82
THE TROUBADOUR.
Her cheek burns with a redder dye,
Flashes light from her tearful eye;
She has heard pinions beat the air,
She sees her white dove floating there;
And well she knows its faithful wing,
The treasure of her heart will bring;
And takes the gentle bird its stand
Accustom'd on the maiden's hand,
With glancing eye and throbbing breast,
As if rejoicing in its rest.
She read the scroll,—"dear love, to-night
By the lake, all is there for flight
What time the moon is down;—oh, then
My own life shall we meet again!"
One upward look of thankfulness,
One pause of joy, one fond caress
