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THE TROUBADOUR.
The flowers may fade, for who is there
To triumph now if they are fair:
There are her gems,—oh, let them twine
An offering round some sainted shrine!
For she who wore them may not wear
Again those jewels in her hair.
At first the monarch's rage was wild;
But soon the image of his child,
In tenderness rose on his heart,
How could he bear from it to part?
And anger turn'd to grief: in vain
Ambition had destroy'd the chain
With which love had bound happiness.
In vain remorse, in vain redress,—
Fruitless all search. And years past o'er,
No tidings came of Elenore.
