Of all sweet birds, I love the most

The lark and nightingale ;

For they the first of all awake,

The opening spring with songs to hail.

And I, like them, when silently
Each Troubadour sleeps on,

Will wake me up, and sing of love

And thee, Vierna, fairest one!....

The rose on thee its bloom bestow'd,
The lily gave its white,

And nature, when it plann'd thy form,
A model framed of fair and bright.

For nothing sure that could be given
To thee hath been denied ;

That there each thought of love and joy
In bright perfection might reside.

Ab l'alen tir vas me l'aire
Qu' ieu sen venir de Proensa;
Tot quant es de lai m'agensa,
Si que, quan n' aug ben retraire,
Ieu m'o escout en rizen,

E'n deman per un mot cen,

Tan m' es bel quan n' aug ben dire.

R

I EAGERLY inhale the breeze

From thee, sweet Provence, blowing; And all that's thine delights me so,

Such pleasant thoughts bestowing,
That if thy very name is named
I listen joyously,

And ask a hundred words for one-
So sweet to hear of thee.

And surely none can name a spot
So sweet in memory biding,
As 'twixt the Durance and the sea,
Where the swift Rhone is gliding:
There ever fresh delights abound,
There, midst its people gay,

I left my heart with one whose smile
Would drive each grief away.

Ne'er let the day be lightly named
When first I saw that lady:
From her my joy and pleasure flows;
And he whose tongue is ready
To give her praise, whate'er he says,
Of fair or good, is true:

She is the brightest, past compare,

That e'er the wide world knew.

If aught of goodness or of grace
Be mine, hers is the glory;
She led me on in wisdom's path,

And set the light before me :
In her I joy, in her I sing,

If ever, pleasantly;

The sweetness there is not my own,
But hers in whom I joy.

PIERRE D'AUVERGNE.

PIERRE D'AUVERGNE was a Troubadour of some note at the beginning of the 13th century. When the following translation was made, the original had not been published; but it has since appeared in "Le Parnasse Occitanien," and also in M. Raynouard's fifth volume. Our version was formed from Millot's prose translation, and will be found materially to abridge the prolixity of the original; but it represents the burden of the song tolerably well, and is therefore left as it is.

Rossinhol en son repaire
M' iras ma dona vezer;

E ill diguas lo mieu afaire, &c.

Go, nightingale, and find the beauty I adore;

My heart to her outpour :

Bid her each feeling tell,

And bid her charge thee well

To say that she forgets me not.
Let her not stay thee there,

But come and quick declare

The tidings thou hast brought;
For none beside so dear have I,

And long for news from none so anxiously.

Away the bird has flown; away

Lightly he goes, inquiring round-
Where shall that lovely one be found?

And, when he sees her, tunes the lay;
That lay which sweetly sounds afar,
Oft heard beneath the evening star.

"Sent by thy true love, lady fair!" he sings, "I come to sing to thee.

And what sweet song shall be

His glad reward when, eager, up he springs
To meet me as I come
On weary pinion home?

Sweet lady! let me tell

Kind words to him who loves thee well.

And why these cold and keen delays?
Love should be welcomed while it stays,

It is a flower that fadeth soon;

Oh profit, lady! by its short-lived noon."

Then that enchanting fair in accents sweet replied, "Thy faithful nightingale

Has told his pleasant tale;

And he shall tell thee how, by absence tried,
Here, far from thee, my love, I rest;

For long thy stay hath been.

Such grief had I foreseen,

Not with my love so soon hadst thou been blest.

Here then for thee I wait;

With thee is joy and mirth,

And nothing here on earth

With thee can e'er compete.

"True love, like gold, is well refined;
And mine doth purify my mind:
Go then, sweet bird, and quickly say,
And in thy most bewitching way,
How well I love.-Fly! haste thee on!

Why tarriest thou?-What! not yet gone?"