All self-command is now gone by,

E'er since the luckless hour when she Became a mirror to my eye,

Whereon I gazed complacently:
Thou fatal mirror! there I spy

Love's image; and my doom shall be,
Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh,
And thus expire, beholding thee.

Pel dols chant qu'el rossinhols fai
La nueg quan mi soi adurmitz,
Revelh de joi totz esbaitz
Pensius d'amor, e cossirans ;
Qu' aisso es mos mielhers mestiers,
Qu' ancse amei joi voluntiers;

El ab joi comensa mos chans.

WHEN nightingales their lulling song
For me have breathed the whole night long,
Thus soothed, I sleep;—yet, when awake,
Again will joy my heart forsake,
Pensive, in love, in sorrow, pining,
All other fellowship declining:
Not such was once my blest employ,
When all my heart, my song, was joy.

And none who knew that joy, but well
Could tell how bright, unspeakable,
How far above all common bliss,
Was then my heart's pure happiness;
How lightly on my fancy ranged,
Gay tale and pleasant jest exchanged,
Dreaming such joy must ever be
In love like that I bore for thee.

They that behold me little dream
How wide my spirit soars from them,
And, borne on fancy's pinion, roves
To seek the beauteous form it loves :
Know, that a faithful herald flies
To bear her image to my eyes,—
My constant thought,-for ever telling
How fair she is, all else excelling.

I know not when we meet again,
For grief hath rent my heart in twain:
For thee the royal court I fled,-—
But guard me from the ills I dread,
And quick I'll join the bright array
Of courteous knights and ladies gay.

Ugonet, faithful messenger!
This to the Norman queen go bear,
And sing it softly to her ear.

Quant erba vertz, e fuella par,
E 'l flor brotonon per verjan,
E 'l rossinhols autet e clar
Leva sa votz e mov son chan,

Joy ai de luy, e joy ai de la flor,

Joy ai de me, e de mi dons maior;

Vas totas partz sui de joy claus e seinhs,

Mas ilh es joys que totz los autres vens.....

WHEN grass grows green, and fresh leaves spring, And flowers are budding on the plain,

When nightingales so sweetly sing,

And through the greenwood swells the strain,-
Then joy I in the song and in the flower,
Joy in myself, but in my lady more;

All objects round my spirit turns to joy,
But most from her my rapture rises high.....

FOLQUET DE MARSEILLE.

FOLQUET was the son of a Genoese merchant established at Marseilles. His poetical career terminated in 1200, when he took the Cistercian habit and order. In his re-appearance in public, and his subse

quent elevation, he furnishes one of the few instances of the Troubadour feeling enlisted on the side of ecclesiastical bigotry. His well known zeal against the Albigenses met with the appropriate reward of a bishopric. It was one of his brother Cistercians probably, who, at the storming of Beziers in 1209, followed his counsel in exclaiming, when they paused lest true catholics should fall with the heretics, "Kill them all, God will know his own." He returned to the cloister-let us hope in repentance, and died in 1231. Throughout the song of five stanzas, from which the two first are here taken, the same rimes are carried on in the same places. The translation follows on this plan.

Ja no volgra qu' hom auzis
Los doutz chans dels auzellos
Mas cill qui son amoros:
Que res tan no m'esbaudis

Co il auzelet per la planha;

E ilh belha cui soi aclis,

Cella m platz mais que chansos,
Volta, ni lais de Bretanha.

I WOULD not any man should hear
The birds that sweetly sing above,
Save he who knows the power of love;
For nought beside can soothe or cheer

My soul, like that sweet harmony;

Or like herself, who, yet more dear,
Hath greater power my soul to move
Than songs or lays of Brittany.

In her I joy and hope; yet ne'er
Too daring would my spirit prove;
For he who highest soars above,

Feels but his fall the more severe :
Then what shall I a gainer be,

If on her lips no smile appear?
Shall I in cold despair still love?—
Oh yes! in patient constancy.

BERTRAND DE BORN.

THE adventures of this extraordinary character, with whose poetry the history of his age is so interwoven, may be read in Millot, or in the curious Provençal life of him, reprinted by M. Raynouard in his fifth volume. It needs only to be here observed, that his period is the last half of the 12th century. Three