THE TROUBADOUR

Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar,
As he was hastening home from the war,
Singing, "From Palestine hither I come,—
Ladye-love, ladye-love, welcome me home!"

She for her Troubadour hopelessly wept,
Sadly she thought on him whilst others slept,
Sighing, "In search of thee, would I might roam,
Troubadour, Troubadour, come to thy home!"

Hark! 'twas the Troubadour breathing her name,
As under the battlement softly he came,
Singing, "From Palestine hither I come,
Ladye-love, ladye-love, welcome me home!"

Old Song.

THE CARRIER DOVE

Fly away to my native land, sweet dove,
Fly away to my native land,
And bear these lines to my ladye-love,
That I've traced with a feeble hand.
She marvels much at my long delay,
A rumor of death she hath heard,
Or she thinks, perhaps, that I falsely stray—
Then fly to her bower, sweet bird!

I shall miss thy visit at dawn, sweet dove,
I shall miss thy coming at eve,
But bring me a line from my ladye-love,
And then I shall cease to grieve.
No friend to my lattice a solace brings,
Except when your voice is heard,
As you beat the bars with your snowy wings,
Then fly to her bower, sweet bird!