236
THE TROUBADOUR.
At last from 'mid the crowd one came,
Unknown himself, unknown his name,
Both knight and bard,—the stranger wore
The garb of a young Troubadour;
His dark green mantle loosely flung,
Conceal'd the form o'er which it hung;
And his cap, with its shadowy plume,
Hid his face by its raven gloom.
Little did Eva's careless eye
Dream that it wander'd Raymond by,
Though his first tone thrill'd every vein,
It only made her turn again,
Forget the scene, the song, and dwell
But on what memory felt too well.
