It is said that part of the royal family are even yet expected to pay a visit to Pau, in the course of next spring, to be present at the inauguration of a new statue of the Great Henry, lately arrived, which is to be erected in the Place Royale.[30] [Footnote 30: Since this was written, the visit has been paid, and the ceremony gone through.] CHAPTER IV. TROUBADOUR. NAVARRE has not produced many poets in early times; and the only troubadour whom it claims, is the famous lover of Blanche of Castile, the accomplished Thibault of Champagne, who rather belongs to Provins, where he lived so much, and sang so many of his beautiful lays, than to the Pyrenees. All critics, ancient and modern, from Dante to the Abbé Massieu, have agreed in admiring his compositions, in which grace, tenderness, and refinement, shine out in every line, encumbered though his language be with its antique costume. His mother was Blanche, daughter of Sancho the Wise, King of Navarre; his birth took place in 1201, a few months after the death of his father; and it was with difficulty the persecuted widow could retain her government of Champagne and Brie. In 1234, he was called to the throne of Navarre, by the death of his maternal uncle, Sancho le Fort. Soon after this, he left for the Holy Land; therefore, what time he spent in Navarre, does not appear. On his return from _Romanie_, he died at Pampluna, in 1253, and was buried at his beloved Provins, that city of nightingales and roses. His songs are very numerous, and have much originality. The following will serve as specimens: CHANSON. * * * * * "Je n'ose chanter trop tart, ne trop souvent." * * * * * "I FEAR to sing too seldom or too long-- I cannot tell if silence be the best, Or if at all to tune my tender song-- For she denies me pity, hope, and rest. Yet, in my lay, I might some note awake, To please her ear more than all lays before; Though thus, she seems a cruel joy to take, That I should slowly suffer evermore. "At once I'd cast my idle lute away, If I were sure no pleasure could be mine; But love has made my thoughts so much his prey, I do not dare to love her, nor resign. Thus I stand trembling and afraid to fly, Till I have learnt to _hate_ her--lovingly. "By love and hate's alternate passions torn, How shall I turn me from my thronging woes? Ah! if I perish, tortured and forlorn, But little glory from such triumph flows. She has no right to keep me her's, in thrall, Unless she will be mine, my own, my all!