 | Lectures on art, and poems |  |
338
THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR.
The House of Este's bannered pile
Lay glittering in the morning sun,
And many a warlike trophy, won
From swarthy Moor and Arab dun,
Seemed grimly through the air to smile.
Lay glittering in the morning sun,
And many a warlike trophy, won
From swarthy Moor and Arab dun,
Seemed grimly through the air to smile.
And all her knights from Palestine,
As called in jubilant array
From out their tombs, stood, fiercely gay,
In mail and casque, to grace the day
That weds the heir of Este's line.
As called in jubilant array
From out their tombs, stood, fiercely gay,
In mail and casque, to grace the day
That weds the heir of Este's line.
For all along the banquet-hall
Was pedestalled, as if in life,
The mail that each had worn in strife,
To greet Count Julian's lovely wife,
Fair Isabel of Sinigal.
Was pedestalled, as if in life,
The mail that each had worn in strife,
To greet Count Julian's lovely wife,
Fair Isabel of Sinigal.
339
And many a noble, far and near,
And pilgrims from the Holy Land,
And all renowned for voice or hand
In ministrelsy, in many a land,
From every courtly clime were there.
And pilgrims from the Holy Land,
And all renowned for voice or hand
In ministrelsy, in many a land,
From every courtly clime were there.
But one there was, a wandering Boy,
A stranger to his native soil,
Whom penury had doomed to moil,
But grateful, in the Poet's toil,
Who could not pine for other joy.
A stranger to his native soil,
Whom penury had doomed to moil,
But grateful, in the Poet's toil,
Who could not pine for other joy.
With heart and head that seemed as one,
His loved guitar his only store,
From court to court he made his tour,
A gentle, happy Troubadour,
Whose quiet spirit envied none.
His loved guitar his only store,
From court to court he made his tour,
A gentle, happy Troubadour,
Whose quiet spirit envied none.
And with the Bride the Troubadour,
Now honored as her favored page,
Had come his tiny skill to wage
With other bards of riper age
In bridal song and festal lore.
Now honored as her favored page,
Had come his tiny skill to wage
With other bards of riper age
In bridal song and festal lore.
Yet thought not he of rival art;
He sang not for a sounding name;
He loved the Muse because she came
Unasked, and gave him more than fame,—
The pure, sweet music of the heart.
He sang not for a sounding name;
He loved the Muse because she came
Unasked, and gave him more than fame,—
The pure, sweet music of the heart.
340
There stood within a lonely dell
A broken fountain, called of yore
The Lover's Fount, where, bending o'er,
A marble Cupid once did pour
The sweetest drops that ever fell.
A broken fountain, called of yore
The Lover's Fount, where, bending o'er,
A marble Cupid once did pour
The sweetest drops that ever fell.
And all who drank of that pure stream,
'T was said, would in its mirror see
The gallant He, or lovely She,
That, in their natal stars' decree,
Would bless them through life's troubled dream.
'T was said, would in its mirror see
The gallant He, or lovely She,
That, in their natal stars' decree,
Would bless them through life's troubled dream.
But long the stream had ceased to flow;
Yet still the marble urchin stops,
As if to watch the feigned drops,
And mock the baffled lover's hopes
Who seeks in faith a bride below.
Yet still the marble urchin stops,
As if to watch the feigned drops,
And mock the baffled lover's hopes
Who seeks in faith a bride below.
Beside this fountain's grassy brink,
The little Bard now sought to train
His wandering thoughts, and build a strain
For knightly ears; but all in vain;
On knightly themes he could not think.
The little Bard now sought to train
His wandering thoughts, and build a strain
For knightly ears; but all in vain;
On knightly themes he could not think.
He sang of Este's martial lord;
He numbered o'er each gallant deed,
And made afresh the caitiffs bleed,
That fell before his barèd steed,
Or oped their cleft helms to his sword.
He numbered o'er each gallant deed,
And made afresh the caitiffs bleed,
That fell before his barèd steed,
Or oped their cleft helms to his sword.
341
And yet his soul could not, as once,
The madness catch, and outward glow,
With flashing eye and knotted brow;
A softer mood would o'er him grow,
Do all he could,—a little dunce!
The madness catch, and outward glow,
With flashing eye and knotted brow;
A softer mood would o'er him grow,
Do all he could,—a little dunce!
And then he tried the tournament,
And sang how Julian's mighty lance
O'erthrew the chivalry of France;
Then how he fell beneath a glance
From one bright eye,—which through him went.
And sang how Julian's mighty lance
O'erthrew the chivalry of France;
Then how he fell beneath a glance
From one bright eye,—which through him went.
Ah, now he touched the magic chord
That waked his soul through all her springs;
His true guitar itself now sings,
As if alive its happy strings,
Mingling its life with every word.
That waked his soul through all her springs;
His true guitar itself now sings,
As if alive its happy strings,
Mingling its life with every word.
Ah, now he feels!—for that bright eye
Himself had felt in kindness beam,
And now, his Lady fair the theme,
His spirit trod, as in a dream,
The purple meadows of the sky.
Himself had felt in kindness beam,
And now, his Lady fair the theme,
His spirit trod, as in a dream,
The purple meadows of the sky.
For there alone her virtues took
A bodied form, substantial, true,
That to the inward senses grew,
In angel shapes, distinct to view,
On which 't were bliss enough to look.
A bodied form, substantial, true,
That to the inward senses grew,
In angel shapes, distinct to view,
On which 't were bliss enough to look.
342
The trancèd Boy, now starting, stood,
And gently breathed his last address:
“O happy husband to possess
A wife so formed to love, to bless,
A wife so beautiful, so good!”
And gently breathed his last address:
“O happy husband to possess
A wife so formed to love, to bless,
A wife so beautiful, so good!”
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