THE TROUVÈRES.

Je vous supply, pardonnez moy,
Et ne mectez en oubliette

Celui qui la chanson a faicte

A l'umbre d'ung coppeau de Moy.

CHANSONS NORMANDS.

S

TROUVÈRES.

LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY.

THE 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."

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,