Page:Troubadour.pdf/177

Rh

There winds a path, the clear moonshine Pierces not its dim serpentine. The garden lay behind in light, With flower and with fountain bright; The lake like sheeted silver gave The stars a mirror in each wave; And distant far the torchlight fell, Where paced the walls the centinel: And as each scene met view, He deem'd the tales of magic true,— With such a path, and such a night, And such a guide, and such a flight.

The way led to a grotto's shade, Just for a noon in summer made; For scarcely might its arch be seen Through the thick ivy's curtain green,