Part 2 — ON THE TROUBADOURS OF PROVENCE.

True hearts, that beat so fast, but now are still, The gracious days will never come again Ye loved and sang; your tender accents will Linger no more on the warm lips of men! Alas! your speech lies with ye in the grave! Yet where Montpellier’s skies their balm impart, And Barcelona wooes the southern wave, The student cons your pages when his heart Hungers for solace. Take it in kind part, Count it not loss, dear hearts, but loyalty, If I like him, though with a ruder hand, Am fain to cull your flowers too sweet to die, To waft their fragrance to a distant land, And bid them blossom ’neath a colder sky.