one of the series entitled 'Social England' (Macmillan, New York, 1895). Another interesting and recent work is Ida Farnell's 'Lives of the Troubadours,' translated from Provençal sources. This little book is illustrated with poetical English versions. Miss Preston's own volume, 'Troubadours and Trouvères' (Roberts Brothers, Boston, 1876) is devoted, in spite of its title, chiefly to Jasmin and the more recent Provençal poets of this century. The chapter on the Troubadours (pages 151 to 231) is largely made up of spirited versions, which are in part repeated, in revised form, in the course of the present article.

For those who wish to study the Provençal texts in the original, the most convenient collection is Karl Appel's 'Chrestomathie' (Leipzig, 1895). There is an elementary introduction to the old Provençal language by Kitchin.

[The dates at the head of these pieces represent, approximately, the time within which the several authors wrote.]

Their hearts are high, their might is great,

Who well endure.

Translation of H. W. P.

II

DESIRE of song hath taken me,
But sorrowful must my song be;
No more pay I my fealty

In Limousin or Poitiers,

Since I go forth to exile far,

And leave my son to stormy war,

To fear and peril; for they are

No friends who dwell about him there.

What wonder then my heart is sore
That Poitiers I see no more,
And Fulk of Anjou must implore

To guard his kinsman and my heir?

If he of Anjou shield him not,
And he who made me knight, I wot
Many against the boy will plot,

Deeming him well-nigh in despair.

Nay, if he be not wondrous wise,
And gay, and ready for emprise,
Gascons and Angevins will rise,

And him into the dust will bear.

Ah, I was brave and I had fame,
But we are sundered, all the same!
I go to Him in whose great name
Confide all sinners everywhere.

Surrendering all that did elate

My heart, all pride of steed or state,To Him on whom the pilgrims wait, Without more tarrying, I repair.

Forgive me, comrade most my own,
If aught of wrong I thee have done!
I lift to Jesus on his throne

In Latin and Románs my prayer.

Oh, I was gallant, I was glad,
Till my Lord spake, and me forbade;
But now the end is coming sad,

Nor can I more my burden bear.

Good friends, when that indeed I die,
Pay me due honor where I lie:
Tell how in love and luxury

I triumphed still,- or here or there.

But farewell now, love, luxury,

And silken robes and miniver!

Translation of H. W. P.

C

GUIRAUD LE ROUX

(1110-1147)

OME, lady, to my song incline,

The last that shall assail thine ear.

None other cares my strains to hear,

And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted!
Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted;

But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet,
That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet!
Yea, I will yield this life of mine

In very deed, if cause appear,
Without another boon to cheer.

Honor it is to be by thee incited

To any deed; and I, when most benighted

By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet,

And brave men still do their occasion meet.

Translation of H. W. P.

BERNARD DE VENTADOUR

(1140-1195)

I

O MARVEL is it if I sing

N°

Better than other minstrels all,

For more than they am I love's thrall,

And all myself therein I fling:

Knowledge and sense, body and soul,

And whatso power I have beside: The rein that doth my being guide Impels me to this only goal!

His heart is dead whence doth not spring
Love's odor sweet and magical;

His life doth ever on him pall
Who knoweth not that blessèd thing:
Yea, God who doth my life control
Were cruel, did he bid me bide

A month or even a day, denied
The love whose rapture I extol.

How keen, how exquisite the sting
Of that sweet odor! At its call
An hundred times a day I fall
And faint; an hundred rise and sing!
So fair the semblance of my dole,

'Tis lovelier than another's pride:
If such the ill doth me betide,

Good hap were more than I could thole!

Yet haste, kind Heaven, the sundering

True swains from false, great hearts from small!

The traitor in the dust bid crawl,

The faithless to confession bring!

Ah, if I were the master sole

Of all earth's treasures multiplied,
To see my lady satisfied

Of my pure faith, I'd give the whole!

II

WHEN I behold on eager wing

The skylark soaring to the sun,
Till e'en with rapture faltering
He sinks in glad oblivion,
Alas, how fain to seek were I

The same ecstatic fate of fire!
Yea, of a truth, I know not why
My heart melts not with its desire!

Methought that I knew everything

Of love. Alas, my lore was none! For helpless now my praise I bring

To one who still that praise doth shun; One who hath robbed me utterly

Of soul, of self, of life entire, So that my heart can only cry

For that it ever shall require.

For ne'er have I of self been king
Since the first hour, so long agone,
When to thine eyes bewildering,

As to a mirror, I was drawn.
There let me gaze until I die;

So doth my soul of sighing tire,
As at the fount, in days gone by,
The fair Narcissus did expire.

III

WHEN the sweet breeze comes blowing
From where thy country lies,

Meseems I am foreknowing

The airs of Paradise.

So is my heart o'erflowing

For that fair one and wise
Who hath the glad bestowing
Of life's whole energies;
For whom I agonize
Whithersoever going.

I mind the beauty glowing,
The fair and haughty eyes,
Which, all my will o'erthrowing,
Made me their sacrifice.
Whatever mien thou'rt showing,

Why should I this disguise?

Yet let me ne'er be ruing

One of thine old replies:

"Man's daring wins the prize,

But fear is his undoing."

Translation of H. W. P.

RICHARD CŒUR DE LION

(1169-1199)

H! CERTES will no prisoner tell his tale

Fitly, unless as one whom woes befall; Still, as a solace, songs may much avail: Friends I have many, yet the gifts are small, Shame! that because to ransom me they fail, I've pined two years in thrall.