“Come, dear Signor,” said Montreal, placing the lute in Adrian’s hands, “let Adeline be the umpire between us, which music—yours or mine—can woo the more blandly.”
“Ah,” said Adrian, laughing; “I fear me, Sir Knight, you have already bribed the umpire.”
Montreal’s eyes and Adeline’s met; and in that gaze Adeline forgot all her sorrows.
With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit, and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to Adeline, he sang as follows:—
Love’s Excuse for Sadness.
Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye the heart that’s fill’d with love, Runs o’er in melancholy. To streams that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my breast reflects the cloud, ‘Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image glass’d within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide me not, if with the light The shadow also sleepeth.
“And now,” said Adrian, as he concluded, “the lute is to you: I but preclude your prize.”
The Provencal laughed, and shook his head.—“With any other umpire, I had had my lute broken on my own head, for my conceit in provoking such a rival; but I must not shrink from a contest I have myself provoked, even though in one day twice defeated.” And with that, in a deep and exquisitely melodious voice, which wanted only more scientific culture to have challenged any competition, the Knight of St. John poured forth:
The Lay of the Troubadour.
1.
Gentle river, the moonbeam is hush’d on thy tide,
On thy pathway of light to my lady I glide.
My boat, where the stream laves the castle, I moor,—
All at rest save the maid and her young Troubadour!
As the stars to the waters that bore
My bark, to my spirit thou art;
Heaving yet, see it bound to the shore,
So moor’d to thy beauty my heart,—
Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie!
2.
Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath wealth for the vain;
But Love breaks his bond when there’s gold in the chain;
Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath courts for the proud;—
But Love, born in caves, pines to death in the crowd.
Were this bosom thy world, dearest one,
Thy world could not fail to be bright;
For thou shouldst thyself be its sun,
And what spot could be dim in thy light—
Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie?
3.
The rich and the great woo thee dearest; and poor,
Though his fathers were princes, thy young Troubadour!
But his heart never quail’d save to thee, his adored,—
There’s no guile in his lute, and no stain on his sword.
Ah, I reck not what sorrows I know,
Could I still on thy solace confide;
And I care not, though earth be my foe,
If thy soft heart be found by my side,—
Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie!
4.
The maiden she blush’d, and the maiden she sighed,
Not a cloud in the sky, not a gale on the tide;
But though tempest had raged on the wave and the wind,
That castle, methinks, had been still left behind!
Sweet lily, though bow’d by the blast,
(To this bosom transplanted) since then,
Wouldst thou change, could we call the past,
To the rock from thy garden again—
Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie?