We also give two extracts from the poems of that famous troubadour, Bertrand De Born. He was a poet far more given to martial songs, than to the lyrical muse. His enemies dreaded his pen as much as his sword. He describes his belligerent qualities without any exaggeration, for he was literally never contented except when at war with some of his neighbors. One of his poems (addressed to a lady) begins smoothly enough, but before he is half done, he breaks into an abrupt praise of fighting. In the following, he warns Williams of Gordon, against Richard of Poitou, and hurls invective at the latter. “I love you well,” Bertrand says, “but my enemies want to make a fool and a dupe of you, and the time seems long to them before they see you in their ranks.” “To Perigeux, close to the wall, so that I can throw my battle axe over it, I will come well armed, and riding on my horse, Bayard; and if I find the glutton of Poitou[270] he shall know the cut of my sword. A mixture of brain and splinters of iron he shall wear on his brow.” Here follows a frank avowal of his delight in war. “All day long,” he says, “I fight, and am at work, to make a thrust at them and defend myself, for they are laying waste my land, and burning my crops; they pull up my trees by the roots, and mix my corn with the straw. Cowards and brave men are my enemies. I constantly disunite and sow hatred among the barons, and then remould and join them together again, and try to give them brave hearts and strong; but I am a fool for my trouble, for they are made of base metal.” We cannot better take leave of the troubadours than by giving two additional specimens of the writing of Bertrand de Born. The first is an ingenious poem. He has quarreled with his lady, and as a means of reconciliation he borrows from all the famous beauties of his time, their special charm, and gives them all to his love. The second song will explain itself.[271] Domna, puois de mi no us cal, E partit m’aretz de vos, &c. Lady, since thou hast driven me forth, Since thou, unkind, hast banished me, (Though cause of such neglect be none,) Where shall I turn from thee? Ne’er can I see Such joy as I have seen before, If, as I fear, I find no more Another fair, from thee removed, I’ll sigh to think I e’er was loved. And since my eager search were vain, One lovely as thyself to find; A heart so matchlessly endow’d, Or manner so refined, So gay, so kind, So courteous, gentle, debonair,— I’ll rove, and catch from every fair Some winning grace and form a whole, So glad (till thou return) my soul. The roses of thy glowing cheek, Fair Sembelis, I’ll steal from thee; That lovely smiling look I’ll take, Yet rich thou shalt be, In whom we see All that can deck a lady bright, And your enchanting converse, light, Fair Ellis, will I borrow too, That she in wit may shine like you.