came to Galahad, and he kneeled down and there he received his Saviour, and after him so received all his fellows; and they thought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. Then said he to Galahad, Son, wotest thou what I hold betwixt my hands? Nay, said he, but if ye will tell me. This is, said he, the holy dish wherein I ate the lamb on Sher-thursday. And now hast thou seen that thou most desiredst to see, but yet hast thou not seen it so openly as thou shalt see it in the city of Sarras, in the spiritual place. LYRIC POETRY--FRENCH. Lyric poetry sprang up very early in Northern France, having a spontaneous and abundant growth in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Of the earliest lyrics, the critics distinguish two varieties (l) the Romance, and (2) the Pastourelle. These are generally dramatic love stories, full of gay and simple life and extremely artistic and musical in form. Along with these was produced a vast amount of simple lyric poetry on love and other personal emotions. The number of poems written was immense. About two hundred names of poets have come down to us, besides hundreds of anonymous pieces. The Romances and Pastourelles of the northern trouveres were soon greatly influenced by the more artful poetry of the Provencal troubadours, producing the highly artificial but charming rondeaus and ballades of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. But the freshest, most individual work is that of the earlier time. CHATELAIN DE COUCY. Thirteenth Century. The first approach of the sweet spring Returning here once more,-- The memory of the love that holds In my fond heart such power,-- The thrush again his song assaying,-- The little rills o'er pebbles playing, And sparkling as they fall,-- The memory recall Of her on whom my heart's desire Is, shall be, fixed till I expire. With every season fresh and new That love is more inspiring: Her eyes, her face, all bright with joy,-- Her coming, her retiring, Her faithful words, her winning ways,-- That sweet look, kindling up the blaze, Of love, so gently still, To wound, but not to kill,-- So that when most I weep and sigh, So much the higher springs my joy. --Tr. by Taylor. THIBAUT OF CHAMPAGNE, KING OF NAVARRE. Early Thirteenth Century. Lady, the fates command, and I must go,-- Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me: Here my heart suffered many a heavy woe; But what is left to love, thus leaving thee? Alas! that cruel land beyond the sea! Why thus dividing many a faithful heart, Never again from pain and sorrow free, Never again to meet, when thus they part? I see not, when thy presence bright I leave, How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my lot; Ne'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve As now in leaving thee; and if thy thought Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught, Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee, Dwelling in fruitless wishes, on this spot, And all the gracious words here said to me.