One trooper he slew with his petronel,
And one with his sword when his good steed fell,
And they haled him, fighting, from horse and sell
In the light of the beacon’s burning.
Quoth Hugh of the Hills,—“To yonder tree
Now hang him high where she may see;
Then bear this rose and message from me—
‘The ravens feast at the turning.’”
BERTRAND DE BORN
Knight and Troubadour, to his Lady the beautiful Maenz of Martagnac.
The burden of the sometime years,
That once my soul did overweigh,
Falls from me, with its griefs and fears,
When gazing in thine eyes of gray;
Wherein, behold, like some bright ray
Of dawn, thy hearts fond love appears,
To cheer my life upon its way.
Thine eyes! the daybreak of my heart!
That give me strength to do and dare;
Whose beauty is a radiant part
Of all my songs; the music there;
The morning, that makes dim each care,
And glorifies my mind’s dull mart,
And helps my soul to do and dare.
God, when He made thy fresh fair face,
And thy young body, took the morn
And made thee like a rose, whose race
Is not of Earth; without a thorn,
And dewed thee with the joy that’s born
Of love, wherein hope hath its place
Like to the star that heralds morn.
I go my way through town and thorp:
In court and hall and castle bower
I tune my lute and strike my harp:
And often from some twilight tower
A lady drops to me a flower,
That bids me scale the moat’s steep scarp,
And climb to love within her bower.
I heed them not, but go my ways:
What is their passion unto me!
My songs are only in thy praise;
Thy face alone it is I see,
That fills my heart with melody—
My sweet aubade! that makes my days
All music, singing here in me!
One time a foul knight in his towers
Sneered thus: “God’s blood! why weary us
With this one woman all our hours!—
Sing of our wenches! amorous
Yolande and Ysoarde here!—Not thus
Shalt sing, but of our paramours!—
What is thy Lady unto us!”