Page:Troubadour.pdf/10

6

And, like a beauty of southern clime, Her veil thrown back for the first time, Pale, timid as she feared to own Her claim upon the midnight throne, Shows the fair moon her crescent sign. —Beneath, in many a serpentine, The river wanders; chesnut trees Spread their old boughs o'er cottages Where the low roofs and porticoes Are cover'd with the Provence rose. And there are vineyards: none might view The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves; And olive groves, pale as the dew Crusted its silver o'er the leaves. And there the castle garden lay With tints in beautiful array: