THE TROUBADOUR: THE HARPER'S STORY by DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

MY pretty ladies, mid this Christmas cheer,
Loth though I am to wake a single tear
From thy soft bosoms, yet I claim a sigh
For hapless love and frenzied jealousy.
And if, beneath the favour of thy smile,
I dare reprove some restless love, whose guile
Had bid him enter to this garden close
Of speedwell eyes, and every cheek a rose,
To snatch from some sweet bloom a wanton hour.
Ah, chide me not, but hide, O hapless flower,
Thy honied head, and listen to my lay
Of Margarida, who on luckless day
Had found such love, and ill-advised desire
That all her beauteous self did soon expire,—
As some poor rose, chilled by too rough a wind,
Leaves but a scattered memory behind.
So, though we grieve the perfect bloom decays,
We can admire no more, nor sing the praise
Of her fair being.—So Margarida cast
Her prudence to the teeth of passion's blast,
And scattered were her virtues by its breath.
She died dishonoured of a sinful death.

If there be one who holds, within this hall,
For Margarida scorn, and her downfall,
Let him but list to all this tangled tale
Of misplaced love. So let his cheek grow pale.
If in his heart he plays the troubadour,
As Guillem de Cabestaing, in days of yore,
Who loved unwisely Count Rossillon's bride,
And for this wanton love most sorely died.
And if my grievous tale doth hold some ear,
And strike some heart that hath a jealous fear
That restless love had sought his garden close,
To steal the treasure of his sweetest rose,
Let him but pause. For know where love doth be,
That evil snake, his jaundiced jealousy,
Doth linger too. So bitter is its sting,
That to love's self it can destruction bring.
So did it coil about Rossillon's heart,
Till pity in despair did swift depart,
And his cold breast sweet mercy did forsake.
Then two were slain to feed the horrid snake.
Nor did love's tears or weeping aught avail,
As you shall hear who listen to my tale.

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