  Alba WHEN the nightingale to his mate Sings day-long and night late My love and I keep state In bower, In flower, ’Till the watchman on the tower Cry: “Up! Thou rascal, Rise, I see the white Light And the night Flies.” ICompleynt of a gentleman who has been waiting outside for some time O PLASMATOUR and true celestial light, Lord powerful, engirdled all with might, Give my good-fellow aid in fools’ despite Who stirs not forth this night, And day comes on. “Sst! my good fellow, art awake or sleeping? Sleep thou no more. I see the star upleaping That hath the dawn in keeping, And day comes on! “Hi! Harry, hear me, for I sing aright Sleep not thou now, I hear the bird in flight That plaineth of the going of the night, And day comes on! “Come now! Old swenkin! Rise up, from thy bed, I see the signs upon the welkin spread, If thou come not, the cost be on thy head. And day comes on! “And here I am since going down of sun, And pray to God that is St. Mary’s son, To bring thee safe back, my companion. And day comes on. “And thou out here beneath the porch of stone Badest me to see that a good watch was done, And now thou’lt none of me, and wilt have none Of song of mine.” (Bass voice from within.) “Wait, my good fellow. For such joy I take With her venust and noblest to my make To hold embraced, and will not her forsake For yammer of the cuckold, Though day break.” (Girart Bornello.) IIAvril WHEN the springtime is sweet And the birds repeat Their new song in the leaves, ’Tis meet A man go where he will. But from where my heart is set No message I get; My heart all wakes and grieves; Defeat Or luck, I must have my fill. Our love comes out Like the branch that turns about On the top of the hawthorne, With frost and hail at night Suffers despite ’Till the sun come, and the green leaf on the bough. I remember the young day When we set strife away, And she gave me such gesning, Her love and her ring: God grant I die not by any man’s stroke ’Till I have my hand ’neath her cloak. I care not for their clamour Who have come between me and my charmer, For I know how words run loose, Big talk and little use. Spoilers of pleasure, We take their measure. (Guilhem de Peitieu.) IIIDescant on a Theme by Cerclamon WHEN the sweet air goes bitter, And the cold birds twitter Where the leaf falls from the twig, I sough and sing that Love goes out Leaving me no power to hold him. Of love I have naught Save troubles and sad thought, And nothing is grievous as I desirous, Wanting only what No man can get or has got. With the noblest that stands in men’s sight, If all the world be in despite I care not a glove. Where my love is, there is a glitter of sun; God give me life, and let my course run ’Till I have her I love To lie with and prove. I do not live, nor cure me, Nor feel my ache—great as it is, For love will give me no respite, Nor do I know when I turn left or right nor when I go out. For in her is all my delight And all that can save me. I shake and burn and quiver From love, awake and in swevyn, Such fear I have she deliver me not from pain, Who know not how to ask her; Who can not. Two years, three years I seek And though I fear to speak out, Still she must know it. If she won’t have me now, Death is my portion, Would I had died that day I came into her sway. God! How softly this kills! When her love look steals on me. Killed me she has, I know not how it was, For I would not look on a woman. Joy I have none, if she make me not mad Or set me quiet, or bid me chatter. Good is it to me if she flout Or turn me inside out, and about. My ill doth she turn sweet. How swift it is. For I am traist and loose, I am true, or a liar, All vile, or all gentle, Or shaking between, as she desire, I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad, The man whom love had and has ever; Alas! who’er it please or pain, She can me retain. I am gone from one joy, From one I loved never so much, She by one touch Reft me away; So doth bewilder me I can not say my say nor my desire, It seems to me I lose all wit and sense. The noblest girls men love ’Gainst her I prize not as a glove Worn and old. Though the whole world run rack And go dark with cloud, Light is Where she stands, And a clamour loud in my ears. IVVergier In orchard under the hawthorne She has her lover till morn, Till the traist man cry out to warn Them. God how swift the night, And day comes on. O Plasmatour, that thou end not the night, Nor take my belovÉd from my sight, Nor I, nor tower-man, look on daylight, ’Fore God, How swift the night, And day comes on. “Lovely thou art, to hold me close and kisst, Now cry the birds out, in the meadow mist, Despite the cuckold, do thou as thou list, So swiftly goes the night And day comes on. “My pretty boy, make we our play again Here in the orchard where the birds complain, ’Till the traist watcher his song unrein, Ah God! How swift the night And day comes on.” “Out of the wind that blows from her, That dancing and gentle is and Thereby pleasanter, Have I drunk a draught, sweeter than scent of myrrh. Ah God! How swift the night. And day comes on.” Venust the lady, and none lovelier, For her great beauty, many men look on her, Out of my love will her heart not stir. By God, how swift the night. And day comes on. VCanzon I ONLY, and who elrische pain support Know out love’s heart o’erborne by overlove, For my desire that is so firm and straight And unchanged since I found her in my sight And unturned since she came within my glance, That far from her my speech springs up aflame; Near her comes not. So press the words to arrest it. I am blind to others, and their retort I hear not. In her alone, I see, move, Wonder.... And jest not. And the words dilate Not truth; but mouth speaks not the heart outright: To find charm’s sum within one single frame As God hath set in her t’assay and test it. And I have passed in many a goodly court To find in hers more charm than rumour thereof ... In solely hers. Measure and sense to mate, Youth and beauty learned in all delight, Gentrice did nurse her up, and so advance Her fair beyond all reach of evil fame, To clear her worth, no shadow hath oppresst it. Her contact flats not out, falls not off short.... Let her, I pray, guess out the sense hereof For never will it stand in open prate Until my inner heart stand in daylight, So that heart pools him when her eyes entrance, As never doth the Rhone, fulled and untame, Pool, where the freshest tumult hurl to crest it. Flimsy another’s joy, false and distort, No paregale that she springs not above ... Her love-touch by none other mensurate. To have it not? Alas! Though the pains bite Deep, torture is but galzeardy and dance, For in my thought my lust hath touched his aim. God! Shall I get no more! No fact to best it! No delight I, from now, in dance or sport, Nor will these toys a tinkle of pleasure prove, Compared to her, whom no loud profligate Shall leak abroad how much she makes my right. Is this too much? If she count not mischance Then tear ye out the tongue that hath expresst it. The song begs you: Count not this speech ill chance, But if you count the song worth your acclaim, Arnaut cares lyt who praise or who contest it. (Arnaut Daniel, a. d. about 1190.) |
|
