Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/32

Rh

 The golden flower, which won all eyes, Destined to be the minstrel prize.

  They pass'd around the silver urn Whose lot must fix the poet's turn; To a young Provence bard it came,— He drew, and drew ’s name. And forth at once young sprung, His light lute o'er his shoulder flung, Then paused,—for over cheek and brow, Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow; A low sound trembled from that lute, His lip turn'd pale, his voice was mute; He sent a hurried glance around, As if in search; at last he found The eyes without whose light to him The very heaven above was dim: 