade the bards' imaginings Whenever love awoke the tone, With their sweet passion plead his own.

Beneath an azure canopy, Blue as the sweep of April's sky. Upon a snowy couch reclined Like a white cloud before the wind. Leant Eva :—there was many a tent More royal, more magnificent,

With purple, gold, and crimson swelling.
But none so like a fairy-dwelling:
One curtain bore her father's crest,
Hut summer-flowers confined the rest;
And, at her feet, the ground was strew'd
With the June's rainbow-multitude:
Beside her knelt a page, who bore
A vase with jewels sparkling o'er,
And in that shining vase was set
The prize,—The Golden Violet.

Alas for her whom cv'ry eye Worshipp'd like a divinity! Alas for her whose ear was fill'd With flatteries like sweet woods distill'd! Alas for Eva! bloom and beam, Music and mirth, came like a dream. In which she mingled not,—apart From all in heaviness of heart. There were soft tales pour'd in her ear. She look'd on many a cavalier, Wander'd her eye round the glad scene. It was as if they had not been ;— To ear, eye, heart, there only came Her Raymond's image, Raymond's name!

There is a flower, a snow-white flower. Fragile as if n morning-shower Would end its being, and the earth Forget to what'it gave a birth; And it looks innocent and pale, Slight as the least force could avail To pluck it from its bed, and yet Tts root in depth and strength is set. The July-sun, the autumn-rain, Beaton its slender stalk in vain;— Around it spreads, despite of care, Till the whole garden is its share; And other plants must fade and fall Beneath its deep and deadly thrall. This is Love's emblem; it is must In all unconsciousness at first, Too slight, too fair, to wake distrust; No sign how that an after-hour Will rue and weep its fatal power. "I'was thus with Eva; she had dream'd Of love as his first likeness seem'd A sweet thought o'er which she might brood, The treasure of her solitude; But tidings of young Raymond's fate Wakcn'd her from her dream too late, Even her timid love could be The ruling star of destiny. And when a calmer mood prcvail'd O'er that whose joy her father hail d. Too well he saw how day by day Some other emblem of decay Came on her lip, and o'er her brow. Which only she would disallow; The cheek the lightest word could flush Not with health's rose, but the heart's gush Of feverish noxiousness; he caught At the least hope, and vainly sought

By change, by pleasure, to dispel
Her sorrow from its secret cell.
In vain;—what can reanimate
A heart too early desolate?
It had been his, it could not save,
But it could follow to his grave.

The trumpets peal'd their latCBt round, Stole from the flutes a softer sound, Swcll'd the. harp to each master's hand, As onward came the minstrel-band! And many a bright cheek grew more bright, And many a dark eye ilash'd with light, As bent the minstrel o'er his lute. And urged the lover's plaining suit, Or swept a louder chord, and gave Some glorious history of the brave,

At last from 'mid the crowd one came, Unknown himself, unknown his name, Both knight and bard,—the stranger wore The garb of a young Troubadour; His dark green mantle, loosely flung, Conceal'd the form o'er which it hung; And his cap, with its shadowy plume, Hid his face by its raven gloom. Little did Eva's careless eye Dream that it wander'd Raymond by, Though his first tone thrill'd every vein, It only made her turn ngain, Forget the scene, the song, and dwell But on what memory felt too well.

THE SONG OF THE TROUBADOUR.

In some valley low and lone,

Where I was the only one

Of the human dwellers there,

Would I dream away my care:

I'd forget how in the world

Snakes lay amid roses curl'd,

I'd forget my once distress

For young Love's insidiousness.

False foes, and yet falser friends,

Seeming but for their own ends;

Pleasures known but by their wingg,

Yet remembcr'd by their stings;

Gold's decrease, and health's decay,

I will fly like these away,

To some lovely solitude,

Where the nightingale's young brood

Lives amid the shrine of leaves,

Which the wild rose round them weaves,

And my dwelling shall be made

Underneath the beech-tree's shade.

Twining ivy for the walls

Over which the jasmine falls,

Like a tapestry work'd with gold

And pearls around each emerald fold:

And my couches shall be set

With the purple violet,

And the white ones too, inside

Each a blush to suit a bride.

That flower which of all that live,

Lovers, should be those who give,

Primroses, for each appears

Pale and wet with many tears.

Alas tears and pallid cheek

All too often love bespeak!

There the gildcrose should fling

Silver treasures to the spring,

And the bright laburnum's tresses

Seeking the young wind's caresses;

In the midst an azure lake,

Where no oar e'er dips to break

The clear bed of its blue rest,

Where the halcyon builds her nest;

And amid the sedges green,

And the water-flag's thick screen,

The solitary swan resides;

And the bright kingfisher hides,

With its colours rich like those

Which the bird of India shows.—

Once I thought that I would seek

Some fair creature, young and meek,

Whose most gentle smile would bless

My too utter loneliness;

But I then remember'd all

I had suflci'd from Love's thrall,

And I thought I'd not again

I Intel' in the lion's den;

But, with my wrung heart now free,

So I thought I still will be.

Love is like a kingly dome.

Yet too often sorrow's home;

Sometimes smiles, but oftener tears,

Jealousies, and hopes, and fears,

A sweet liquor sparkling up,

But drank from a poison'd cup.

Would you guard your heart from care

Love must never enter there.

I will dwell with summer-flowers,

Fit friends for the summer-hours,

My companions honey-bees,

And birds, and buds, and leaves, and trees,

And the dew of the twilight,

And the thousand stars of night:

I will cherish that sweet gift,

The least earthly one now left

Of the gems of Paradise,

Poesy's delicious sighs.

Ill may that soft spirit bear

Crowds' or cities' healthless air;

Was not her sweet breathing meant

To echo the low murmur sent

By the flowers, and by the rill,

When all save the wind is still?

As if to tell of those fair things

High thoughts, pure imaginings,

That recall how bright, how fair.

In our other state we were.

And at last, when I have spent

A calm life in mild content,

May my spirit pass away

As the early leaves decay:

Spring shakes her gay coronal,

One sweet breath, and then they fall.

Only let the red-breast bring

Moss to strew me with, and sing

One low mournful dirge to tell I have bid the world farewell.

And praise rang forth, the prize is won,
Young minstrel, thou hast equal none!
They led him to the lady's seat,
And knelt he down at Eva's feet;
She bent his victor-brow to deck,
And, fainting, sunk upon his neck!
The cap and plume aside were thrown,
'Twas as the grave restored its own,
And sent its victim forth to share
Light, life, and hope, and sun, and air.

That day the feast spread gay and bright In honour of the youthful knight, And it was Eva's fairy-hand Met Raymond's in the saraband, And it was Eva's ear that heard Many a low and love-tuned word.— And life seera'd as a sunny stream, And hope awaked as from a dream; But what has minstrel left to tell When love has not an obstacle? My lute is hush'd, and mute its chords, The heart and happiness have no words!

My tale is told, the glad sunshine
Fell over its commencing line,—
It was a morn in June, the.sun
Was blessing all it shone upon,
The sky was clear as not a cloud
Were ever on its face allow'd;
The hill whereon I stood was made
A pleasant place of summer-shade
By the green elms which seem'd as meant
To make the noon a shadowy tent.
I had been bent half sleep, half wake,
Dreaming those rainbow-dreams that take
The spirit prisoner in their chain,
Too beautiful to be quite vain,—
Enough if they can soothe or cheer
One moment's pain or sorrow here.
And I was happy; hope and fame
Together on my visions came,
For memory had just dipp'd her wings
In honey-dews, and sunlit springs,—
My brow burnt with its early wreath,
My soul had drank its first sweet breath
Of praise, and yet my cheek was flushing,
My heart with the full torrent gushing
Of feelings whose delighted mood
Was mingling joy and gratitude-
Scarce possible it seem'd to be
That such praise conld be meant for me.—
Enured to coldness and neglect.
My spirit chill'd, my breathing check'd,
All that can crowd and crush the mind,
Friends even more than fate unkind.

And fortunes stamp'd with the pale aign
That marks and makes autumn's decline-
How could I stand in the sunshine.
And marvel not that it was mine?
One word, if ever happiness
In its most passionate excess
Ofler'd its wine to' human lip,
It has been mine that cup to sip.
I may not say with what deep dread
The words of my first song were said,
I may not say how much delight
Has been upon my minstrel-flight.—
'Tis vain, and yet my heart would say
Somewhat to those who made my way
A path of light, with power to kill,
To check, to crush, but not the will.
Thanks for the gentleness that lent
My young lute such encouragement,
When scorn had tarn'd my heart to stone.
Oh, theirs be thanks and benison!

Back to the summer-hill again! 'When first I thought upon this strain, And music rose upon the air, I look'd below, and, gnther'd there, Rode soldiers with their breast - plates

glancing. Helmets nnd snow-white feathers dancing. And trumpets nl whose martial sound Prouder the wnr-horse trod the ground, And waved their flag with many a name Of battles and each battle-fame. And as I mark'd the gallant line Pass through the green lane's serpentine, And as I saw the boughs give way Before the crimson pennons' play; To other days my fancy went, Call'd up the stirring tournament, The dark-eyed maiden who for years Kept the vows seal'd by parting tears. While he who own'd her plighted hand Was fighting in the Holy Land. The youthful knight with his gay crest, His ladye's scarf upon a breast Whose truth was kept, come life, come

death,— Alas! has modern love such faith? I thought how in the moonlit hour The minstrel hymn'd his maiden's bower. His helm and sword changed for the luteAmi one sweet song to urge his suit. Floated around me moated hall, And donjon-keep, nnd frowning wall; I saw the marshall'd hosts advance, I gazed on banner, brand, and hiiiee; The murmur of a low song came Bearing one only worshipp'd name; And ray next song, I said, should be A tale of gonc-by chivalry.

My task is done, the tale is told. The lute drops from my wearied hold; Spreads no green earth, no summer-sky To raise fresh visions for my eye,

The hour is dark, the winter-rain
Heals cold and harsh against the pane,
Where, spendthrift like, the branches twine,
Worn, knotted, of u leafless Tine;
And the wind howls in gusts around,
As omens were in each drear sound,—
Omens that bear upon their breath
Tidings of sorrow, pain, and death.
Thus should it be,—I could not bear
The breath of flowers, the sunny air
Upon that ending page should be
Which Onb will never, never see.
Yet who will love it like that one,
Who cherish as he would have done,
My father! albeit but in vain
This clasping of a broken chain,
And albeit of all vainest things
That haunt with sad imaginings,
None has the sting of memory;
Yet still my spirit turns to thee,
Despite of long and lone regret,
Rejoicing it cannot forget.
I would not lose the lightest thought
With one remembrance of thine fraught,—
And my heart said no name, but thine
Should be on this last page of mine.

My father, though no more thine ear
Censure or praise of mine can hear,
It soothes me to embalm thy name
With all my hope, my pride, my fame,
Treasures of Fancy's fairy-hall,—
Thy name most precious far of all.

My page is wet with bitter tears,—
I cannot but think of those years

When happiness and I would wait

On summer-evenings by the gate,

And keep o'er the green fields our watch

The first sound of thy step to catch,

Then run for the first kiss, and word,—

An unkind one I never heard.

But these are pleasant memories,

And later years have none like these:

They came with griefs, and pains, and

cares, All that the heart breaks while it bears; Desolate as I feel alone I should not weep that thou art gone. Alas! the tears that still will fall Are selfish in their fond recall;— If ever tears could win from Heaven A loved one, and yet be forgiven, Mine surely might; I may not tell The agony of my farewell! A single tear I had not shed,— 'Twas the first time I mourn'd the dead;— It was my heaviest loss, my worst,— My father!—and was thine the first!

Farewell! in ray heart is n spot Where other griefs and cares come not, Hnllow'd by love, by memory kept, And deeply honour'd, deeply wept. My own dead father, time may bring Chance, change, upon his rainbow-wing, But never will thy name depart The household-god of thy child's heart, Until thy orphan-girl may share The grave where her best feelings are. Never, dear father, love can be, Like the dear love I had for thee!

THE GOLDEN VIOLET.

To-morrow, to-morrow, thou loveliest May, To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day; Bride of the summer, child of the spring. To-morrow the year will its favourite bring: The roses will know thee, and fling back

their vest, While the nightingale sings him to sleep on

their breast; The blossoms, in welcomes, will open to meet On the light boughs thy breath, in the soft

grass thy feet. To-morrow the dew will have virtue to shed O'er the cheek of the maiden its loveliest red; To-morrow a glory will brighten the earth, While the spirit of beauty rejoicing has

birth.

Farewell to thee, April, a gentle farewell,

Thou hast saved the young rose in its emerald cell;

Sweet nurse, thou hast mingled thy sunshine and showers,

Like kisses and tears, on thy children, the flowers.

As a hope, when fulfill'd, to sweet memory turns,

We shall think of thy clouds as the odorous urns,

Whence colour, and freshness, and fragrance were wept;

Wc shall think of thy rainbows, their promise is kept.

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