to the Holy Land. Though this latter assertion is, for chronological reasons, not very probable, yet Peire's voyage to Palestine cannot be doubted. Here he composed the little song of love and homesickness which I have attempted to translate, following the original closely, but the tender grace and melodious charm of which it would be impossible to reproduce in our Northern idiom:

CANZO.

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

En deman per un mot cen:
Tan m'es bel quan n'aug ben dire.

Qu'om no sap tan dous repaire
Cum de Rozer tro qu'a Vensa,
Si cum clau mars e Durensa,
Ni on tan fis jois s'esclaire.
Per qu'entre la franca gen
Ai laissat mon cor jauzen
Ab leis que fals iratz rire.

Qu'om no pot lo jorn maltraire
Qu'aja de leis sovinensa,
Qu'en leis nais jois e comensa.
E qui qu'en sia lauzaire,
De ben qu'en diga noi men,
Quel melher es ses conten
El genser qu'el mon se mire.

E s'eu sai ren dir ni faire,
Ilh n'ajal grat, que sciensa
M'a donat e conoissensa,
Per qu'eu sui gais e chantaire.
E tot quan fauc d'avinen
Ai del seu bel cors plazen,
Neis quan de bon cor consire.

Translation.

With my breath I drink the air

That Provence my country sends me,
For a message ever lends me
Joy, from her most dear and fair.
When they praise her I rejoice,
Ask for more with eager voice,
Listen, listen night and morrow.
For no country 'neath the sun
Beats mine from Rozer to Vensa,
From the sea to the Durensa :
Nowhere equal joy is won.

With my friends, when I did part,
And with her I left my heart
Who dispelled my deepest sorrow.

Nothing harms me all the day
While her sweet eyes stand before me,
And her lips that rapture bore me.

If I praise her, no one may
Call my rapturous word a lie,
For the whole world can descry
Nothing wrought in sweeter fashion.

All the good I do or say

Only to her grace is owing,

For she made me wise and knowing,

For she made me true and gay.

If in glory I abound,

To her praise it must redound

Who inspires my song with passion.

By such repeated proofs of the poet's unchangeable love the heart of Azalais was at last touched. Besides, fool as he was, Peire was undoubtedly one of the most renowned troubadours, and the proudest beauty could not be indifferent to the celebration of her charms in canzos as popular as they were exquisite. Barral importuned his wife till she promised

to the Holy Land. Though this latter assertion is, for chronological reasons, not very probable, yet Peire's voyage to Palestine cannot be doubted. Here he composed the little song of love and homesickness which I have attempted to translate, following the original closely, but the tender grace and melodious charm of which it would be impossible to reproduce in our Northern idiom:

CANZO.

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

En deman per un mot cen:
Tan m'es bel quan n'aug ben dire.

Qu'om no sap tan dous repaire
Cum de Rozer tro qu'a Vensa,
Si cum clau mars e Durensa,
Ni on tan fis jois s'esclaire.
Per qu'entre la franca gen
Ai laissat mon cor jauzen
Ab leis que fals iratz rire.

Qu'om no pot lo jorn maltraire
Qu'aja de leis sovinensa,
Qu'en leis nais jois e comensa.
E qui qu'en sia lauzaire,
De ben qu'en diga noi men,
Quel melher es ses conten
El genser qu'el mon se mire.

E s'eu sai ren dir ni faire,
Ilh n'ajal grat, que sciensa
M'a donat e conoissensa,
Per qu'eu sui gais e chantaire.
E tot quan fauc d'avinen
Ai del seu bel cors plazen,
Neis quan de bon cor consire.

Translation.

With my breath I drink the air
That Provence my country sends me,
For a message ever lends me
Joy, from her most dear and fair.
When they praise her I rejoice,
Ask for more with eager voice,
Listen, listen night and morrow.
For no country 'neath the sun
Beats mine from Rozer to Vensa,
From the sea to the Durensa:
Nowhere equal joy is won.

With my friends, when I did part,
And with her I left my heart
Who dispelled my deepest sorrow.

Nothing harms me all the day

While her sweet eyes stand before me,
And her lips that rapture bore me.
If I praise her, no one may

Call

my rapturous word a lie,

For the whole world can descry

Nothing wrought in sweeter fashion.

All the good I do or say

Only to her grace is owing,

For she made me wise and knowing,

For she made me true and gay.

If in glory I abound,

To her praise it must redound

Who inspires my song with passion.

By such repeated proofs of the poet's unchangeable love the heart of Azalais was at last touched. Besides, fool as he was, Peire was undoubtedly one of the most renowned troubadours, and the proudest beauty could not be indifferent to the celebration of her charms in canzos as popular as they were exquisite. Barral importuned his wife till she promised

the poet forgiveness of all past offences, and immediately sent the happy message to Peire. Some of the manuscripts say that Azalais wrote him a letter in which she promised him all he had been wishing for so long. Peire Vidal returned to France, and Barral on hearing of his arrival rode out to meet him, and guided him to Marseilles. Azalais received him gracefully, and granted him the kiss he had once taken. All was forgiven and forgotten, and the troubadour commemorated the happy reconciliation by a song radiant with joy and hope. This state of pure happiness, however, was not destined to be of long duration. The lady seems to have been disinclined to fulfil her promises; the complaints in Peire's canzos of her cruelty and falseness begin anew, and at last he very likely grew tired of his unrewarded pains. Certain it is that he did not stay very long at Marseilles, for he does not make the slightest mention of Barral's death, which happened soon after, in 1192. This silence would have been impossible if he had been living at the time at his old friend and protector's court.

the

While he was yet the professed admirer of Azalais, poet had admired more or less fervently several other ladies, from one of whom he now seems to have sought consolation. This was Loba de Peinautier, who lived in Carcassonne. Her name Loba (she-wolf) became the motive of one of Peire Vidal's most fantastic exploits; he gave himself the designation of a wolf, and adopted the animal as a badge. Once he put on a wolf's skin, and called