  TROUBADOUR. Navarre has not produced many poets in early times; and the only troubadour whom it claims, is the famous lover of Blanche of Castile, the accomplished Thibault of Champagne, who rather belongs to Provins, where he lived so much, and sang so many of his beautiful lays, than to the Pyrenees. All critics, ancient and modern, from Dante to the AbbÉ Massieu, have agreed in admiring his compositions, in which grace, tenderness, and refinement, shine out in every line, encumbered though his language be with its antique costume. His mother was Blanche, daughter of Sancho the Wise, King of Navarre; his birth took place in 1201, a few months after the death of his father; and it was with difficulty the persecuted widow could retain her government of Champagne and Brie. In 1234, he was called to the throne of Navarre, by the death of his maternal uncle, Sancho le Fort. Soon after this, His songs are very numerous, and have much originality. The following will serve as specimens: chanson. ———— "Je n'ose chanter trop tart, ne trop souvent." ———— "I fear to sing too seldom or too long— I cannot tell if silence be the best, Or if at all to tune my tender song— For she denies me pity, hope, and rest. Yet, in my lay, I might some note awake, To please her ear more than all lays before; Though thus, she seems a cruel joy to take, That I should slowly suffer evermore. "At once I'd cast my idle lute away, If I were sure no pleasure could be mine; But love has made my thoughts so much his prey, I do not dare to love her, nor resign. Thus I stand trembling and afraid to fly, Till I have learnt to hate her—lovingly. "By love and hate's alternate passions torn, How shall I turn me from my thronging woes? Ah! if I perish, tortured and forlorn, But little glory from such triumph flows. She has no right to keep me her's, in thrall, Unless she will be mine, my own, my all! "Well does she know how to delight—inflame, With soft regards and smiles and words at will, And none within her magic ever came, But learnt to hope he was the favour'd still. She is worth all the conquests she has won: But I may trust too far—and be undone! "She keeps me ling'ring thus in endless doubt, And, as she pleases, holds me in her chain, Grants she no smiles—I can adore without; And this she knows, and I reproach in vain! I am content to wait my chance, even now, If she will but one ray of hope allow." ———— jeu-partie. "baldwin, tell me frank and true, What a lover ought to do; One, who, loving well and long, Suff'ring and enduring wrong, At his lady's summons flies, And presents him to her eyes, With a welcome, when they meet, Should he kiss her lips or feet? "Sire, methinks he would be loth, Not to kiss her rosy mouth; For a kiss at once descends To the heart and makes them friends; Joy and sweetness, hope and bliss, Follow in that tender kiss. "Baldwin, nay, you ought to know, He who dares such freedom show— As though a shepherd maid were she, Would never in her favour be: I would kneel in humble guise, For I know her fair and wise, And humility may gain Smiles no boldness could obtain. "Sire, though modest semblance oft Meet a guerdon, coy and soft, And timid lovers sometimes find Reward both merciful and kind: Yet to the lips prefer the feet Seems to my mind a care unmeet. "Baldwin—for worlds I would not lose Her mouth, her face, her hand—but choose To kiss her pretty feet, that she May see how humble truth can be. But you are bold and daring still; And know Love's gentle lore but ill. "Sire, he must be a craven knight, Who, with her lovely lips in sight, Is all content and happy found, To kiss her foot-print on the ground! "Baldwin, quick gains are quickly o'er, Got with much ease, and prized no more. When at her feet, entranced, I lie, No evil thought can hover night. And she his love will faithful call, Who asked no boon, and gave her all." |
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