But all my liegemen in fair Normandy,
In England, Poitou, Gascony, know well
That not my meanest follower would I

Leave for gold's sake in prison-house to dwell;
Reproach I neither kinsman nor ally,-

Yet I am still in thrall.

Alas! I may as certain truth rehearse,

Nor kin nor friends have captives and the dead: 'Tis bad for me, but for my people worse,

If to desert me they through gold are led;
After my death, 'twill be to them a curse
If they leave me in thrall.

No marvel, then, if I am sad at heart

Each day my lord disturbs my country more; Has he forgot that he too had a part

In the deep oath which before God we swore? But yet in truth I know, I shall not smart

Much longer here in thrall.

And therefore I rejoice once more

That joy of love should warm my breast,
And lay my sweet desires to rest.

As serpent from false sycamore,

I from false coldness speed me ever;

Yet for love's sake, which cheers me never,
All other joys seem vain and light.

Never since Adam plucked the fruit
Whence thousand woes our race oppress,

Was seen on earth such loveliness.

The body, formed that face to suit,
Is polished more than amethyst;
Her very beauty makes me tryst,

Since she of me takes little heed.

Ah, never shall there come a time

When love, that now inflames my heart,
Shall struggle from her to depart.

As plants, even in a wintry clime,

When the sun shines regain new life,
So her sweet smiles, with gladness rife,

Deck me with love, as plants with flower.

I love so madly, many die

From less, and now my hour seems near.
For though my love's to me most dear,

In vain for help or hope I sigh.

A fire upon my heart is fed,

The Nile could quench no more than thread
Of finest silk support a tower.

Alas that I must still lament

The pains that from love ever flow;
That baffled hope and ceaseless woe

All color from my cheek have sent.
But white as snow shall be my hair,
And I a trembling dotard, ere

Of my best lady I complain.

How oft, from lady's love we see

The fierce and wicked change their mood;
How oft is he most kind and good

Who, did he not love tenderly,

Would be each passion's wayward slave.
Thus am I meek with good and brave,
But haughty to the bad and vain.

Thus with delight each cherished woe I dree,
And sweet as manna seems slight joy to me.

Blackwood's Magazine, February 1836.

II

THERE is who spurns the leaf, and turns

The stateliest flower of all to cull:

So on life's topmost bough sojourns

My lady; the most beautiful!

Whom with his own nobility

Our Lord hath graced, so she may move

In glorious worth our lives above,

Yet soft with all humility.

Her pleading look my spirit shook,
And won my fealty long ago;
My heart's blood stronger impulse took,
Freshening my colors.
And yet so,

No otherwise discovering

My love, I bode. Now, lady mine,
At last, before thy throngèd shrine,
I also lay my offering.

III

THE visions tender

Which thy love giveth me,

Still bid me render

My vows, in song, to thee;

Gracious and slender,

Thine image I can see,
Wherever I wend, or

What eyes do look on me.
Yea, in the frowning face

Of uttermost disgrace,

Proud would I take my place
Before thy feet,

Lady, whose aspect sweet

Doth my poor self efface,

And leave but joy and praise.

Who shall deny me

The memory of thine eyes?

Evermore by me

Thy lithe white form doth rise.

*

If God were nigh me

Alway, in so sure wise,
Quick might I hie me

Into his Paradise!

Translations of H. W. P.

COMTESSE DE DIE

(TWELFTH CENTURY)

F THAT I would not, I, alas! must sing,

O' He whom I love has caused me such deep pain:

For though I love him more than earthly thing,

My love and courtesy but meet disdain,
And beauty, merit, wit, are all in vain;

But I must mourn as hopelessly and long
As if I wittingly had done him wrong.

It comforts me, sweet friend, to think that never
Have I 'gainst you in word or deed transgressed:
More than Seguis Valens* I loved you ever,

And that my love surpasses yours I'm blessed;
For you are worthier far, O dearest, best.
You're proud to me in conduct, speech, and air,
But to all others kind and debonaire.

It marvels me, sweet friend, that you can feel
Towards me that pride that cuts me to the heart:
All wrong it were that any dame should steal

Your love from me, whate'er may be her art;
And never let the memory depart

Of what our love once was. Mother divine!
Forbid that coldness sprang from fault of mine.

Your prowess which all others hold so dear,

Your fame, disquiet me with their bright shine;
For not a lady, whether far or near,

But will, if e'er she love, to you incline.

But you, sweet friend, ah! well might you divine
Where beats the heart more tender than them all:

Forget not former vows, whate'er befall.

Seguis and Valens were the hero and heroine of a romance of that day

Much should pure fame, much should desert avail,
My beauty much, but truth and love far more;
Therefore send I this song to bid you hail,

And in your ear my thoughts and hopes to pour.
I fain would know, O friend that I adore!

Why you to me are ever harsh and cold:
Is't pride or hate, or think you me too bold?
All this my message bears, and this beside,
That many suffer from excess of pride.

Blackwood's Magazine, February 1836.