208
THE TROUBADOUR.
He urged his steed with hand and heel,
It bounded concious of the steel,
And never yet to Raymond's eye
Spread such an earth, shone such a sky,
Blew such sweet breezes o'er his brow,
As those his native land had now.
He thought upon young Eva's name,
And felt that she was still the same;
He thought on Amirald, his child
Had surely his dark cares beguiled;
He thought upon the welcome sweet
It would be his so soon to meet:
And never had the star of hope
Shone on a lovelier horoscope.
