rossa, his successor in the Empire. If so, his poetry of course belongs to the 12th century.

Ich grüsse mit gesange die süssen

Die ich vermiden niht wil noch enmac, &c.

I GREET in

song that sweetest one

Whom I can ne'er forget;

Though many a day is past and gone

Since face to face we met.

Who sings this votive song for me,
Or man or woman, he or she,

To her, my absent one, shall welcome be.

Kingdom and lands are nought to me
When with her presence weigh'd;

And when her face no more I see,
My pow'r and greatness fade.
Then of my wealth I reckon none,
But sorrow only, for mine own;
Rising and falling, thus my life moves on.....

He errs, whose heart will not believe

That I might yet be blest,

Though never crown again had leave
Upon my head to rest:

This loss I might supply; but when
Her love was gone, what had I then?
Nor joy, hope, solace could I know again.

HENRY OF MORUNGE.

"HER Heinrich von Morunge," a Suabian (and probably of the same family as that of "der edle Möringer," whose history is the subject of the noble ballad so called), is of the first half of the 13th century. Many of his pieces, all of considerable merit, are preserved in the Manesse MS. We have already given two extracts from them at p. 132.

Sie hat lieb ein kleines vogellin,

Das singet und ein lútzel nah ir sprechen kan, &c.

My lady dearly loves a pretty bird*,

That sings, and echoes back her gentle tone; Were I, too, near her, never should be heard A songster's note more pleasant than my own;

were my love yon lilac fair

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring,
And I a bird to shelter there

When wearied on my little wing,

How I wad mourn when it was torn

By autumn wild and winter rude;
But I wad sing, on wanton wing,

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

BURNS.

Sweeter than sweetest nightingale I'd sing.

For thee, my lady fair,

This yoke of love I bear,

Deign thou to comfort me, and ease my sorrowing.

Were but the troubles of my heart by her

Regarded, I would triumph in my pain;

But her proud heart stands firmly, and the stir Of passionate grief o'ercomes not her disdain. Yet, yet I do remember how before

My eyes she stood, and spoke,

And on her gentle look

My earnest gaze was fix'd; O were it so once more!

Sach ieman die frouwen
Die man mac schouwen

In dem venster stan,

Diu vil wol getane

Diu tuot mich ane

Sorgen die ich han, &c.

HAST thou seen

My heart's true queen

At the window gazing?

She whose love

Can care remove,

All my sorrows easing.

Like the sun at first uprising,
She was shrouded,

And o'erclouded

Was my spirit,-now rejoicing.

Is there none

Whose heart can own

A gen'rous, kindly feeling?
Let him aid me,

Find that lady

Who from me is stealing;

That her beauteous smile may cheer me

For love and woe

To the silent grave fast bear me.

Then upon

My burial stone

Men shall write how dearly

She was priz'd

And I despised,

I that lov'd sincerely;

Then the passing swain shall see

My complaining,

Her disdaining;

Such sad fate she dealt to me.

O we sol aber mir iemer me
Gelúhten dur die naht,
Noch wisser danne ein sne,
Ir lib vil wol geslaht,

Der truog diu ougen min

Ich wande es solde sin des liehten manen schin.....

ALAS for me, if never more

On me should gleam at eventide,
Far whiter than the pure snow shower,
The form of beauty's fairest pride,

Which beam'd so gently on my stedfast gaze That to my eye it seem'd like the soft moonlight rays.....

BURKHART OF HOHENFELS.

"HER Burkart von Hohenvels" was a prolific writer of the first part of the 13th century. There are many of his songs in Bodmer.

Si gelichet sich der sunnen
Diu den sternen nimt ir schin
Die da vor so liehte brunnen;
Alsus nimt diu frouwe min
Allen wiben gar ir glast.