THE TROUBADOUR.
165
He sought his child, but half her bloom
Was withering in Raymond's tomb.
Albeit not with those who fled,
Yet was not Raymond with the dead.
There is a lofty castle stands
On the verge of Grenada's lands;
It has a dungeon, and a chain,
And there the young knight must remain.
Day after day,—or rather night,—
Can morning come without its light?
Pass'd on without a sound or sight.
The only thing that he could feel,
Was the same weight of fettering steel,—
The only sound that he could hear
Was when his own voice mock'd his ear,—
