of rhythm, the latter, who had vowed his devotions to a certain lovely Viscountess of Béziers, was the author of some of the most exquisitely tender bits of Provençal song which we possess. The laborious verbal conceits and metrical intricacies of Dante's Arnaut were imitated with great ingenuity, and even exaggerated, by Raimon de Miraval, who fought in the Albigensian war; during which so many of the local poets and their patrons fell, that a whole civilization seemed to perish with them. That cruel contest may be held to mark the beginning of the end of the Provençal school of song. The name of a woman, the Countess Die, who also, like the royal Eleanor, presided over a Court of Love, Court of Love, - remains attached to one plaintiff lament much admired in its day; and another woman, though unnamed, was the author of the most artless and impassioned of all the peculiar class of poems known as albas or morning-songs. Another very beautiful alba was written by Guiraut de Borneil, of whom it is said by his ancient biographer that he composed the first true chanson, all previous poets having made verses only. He won a weightier kind of renown by the virile force and fire of his sirventes, — didactic or satiric pieces, - in which he mourned the accumulated misfortunes of his country, or lashed the crimes and vices of the men who had brought her to the verge of ruin. Contemporary with Guiraut was another intrepid censor of the corruptions of his time, Peire Cardinal; of whom we have a satire beginning with the burning words, "Who desires to hear a sirventes woven of grief and embroidered with anger? I have spun it already, and I can make its warp and woof!" Both these brave men died not far from the year 1230, and the course of Provençal literature after their day is one of steady deterioration. [The dates at the head of these pieces translated by Miss Preston represent, approximately, the time within which the several authors wrote.] GUILLAUME DE POITIERS. (1190-1227.) I. BEHOLD the meads are green again, What wonder then my heart is sore To guard his kinsman and my heir? If he of Anjou shield him not, Deeming him well-nigh in despair. Nay, if he be not wondrous wise, And him into the dust will bear. Ah, I was brave and I had fame, I go Surrendering all that did elate My heart, all pride of steed or state, In Latin and Románs my prayer. Oh, I was gallant, I was glad, Nor can I more my burden bear. Good friends, when that indeed I die I triumphed still, or here or there. - But farewell now, love, luxury, GUIRAUD Le Roux. COME, lady, to my song incline, And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted! In very deed, if cause appear, 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, BERNARD DE VENTADOUR. (1140-1195.) I. No marvel is it if I sing Better than other minstrels all, For more than they am I love's thrall, Knowledge and sense, body and soul, His heart is dead whence doth not spring His life doth ever on him pall How keen, how exquisite the sting "T is lovelier than another's pride: 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, Of my pure faith, I'd give the whole! II. When I behold on eager wing The skylark soaring to the sun, The same ecstatic fate of fire! Methought that I knew everything Of love. Alas, my lore was none ! One who hath robbed me utterly For ne'er have I of self been king As to a mirror, I was drawn. 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 I mind the beauty glowing, 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." |