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Fit wooer he for such an one

The flatterer, with his wily tongue,
Who knows the way, by shrewd address,
To crown his purpose with success.

THIBAUD, KING OF NAVARRE.

SOMETHING has already been said of this prince's poetry and history. He was born in 1201, and died in 1253. His songs have had the good fortune to meet with a most learned and industrious editor in M. Ravallière, who has perhaps bestowed more pains on them than their intrinsic merit can be said to have deserved. The following seems written on the eve of a crusade to which he went in 1238.

Dame, ensi est qu'il m'en convient aler,

Et departir de la doce contrée,

Ou tant ai mauz soffers et endurez;

Quant je vos lais, droiz est, que je m'en hée :
Dex! porquoi fu la terre d'outremer,

Qui tant amans aura fait desevrer,
Dont puis ne fu l'amour reconforté,
Ne ne porent lor joie remembrer?

LADY, the fates command, and I must go,

Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me : Here my heart suffer'd many a heavy woe; But what is left to love, thus leaving thee? Alas! that cruel land beyond the sea!

Why thus dividing many a faithful heart, Never again from pain and sorrow free,

Never again to meet, when thus they part?

I see not, when thy presence bright I leave, How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my lot; Ne'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve As now in leaving thee: and if thy thought Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught,

Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee, Dwelling, in fruitless wishes, on this spot,

And all the gracious words here said to me.

O gracious God! to thee I bend my knee,
For thy sake yielding all I love and prize;
And O how mighty must that influence be,
That steals me thus from all my cherish'd joys!
Here, ready, then, myself surrendering,
Prepared to serve thee, I submit; and ne'er
To one so faithful could I service bring,

So kind a master, so beloved and dear.

And strong my ties *—my grief unspeakable!

Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign;

Yet stronger still the' affections that impel My heart tow'rd Him, the God whose love is mine.

That holy love, how beautiful! how strong!

Even wisdom's favourite sons take refuge there; 'Tis the redeeming gem that shines among

Men's darkest thoughts-for ever bright and fair.

* Reinmar der Alte, a Minnesinger, dwells in the same manner, in one of his crusade songs, on the contending emotions of zeal in the holy cause and attachment to friends at home.

"Go hence, my thoughts, and wander home,

Around your father-land to roam !

Yet tarry not, but quickly greet

The circle there of friends so sweet;
Then haste ye back, and share my pain,
The pardon of my sins to gain." &c.

GACE BRULEZ.

GACE BRULEZ was the friend of Thibaud, and flourished during the same period.

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Il m'ont en si doux penser mis
Qu'a chançon faire me suis pris,

Tant que je parataigne

Ce qu'amors m'ont lonc tens promis.....

THE birds, the birds of mine own land
I heard in Brittany;

And as they sung, they seem'd 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.....

* Ravallière (I. 236.) reads "Champaigne."

GOBIN DE REIMS.

THIS poet's age reaches to the reign of St. Louis.

Mult seraie bone vie

De bien amer,

Qui aurait bele amie

Pour deporter;

Sanz orgueil, sanz folie,

Et sanz guiler,
Ne ja n'eust envie
D'autrui amer;

Ne me vousist fausser;
Mes, com loial amie,

Celui amer

Qui de fin cuer la prie.

SWEET life indeed it were,

His joy to prove,

Who in his lady fair

Finds a true love :

No guile, no folly there,

No fickle pride;
Seeking her heart to share

With none beside,

To treachery unknown,

Faithful and fervent proved,

Loving that only one,

By whom beloved!

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