THE TROUBADOUR.
223
Beloved! not even his hot brain
Dared whisper,—loving too again.
But the next morn, and Raymond bent
His steps to that fair Parliament,
While pride and hasty anger strove
Against his memory and his love.
But leave we him awhile to rave
Against the faith which, like the wave,
By every grain of sand can be
Moved from its own tranquillity,
Till settled he that woman's mind
Was but a leaf before the wind,—
Left to remain, retreat, advance,
Without a destiny but chance.—
