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

see Notes to The Troubadour
THE TROUBADOUR.
CANTO I.
THE TROUBADOUR.
CANTO I.
Call to mind your loveliest dream,— When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream, When your pillow is made of the violet, And over your head the branches are met Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees, When the roses' breath is on the breeze, When odours and light on your eyelids press With summer's delicious idleness;
And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance Of the faery banks of the bright Durance; Just where at first its current flows 'Mid willows and its own white rose,— Its clear and early tide, or ere A shade, save trees, its waters bear.
 The sun, like an Indian king, has left To that fair river a royal gift Of gold and purple; no longer shines His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines Sweeping beneath the burning sky Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep. —And with its towers cleaving the red Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread
Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks Of the light young trees on the river's banks, And ending there, as the waters shone Too bright for shadows to rest upon, A castle stands; whose windows gleam Like the golden flash of a noon-lit stream Seen through the lily and water-flags' screen: Just so shine those panes through the ivy green, A curtain to shut out sun and air, Which the work of years has woven there. —But not in the lighted pomp of the west Looks the evening its loveliest; Enter yon turret, and round you gaze On what the twilight east displays: One star, pure, clear, as if it shed The dew on each young flower's head;
And, like a beauty of southern clime, Her veil thrown back for the first time, Pale, timid as she feared to own Her claim upon the midnight throne, Shows the fair moon her crescent sign. —Beneath, in many a serpentine, The river wanders; chesnut trees Spread their old boughs o'er cottages Where the low roofs and porticoes Are cover'd with the Provence rose. And there are vineyards: none might view  The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves; And olive groves, pale as the dew  Crusted its silver o'er the leaves.
And there the castle garden lay With tints in beautiful array:
Its dark green walks, its fountains falling, Its tame birds to each other calling; The peacock with its orient rings, The silver pheasant's gleaming wings; And on the breeze rich odours sent Sweet messages, as if they meant To rouse each sleeping sense to all The loveliness of evening's fall.— That lonely turret, is it not A minstrel's own peculiar spot? Thus with the light of shadowy grey To dream the pleasant hours away.
 Slight columns were around the hall With wreathed and fluted pedestal Of green Italian marble made, In likeness of the palm-trees' shade;
And o'er the ceiling starry showers Mingled with many-colour'd flowers, With crimson roses o'er her weeping, There lay that royal maiden sleeping— Danae, she whom gold could move— How could it move her heart to love? Between the pillars the rich fold Of tapestry fell, inwrought with gold, And many-colour'd silks which gave, Strange legends of the fair and brave. And there the terrace covered o'er With summer's fair and scented store; As grateful for the gentle care That had such pride to keep it fair.
 And, gazing, as if heart and eye Were mingled with that lovely sky,
There stood a youth, slight as not yet With manhood's strength and firmness set; But on his cold, pale cheek were caught The traces of some deeper thought, A something seen of pride and gloom, Not like youth's hour of light and bloom: A brow of pride, a lip of scorn,—  Yet beautiful in scorn and pride— A conscious pride, as if he own'd  Gems hidden from the world beside; And scorn, as he cared not to learn Should others prize those gems or spurn. He was the last of a proud race  Who left him but his sword and name, And boyhood past in restless dreams  Of future deeds and future fame.
But there were other dearer dreams Than the light'ning flash of these war gleams That fill'd the depths of Raymond's heart; For his was now the loveliest part Of the young poet's life, when first, In solitude and silence nurst, His genius rises like a spring Unnoticed in its wandering; Ere winter cloud or summer ray Have chill'd, or wasted it away, When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd  Shed their own richness over all, As waters from sweet woods distill'd  Breathe perfume out where'er they fall. I know not whether Love can fling A deeper witchery from his wing
Than falls sweet Power of Song from thine. Yet, ah! the wreath that binds thy shrine, Though seemingly all bloom and light, Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight. Planet of wayward destinies Thy victims are thy votaries! Alas! for him whose youthful fire Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,— Alas! for him who shall essay, The laurel's long and dreary way! Mocking will greet, neglect will chill His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill; And, worst of all, that heartless praise Echoed from what another says. He dreams a dream of life and light,  And grasps the rainbow that appears
Afar all beautiful and bright,  And finds it only formed of tears. Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame Pour glory's sunlight on his name, Let his songs be on every tongue, And wealth and honours round him flung: Then let him show his secret thought, Will it not own them dearly bought? See him in weariness fling down The golden harp, the violet crown; And sigh for all the toil, the care, The wrong that he has had to bear; Then wish the treasures of his lute Had been, like his own feelings, mute, And curse the hour when that he gave To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.
But Raymond was in the first stage Of life's enchanted pilgrimage: 'Tis not for Spring to think on all The sear and waste of Autumn's fall:— Enough for him to watch beside The bursting of the mountain tide, To wander through the twilight shade By the dark, arching pine-boughs made, And at the evening's starlit hour To seek for some less shadowy bower, Where dewy leaf, and flower pale, Made the home of the nightingale. Or he would seek the turret hall, And there, unheard, unseen of all, When even the night winds were mute, His rich tones answer'd to the lute;
And in his pleasant solitude He would forget his wayward mood, And pour his spirit forth when none Broke on his solitude, save one.
 There is a light step passing by Like the distant sound of music's sigh; It is that fair and gentle child, Whose sweetness has so oft beguiled, Like sunlight on a stormy day, His almost sullenness away.
 They said she was not of mortal birth, And her face was fairer than face of earth: What is the thing to liken it to? A lily just dipp'd in the summer dew—
Parian marble—snow's first fall?— Her brow was fairer than each and all. And so delicate was each vein's soft blue, 'Twas not like blood that wander'd through. Rarely upon that cheek was shed, By health or by youth, one tinge of red; And never closest look could descry, In shine, or in shade, the hue of her eye: But as it were made of light, it changed, With every sunbeam that over it ranged; And that eye could look through the long dark lash, With the moon's dewy smile, or the lightning's flash. Her silken tresses, so bright and so fair, Stream'd like a banner of light on the air, And seldom its sunny wealth around Was chaplet of flowers or ribbon bound;
But amid the gold of its thousand curls Was twisted a braid of snow-white pearls,— They said 'twas a charmed spell; that before, This braid her nameless mother wore; And many were the stories wild Whisper'd of the neglected child.
 Lord Amirald, (thus the tale was told), The former lord of the castle-hold,— Lord Amirald had followed the chase Till he was first and last in the race; The blood-dy'd sweat hung on his steed, Each breath was a gasp, yet he stay'd not his speed. Twice the dust and foam had been wash'd By the mountain torrent that over them dash'd; But still the stag held on his way, Till a forest of pine trees before them lay,
And bounding and crashing boughs declare The stag and the hunter have enter'd there. On, on they went, till a greenwood screen Lay Amirald and his prey between: He has heard the creature sink on the ground, And the branches give way at his courser's bound.
 The spent stag on the grass is laid; But over him is leant a maid, Her arms and fair hair glistening With the bright waters of the spring; And Amirald paused, and gazed, as seeing Were grown the sole sense of his being.
 At first she heard him not, but bent Upon her pitying task intent;
The summer clouds of hair that hung Over her brow were backwards flung, She saw him! Her first words were prayer Her gasping favourite's life to spare; But her next tones were soft and low, And on her cheek a mantling glow Play'd like a rainbow; and the eye That raised in pleading energy, Shed, starlike, its deep beauty round, Seem'd now as if to earth spell-bound.— They parted: but each one that night Thought on the meeting at twilight.
 It matters not, how, day by day, Love made his sure but secret way. Oh, where is there the heart but knows Love's first steps are upon the rose!
And here were all which still should be Nurses to Love's sweet infancy,— Hope, mystery, absence:—then each thought A something holy with it brought. Their sighs were breathed, their vows were given Before the face of the high Heaven, Link'd not with courtly vanities, But birds and blossoms, leaves and trees:— Love was not made for palace pride, For halls and domes—they met beside A marble fountain, overgrown With moss, that made it nature's own, Though through the green shone veins of snow,  Like the small Fairy's paved ways, As if a relic left to show  The luxury of departed days,
And show its nothingness. The wave That princely brows was wont to lave Was left now for the wild bird's bill, And the red deer to drink their fill. Yet still it was as fair a spot As in its once more splendid lot: Around, the dark sweep of the pine Guarded it like a wood-nymph's shrine, And the gold-spotted moss was set With crowds of the white violet. One only oak grew by the spring, The forest's patriarch and king; A nightingale had built her nest In the green shadow of its rest; And in its hollow trunk the bees Dwelt in their honey palaces;
And underneath its shelter stood, Leant like a beauty o'er the flood Watching each tender bud unclose, A beautiful white Provence rose;— Yet wan and pale as that it knew What changing skies and sun could do; As that it knew, and, knowing, sigh'd, The vanity of summer pride; As watching could put off the hour When falls the leaf and fades the flower. Alas! that every lovely thing Lives only but for withering,— That spring rainbows and summer shine End but in autumn's pale decline.
 And here the lovers met, what hour The bee departed from the flower,
And droop'd the bud at being left, Or as ashamed of each sweet theft, What hour the soft wind bore along The nightingale's moonlighted song.
 And Amirald heard her father's name, He whose it was, was link'd with fame: Though driven from his heritage, A hunted exile in his age, For that he would not bend the knee, And draw the sword at Rome's decree.
 She led him to the lonely cot, And almost Amirald wish'd his lot Had been cast in that humbler life, Over whose peace the hour of strife
Passes but like the storm at sea That wakes not earth's tranquillity.
 In secret were they wed, not then Had Amirald power to fling again The banner of defiance wide To priestly pomp and priestly pride; But day by day more strong his hand, And more his friends, and soon the brand That in its wrongs and silence slept Had from its blood-stain'd scabbard leapt. But here are told such varying tales That none may know where truth prevails; For there were hints of murder done, And deeds of blood that well might shun All knowledge; but the wildest one
Was most believed: 'twas whisper'd round Lord Amirald in hunting found An evil spirit, but array'd In semblance of a human maid; That 'twas some holy word whose force Broke off their sinful intercourse. But this is sure, one evening late Lord Amirald reach'd his castle gate, And blood was on his spurs of gold, And blood was on his mantle's fold,— He flung it back, and on his arm A fair young child lay pillow'd warm; It stretch'd its little hands and smiled, And Amirald said it was his child, And bade the train their aid afford Suiting the daughter of their Lord.
Then sought his brother, but alone; Yet there were some who heard a tone Of stifled agony, a prayer His child should meet a father's care; And as he past the hall again He call'd around his vassal train, And bade them own his brother's sway. Then past himself like a dream away,— And from that hour none heard his name, No tale, no tidings of him came, Save a vague murmur, that he fell In fighting with the Infidel.
 But his fair child grew like a flower Springing in March's earlier hour, 'Mid storm and chill, yet loveliest— Though somewhat paler than the rest.
Perhaps it was her orphan'd state, So young, so fair, so desolate,—
Somewhat of likeness in their fate Made Raymond's heart for her confess Its hidden depths of tenderness. Neglected both; and those that pine In love's despair and hope's decline, Can love the most when some sweet spell Breaks the seal on affection's well, And bids its waters flow like light Returning to the darken'd sight. And while his fallen fortunes taught Raymond's proud solitude of thought, His spirit's cold, stern haughtiness In her was gentle mournfulness. The cold north wind which bows to earth The lightness of the willow's birth
Bends not the mountain cedar trees; Folding their branches from the breeze, They stand as if they could defy The utmost rage of storm and sky. And she, she would have thought it sin To harbour one sweet thought within, In whose delight he had no part,— He was the world of her young heart. A childish fondness, yet revealing Somewhat of woman's deeper feeling,— Else wherefore is that crimson blush, As her cheek felt her bosom's rush Upon her face, while pausing now Her eyes are raised to Raymond's brow, Who, lute-waked to a ballad old, A legend of the fair and bold.