Who in all his sacred metres,
In his madrigals, terzinas,
Canzonets, and strange ghaselas
Pour’d out all the’ abundant fire
Of his noble god-kiss’d spirit!
Of a truth this troubadour
Was upon a par with all the
Best lute-players of Provence,
Of Poitou and of Guienne,
Roussillon and every other
Charming orange-growing region
Of gallant old Christendom.
Charming orange-growing regions
Of gallant old Christendom!
How they glitter, smell, and tingle
In the twilight of remembrance!
Beauteous world of nightingales!
Where we only in the place of
The true God, the false God worshipp’d
Of the Muses and of love.
Clergy, bearing wreaths of roses
On their bald pates, sang the psalms
In the charming langue d’oc;
Laity, all gallant knights,
On their high steeds proudly trotting,
Verse and rhyme were ever making
To the honour of the ladies
Whom their hearts to serve delighted.
There’s no love without a lady.
Therefore to a Minnesinger
Was a lady just as needful
As to bread-and-butter, butter.
And the hero, whom we sing of,
Our Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also had his heart’s fair lady;
But she was of special kind.
She no Laura was, whose eyes,
Mortal constellations, kindled
On Good Friday the notorious
Fire within the famed Cathedral;