THE TROUBADOUR TO HIS LADY.

SWEET is the song which the lone nightingale

Sings in her bower of roses;

But sweeter by far is the strain of the tale

My heart to my lady discloses!

Long have I wandered; in many a clime

I've gazed on the faces of women sublime,

Whose eyes are as bright as the fiery coals,

And who, in a glance, lay open their souls;

Whose words teem with love, and whose hearts are as true

As the steel of Damascus, of shimmering blue.

But never a maid in this beautiful train

Has drawn from my bosom one vow of devotion;

Nor breathes there for me, in the borders of Spain,

But one who can flutter my heart with emotion.