210
THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL.
He was an exile with a ghastly smile,
And murmured not—but rose and left the city.
He went on silently, until he came
To where a little hill rose, covered o'er
With lemon shrubs and golden oranges:
The windows of the palace where she dwelt—
His so loved Isabel—o'erlooked the place.
There was some gorgeous fête there, for the light
Streamed through the lattices, and a far sound
Of lute, and dance, and song, came echoing.
The wanderer hid his face; but form his brow
His hands fell powerless! Some gathered round
And raised him from the ground: his eyes were closed,
His lip and cheek were colourless;—they told
His heart was broken!....
