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THE TROUBADOUR.
19
And here were all which still should be
Nurses to Love's sweet infancy,—
Hope, mystery, absence:—then each thought
A something holy with it brought.
Their sighs were breathed, their vows were given
Before the face of the high Heaven,
Link'd not with courtly vanities,
But birds and blossoms, leaves and trees:—
Love was not made for palace pride,
For halls and domes—they met beside
A marble fountain, overgrown
With moss, that made it nature's own,
Though through the green shone veins of snow,
Like the small Fairy's paved ways,
As if a relic left to show
The luxury of departed days,
