The song which the minstrel composed when he fell sick on this romantic expedition, and found his strength begin to fail, and which the Countess wore, folded within her vest, to the end of her life, is extant, and has been translated into most of the languages of Europe; of these translations, Sismondi's is the best, preserving the original and curious arrangement of the rhymes, as well as the piety, naïveté, and tenderness of the sentiment. Irrité, dolent partirai Si ne vois cet amour de loin, Et ne sais quand je le verrai Car sont par trop nos terres loin. Dieu, qui toutes choses as fait Et formas cet amour si loin, Donne force à mon coeur, car ai L'espoir de voir m'amour au loin. Ah, Seigneur, tenez pour bien vrai L'amour qu'ai pour elle de loin. Car pour un bien que j'en aurai J'ai mille maux, tant je suis loin. Ja d'autr'amour ne jouirai Sinon de cet amour de loin-- Qu'une plus belle je n'en sçais En lieu qui soit ni près ni loin! Mrs. Piozzi and others have paraphrased this little song, but in a spirit so different from the antique simplicity of the original, that I shall venture to give a version, which has at least the merit of being as faithful as the different idioms of the two languages will allow; I am afraid, however, that it will not appear worthy of the honour which the Countess conferred on it. "Grieved and troubled shall I die, If I meet not my love afar; Alas! I know not that I e'er Shall see her--for she dwells afar. O God! that didst all things create, And formed my sweet love now afar; Strengthen my heart, that I may hope To behold her face, who is afar. O Lord! believe how very true Is my love for her, alas! afar, Tho' for each joy a thousand pains I bear, because I am so far. Another love I'll never have, Save only she who is afar, For fairer one I never knew In places near, nor yet afar." Bertrand d'Allamanon, whom I have mentioned as the companion of Rudel on his romantic expedition, has left us a little ballad, remarkable for the extreme refinement of the sentiment, which is quite à la Petrarque: he gives it the fantastic title of a _demi chanson_, for a very fantastic reason: it is thus translated in Millot. (vol. i. 390). "On veut savoir pourquoi je fais une _demi chanson_? c'est parceque je n'ai qu'un demi sujet de chanter. Il n'y a d'amour que de ma part; la dame que j'aime ne veut pas m'aimer! mais au défaut des _oui_ qu'elle me refuse, je prendrai les _non_ qu'elle me prodigue:--_espérer auprès d'elle vaut mieux que jouir avec tout autre!_" This is exactly the sentiment of Petrarch: Pur mi consola, che morir per lei Meglio è che gioir d'altra-- But it is one of those thoughts which spring in the heart, and might often be repeated without once being borrowed. FOOTNOTES: [4] Sismondi--Littérature du Midi.