night?

The morning's gift of crimson light

Waked not his sleep, for his pale 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 prest,
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 hall. 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, he 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?

But the next morn, and RAYMOND bent His steps to that fair Parliament, While pride and hasty anger strove Against his memory and his love. But leave we him awhile to rave Against the faith which, like the wave,

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, Bind Indian jewels in her hair. "Tis EVA! on one side a stand Of dark wood from the Ethiop's 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 summer-night, The ruby rich as it had won A red gift from the setting sun,

And white pearls, such as might have been
A bridal offering for a queen.
On the side opposite were thrown,
Rainbow-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 cheek.-
She heard them not; she reck'd not how
They wreath'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, mute,
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 eye
Held with her words deep sympathy.

And Eva listen'd:-music's power Is little felt in sunlit hour;

But 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 arm was raised, Whose rubies in the sunshine blazed; And many a white veil swept the air Only than what 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 whisper'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,
But 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 ev'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 a 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 Its root in depth and strength is set. The July-sun, the autumn-rain, Beat on 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 nurst 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. 'Twas 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 Waken'd her from her dream too late, Even her timid love could be The ruling star of destiny. And when a calmer mood prevail'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 anxiousness; 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 latest round, Stole from the flutes a softer sound, Swell'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 flash'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 again,

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 wings,
Yet remember'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 gilderose 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 suffer'd from Love's thrall,
And I thought I'd not again
Enter 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 carc
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.

And fortunes stamp'd with the pale sign
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
Offer'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,

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 seem'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 could 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,

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, gather'd there,
Rode soldiers with their breast - plates
glancing,

Helmets and snow-white feathers dancing,
And trumpets at whose martial sound
Prouder the war-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 lute
And one sweet song to urge his suit.
Floated around me moated hall,
And donjon-keep, and frowning wall;
I saw the marshall'd hosts advance,
I gazed on banner, brand, and lance;
The murmur of a low song came
Bearing one only worshipp'd name;
And my next song, I said, should be
A tale of gone-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
Beats cold and harsh against the pane,
Where, spendthrift like, the branches twine,
Worn, knotted, of a leafless vine;
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 ONE 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 my heart is a spot Where other griefs and cares come not, Hallow'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!

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.

urns,

mise is kept.