2. II.
The imagination of our troubadour thus powerfully excited,
it was not surprising that he should enjoy a glorious vision of
the lady of his thoughts. He lay sleeping, during a slumberous
summer evening, in a favorite bower of his garden: his lute,
resting beside him, was silent also; but he still clasped between
his fingers the illuminated missal, in which the wandering monk,
scarcely less infatuated than himself, had sought to enshrine the
beauties of the Lady of Tripoli in the character of the Blessed
Virgin. In the deep draughts of delirious passion which the
picture had helped to enliven, the troubadour might well lapse
away from delicious fancies into as delicious dreams. The warm
sun of his region helped the influence. The birds of Provence
ministered also — singing overhead those sweet capriccios, half
play, half sentiment, which seem to have furnished the model
for many of the best specimens of Provençal poetry. The
flowers gave forth a soft, persuasive fragrance. The leaves
floated to and fro upon the slenderest green vines, under the
balmy influence of the southern breeze, ever and anon stooping
to his floating hair, and trembling over his somewhat pallid
cheek. A favorite greyhound slept at his feet, his long brown
nose resting upon the gayly-wrought slippers which enclosed them.
Warm fancies, working with the season and the scene, proved
to our poet as deliciously narcotizing as those fabled breezes
that sweep with delirium the poppy gardens of Yemen. The
protracted denial of his previous life was all compensated in the
intoxicating fancy of the hour. The creature of his imperfect
waking desires, grew to a perfect being in his dreams. He was
transported to Paradise, a region which, at that moment, he
could find at Tripoli only. And she came forth, the first, to bid
him welcome. His reception was not only one of blessing but
of ceremonial. The lady of his love was environed by state;
but this did not lessen the benignity of her favor. Princes were
grouped around her — the severe and stately forms of the
Knights of the Temple — the humbler, but not less imposing
Brothers of the Hospital — and many others, knights and nobles,
with their banners and their shields. And he himself — he,
Geoffrey Rudel, prince of Blaye — was in the midst of the
splendid circle — the person to whom all eyes were drawn —
upon whom her eye was specially fastened — she, the nearest
to his heart and person, the lovely countess of Tripoli. But a
moment was the glorious vision vouchsafed him; but, even as it
began to fade away — growing momentarily more and more dim,
without growing less beautiful — he caught the whispered words
of her parting salutation — “Hither to me, Rudel — hither to
me — and the love that thou seekest, and the peace — shall they
not both be thine?”
