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THE TROUBADOUR.
Of youthful knights who swore to die
For her least smile, her lightest sigh.
But he was gone, her young, her brave,
Her heart was with him in the grave.
Wearied, for ill the heart may bear
Light words in which it has no share,
She turn'd to a pale maid, who, mute,
Dreaming of song leant o'er her lute;
And at her sign, that maiden's words
Came echo-like to its sweet chords,—
It was a low and silver tone,
And very sad, like sorrow's own;
She sang of love as it will be,
And has been in reality,—
Of fond hearts broken and betray'd,
Of roses opening but to fade,
