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

see Notes to The Troubadour
ELENORE.
The lady sits in her lone bower,  With cheek wan as the white rose flower  That blooms beside, 'tis pale and wet  As that rose with its dew pearls set.
Her cheek burns with a redder dye,  Flashes light from her tearful eye;  She has heard pinions beat the air,  She sees her white dove floating there;  And well she knows its faithful wing,  The treasure of her heart will bring;  And takes the gentle bird its stand  Accustom'd on the maiden's hand,  With glancing eye and throbbing breast,  As if rejoicing in its rest.  She read the scroll,—"dear love, to-night  By the lake, all is there for flight  What time the moon is down;—oh, then  My own life shall we meet again!"  One upward look of thankfulness,  One pause of joy, one fond caress
Of her soft lips, as to reward  The messenger of Eginhard.
 That night in her proud father's hall  She shone the fairest one of all;  For like the cloud of evening came  Over her cheek the sudden flame,  And varying as each moment brought  Some hasty change of secret thought;  As if its colour would confess  The conscious heart's inmost recess.  And the clear depths of her dark eye  Were bright with troubled brilliancy,  Yet the lids droop'd as with the tear  Which might oppress but not appear.  And flatteries, and smile and sigh  Loaded the air as she past by.
It sparkled, but her jewell'd vest  Was crost above a troubled breast:  Her curls, with all their sunny glow,  Were braided o'er an aching brow:  But well she knew how many sought  To gaze upon her secret thought;—  And Love is proud,—she might not brook  That other's on her heart should look.  But there she sate, cold, pale, and high,  Beneath her purple canopy;  And there was many a mutter'd word,  And one low whisper'd name was heard,—  The name of Eginhard,—that name  Like some forbidden secret came.
 The theme went, that he dared to love  One like a star his state above;
Here to the princess turn'd each eye,—  And it was said, he did not sigh  With love that pales the pining cheek,  And leaves the slighted heart to break.  And then a varying tale was told,  How a page had betray'd for gold;  But all was rumour light and vain,  That all might hear, but none explain.
 Like one that seeks a festival,  Early the princess left the hall;  Yet said she, sleep dwelt on her eyes,  That she was worn with revelries.  And hastily her maidens' care  Unbinds the jewels from her hair.  Odours are round her chamber strown,  And Elenore is left alone.
With throbbing heart, whose pulses beat  Louder than fall her ivory feet,  She rises from her couch of down;  And, hurriedly, a robe is thrown  Around her form, and her own hand  Lets down her tresses golden band.  Another moment she has shred  Those graceful tresses from her head.  There stands a plate of polish'd steel,  She folds her cloak as to conceal  Her strange attire, for she is drest  As a young page in dark green vest.  Softly she steps the balustrade,  Where myrtle, rose, and hyacinth made  A passage to the garden shade.
It was a lovely summer night,  The air was incense-fill'd, the light  Was dim and tremulous, a gleam,  When a star, mirror'd on the stream,  Sent a ray round just to reveal  How gales from flower to flower steal.  "It was on such a night as this,  When even a single breath is bliss,  Such a soft air, such a mild heaven,  My vows to Eginhard were given."  Sigh'd Elenore, "Oh, might it be  A hope, a happy augury!"
 She reach'd the lake,—a blush, a smile,  Contended on her face the while;
And safely in a little cove,  Shelter'd by willow trees above,  An ambuscade from all secured,  Her lover's little boat lay moor'd.—  One greeting word, with muffled oar,  And silent lip, they left that shore.
 It was most like a phantom dream  To see that boat flit o'er the stream,  So still, that but yet less and less  It grew, it had seem'd motionless.  And then the silent lake, the trees  Visible only when the breeze  Aside the shadowy branches threw,  And let one single star shine through,  While the faint glimmer scarcely gave  To view the wanderers of the wave.
The breeze has borne the clouds away  That veil'd the blushes of young day;  The lark has sung his morning song;—  Surely the princess slumbers long.  And now it is the accustom'd hour  Her royal father seeks her bower,  When her soft voice and gentle lute,  The snowfall of her fairy foot,  The flowers she has cull'd, with dew  Yet moist upon each rainbow hue;  The fruits with bloom upon their cheek,  Fresh as the morning's first sun streak;  Each, all conspired to wile away  The weariness of royal sway.
 But she is gone: there hangs her lute,  And there it may hang lone and mute:
The flowers may fade, for who is there  To triumph now if they are fair:  There are her gems,—oh, let them twine  An offering round some sainted shrine!  For she who wore them may not wear  Again those jewels in her hair.
 At first the monarch's rage was wild;  But soon the image of his child,  In tenderness rose on his heart,  How could he bear from it to part?  And anger turn'd to grief: in vain  Ambition had destroy'd the chain  With which love had bound happiness.  In vain remorse, in vain redress,—  Fruitless all search. And years past o'er,  No tidings came of Elenore.
Although the king would have laid down  His golden sceptre, purple crown,  His pomp, his power, but to have prest  His child one moment to his breast.
 And where was Elenore? her home  Was now beneath the forest dome;—  A hundred knights had watch'd her hall,  Her guards were now the pine trees tall:  For harps waked with the minstrel tale,  Sang to her sleep the nightingale:  For silver vases, where were blent  Rich perfumes from Arabia sent,  Were odours when the wild thyme flower  Wafted its sweets on gale and shower:  For carpets of the purple loom  The violets spread their cloud of bloom,
Starr'd with primroses; and around  Boughs like green tapestry swept the ground.  —And there they dwelt apart from all  That gilds and mocks ambition's thrall;  Apart from cities, crowds, and care,  Hopes that deceive, and toils that wear;  For they had made themselves a world  Like that or ever man was hurl'd  From his sweet Eden, to begin  His bitter course of grief and sin.—  And they were happy; Eginhard  Had won the prize for which he dared  Dungeon and death; but what is there  That the young lover will not dare?  And she, though nurtured as a flower,  The favourite bud of a spring bower,
Daughter of palaces, yet made  Her dwelling place in the green shade;  Happy, as she remember'd not  Her royal in her peasant lot,—  With gentle cares, and smiling eyes  As love could feel no sacrifice.  Happy her ivory brow to lave  Without a mirror but the wave,  As one whose sweetness could dispense  With all save its own excellence;--  A fair but gentle creature, meant  For heart, and hearth, and home content.
 It was at night the chase was over,  And Elenore sat by her lover,—  Her lover still, though years had fled  Since their first word of love was said,—
When one sought, at that darksome hour,  The refuge of their lonely bower,  A hunter, who, amid the shade,  Had from his own companions stray'd.  And Elenore gazed on his face,  And knew her father! In the chase  Often the royal mourner sought  A refuge from his one sad thought.  He knew her not,—the lowly mien,  The simple garb of forest green,  The darken'd brow, which told the spoil  The sun stole from her daily toil,  The cheek where woodland health had shed  The freshness of its morning red,—  All was so changed. She spread the board,  Her hand the sparkling wine cup pour'd;
And then around the hearth they drew,  And cheerfully the woodfire threw  Its light around.—Bent o'er her wheel  Scarcely dared Elenore to steal  A look, half tenderness, half fear,  Yet seem'd he as he loved to hear  Her voice, as if it had a tone  Breathing of days and feelings gone.
 "Ah! surely," thought she, "Heaven has sent  My father here, as that it meant  Our years of absence ended now!"  She gazed upon his soften'd brow;  And the next moment, all revealing,  Elenore at his feet is kneeling!—
Need I relate that, reconciled,  The father bless'd his truant child.