THE TROUBADOUR.
37
With both it was a favourite spot,
And names and histories which had not
A record save in the dim light
Tradition throws on memory's night
To them were treasures; they could tell
What from the first crusade befell.
There could not be a solitude
More fitted for a pensive mood
Than this old gallery,—the light
Of the full moon came coldly bright—
A silvery stream, save where a stain
Fell from the pictured window pane,—
A ruby flush, a purple dye,
Like the last sun-streak on the sky,
And lighted lip, and cheek of bloom
Almost in mockery of the tomb.
