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

And praise rang forth, the prize is won, Young minstrel, thou hast equal none! They led him to the lady's seat, And knelt he down at Eva's feet; She bent his victor brow to deck, And, fainting, sunk upon his neck! The cap and plume aside were thrown, 'Twas as the grave restored its own, And sent its victim forth to share Light, life, and hope, and sun, and air.
 That day the feast spread gay and bright In honour of the youthful knight,
And it was Eva's fairy hand Met Raymond's in the saraband, And it was Eva's ear that heard Many a low and love-tuned word.— And life seem'd as a sunny stream, And hope awaked as from a dream; But what has minstrel left to tell When love has not an obstacle? My lute is hush'd, and mute its chords, The heart and happiness have no words!
My tale is told, the glad sunshine Fell over its commencing line,— It was a morn in June, the sun Was blessing all it shone upon, The sky was clear as not a cloud Were ever on its face allow'd;
The hill whereon I stood was made A pleasant place of summer shade By the green elms which seem'd as meant To make the noon a shadowy tent. I had been bent half sleep, half wake, Dreaming those rainbow dreams that take The spirit prisoner in their chain, Too beautiful to be quite vain,— Enough if they can soothe or cheer One moment's pain or sorrow here. And I was happy; hope and fame Together on my visions came, For memory had just dipp'd her wings In honey dews, and sunlit springs,— My brow burnt with its early wreath, My soul had drank its first sweet breath
Of praise, and yet my cheek was flushing, My heart with the full torrent gushing Of feelings whose delighted mood Was mingling joy and gratitude. Scarce possible it seem'd to be That such praise could be meant for me.— Enured to coldness and neglect, My spirit chill'd, my breathing check'd, All that can crowd and crush the mind, Friends even more than fate unkind, And fortunes stamp'd with the pale sign That marks and makes autumn's decline. How could I stand in the sunshine, And marvel not that it was mine? One word, if ever happiness In its most passionate excess
Offer'd its wine to human lip, It has been mine that cup to sip. I may not say with what deep dread The words of my first song were said, I may not say how much delight Has been upon my minstrel flight.— 'Tis vain, and yet my heart would say Somewhat to those who made my way A path of light, with power to kill, To check, to crush, but not the will. Thanks for the gentleness that lent My young lute such encouragement, When scorn had turn'd my heart to stone, Oh, their's be thanks and benison!
 Back to the summer hill again, When first I thought upon this strain,
And music rose upon the air, I look'd below, and, gather'd there, Rode soldiers with their breast-plates glancing, Helmets and snow-white feathers dancing, And trumpets at whose martial sound Prouder the war horse trod the ground, And waved their flag with many a name Of battles and each battle fame. And as I mark'd the gallant line Pass through the green lane's serpentine, And as I saw the boughs give way Before the crimson pennons' play; To other days my fancy went, Call'd up the stirring tournament, The dark-eyed maiden who for years Kept the vows seal'd by parting tears,
While he who own'd her plighted hand Was fighting in the Holy Land. The youthful knight with his gay crest, His ladye's scarf upon a breast Whose truth was kept, come life, come death,— Alas! has modern love such faith? I thought how in the moon-lit hour The minstrel hymn'd his maiden's bower, His helm and sword changed for the lute And one sweet song to urge his suit. Floated around me moated hall, And donjon keep, and frowning wall; I saw the marshall'd hosts advance, I gazed on banner, brand, and lance; The murmur of a low song came Bearing one only worshipp'd name;
And my next song, I said, should be A tale of gone-by chivalry.
 My task is done, the tale is told, The lute drops from my wearied hold; Spreads no green earth, no summer sky To raise fresh visions for my eye, The hour is dark, the winter rain Beats cold and harsh against the pane, Where, spendthrift like, the branches twine, Worn, knotted, of a leafless vine; And the wind howls in gusts around, As omens were in each drear sound,— Omens that bear upon their breath Tidings of sorrow, pain, and death. Thus should it be,—I could not bear The breath of flowers, the sunny air
Upon that ending page should be Which One will never, never see. Yet who will love it like that one, Who cherish as he would have done, My father! albeit but in vain This clasping of a broken chain, And albeit of all vainest things That haunt with sad imaginings, None has the sting of memory; Yet still my spirit turns to thee, Despite of long and lone regret, Rejoicing it cannot forget. I would not lose the lightest thought With one remembrance of thine fraught,— And my heart said no name, but thine Should be on this last page of mine.
My father, though no more, thine ear Censure or praise of mine can hear, It soothes me to embalm thy name With all my hope, my pride, my fame, Treasures of Fancy's fairy hall,— Thy name most precious far of all.
 My page is wet with bitter tears,— I cannot but think of those years When happiness and I would wait On summer evenings by the gate, And keep o'er the green fields our watch The first sound of thy step to catch, Then run for the first kiss, and word,— An unkind one I never heard. But these are pleasant memories, And later years have none like these:
They came with griefs, and pains, and cares, All that the heart breaks while it bears; Desolate as I feel alone I should not weep that thou art gone. Alas! the tears that still will fall Are selfish in their fond recall;— If ever tears could win from Heaven A loved one, and yet be forgiven, Mine surely might; I may not tell The agony of my farewell! A single tear I had not shed,— 'Twas the first time I mourn'd the dead:— It was my heaviest loss, my worst,— My father!—and was thine the first!
 Farewell! in my heart is a spot Where other griefs and cares come not,
Hallow'd by love, by memory kept, And deeply honour'd, deeply wept. My own dead father, time may bring Chance, change, upon his rainbow-wing, But never will thy name depart The household god of thy child's heart, Until thy orphan girl may share The grave where her best feelings are. Never, dear father, love can be, Like the dear love I had for thee!