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

THE TROUBADOUR.
CANTO IV.
THE TROUBADOUR.
CANTO IV.
It was a wild and untrain'd bower, Enough to screen from April shower, Or shelter from June's hotter hour, Tapestried with starry jessamines, The summer's gold and silver mines; With a moss seat, and its turf set With crowds of the white violet. And close beside a fountain play'd, Dim, cool, from its encircling shade;
And lemon trees grew round, as pale As never yet to them the gale Had brought a message from the sun To say their summer task was done. It was a very solitude For love in its despairing mood, With just enough of breath and bloom, With just enough of calm and gloom, To suit a heart where love has wrought His wasting work, with saddest thought; Where all its sickly fantasies May call up suiting images: With flowers like hopes that spring and fade As only for a mockery made, And shadows of the boughs that fall Like sorrow drooping over all.
And Leila, loveliest! can it be Such destiny is made for thee? Yes, it is written on thy brow The all thy lip may not avow,— All that in woman's heart can dwell, Save by a blush unutterable. Alas! that ever Raymond came To light thy cheek and heart to flame,— A hidden fire, but not the less Consuming in its dark recess.
 She had leant by his couch of pain, When throbbing pulse and bursting vein Fierce spoke the fever, when fate near Rode on the tainted atmosphere; And though that parch'd lip spoke alone Of other love, in fondest tone,
And though the maiden knew that death Might be upon his lightest breath, Yet never by her lover's side More fondly watch'd affianced bride,— With pain or fear more anxious strove, Than Leila watch'd another's love.
 But he was safe!—that very day Farewell, it had been her's to say; And he was gone to his own land, To seek another maiden's hand.
 Who that had look'd on her that morn, Could dream of all her heart had borne; Her cheek was red, but who could know 'Twas flushing with the strife below;—
Her eye was bright, but who could tell It shone with tears she strove to quell;— Her voice was gay, her step was light; And, beaming, beautiful, and bright, It was as if life could confer Nothing but happiness on her. Ah! who could think that all so fair Was semblance, and but misery there.
 'Tis strange with how much power and pride The softness is of love allied; How much of power to force the breast To be in outward show at rest,— How much of pride that never eye May look upon its agony! Ah! little will the lip reveal Of all the burning heart can feel.
But this was past, and she was now With clasped hands prest to her brow, And head bow'd down upon her knee, And heart-pulse throbbing audibly, And tears that gush'd like autumn rain, The more for that they gush'd in vain. Oh! why should woman ever love, Trusting to one false star above; And fling her little chance away Of sunshine for its treacherous ray.
 At first Elvira had not sought To break upon her lonely thought. But it was now the vesper time, And she return'd not at the chime Of holy bells,—she knew the hour:— At last they search'd her favourite bower;
Beside the fount they found the maid On head bow'd down, as if she pray'd; Her long black hair fell like a veil, Making her pale brow yet more pale. 'Twas strange to look upon her face, Then turn and see its shadowy trace Within the fountain; one like stone, So cold, so colourless, so lone,— A statue nymph, placed there to show How far the sculptor's art could go. The other, and that too the shade, In light and crimson warmth array'd; For the red glow of day declining, Was now upon the fountain shining, And the shape in its mirror bright Of sparkling waves caught warmth and light.
Elvira spoke not, though so near, Her words lay mute in their own fear: At last she whisper'd Leila's name,— No answer from the maiden came. She took one cold hand in her own, Started, and it dropp'd lifeless down! She gazed upon the fixed eye, And read in it mortality.
 And lingers yet that maiden's tale A legend of the lemon vale: They say that never from that hour Has flourish'd there a single flower,— The jasmine droop'd, the violets died, Nothing grew by that fountain side, Save the pale pining lemon trees, And the dark weeping cypresses.—
And now when to the twilight star The lover wakes his lone guitar, Or maiden bids a song impart All that is veil'd in her own heart, The wild and mournful tale they tell Of her who loved, alas! too well.—
 And where was Raymond, where was he? Borne homeward o'er the rapid sea, While sunny days and favouring gales Brought welcome speed to the white sails,— With bended knee, and upraised hand, He stood upon his native land, With all that happiness can be When resting on futurity. On, on he went, and o'er the plain He rode an armed knight again;
He urged his steed with hand and heel, It bounded concious of the steel, And never yet to Raymond's eye Spread such an earth, shone such a sky, Blew such sweet breezes o'er his brow, As those his native land had now.
 He thought upon young Eva's name, And felt that she was still the same; He thought on Amirald, his child Had surely his dark cares beguiled; He thought upon the welcome sweet It would be his so soon to meet: And never had the star of hope Shone on a lovelier horoscope.
And evening shades were on the hour When Raymond rode beneath the tower Remember'd well, for Adeline
Had there been his heart's summer queen. Could this be it?—he knew the heath Which, lake-like, spread its walls beneath,— He saw the dark old chesnut wood Which had for ages by it stood;
And but for these the place had been As one that he had never seen. The walls were rent, the gates were gone, No red light from the watch tower shone. He enter'd, and the hall was bare, It show'd the spoiler had been there; Even upon the very hearth The green grass found a place of birth.
Oh, vanity! that the stone wall May sooner than a blossom fall; The tower in its strength may be Laid low before the willow tree. There stood the wood, subject to all The autumn wind, the winter fall,— There stood the castle which the rain And wind had buffetted in vain,— But one in ruins stood beside The other green in its spring pride.
 And Raymond paced the lonely hall As if he feared his own footfall. It is the very worst, the gloom Of a deserted banquet-room, To see the spider's web outvie The torn and faded tapestry,—
To shudder at the cold damp air, Then think how once were burning there The incense vase with odour glowing, The silver lamp its softness throwing O'er cheeks as beautiful and bright As roses bathed in summer light,— How through the portals sweeping came Proud cavalier and high-born dame, With gems like stars 'mid raven curls, And snow-white plumes and wreathed pearls— Gold cups, whose lighted flames made dim The sparkling stones around the brim;— Soft voices answering to the lute, The swelling harp, the sigh-waked flute,— The glancing lightness of the dance,— Then, starting sudden from thy trance,
Gaze round the lonely place and see Its silence and obscurity: Then commune with thine heart, and say These are the foot-prints of decay,— And I, even thus shall pass away.
 And Raymond turn'd him to depart, With darken'd brow and heavy heart. Can outrage or can time remove The sting, the scar of slighted love? He could not look upon the scene And not remember Adeline, Fair queen of gone festivity,— Oh, where was it, and where was she!
 At distance short a village lay, And thither Raymond took his way,
And in its hostel shelter found, While the dark night was closing round. It was a cheerful scene, the hearth Was bright with wood-fire and with mirth, And in the midst a harper bent O'er his companion instrument: 'Twas an old man, his hair was grey,— For winter tracks in snow its way,— But yet his dark, keen eye was bright, With somewhat of its youthful light; Like one whose path of life had made Its course through mingled sheen and shade, But one whose buoyant spirit still Pass'd lightly on through good or ill,— One reckless if borne o'er the sea In storm or in tranquillity;
The same to him, as if content Were his peculiar element. 'Tis strange how the heart can create Or colour from itself its fate; We make ourselves our own distress, We are ourselves our happiness.
 And many a song and many a lay, Had pass'd the cheerful hour away, When one pray'd that he would relate, His tale of the proud ladye's fate,— The lady Adeline;—the name Like lightning upon Raymond came! And swept the harper o'er his chords As that he paused for minstrel words, Or stay'd till silence should prevail, When thus the old man told the tale.