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,
The orchard-bloom is seen again,
Of sky and stream the mien again
Is mild, is bright!

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!
to Him in whose great name
Confide all sinners everywhere.

I

go

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!

GUIRAUD Le Roux.
(1110-1147.)

COME, 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 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.

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,
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,

"T is 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."