52
THE TROUBADOUR.
Mark'd his high step, his warlike mien,—
"And such my father would have been!"
A few words of years past away,
A few words of the coming day,
They parted, not that night for sleep;
Raymond had thoughts that well might keep
Rest from his pillow,—memory, hope,
In youth's horizon had full scope
To blend and part each varied line
Of cloud and clear, of shade and shine.
—He rose and wander'd round, the light
Of the full moon fell o'er each height;
Leaving the wood behind in shade,
O'er rock, and glen, and rill it play'd.
