Christine [pp. 171-182]

175
Christine: A Troubadour's Song.
Tinting to a riper flush
The faint vermilion of thy blush;
Deepening in thy dark brown hair
Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there.
For she had scarce seen summers ten,
When erst the Hermit's call
Sent all true Knights from bower and hall
Against the Saracen.
Young, motherless, and passing fair,
The D:auphin durst not leave her there,
Within his castle lone,
To kinsman's cold or casual care,
Not such as were his own:
And so the sweet Provengal maid
Shared with her sire the first Crusade.
And you may hear her oft,
In accents strangely soft
Still singing of the rosefs bloom
In Sharon,-of the long sFunset
That gilds lamenting Olivet,
Of eglantines that grace the gloom
Of sad Gethsemane;
And of a young Knight ever seen
In evening walks along the green
That fringes feeble SiloS.
Young, beautiful, and passing fairThe ancient Dauphin's only heir,
The fairest flower of France,Knights by sea and Knights by land
Came to claim the fair white hand,
With sigh and suppliant lance;
And many a shield
Displayed afield
The Lily of Provence.
Ladye love of prince and bard
Yet to one young Savoyard
Swerveless faith she gave To the young knight ever seen
When moonlight wandelved o'er the green
That gleams o'er Silo6's wave.
And he, blest boy, where lingers he
For the Dauphin hath given slow consent
That, after a joyous tournament,
The stately spousals shall be.
Christine is in her bower
That blooms by the swift Is~re,
Twining a white flower
With her dark brown hair.