Guiraut, the Troubadour

Unto the walls of Carcassonne
(Ah. how the sun that morning shone
Upon the walls of Carcassonne!)
In russet raimentry he came
Within whose heart love like a flame
Burned ever passionate and pure,
The while he breathed one flower-sweet name,
Guiraut, the gallant troubadour.

Unto the gate of Carcassonne
(Ah, how his blithe lips smiled upon
The warded gate of Carcassonne!)
As light of foot as Love he strode;
The budding flowers along the road
Bloomed sudden, with his song for lure;
And softlier the river flowed
Before Guiraut, the troubadour.

Along the streets of Carcassonne
(Ah, what a harmony fell on
The climbing streets of Carcassonne!)
He swiftly took his singing way;
The little children ceased their play;
Woe seemed more easy to endure;
Gay grew the sad, and young the gray,
To hear Guiraut, the troubadour.

Unto a keep in Carcassonne
(No sweeter voice e'er drifted on
That frowning keep in Carcassonne!)
Anon the singer drew anigh,
Whereout there floated melody, —
Song that is biting sorrow's cure;—
Then something godlike lit the eye
Of brave Guiraut, the troubadour.

Into a hall in Carcassonne
(Forsooth, hall never brighter shone
Than that in all of Carcassonne!)
He made him bold to enter; there
Were men and maidens debonair,
And one so peerless and so pure
She flowered more fair than all the fair
To glad Guiraut, the troubadour.

Before that maid in Carcassonne
(Ah, never, never lovelier shone
A maiden's eyes in Carcassonne!)
He bared his head, and bowed him low;
"Lady, the wilding winds that blow
Brought me this wondrous word for lure,—
To-day, to-day, they bade me know
You choose your heart's own troubadour."

Then rose a song in Carcassonne
(Now rose-flushed and now snowy-wan
The loveliest cheek in Carcassonne!)
Most marvellous, most magical;
It caught her breathless in its thrall;
And ah, how empty and how poor
All others seemed,— lord's, prince's, all,—
Save his, Guiraut, the troubadour!

Two lovers bide in Carcassonne
(Ah, happy sun, to shine upon
Such happiness in Carcassonne!)
And while they dream through life along,
No woe they know, nor any wrong,
The maid so peerless and so pure,
And he who won her love through song,
Guiraut; the gallant troubadour.