And from the noble Chales, I Will beg that neck of ivory white, And her fair hands of loveliest form I’ll take; and speeding, light, My onward flight Earnest at Roca Choart’s gate, Fair Agnes I will supplicate To grant her locks, more bright than those Which Tristan loved on Iseult’s brows. And Audiartz, though on me thou frown, All that thou hast of courtesy I’ll have,—thy look, thy gentle mien, And all the unchanged constancy That dwells with thee. And Miels de Ben, on thee I’ll wait For thy light shape so delicate, That in thy fairy form of grace My lady’s image I may trace The beauty of those snow-white teeth From thee, famed Faidit, I’ll extort, The welcome, affable and kind, To all the numbers that resort Unto her court. And Bels Miraills shall crown the whole, With all her sparkling flow of soul; Those mental charms that round her play, For ever wise, yet ever gay. Be in play lo douz temps de paseor Que fais fuelhas e flors venir; E play mi quant aug la baudor Dels auzels que fan retentir Lor chan per lo boscatge; E plai me quan rey sus els pratz Tendas e parallos fermetz; Quan rey per campanhas rengatz Cavalliers ab carals armatz. The beautiful spring delights me well, When flowers and leaves are growing; And it pleases my heart to hear the swell Of the birds’ sweet choruses flowing In the echoing wood And I love to see, all scatter’d around, Pavillions, tents, on martial ground; And my spirit finds it good To see, on the level plains beyond, Gay knights and steeds comparison’d. It pleases me, when the lances bold Set men and armies flying; And it pleases me, too, to hear around The voice of the soldiers crying; And joy is mine When the castles strong, totter and crack; And I see the foemen join, On the moated floor all compass’d round With the palisade and guarded mound. Lances and swords, and stained helms, And shields dismantled and broken, On the verge of the bloody battle scene, The field of wrath betoken; And the vassals are there, And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead; And where the mingled strife is spread, The noblest warriors care Is to cleave the foeman’s limbs and head,— The conqueror less of the living than dead. I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer, Or banqueting or reposing, Like the onset cry of “charge them” rung From each side as in battle closing, Where the horses neigh, And the call to “aid” is echoing loud; And there on the earth the lowly and proud In the foes together lie; And yonder is piled the mangled heap Of the brave that scaled the trench’s steep.