The moonlight; sleeps low, on the hills of Provence; The stars are all tracking, their paths in the sky: How softly, and brightly, their golden orbs glance, Where the long shining waves, of the silver Rhone lie The tow'rs of De Courcy rise high in the beam, From sky to earth trembling, so lustrous and pale, Around them there dwells the deep hush of a dream, And stilled is the murmur of River, and Gale. There are groves in the moonlight, all sparkling with dew, There are dim garden-paths, round that Castle of Pride; Where the bud of the rose, and the hyacinth blue, [5] Close their leaves, to the balm, of the moist even-tide. And long is the alley, dark, bowery, and dim, Where sits a white form 'neath a tall chestnut tree Which waves its brown branches, all dark'ling and grim, O'er the young Rose of Courcy, Sweet Anna Marie. And who kneels beside her? A warrior in mail. On his helm there's a plume In his hand there's a lance And why does the cheek of the lady turn pale? Why weeps in her beauty The Flower of Provence? She weeps for her lover, this night, are they met To breathe a farewell, 'Neath love's own holy star; For to-morrow the crest of the young Lavalette, Will float highest, and first in the van of the war. Thus far sung Blondel, when a sudden tone, of quivering harp-strings, on his ear upsprung; It sounded, like an echo of his own: So faintly, that mysterious music rung, [6] So sweet, it floated, those dark towers among, And seemed to issue from their topmost height; Then there were words, in measured cadence sung. Now soft and low, then with a master's might, Poured forth that varying strain, upon the stilly night Who sings? the minstrel knows there is but one, Whose voice has music half so rich, and deep Whose hand can summon from the harp a tone, So thrilling, that it calls from latent sleep Heroic thoughts, dims eyes, that seldom weep, With tears of extasy, and fires the breast, Till listening warriors, from their chargers leap, Assume the glittering helm, and nodding crest, Unsheathe the ready sword And lay the lance in rest But not of war, nor of the battle blast, Sung now the kingly harper. No his strain Was mournful, as a dream of days long past. [7] At times it swelled, but quickly died again; And oh! the sadness of that wild refrain! Suited full well with the lone, solemn hour, Too sad for joy, too exquisite for pain, It touched the heart Subdued the spirit's power Blent with the Danube's moan, and wailed around the tower Richard's Song