I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old-- Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going-- Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him So doth he flame again toward valiant doing. Alba Belingalis Phoebus shineth ere his splendour flieth Aurora drives faint light athwart the land And the drowsy watcher crieth, "ARISE." _Ref_ O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth. They be careless of the gates, delaying, Whom the ambush glides to hinder, Whom I warn and cry to, praying, "ARISE." _Ref_ O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth. Forth from out Arcturus, North Wind bloweth The stars of heaven sheathe their glory And sun-driven forth-goeth Settentrion. _Ref._ O'er sea mist, and mountain is the dawn display'd It passeth watch and maketh night afraid. From a tenth-century MS. From Syria The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provença: he being in Syria a crusader. In April when I see all through Mead and garden new flowers blow, And streams with ice-bands broken flow, Eke hear the birds their singing do; When spring's grass-perfume floateth by Then 'tis sweet song and birdlet's cry Do make mine old joy come anew. Such time was wont my thought of old To wander in the ways of love. Burnishing arms and clang thereof, And honour-services manifold Be now my need. Whoso combine Such works, love is his bread and wine, Wherefore should his fight the more be bold. Song bear I, who tears should bring Sith ire of love mak'th me annoy, With song think I to make me joy. Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing: "He sings who sorrow's guise should wear." Natheless I will not despair That sometime I'll have cause to sing. I should not to despair give way That some while I'll my lady see. I trust well He that lowered me Hath power again to make me gay. But if e'er I come to my Love's land And turn again to Syrian strand, God keep me there for a fool, alway!