THE TROUBADOUR.
81
She pass'd her hand across the chords
Of a lute near, and with soft words
Answer'd; then said, "no, thou shalt sing
Some legend of the fair and brave."
To Raymond's hand the lute she gave,
Whose very soul within him burn'd
When her dark eye on his was turn'd:
One moment's pause, it slept not long,—
His spirit pour'd itself in song.
ELENORE.
The lady sits in her lone bower,
With cheek wan as the white rose flower
That blooms beside, 'tis pale and wet
As that rose with its dew pearls set.
