THE TROUBADOUR.
111
As Raymond rose from his unrest
He knew De Valence's falcon crest;
And the red cross that shone like a glory afar,
Told the warrior was vow'd to the holy war.
"Ay, this," thought Raymond, "is the strife
To make my sacrifice of life;
What is it now to me that fame
Shall brighten over Raymond's name;
There is no gentle heart to bound,
No cheek to mantle at the sound:
Lady's favour no more I wear,—
My heart, my helm—oh! what are there?
A blighted hope, a wither'd rose.
Surely this warfare is for those
Who only of the victory crave
A holy but a nameless grave."
