The grassgrown paths are trod of none Where through the woods they went astray; The spider's traceries are spun Across the darkling forest way; There come no Knights that ride to slay, No Pilgrims through the grasses wet, No shepherd lads that sang their say With Aucassin and Nicolete. 'Twas here by Nicolete begun Her lodge of boughs and blossoms gay; 'Scaped from the cell of marble dun 'Twas here the lover found the Fay; O lovers fond, O foolish play! How hard we find it to forget, Who fain would dwell with them as they, With Aucassin and Nicolete. ENVOY. Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay! For Youth, for Life we both regret: How fair they seem; how far away, With Aucassin and Nicolete. A. L. BALLADE OF NICOLETE All bathed in pearl and amber light She rose to fling the lattice wide, And leaned into the fragrant night, Where brown birds sang of summertide; ('Twas Love's own voice that called and cried) "Ah, Sweet!" she said, "I'll seek thee yet, Though thorniest pathways should betide The fair white feet of Nicolete." They slept, who would have stayed her flight; (Full fain were they the maid had died!) She dropped adown her prison's height On strands of linen featly tied. And so she passed the garden-side With loose-leaved roses sweetly set, And dainty daisies, dark beside The fair white feet of Nicolete! Her lover lay in evil plight (So many lovers yet abide!) I would my tongue could praise aright Her name, that should be glorified. Those lovers now, whom foes divide A little weep,--and soon forget. How far from these faint lovers glide The fair white feet of Nicolete. ENVOY. My Princess, doff thy frozen pride, Nor scorn to pay Love's golden debt, Through his dim woodland take for guide The fair white feet of Nicolete. GRAHAM R. TOMSON THE SONG-STORY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE 'Tis of Aucassin and Nicolete. Who would list to the good lay Gladness of the captive grey? 'Tis how two young lovers met, Aucassin and Nicolete, Of the pains the lover bore And the sorrows he outwore, For the goodness and the grace, Of his love, so fair of face. Sweet the song, the story sweet, There is no man hearkens it, No man living 'neath the sun, So outwearied, so foredone, Sick and woful, worn and sad, But is healed, but is glad 'Tis so sweet. So say they, speak they, tell they the Tale: