222
THE TROUBADOUR.
With our best feelings mix'd, and now
But that, what shadows Raymond's brow.
He had deem'd a declining flower,
Pining in solitary bower,
He should find Eva, sad and lone,—
He sought the cage, the bird had flown,
With burnish'd plume, and careless wing,
A follower of the sunny Spring.
He pictured her the first of all
In masque, and dance, and festival,—
With cheek at its own praises burning,
And eyes but on adorers turning,
The lady of the tournament,
For whose bright sake the lance was sent;
While minstrels borrow'd from her name
The beauty which they paid by fame:
