He heeds not, while he lives in state,

What ills on Damietta wait.

But, noble sirs, we will not fear,
Strong in the hope of succours near.

I cannot think that Avignon
Will lose its holy zeal,—
In this our cause so ardently
Its citizens can feel.
Then shame to him who will not bear
In this our glorious cause his share!
And, noble sirs, we will not fear,
Strong in the hope of succours near.


Je vous supply, pardonnez moy,

Et ne mectez en oubliette

Celui qui la chanson a faicte

A P umbre d' ung coppeau de Moy.

Chansons Normands.



1 He pedigree of the noble family of Coucy is ably and satisfactorily elucidated by Laborde, in whose"Essay on Music" is to be found also the affecting narrative of the poet's unfortunate passion for la Dame de Fayel. The first Raoul Sire de Coucy died at the siege of Acre in 1191: but Laborde thinks that our poet was his nephew Raoul, who died, however, nearly about the same time. The Raoul to whom Thibaud king of Navarre addresses one of his pieces, M. Laborde conceives to be Raoul II. the grandson of Raoul I. Raoul II. died about 1250. The pride of this family may be judged by the characteristic motto of one of the Sires :—

"Je ne suis Roi, ni Dues, Prince ni Comte aussi,
Je suis le Sire de Coucy."

Commencement de douce seson bele

Que je voi revenir,
Remembrance d'amors qui me rapele

Dont ja ne puis partir,

Et la mauviz qui commence a tentir,
Et li douz sons dou ruissel de gravele Que je voi resclaircir, Me font resouvenir
De la ou tuit mi bon desir
Sont, et seront, jusqu'au morir.

The first approach of the sweet spring

Returning here once more,—
The memory of the love that holds In my fond heart such power,—
The thrush again his song essaying,—
The little rills o'er pebbles playing, And sparkling as they fall,— The memory recall
Of her on whom my heart's desire
Is—shall be—fix'd till I expire.

With every season fresh and new

That love is more inspiring: Her eyes, her face, all bright with joy,—

Her coming, her retiring,— Her faithful words,—her winning ways,— That sweet look, kindling up the blaze Of love, so gently still, To wound, but not to kill,— So that when most I weep and sigh, So much the higher springs my joy.

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