Hail, altar! and thou, Victim, hail! Thy glorious passion shall not fail; Whereby our life no death might lack, And life from death be rendered back. O Cross, our only hope, all hail! In this the time when woes assail, To all the pious grant thy grace, And all the sinners’ sins efface! At this time Fortunatus also composed a long poem of thanks to Justin and Sophia for gifts sent to himself, by which it would appear that he was tolerably well identified with the interests of Radegunda and her convent. From this date onward his friendship with Agnes and Radegunda exposed both him and them to very considerable comment. He even refers to it in one of his poems, addressed to the abbess, in which he protests the purity of his conduct. But it is not hard to see how his expressions might be misunderstood. They are frequently fervid beyond the courtesies of compliment, and they remind us all the while of those singers of the eleventh and twelfth centuries who begin with William, Count of this very city of Poitiers (1071-1127), and who have made the name of “troubadour” synonymous with the praise of love and beauty. Fortunatus calls on Christ, and Peter, and Paul, and Mary to witness the entire propriety of his love for Agnes and Radegunda, but he follows it with lines which Bertrand de Born or Alain Chartier might have composed. Really there is a great deal of this exuberant poetry in the worthy chaplain. He wrote every sort of odd acrostic on the holy cross, reminding us in more ways than one of Damasus, or of the later cavalier poets of England. He tells Radegunda, who seems his principal star, that everything is alike when he does not see her; that although the sky is cloudless, yet, if she is absent, “the day stands without a sun.” He excuses himself in other verses for sending her violets instead of lilies and roses. Any incident in which Radegunda plays a part is enough to turn the poetic stream upon the mill-wheel of his verse. If there are flowers on the altar; if there are flowers sent by her to himself; if she has retired from the world to perform her vows; if she has returned again to the public gaze, and especially if he has been at a little dinner or has received some agreeable little dishes—then the bard strings his harp!