1137-1152)
Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn.
Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn.
Troubador Verse
He experimented, as here, with the pastorela.
Among his patrons were William X of Aquitaine and, probably, Alfonso VII of Leon.
Marcabru may have travelled to Spain in the entourage of Alfonso Jordan, Count of Toulouse, in the 1130s.
In the 1140s he was a propagandist for the Reconquista, of Spain from the Moors.
A la fontana del vergier
In an orchard down by the stream,
Where at the edge the grass is green,
In the shade of an apple-tree,
By a plot of flowers all white,
Where spring sang its melody,
I met alone without company
One who wishes not my solace.
She was a young girl, beautiful,
Child of the lord of that castle;
But when I thought the songbirds' call
Might, from its tree, make her heart light,
And sweet the fresh season all,
And she might hear my prayers fall,
A different look did cross her face.
Her tears flowed, the fount beside,
And from her heart her prayer sighed.
'Jesus, King of the World,' she cried,
'Through you my grief is at its height,
Insult to you confounds me, I
Lose the best of this world wide:
He goes to serve and win your grace.
With you goes my handsome friend,
The gentle, noble, and brave I send;
Into great sorrow I must descend,
Endless longing, and tears so bright.
Ai! King Louis to ill did tend
Who gave the order and command,
That brought such grief to my heart's space! '
When I heard her so, complaining,
I went to her, by fountain's flowing:
'Lady,' I said 'with too much crying
Your face will lose its colour quite;
And you've no reason yet for sighing,
For he who makes the birds to sing,
Will grant you joy enough apace. '
'My lord,' she said, 'I do believe
That God will have mercy on me
In another world eternally,
And many other sinners delight;
But here he takes the thing from me
That is my joy; small joy I see
Now that he's gone so far away. '
Cercamon (fl. c.
1137-1152)
Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn. He was the inventor of the planh, the Provencal dirge, and some circumstantial evidence points to his having died on crusade as a follower of Louis VII of France.
Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis
When the sweet air turns bitter,
And leaves fall from the branch,
And birds their singing alter
Still I, of him, sigh and chant,
Amor, who keeps me closely bound,
He that I never had in my power.
Alas! I gained nothing from Amor
But only had pain and torment,
For nothing is as hard to conquer
As that on which my desire is bent!
No greater longing have I found,
Than for that which I'll lack ever.
In a jewel I rejoice, in her
So fine, no other's felt my intent!
When I'm with her I dumbly stutter,
Cannot utter my words well meant,
And when we part I seem drowned,
Loss of all sense and reason suffer.
All the ladies a man saw ever
Compared to her aren't worth a franc!
When on earth the shadows gather,
Where she rests, all is brilliant.
Pray God I'll soon with her be wound,
Or watch her as she mounts the stair.
I startle and I shake and shiver
Awake, asleep, on Love intent,
So afraid that I might wrong her,
I don't dare ask for what I meant,
But two or three years' service downed,
Then she'll know the truth I offer.
I live nor die, nor am made better
Nor feel my sickness though intense,
Since with her Love I want no other,
Nor know if I'll have it or when,
For in her mercy does all abound,
That can destroy me or deliver.
It pleases me when she makes me madder,
Makes me muse, or in gaping rent!
It's fine if she plays the scorner
Laughs in my face, or at fingers' end,
For, after the bad, the good will sound,
And swiftly, should that be her pleasure.
If she wants me not, I'd rather
I'd died the day my service commenced!
A la fontana del vergier
In an orchard down by the stream,
Where at the edge the grass is green,
In the shade of an apple-tree,
By a plot of flowers all white,
Where spring sang its melody,
I met alone without company
One who wishes not my solace.
She was a young girl, beautiful,
Child of the lord of that castle;
But when I thought the songbirds' call
Might, from its tree, make her heart light,
And sweet the fresh season all,
And she might hear my prayers fall,
A different look did cross her face.
Her tears flowed, the fount beside,
And from her heart her prayer sighed.
'Jesus, King of the World,' she cried,
'Through you my grief is at its height,
Insult to you confounds me, I
Lose the best of this world wide:
He goes to serve and win your grace.
With you goes my handsome friend,
The gentle, noble, and brave I send;
Into great sorrow I must descend,
Endless longing, and tears so bright.
Ai! King Louis to ill did tend
Who gave the order and command,
That brought such grief to my heart's space! '
When I heard her so, complaining,
I went to her, by fountain's flowing:
'Lady,' I said 'with too much crying
Your face will lose its colour quite;
And you've no reason yet for sighing,
For he who makes the birds to sing,
Will grant you joy enough apace. '
'My lord,' she said, 'I do believe
That God will have mercy on me
In another world eternally,
And many other sinners delight;
But here he takes the thing from me
That is my joy; small joy I see
Now that he's gone so far away. '
Cercamon (fl. c.
1137-1152)
Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn. He was the inventor of the planh, the Provencal dirge, and some circumstantial evidence points to his having died on crusade as a follower of Louis VII of France.
Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis
When the sweet air turns bitter,
And leaves fall from the branch,
And birds their singing alter
Still I, of him, sigh and chant,
Amor, who keeps me closely bound,
He that I never had in my power.
Alas! I gained nothing from Amor
But only had pain and torment,
For nothing is as hard to conquer
As that on which my desire is bent!
No greater longing have I found,
Than for that which I'll lack ever.
In a jewel I rejoice, in her
So fine, no other's felt my intent!
When I'm with her I dumbly stutter,
Cannot utter my words well meant,
And when we part I seem drowned,
Loss of all sense and reason suffer.
All the ladies a man saw ever
Compared to her aren't worth a franc!
When on earth the shadows gather,
Where she rests, all is brilliant.
Pray God I'll soon with her be wound,
Or watch her as she mounts the stair.
I startle and I shake and shiver
Awake, asleep, on Love intent,
So afraid that I might wrong her,
I don't dare ask for what I meant,
But two or three years' service downed,
Then she'll know the truth I offer.
I live nor die, nor am made better
Nor feel my sickness though intense,
Since with her Love I want no other,
Nor know if I'll have it or when,
For in her mercy does all abound,
That can destroy me or deliver.
It pleases me when she makes me madder,
Makes me muse, or in gaping rent!
It's fine if she plays the scorner
Laughs in my face, or at fingers' end,
For, after the bad, the good will sound,
And swiftly, should that be her pleasure.
If she wants me not, I'd rather
I'd died the day my service commenced!
