Thy praise is happiness unmarred, For he who praises Thee, proclaims the truth, Thou art the flower of beauty, love and ruth, Full of compassion, with all grace bedight, From Thy white hands we gather all delight. The love of Mary had usurped the peculiar property of the love of woman: it had become the source of poetic and artistic inspiration. The songs of Aimeric of Peguilhan resemble those of Cigala; the former bewails the decline of the service of woman; he sings of the "root and crown of all noble things," but it is not quite clear whether he is addressing an earthly or a heavenly lady. "Suffer my love, which asks for no reward!" The terms, "friends" and "lovers" (_amans_) of the Virgin are with these poets convertible terms, and the Virgin is styled "the true friend" (_i.e._, the beloved). Guilhem of Autpol wrote a fine poem to the Queen of Heaven, beginning: Thou hope of all sad hearts who yearn for love, Thou stream of loveliness, thou well of grace, Thou dove of peace in fret and restlessness, Thou ray of light to those who, lightless, grope. Thou house of God, thou garden of sweet shades, Rest without ceasing, refuge of the sad, Bliss without mourning, flow'r that never fades, Alien to death, and shelter in the mad Whirlpool of life, to all who seek thy port. Lady of Heaven, in whom all hearts rejoice, Thou roseate dawn and light of Paradise! Perdigon, among many worldly songs, wrote one to the _regina d'auteza e de senhoria_, which might be translated thus: Supreme ruler of the world, Thy grace sustains And maintains The world. Thou fragrant rose, thou fruitful vine, Thou wert the chosen vessel of Mercy divine. Unsurpassed in the fusion of his earthly and his celestial lady was Folquet de Lunel. Some of his poems cannot be classed with any certainty. The first poem which obtained a prize at the Academy of Mastersingers of Toulouse was a hymn to Mary. This very genuine sentimentalism appears strange to us; we cannot enter into the feelings of that period. A modern philologist, Karl Appel, regards Jaufre Rudel's pathetic songs, addressed by him to the Countess of Tripoli: Oh, love in lands so far away, My heart is yearning, yearning.... as songs to the Madonna; but it is a matter of indifference to the lover whether his heart's impulse, translated into metaphysic, is projected on an unknown Countess of Tripoli, or a still more unknown Lady of Heaven. It is not the loved woman who is of importance--what do we know of the ladies who inspired the exquisite mediaeval poetry? They have long been dust, and we may be sure that their perfection was no greater than is the perfection of their grand-daughters. But the love of the poets is alive to-day, an eternal document of the human heart, representing one of the great phases through which the relationship between man and woman has passed.