THE TROUBADOUR.
211
To shudder at the cold damp air,
Then think how once were burning there
The incense vase with odour glowing,
The silver lamp its softness throwing
O'er cheeks as beautiful and bright
As roses bathed in summer light,—
How through the portals sweeping came
Proud cavalier and high-born dame,
With gems like stars 'mid raven curls,
And snow-white plumes and wreathed pearls—
Gold cups, whose lighted flames made dim
The sparkling stones around the brim;—
Soft voices answering to the lute,
The swelling harp, the sigh-waked flute,—
The glancing lightness of the dance,—
Then, starting sudden from thy trance,
