The precious hours she now accords
Would be my happy lot no more.
Oh, let me, then, in silence still

Lament and hope, and gaze and sigh;
Even though my silent sorrow kill,

To lose her were at once to die.

Translation of Louisa S. Costello.

I MUST BE WORTHY OF HER LOVE.

FROM THE ROMANIC OF RAIMOND DE MIRAVALS.

I

("Songs of the Troubadours.")

MUST be worthy of her love,

For not the faintest shade

Of all the charms that round her move,

Within my heart can fade.

The glances of her gentle eyes

Are in my soul enshrined;

Her radiant smiles, her tender sighs,
Are treasured in my mind.

To see her is at once to learn

What beauty's power can do ;

From all that pleased before to turn,

And wake to life anew.

To feel her charms all else efface,
To bask beneath their light;
To find her genius, sense, and grace,
A day that knows no night!
Ah! to be loyal, brave, sincere,
Her worthy slave to prove,

It is enough to think on her,
To see her and to love!

Translation of Louisa S. Costello.

VIRELAY.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN FROISSART.

OO long it seems ere I shall view

The maid so gentle, fair, and true,
Whom loyally I love :

Ah! for her sake, where'er I rove,
All scenes my care renew!
I have not seen her-ah, how long!
Nor heard the music of her tongue;
Though in her sweet and lovely mien
Such grace, such witchery, is seen,

Such precious virtues shine :
My joy, my hope, is in her smile,
And I must suffer pain the while,
Where once all bliss was mine.
Too long it seems!

O, tell her, Love!-the truth reveal,
Say that no lover yet could feel

Such sad, consuming pain:

While banished from her sight, I pine,

And still this wretched life is mine,

Till I return again.

She must believe me, for I find

So much her image haunts my mind,

So dear her memory,

That wheresoe'er my steps I bend,
The form my fondest thoughts attend

Is present to my eye.

Too long it seems!

Now tears my weary hours employ,
Regret and thoughts of sad annoy,
When waking or in sleep;
For hope my former care repaid,
In promises at parting made,

Which happy love might keep.
O, for one hour my truth to tell,
To speak of feelings known too well,

Of hopes too vainly dear!

But useless are my anxious sighs,
Since Fortune my return denies,

And keeps me lingering here.
Too long it seems!

Translation of Louisa S. Costello.

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.

'O make my lady's obsequies

My love a minster wrought,

And, in the chantry, service there
Was sung by doleful thought;
The tapers were of burning sighs,

That light and odor gave;

And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,
Enluminèd her grave;

And round about, in quaintest guise,

Was carved, "Within this tomb there lies
The fairest thing in mortal eyes."

Above her lieth spread a tomb
Of gold and sapphires blue :
The gold doth show her blessedness,
The sapphires mark her true;
For blessedness and truth in her
Were livelily portrayed,

When gracious God with both his hands
Her goodly substance made.

He framed her in such wondrous wise,
She was, to speak without disguise,

The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

No more, no more! my heart doth faint
When I the life recall

Of her, who lived so free from taint,
So virtuous deemed by all—
That in herself was so complete,

I think that she was ta'en
By God to deck his Paradise,
And with his saints to reign;

Whom, while on earth, each one did prize,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

But naught our tears avail, or cries;
All soon or late in death shall sleep;
Nor living wight long time may keep
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

Translation of Henry Francis Cary.

TO MARY STUART.

FROM THE FRENCH OF PIERRE DE RONSARD.

A

LL beauty, granted as a boon to earth,

That is, has been, or ever can have birth, Compared to hers, is void, and Nature's care Ne'er formed a creature so divinely fair.

In spring amidst the lilies she was born,
And purer tints her peerless face adorn;
And though Adonis' blood the rose may paint,
Beside her bloom the rose's hues are faint:
With all his richest store Love decked her eyes;
The Graces each, those daughters of the skies,
Strove which should make her to the world most dear,
And, to attend her, left their native sphere.

The day that was to bear her far away—
Why was I mortal to behold that day?

O, had I senseless grown, nor heard, nor seen!
Or that my eyes a ceaseless fount had been,

That I might weep, as weep amidst their bowers
The nymphs, when winter winds have cropped their flowers,
Or when rude torrents the clear streams deform,

Or when the trees are riven by the storm!
Or rather, would that I some bird had been
Still to be near her in each changing scene,
Still on the highest mast to watch all day,
And like a star to mark her vessel's way:
The dangerous billows past, on shore, on sea,
Near that dear face it still were mine to be!