THE TROUBADOUR.
27
Bends not the mountain cedar trees;
Folding their branches from the breeze,
They stand as if they could defy
The utmost rage of storm and sky.
And she, she would have thought it sin
To harbour one sweet thought within,
In whose delight he had no part,—
He was the world of her young heart.
A childish fondness, yet revealing
Somewhat of woman's deeper feeling,—
Else wherefore is that crimson blush,
As her cheek felt her bosom's rush
Upon her face, while pausing now
Her eyes are raised to Raymond's brow,
Who, lute-waked to a ballad old,
A legend of the fair and bold.
