THE TROUBADOUR.
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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.
