Sang I:
The vision tender
Which thy love giveth me,
Still bids me render
My vows in song to thee;
Gracious and slender,
Thine image I can see,
Wherever I wend, or
What eyes do look on me.
Yea, in the frowning face
Of uttermost disgrace
Proud would I take my place
Before thy feet,
Lady whose aspect sweet
Doth my poor soul efface
Leaving but joy and grace
In me to meet.
Who shall deny me
The memory of thine eyes?
Evermore by me
Thy lithe white form doth rise,
If God were nigh me
Still, in so sure a wise
Quick might I hie me
Into His paradise.
Thus I sang to the memory of my true lady, for it was the last song
our brave Renaud had made for her before he rode away to Terre Sainte.
So when the song was finished I sat a long time still, taking counsel
with my sad heart over the black past: how, four May-times ago, I had
ridden blithely forth as singing page in my lady's train, when she
left her own fair land of Aragon to be wedded to this grim Count Fael
of the North; how from that time forth I had dwelt here in his castle,
vassal to him only because he was lord to my liege lady, but fearing
alway his stern face, that froze the laugh on the lips and made
joyousness die, stillborn; how my sole happiness had been to serve my
lady and sing her such songs as I made, and my grief to see her fair
face fade and her grey eyes grow less laughing day by day.
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