# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Return

see Notes to The Troubadour
And what were Raymond's dreams that night? The morning's gift of crimson light Waked not his sleep, for his pale cheek Did not of aught like slumber speak; Though not upon a morn like this Should Raymond turn to aught but bliss. To-day, when Eva will be prest, Ere evening, to his throbbing breast,— To-day, when all his own will be That cheer'd his long captivity. Care to the wind of heaven was flung As the young knight to stirrup sprung.
 He reach'd the castle; save one, all Rush'd to his welcome in the hall. He gazed, but there no Eva came, Scarce his low voice named Eva's name!
"Our Eva, she is far away Amid the young, the fair, the gay. At Thoulouse, now the bright resort Of beauty and the Minstrel Court; For this time it is hers to set The victor's brow with violet. Her father,—but you're worn and pale,— Come, the wine cup will aid my tale." The greeting of the elder knight, The cheerful board, the vintage bright, Not all could chase from Raymond's soul, The cloud that o'er its gladness stole; And soon, pretending toil, he sought A solitude for lonely thought.— 'Tis strange how much of vanity Almost unconciously will be
With our best feelings mix'd, and now But that, what shadows Raymond's brow.
 He had deem'd a declining flower, Pining in solitary bower, He should find Eva, sad and lone,— He sought the cage, the bird had flown, With burnish'd plume, and careless wing, A follower of the sunny Spring. He pictured her the first of all In masque, and dance, and festival,— With cheek at its own praises burning, And eyes but on adorers turning, The lady of the tournament, For whose bright sake the lance was sent; While minstrels borrow'd from her name The beauty which they paid by fame:
Beloved! not even his hot brain Dared whisper,—loving too again.
 But the next morn, and Raymond bent His steps to that fair Parliament, While pride and hasty anger strove Against his memory and his love. But leave we him awhile to rave Against the faith which, like the wave, By every grain of sand can be Moved from its own tranquillity, Till settled he that woman's mind Was but a leaf before the wind,— Left to remain, retreat, advance, Without a destiny but chance.—
And where is Eva? on her cheek Is there aught that of love may speak? Amid the music and perfume That, mingling, fill yon stately room A maiden sits, around her chair Stand others who, with graceful care, Bind Indian jewels in her hair. 'Tis Eva! on one side a stand Of dark wood from the Ethiop's land Is cover'd with all gems that deck A maiden's arm, or maiden's neck: The diamond with its veins of light, The sapphire like a summer night, The ruby rich as it had won A red gift from the setting sun, And white pearls, such as might have been A bridal offering for a queen.
On the side opposite were thrown, Rainbow-like mix'd, a sparkling zone, A snow-white veil, a purple vest Embroider'd with a golden crest. Before, the silver mirror's trace Is the sweet shadow of her face, Placed as appealing to her eyes For the truth of the flatteries, With which her gay attendants seek To drive all sadness from her cheek.— She heard them not; she reck'd not how They wreath'd the bright hair o'er her brow, Whate'er its sunny grace might be There was an eye that would not see. They told of words of royal praise, They told of minstrel's moonlight lays,
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,
Of wither'd hope, and wasted bloom, Of the young warrior's early tomb; And the while her dark mournful eye Held with her words deep sympathy.
 And Eva listen'd;—music's power Is little felt in sunlit hour; But hear its voice when hopes depart, Like swallows, flying from the heart On which the summer's late decline Has set a sadness and a sign; When friends whose commune once we sought For every bosom wish and thought, Have given in our hour of need Such a support as gives the reed,— When we have seen the green grass grow Over what once was life below;
How deeply will the spirit feel The lute, the song's sweet-voiced appeal; And how the heart drink in their sighs As echoes they from Paradise.
 'Tis done: the last bright gem is set In Eva's sparkling coronet; A soil on her rich veil appears,— Unsuiting here—and is it tears!
 Her father met her, he was proud To lead his daughter through the crowd, And see the many eyes that gazed, Then mark the blush their gazing raised; And for his sake, she forced away The clouds that on her forehead lay,
The sob rose in her throat, 'twas all, The tears swam, but they dared not fall; And the pale lip put on a smile, Alas it was too sad for guile!
 A beautiful and festal day Shone summer bright o'er the array, And purple banners work'd in gold, And azure pennons spread their fold, O'er the rich awnings which were round The galleries that hemm'd in the ground, The green and open space, where met The Minstrels of the Violet; And two or three old stately trees Soften'd the sun, skreen'd from the breeze. And there came many a lovely dame, With cheek of rose, and eye of flame;
And many a radiant arm was raised, Whose rubies in the sunshine blazed; And many a white veil swept the air Only than what they hid less fair; And placed at his own beauty's feet Found many a youthful knight his seat, And flung his jewell'd cap aside, And wore his scarf with gayer pride, And whisper'd soft and gallant things, And bade the bards' imaginings Whenever love awoke the tone, With their sweet passion plead his own.
 Beneath an azure canopy, Blue as the sweep of April's sky, Upon a snowy couch reclined Like a white cloud before the wind,
Leant Eva:—there was many a tent More royal, more magnificent, With purple, gold, and crimson swelling, But none so like a fairy dwelling: One curtain bore her father's crest, But summer flowers confined the rest; And, at her feet, the ground was strew'd With the June's rainbow multitude: Beside her knelt a page, who bore A vase with jewels sparkling o'er, And in that shining vase was set The prize,—the Golden Violet.
 Alas for her whom ev'ry eye Worshipp'd like a divinity! Alas for her whose ear was fill'd With flatteries like sweet woods distill'd!
Alas for Eva! bloom and beam, Music and mirth, came like a dream, In which she mingled not,—apart From all in heaviness of heart. There were soft tales pour'd in her ear, She look'd on many a cavalier, Wander'd her eye round the glad scene, It was as if they had not been;— To ear, eye, heart, there only came Her Raymond's image, Raymond's name!
 There is a flower, a snow-white flower, Fragile as if a morning shower Would end its being, and the earth Forget to what it gave a birth; And it looks innocent and pale, Slight as the least force could avail
To pluck it from its bed, and yet Its root in depth and strength is set. The July sun, the autumn rain, Beat on its slender stalk in vain;— Around it spreads, despite of care, Till the whole garden is its share; And other plants must fade and fall Beneath its deep and deadly thrall. This is love's emblem; it is nurst In all unconciousness at first, Too slight, too fair, to wake distrust; No sign how that an after hour Will rue and weep its fatal power. 'Twas thus with Eva; she had dream'd Of love as his first likeness seem'd, A sweet thought o'er which she might brood, The treasure of her solitude;
But tidings of young Raymond's fate Waken'd her from her dream too late, Even her timid love could be The ruling star of destiny. And when a calmer mood prevail'd O'er that whose joy her father hail'd, Too well he saw how day by day Some other emblem of decay Came on her lip, and o'er her brow, Which only she would disallow; The cheek the lightest word could flush Not with health's rose, but the heart's gush Of feverish anxiousness; he caught At the least hope, and vainly sought By change, by pleasure, to dispel Her sorrow from its secret cell.
In vain;—what can reanimate A heart too early desolate? It had been his, it could not save, But it could follow to his grave.
 The trumpets peal'd their latest round, Stole from the flutes a softer sound, Swell'd the harp to each master's hand, As onward came the minstrel band! And many a bright cheek grew more bright, And many a dark eye flash'd with light, As bent the minstrel o'er his lute, And urged the lover's plaining suit, Or swept a louder chord, and gave Some glorious history of the brave.
At last from 'mid the crowd one came, Unknown himself, unknown his name, Both knight and bard,—the stranger wore The garb of a young Troubadour; His dark green mantle loosely flung, Conceal'd the form o'er which it hung; And his cap, with its shadowy plume, Hid his face by its raven gloom. Little did Eva's careless eye Dream that it wander'd Raymond by, Though his first tone thrill'd every vein, It only made her turn again, Forget the scene, the song, and dwell But on what memory felt too well.