Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pass us a-flying, Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches. _Ya veis que no tengo_ _Con que guardarlo,_ _O angeles santos_ _Que vais volando_ _Por que duerme mi niño_ _Tened los ramos!_ SONG Love thou thy dream All base love scorning, Love thou the wind And here take warning That dreams alone can truly be, For ’tis in dream I come to thee. PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING THAT IS, PRINCE HENRY PLANTAGENET, ELDER BROTHER TO RICHARD “CŒUR DE LION” From the Provençal of Bertrans de Born, “_Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen_.” If all the grief and woe and bitterness, All dolour, ill and every evil chance That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together, they would seem but light Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous, The world o’ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness. Grieving and sad and full of bitterness Are left in teen the liegemen courteous, The joglars supple and the troubadours. O’er much hath ta’en Sir Death, that deadly warrior, In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous. ’Las! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness! O skilful Death and full of bitterness, Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e’er had, hast from us taken; Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth But had its life in the young English King, And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That he should live than many a living dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness. From this faint world, now full of bitterness Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful, Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish And each to-day ’vails less than yestere’en, Let each man visage this young English King That was most valiant mid all worthiest men! Gone is his body fine and amorous, Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness. Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness To come to earth to draw us from misventure, Who drank of death for our salvacioun, Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous And humble eke, that the young English King He please to pardon, as true pardon is, And bid go in with honourèd companions There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness. ALBA INNOMINATA From the Provençal. In a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leaves My lady hath her love lain close beside her, Till the warder cries the dawn—Ah dawn that grieves! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!