And strong my ties,--my grief unspeakable!
Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign; Yet stronger still the affections that impel My heart toward Him, the G.o.d whose love is mine.
That holy love, how beautiful! how strong!
Even wisdom"s favorite sons take refuge there; "T is the redeeming gem that shines among Men"s darkest thoughts,--for ever bright and fair.
--Tr. by Taylor.
GACE BRULE. Thirteenth Century.
The birds, the birds of mine own land I heard in Brittany; And as they sung, they seemed to me The very same I heard with thee.
And if it were indeed a dream, Such thoughts they taught my soul to frame That straight a plaintive number came, Which still shall be my song, Till that reward is mine which love hath promised long.
--Tr. by Taylor.
RAOUL DE SOISSONS. Thirteenth Century.
Ah! beauteous maid, Of form so fair!
Pearl of the world, Beloved and dear!
How does my spirit eager pine But once to press those lips of thine!-- Yes, beauteous maid, Of form so fair!
Pearl of the world, Beloved and dear!
And if the theft Thine ire awake, A hundred fold I"d give it back,-- Thou beauteous maid, Of form so fair!
Pearl of the world, Beloved and dear!
--Tr. by Taylor.
LATER FRENCH LYRICS.
During the latter half of the thirteenth century several new and highly artificial forms of verse were developed. The chief of these were the Ballade and Chant Royal, the Rondel, Roudeau, Triolet, Virelay. These are all alike in being short poems, generally treating of love, and making special use of a refrain and the repet.i.tion of words and lines. They differ in the number of verses in a stanza, of stanzas In the poem, and the order and number of rhymes. Their poetic value is not great because the poet so easily lost sight of his subject in perfecting his verse form.
A TRIOLET.
Take time while yet it is in view, For fortune is a fickle fair: Days fade, and others spring anew; Then take the moment still in view.
What boots to toil and cares pursue?
Each month a new moon hangs in air.
Take, then, the moment still in view, For fortune is a fickle fair.
--Froissart. Tr. Anonymous.
RONDEL.
Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
--Charles d"Orleans. Tr. by Longfellow.
THE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.
Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where"s Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,-- She whose beauty was more than human? ....
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where"s Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack"s mouth down the Seine? ....
But where are the snows of yester-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,-- Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,-- And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,-- Mother of G.o.d, where are they then? ....
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Save with thus much for an overword,-- But where are the snows of yester-year?
--Villon. Tr. by D. G. Rossetti.
LYRIC POETRY--PROVENCAL.
Modern scholars separate the treatment of Provencal literature from that of French. It was written in a different dialect, was subject to somewhat different laws of development, and after a short period of activity died almost completely away.
Provencal literature is that produced in ancient Provence or Southern France. Its period of life extended from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, its middle and only important period being that of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This literature contains examples of all the varieties of French literature of the Middle Ages, but the only work that is original and important is its lyric poetry. This was composed by the troubadours (corresponding to the French trouveres) and sung by jongleurs or minstrels. The names of 460 Provencal poets and 251 anonymous pieces have come down to us. The one great theme of troubadour-singing--one, too, upon which he was original and a master--was that of pa.s.sionate love. With this as subject, these poets united an eagerness for form, and were the first to perfect verse in any modern language.
PIERRE ROGIERS. Twelfth Century.
Who has not looked upon her brow Has never dreamed of perfect bliss, But once to see her is to know What beauty, what perfection, is.
Her charms are of the growth of heaven, She decks the night with hues of day: Blest are the eyes to which "t is given On her to gaze the soul away!
--Tr. by Costello.
GUILLEM DE CABESTANH. Twelfth Century.
No, never since the fatal time When the world fell for woman"s crime, Has Heaven in tender mercy sent-- All preordaining, all foreseeing-- A breath of purity that lent Existence to so fair a being!
Whatever earth can boast of rare, Of precious, and of good,-- Gaze on her form, "t is mingled there, With added grace endued.
Why, why is she so much above All others whom I might behold, Whom I, unblamed, might dare to love, To whom my sorrows might be told?
O, when I see her, pa.s.sing fair, I feel how vain is all my care: I feel she all transcends my praise, I feel she must contemn my lays: I feel, alas! no claim have I To gain that bright divinity!
Were she less lovely, less divine, Less pa.s.sion and despair were mine.
--Tr. by Costello.