Troubadour’s Song

A wealthy knight to the wars went forth, To fight for the Holy Cross; But of all his goods in the sacred cause He cheerfully suffered the loss.

He came to his native land again Enriched with fame—but poor! A truthful heart, and a strong bright sword Formed all his earthly store!

He went like a troubadour, and sang To his lady-love a strain That told of his loss, and his heart’s deep truth, But she viewed him with chill disdain!

She knew it was he, but her sordid soul Had loved for the wealth alone, And she cast his high worth and his truth away From her heart when that was gone.

“Ah! my Fidelio that is thee indeed! My heart can pierce thy troubadour’s disguise; Oh do not make my faithful bosom bleed By such too cruel song! within me lies The woman’s truthful heart that aye defies The frowns of fortune, the decrees of fate, And all the change in mortal destinies. How light to me the pomp of wealth and state; Thy truth, and sword alone, make thee my fitter mate!”

How glad their hearts in that enraptured hour! What joy they felt, what confidence serene, And like the blooming of a glorious flower, Deep thoughts came forth that never yet had been Unfolded in their breasts. A peaceful scene The future offered; but before the time Their love had priestly sanction, valour keen Advanced the infidel; with zeal sublime The knight re-sought the wars—to stay he deemed a crime!

Nigh to that ancient castle of Lenore, Within the forest, in a gloomy cave, A vile enchanter dwelt, who oft of yore Had worked deep mischief. Naught on earth could save From his enchantments, when his soul would crave And lust for evil; with such direful aim He wrought his purposes. The bold, the brave, The fair, the lovely, without ruth or shame, He brought to ill. Pauvero was his name.

He was in sooth a most repulsive wight, With matted locks, and sallow livid hue; His red eyes glared as if in wild affright, And lank, spare frame, seemed pinched by hunger blue: Torn filthy rags he wore, that seemed to shew The utmost want; for though he stole away The wealth of thousands, yet he never knew A benefit therefrom, but let it lay Deep in a vast dark pit, all buried from the day.

Soon as the knight had left his lady fair, He swiftly thought, by necromantic skill, To win her wealth; and it to slyly bear Away with him that wicked pit to fill. Palled by the dark, with thievish pace and still, He stole into that castle night on night, Aided by imps and magic power, until Its walls were stripped, its coffers emptied quite, And naught was left for use, and naught to please the sight.

And further yet to shew his hellish spite, He bore the lady to a noisome den, And chained her there, all hidden from the light, Beneath his cave, far from the haunts of men; Of her bright garments he disrobed her then, And clad in coarse vile rags, that not an eye In such strange garb could recognise again The maiden once so beautiful. A cry Gushed from her tortured heart, but no true help was nigh!

When brave Fidelio from the fight returned, He found her castle all in ruin stand, Grey-mossed and broken-walled. His spirit burned With agony’s wild fire, as o’er the land, Now desolate, he gazed; and with his hand Held high to heaven, a sacred vow he swore, To bring fit vengeance on the fiendish band That wrought the ruin; for the wild scene bore Marks of that wizard’s blast, all withered, burnt, or frore.

“Sweet lady mine! where art thou dwelling now? That vile enchanter hath thee in his power! Oh! that thou coulds’t but hear my spirit vow To search earth for thee to life’s latest hour. And though he hath deprived thee of thy dower, ’Tis naught to me, for wert thou still but mine, I would not heed bright fortune’s richest shower Or want’s necessity, if still might shine On me that loving look, that radiant smile of thine.”

He rushed impassioned to that forest dark, To search each fastness for the wizard’s den, And seek if chance had left some trace or mark To guide his footsteps to Lenore again. Long days and months he sought with weary pain And heart undaunted, but no track had yet Been found to prove his quest was not in vain, Till one bright evening, when the sun had set, He stopped by a stony brook to hear its waters fret.

And as he lay upon the flowery brink, Close by a wild rock that ascended high, In dark despondency he ’gan to think On those bright moments when his hope was nigh Its rich fruition; and he heaved a sigh Of doubt and discontent, and wished he ne’er Had gone to th’ wars again, or chivalry Been his heart’s choice; but soon he dashed the tear Away, and sang to his lute these mournful notes—now hear!