THE TROUBADOUR.
41
When loveliest,—these may not be,
Raymond, my parting gift to thee."
From next her heart, where it had lain,
She took an amber scented chain,
To which a cross of gold was hung,
And round the warrior's neck she flung
The relique, while he kiss'd away
The warm tears that upon it lay.
And mark'd they not the pale, dim sky
Had lost its moonlit brilliancy,
When suddenly a bugle rang,—
Forth at its summons Raymond sprang,
But turn'd again to say farewell
To her whose gushing teardrops fell
Like summer rain,—but he is gone!
And Eva weeps, and weeps alone.
