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

The arch was past, the crimson gleam Of morning fell upon the stream, And flash'd upon the dazzled eye The day-break of a summer sky; And they are sailing amid ranks Of cypress on the river banks: They land where water-lilies spread Seem almost too fair for the tread; And knelt they down upon the shore, The heart's deep gratitude to pour.
Led by their dark guide on they press Through many a green and lone recess: The morning air, the bright sunshine, To Raymond were like the red wine,— Each leaf, each flower seem'd to be With his own joy in sympathy, So fresh, so glad; but the fair Moor, From peril and pursuit secure, Though hidden by her close-drawn veil, Yet seem'd more tremulous, more pale; The hour of dread and danger past, Fear's timid thoughts came thronging fast; Her cold hand trembled in his own, Her strength seem'd with its trial gone, And downcast eye, and faltering word, But dimly seen, but faintly heard,
Seem'd scarcely her's that just had been His dauntless guide through the wild scene.
 At length a stately avenue Of ancient chesnuts met their view, And they could see the time-worn walls Of her they sought, Elvira's halls. A small path led a nearer way Through flower-beds in their spring array. They reach'd the steps, and stood below A high and marble portico; They enter'd, and saw kneeling there A creature even more than fair. On each white temple the dusk braid Of parted hair made twilight shade, That brow whose blue veins shone to show It was more beautiful than snow.
Her large dark eyes were almost hid By the nightfall of the fringed lid; And tears which fill'd their orbs with light, Like summer showers blent soft with bright. Her cheek was saintly pale, as nought Were there to flush with earthly thought; As the heart which in youth had given Its feelings and its hopes to Heaven, Knew no emotions that could spread A maiden's cheek with sudden red,— Made for an atmosphere above, Too much to bend to mortal love.
 And Raymond watch'd as if his eye Were on a young divinity,—
As her bright presence made him feel Awe that could only gaze and kneel: And Leila paused, as if afraid To break upon the recluse maid, As if her heart took its rebuke From that cold, calm, and placid look.
 "Elvira!"—though the name was said Low as she fear'd to wake the dead, Yet it was heard, and, all revealing, Of her most treasured mortal feeling, Fondly the Moorish maid was prest To her she sought, Elvira's breast. "I pray'd for thee, my hope, my fear, My Leila! and now thou art near. Nay, weep not, welcome as thou art To my faith, friends, and home and heart!"
And Raymond almost deem'd that earth To such had never given birth As the fair creatures, who, like light, Floated upon his dazzled sight:— One with her bright and burning cheek, All passion, tremulous and weak, A woman in her woman's sphere Of joy and grief, of hope and fear. The other, whose mild tenderness Seem'd as less made to share than bless; One to whom human joy was such That her heart fear'd to trust too much, While her wan brow seem'd as it meant To soften rapture to content;— To whom all earth's delight was food For high and holy gratitude.
Gazed Raymond till his burning brain Grew dizzy with excess of pain; For unheal'd wounds his strength had worn, And all the toil his flight had borne; His lip, and cheek, and brow were flame; And when Elvira's welcome came, It fell on a regardless ear, As bow'd beside a column near, He leant insensible to all Of good or ill that could befall.