Within his bosom Amirald hid the buds,
And led the maiden to a little bank
Covered with violets—they were Spring's last.
The chesnut overhead had kept the sun
From wasting their pure lives; and by the side
There was a little brook, whose pebbles shone
Like Indian stones—and there they past the noon.
And day by day thus past, till came a time
For tears, for farewell, and fidelity.
And Amirald sought the court. Oh, then the change,
The contrast, in the spirit of their love!
The one went on his round of gaiety,
The crown'd knight of the tournament, whose helm
Wore every lady's colours as they came:
The troubadour, with song to any vowed;
The cavalier, the gayest of the hall—
And this was Amirald. Now for his Love:
There is a pale girl on that violet bank—
Her bright curls hang neglected , and her cheek—
Has sickness wasted thus its bloom away?
Or is it the heart's withering? She has pined
In that worst of all solitudes—the blank
That comes when love's enchanted world decays
Into reality. She was forgotten—
But she could not forget, nor even reproach.
His name still lingered on her lute, and still
The chain he gave was treasured next her heart.
It was a summer noon—she had beguiled
Time with an old romance; it told how once
A maiden had cut off her long dark hair,
And as a page had with her lover gone
To Palestine, and with her life saved his.
And Eva pondered o'er and o'er the tale,
And thought on the deep happiness, to see,
Perhaps to serve, her Amirald again.
All day she thought upon it, and at night
It was amid her dreams. At last she went
And join'd her faithless love. He knew her not;
But yet she was his favourite—none could tune
The lute with so much tenderness, none sing
So soft a love lay. Twice the Spring had flung
Her gift of bloom and balm upon the wind
Since she was with him; and sometimes she thought
