THE TROUBADOUR.
115
And that pale forehead, surely care
Has graved an early lesson there.
They roved through many a garden scene,
Where other, happier days had been;
And soon had Raymond told his all
Of hopes, like stars but bright to fall;
Of feelings blighted, changed, and driven
Like exiles from their native heaven;
And of an aimless sword, a lute
Whose chords were now uncharm'd and mute.
But Eva's tender blandishing
Was as the April rays, that fling
A rainbow till the thickest rain
Melts into blue and light again.
