'Like to the lark ascending, in the air,
first singing and then silent,
content with the final sweetness that sates her.
first singing and then silent,
content with the final sweetness that sates her.
Troubador Verse
lh marrimen
If all the grief and woe and bitterness
The pain, the harm and all the misery
Yet heard of in this grievous century
Were set together, they would seem but light
Against the death of the young English king.
He leaves worth clouded, and youth dolorous,
The world obscure, shadowed and in darkness,
Void of all joy, full of despair and sadness.
In pain and sadness, full of bitterness
Are left behind the courteous soldiery,
The troubadours, the subtle minstrelsy,
In Death they find a foe of greater might,
Who's taken from them the young English king,
That made the freest hand seem covetous.
There are no more, nor were in past excess
Of this world, the tears to drown such sadness.
Relentless Death, so full of bitterness,
Well may you boast now the most knightly
Chevalier you have taken, best of any,
For there is nothing worthy of delight
That belonged not to this young English king;
If it pleased God, it were better for us
That he should live than many of the rest
Who offer us no joy but grief and sadness.
From this pale world, so full of bitterness
Love flies, his deceits must be taken lightly,
Nothing is his indeed but pains us swiftly;
And less than yesterday is each day's light.
All saw themselves in this young English king
Who of the world was the most virtuous;
Gone is his body, amorous in finesse,
Leaving us pain, and discord, and great sadness.
He whom it pleased in all our bitterness
To come to earth to raise us from misery,
And died His death, to bring us victory,
Him do we ask, of mercy, Lord of right
And of humility, that the young English king
He please to pardon, if pardon be for us,
And with honoured companions grant him rest,
There where there is no grief, nor any sadness.
Note: The young English king was the charismatic Henry Plantagenet (1155-1183) an elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion, and twice crowned king in his father Henry II's lifetime, a Capetian custom. He predeceased his father, and so never wielded power, dying of dysentery while on campaign in the Limousin.
Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1145-1175)
According to the troubadour Uc de Saint Circ, Bernart was the son of a baker at the castle of Ventadour or Ventadorn, in the Correze. His first patron was Viscount Eble III of Ventadorn. He composed his first poems for his patron's wife, Marguerite de Turenne. Uc de Saint Circ has him ultimately withdrawing to the Cistercian abbey of Dalon and dying there.
'Like to the lark ascending, in the air,
first singing and then silent,
content with the final sweetness that sates her. '
Dante - Paradiso XX:73-75
Can vei la lauzeta mover
When I see the lark display
His wings with joy against the day,
Forgetting, fold then fall away,
As sweetness to his heart makes way,
Such great envy then invades
My mind: I see the rest take fire,
And marvel at it, for no way
Can my heart turn from its desire.
Ah, I so dearly wished to know
Of love, yet so little learn,
For I cannot keep from loving her
Who will not have me, though I burn.
She stole my heart, and all of me,
And she herself, and worlds apart;
Lacking herself, now nothing's left
But longing and the willing heart.
For 'I' has no power over 'I'
Nor has had since the day I know
I let myself gaze in her eye,
The mirror that pleased me so.
Mirror, now I'm mirrored in you,
Profound sighs are killing me,
I lost myself as he did too
Narcissus gazing in the deep.
Of every lady I despair!
And in them I can place no trust!
Those I once would seek to cheer
Leave them cheerless now I must.
Seeing her then who won't have me,
She who destroys me and confounds,
I doubt them all and can't believe,
Knowing them other than they're found.
My lady shows herself, not to my good,
A woman indeed, scorns my behest,
Since she wishes not what she should
But what's forbidden her finds best.
Now I'm fallen from all grace,
I've done well on the asses' bridge!
And don't know why I'm in disgrace,
Except I've asked a world too much.
Mercy's lost, and gone from sight
And now I can retrieve it not.
Since she who owns to it of right
Has none to give, and where's it sought?
How little it seems to those who see -
What would she want with me poor wretch?
If all the grief and woe and bitterness
The pain, the harm and all the misery
Yet heard of in this grievous century
Were set together, they would seem but light
Against the death of the young English king.
He leaves worth clouded, and youth dolorous,
The world obscure, shadowed and in darkness,
Void of all joy, full of despair and sadness.
In pain and sadness, full of bitterness
Are left behind the courteous soldiery,
The troubadours, the subtle minstrelsy,
In Death they find a foe of greater might,
Who's taken from them the young English king,
That made the freest hand seem covetous.
There are no more, nor were in past excess
Of this world, the tears to drown such sadness.
Relentless Death, so full of bitterness,
Well may you boast now the most knightly
Chevalier you have taken, best of any,
For there is nothing worthy of delight
That belonged not to this young English king;
If it pleased God, it were better for us
That he should live than many of the rest
Who offer us no joy but grief and sadness.
From this pale world, so full of bitterness
Love flies, his deceits must be taken lightly,
Nothing is his indeed but pains us swiftly;
And less than yesterday is each day's light.
All saw themselves in this young English king
Who of the world was the most virtuous;
Gone is his body, amorous in finesse,
Leaving us pain, and discord, and great sadness.
He whom it pleased in all our bitterness
To come to earth to raise us from misery,
And died His death, to bring us victory,
Him do we ask, of mercy, Lord of right
And of humility, that the young English king
He please to pardon, if pardon be for us,
And with honoured companions grant him rest,
There where there is no grief, nor any sadness.
Note: The young English king was the charismatic Henry Plantagenet (1155-1183) an elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion, and twice crowned king in his father Henry II's lifetime, a Capetian custom. He predeceased his father, and so never wielded power, dying of dysentery while on campaign in the Limousin.
Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1145-1175)
According to the troubadour Uc de Saint Circ, Bernart was the son of a baker at the castle of Ventadour or Ventadorn, in the Correze. His first patron was Viscount Eble III of Ventadorn. He composed his first poems for his patron's wife, Marguerite de Turenne. Uc de Saint Circ has him ultimately withdrawing to the Cistercian abbey of Dalon and dying there.
'Like to the lark ascending, in the air,
first singing and then silent,
content with the final sweetness that sates her. '
Dante - Paradiso XX:73-75
Can vei la lauzeta mover
When I see the lark display
His wings with joy against the day,
Forgetting, fold then fall away,
As sweetness to his heart makes way,
Such great envy then invades
My mind: I see the rest take fire,
And marvel at it, for no way
Can my heart turn from its desire.
Ah, I so dearly wished to know
Of love, yet so little learn,
For I cannot keep from loving her
Who will not have me, though I burn.
She stole my heart, and all of me,
And she herself, and worlds apart;
Lacking herself, now nothing's left
But longing and the willing heart.
For 'I' has no power over 'I'
Nor has had since the day I know
I let myself gaze in her eye,
The mirror that pleased me so.
Mirror, now I'm mirrored in you,
Profound sighs are killing me,
I lost myself as he did too
Narcissus gazing in the deep.
Of every lady I despair!
And in them I can place no trust!
Those I once would seek to cheer
Leave them cheerless now I must.
Seeing her then who won't have me,
She who destroys me and confounds,
I doubt them all and can't believe,
Knowing them other than they're found.
My lady shows herself, not to my good,
A woman indeed, scorns my behest,
Since she wishes not what she should
But what's forbidden her finds best.
Now I'm fallen from all grace,
I've done well on the asses' bridge!
And don't know why I'm in disgrace,
Except I've asked a world too much.
Mercy's lost, and gone from sight
And now I can retrieve it not.
Since she who owns to it of right
Has none to give, and where's it sought?
How little it seems to those who see -
What would she want with me poor wretch?
