THE TROUBADOUR.
35
Wild thoughts and noontide revelries,
Were turn'd into realities.
Impatient, restless, first his steed
Was hurried to its utmost speed:
And next his falchion's edge was tried,
Then waved the helmet's plume of pride,
Then wandering through the courts and hall,
He paused in none yet pass'd through all.
But there was one whose gentle heart
Could ill take its accustom'd part
In Raymond's feelings, one who deem'd
That almost unkind Raymond seem'd:—
If thus the very name of war,
Could fill so utterly each thought,
