220
THE TROUBADOUR.
And what were Raymond's dreams that night?
The morning's gift of crimson light
Waked not his sleep, for his pale cheek
Did not of aught like slumber speak;
Though not upon a morn like this
Should Raymond turn to aught but bliss.
To-day, when Eva will be prest,
Ere evening, to his throbbing breast,—
To-day, when all his own will be
That cheer'd his long captivity.
Care to the wind of heaven was flung
As the young knight to stirrup sprung.
He reach'd the castle; save one, all
Rush'd to his welcome in the hall.
He gazed, but there no Eva came,
Scarce his low voice named Eva's name!
