58
THE TROUBADOUR.
Tears, sweet! would an ill offering be
To one whose death was worthy thee.
Raymond thought on that song next day
When bleeding that young warrior lay,
While his hand, in its death-pang, prest
A bright curl to his wounded breast.
And waning stars, and brightening sky,
And on the clouds a crimson dye,
And fresher breeze, and opening flowers,
Tell the approach of morning hours.
