And then I flung my lute aside;
And from its baldric flew my sword;
And down the hall ’twas but a stride;
And in his brute face and its word
My gauntlet; and around the board
The battle, till all wild-beast-eyed
He lay and at his throat my sword.
Thou dost remember in Provence
The vile thing that I slew; and how
With my good jongleurs and my lance
Kept back his horde!—The memory now
Makes fierce my blood and hot my brow
With rage.—Ah, what a madman dance
We led them, and escaped somehow!
Oft times, when, in the tournament,
I see thee sitting yet uncrowned;
And bugles blow and spears are bent,
And shields and falchions clash around,
And steeds go crashing to the ground;
And thou dost smile on me,—though spent
With war, again my soul is crowned:
And I am fire to strike and slay;
Before my face there comes a mist
Of blood; and like a flame I play
Through the loud lists; all who resist
Go down like corn; until thy wrist,
Kneeling, I kiss; the wreath they lay
Of beauty on thy head’s gold mist.
And then I seize my lute and sing
Some chanson or some wild aubade
Full of thy beauty and the swing
Of swords and love which I have had
Of thee, until, with music mad,
The lists reel with thy name and ring
The echoed words of my aubade.
I am thy knight and troubadour,
Bertrand de Born, whom naught shall part
From thee: who art my life’s high lure,
And wild bird of my wilder heart
And all its music: yea, who art
My soul’s sweet sickness and its cure,
From which, God grant! it ne’er shall part.
THE TROUBADOUR, PONS DE CAPDEUIL
In Provence, to his Lady, Azalis de Mercœur in Anjou
The gray dawn finds me thinking still
Of thee who hadst my thoughts all night;
Of thee, who art my lute’s sweet skill,
And of my soul the only light;
My star of song to whom I turn
My face and for whose love I yearn.
Thou dost not know thy troubadour
Lies sick to death; no longer sings:
That this alone may work his cure—
To feel thy white hand, weighed with rings,
Smoothed softly through his heavy hair,
Or resting with the old love there.