And, but that entering neighbours quell'd the fray, The vintner then had seen his dying day.
The matter soon was to the king made known (Count Henry of Champagne possess'd the throne); And first the plaintive vintner stoutly spoke, And claim'd redress:-Wine lost, and vessels broke.
The prince doom'd not the knight to recompense,
But will'd him first to argue his defence:
He the plain truth from end to end exposed;
Then with these words his frank recital closed:
'Great sire!' he said, this worthy host of mine
Foretold much good would spring from spilling
That I, forsooth, whose cup was half thrown down,
Should soon become the wealthiest wight in town:
My gratitude, I own, o'ercame me here, [dear,
And, weening wealth might ne'er be bought too
I strove to make him richer than myself,
And shed full half a cask to purchase pelf.'
He ceased; loud plaudits rang through all the No tale was ever told so full of sport:
[court: All ranged them seemly by the Norman's side, While good King Henry laugh'd until he cried; Then thus dismiss'd the parties and their suit— 'What's spilt is spilt,-betide or bale or boot.'
FROM THE ANCIENT FRENCH.
WELL I wot 'tis often told,
Wisdom dwells but with the old;
Yet do I, of greener age,
Boast and bear the name of sage:
Briefly, sense was ne'er conferr'd
By the measure of the beard.
List, for now my tale begins,—
How to rid me of my sins,
Once I journeyed, far from home,
To the gate of holy Rome:
There the Pope, for my offence,
Bade me straight in penance thence,
Wandering onward, to attain
The wondrous land, that hight Cokaigne.
Sooth to say, it was a place
Bless'd with Heaven's especial grace;
For every road and every street
Smoked with food for man to eat:
Pilgrims there might halt at will,
There might sit and feast their fill,
In goodly bowers that lined the way,
Free for all, and nought to pay.
Through that blissful realm divine
Roll'd a sparkling flood of wine :
Clear the sky, and soft the air,
For eternal spring was there;
And, all around, the groves among,
Countless dance, and ceaseless song.
Strife and ire and war were not,
For all was held by common lot;
And every lass that sported there
Still was kind, and still was fair;
Free to each as each desired,
And quitted when the year expired;
For, once the circling seasons past,
Surest vows no more might last.
But the chiefest, choicest treasure,
In that land of peerless pleasure,
Was a well, to saine the sooth,
Cleped the living well of youth.
There, had numb and feeble age
Cross'd you in your pilgrimage,
In those wondrous waters pure
Laved a while, you found a cure:
Lustihed and youth appears
Numbering now but twenty years.
Woe is me! who rue the hour!
Once I own'd both will and power
To have gain'd this precious gift;
But, alas! of little thrift,
From a kind o'erflowing heart
To my fellows to impart
Youth, and joy, and all the lot
Of this rare enchanted spot,
Forth I fared, and now in vain
Seek to find the place again.
Sore regret I now endure!
Sore regret beyond a cure!
List and learn from what is pass'd,
Having bliss, to hold it fast.
FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF RAMBAUD DE VAQUEIRAS. COMPASS'D with warriors, bound in brilliant arms, Leaguering strong towns, exulting in the fight, Mounting the imminent breach mid proud alarms, Shaking the old towers from their dizzy heightSuch be the rugged tasks which claim me now, Calling my thoughts from thee, and sweet Love's
Girt in my noble arms, my sole pursuit
Hath been the combat and the battle strife, And my reward—oh, vain and worthless fruit! Hath been the dross of gold-Alas! my life Is but a desert, severed from thy side,
And even my song hath lost its wonted pride.
FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF BERTRAND de born.
NOT rich viands, nor the cup
With the red wine sparkling up-
Not the sweeter joys of sleep
To eyes that painful vigils keep-
Match the soul-born fierce delight,
When, amid the mingling fight,
We listen to the swelling cry,
To the rescue! Victory!'
While a thousand hoarse throats shout,
< Courage! Courage!' 'mid the rout.
Oh! 'tis joy to hear the neighing
Of loosen'd steeds, 'mid slain and slaying--
To see the shatter'd standards wave,
O'er the cold and bloody grave
Of chief and soldier, side by side,
Fallen in the battle's pride.
THE COMPLAINT.
FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF THE COUNTESS DE DIE. ALAS! alas! my song is sad;
How should it not be so,
When he who used to make me glad,
Now leaves me in my woe?
With him my love, my graciousness,
My beauty all are vain,
I feel as though some guiltiness
Had mark'd me with its stain.
One sweet thought still has power o'er me
In this, my heart's great need,
"Tis that I ne'er was false to thee,
Dear friend! in word or deed.
I own that nobler virtues fill
Thy heart; love only mine:
Yet why are all thy looks so chill
Till they on others shine?
O long-loved friend! I marvel much
Thy heart is so severe,
That it will yield not to the touch
Of love, and sorrow's tear.
No! no! it cannot be that thou
Shouldst seek another love,
Oh! think upon our early vow,
And thou wilt faithful prove.
Thy virtue's pride, thy lofty faine,
Assure me thou art true,
Though fairer ones than I may claim
Thy hand, and deign to sue.
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