TROUVÈRES.

LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY.

TH

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 Ducs, 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 fond heart such power,

my

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.

HUGUES D'ATHIES.

HUGUES D'ATHIES was grand panetier under Philip Augustus, and subsequently under Louis VIII. his

successor.

Folz est qui a escient
Veut sor gravele semer;
Et cil plus qui entrepent
Volage femme a amer.

On n'i peut raison trouver;
Tost ame, et tost se repent,
Et tost fet celui dolent
Qui plus s'i cuide fier.

FOOL! who from choice can spend his hours
Sowing the barren sand with flowers ;-
And yet more weak, more foolish you,
Who seek a fickle fair to woo.

No certain rule her course presents;
Quickly she loves, as quick repents :
Her smiles shall nought but grief confer
On him who vainly trusts in her.

The valiant knight her love may boast,
But soon shall rue his labour lost;
His fate the mariner's shall be,
Braving untoward gales at sea,

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?

my

lot;

I see not, when thy presence bright I leave,
How wealth, or joy, or peace can be
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.