THE TROUBADOUR.
243
One low mournful dirge to tell
I have bid the world farewell.
And praise rang forth, the prize is won,
Young minstrel, thou hast equal none!
They led him to the lady's seat,
And knelt he down at Eva's feet;
She bent his victor brow to deck,
And, fainting, sunk upon his neck!
The cap and plume aside were thrown,
'Twas as the grave restored its own,
And sent its victim forth to share
Light, life, and hope, and sun, and air.
That day the feast spread gay and bright
In honour of the youthful knight,
