The Lay of the @glantine.*

[The ballad here given is selected from one of the admirable translations made from the 'Early Poetry of France' by that highly gifted lady, Miss L. S. Costello. It first appeared in 1835, in a volume published by Mr. Pickering, having many clever illuminated illustrations, we believe, drawn and coloured by the hand of the authoress. In speaking of the lais of Marie de France, she says they are preserved amongst the MSS. in the British Museum, Harl. No. 978. There is every reason to believe that the originals of these lays existed in the Bas breton or Armoric language. The precise period when she flourished is a subject of great doubt. The opinion is that she wrote in England during the reign of Henry the Third, and conceive that the patron whom she names must have been William Longue-Espée, Earl of Salisbury, the natural son of Henry the Second, and Rosamond Clifford, who died in 1226, and that her poems were consequently written anterior to that date.]

Assez me plest è bien le voil

Del lai qu'hum nume Chèvre-foll
Que la vérité vus en cunt, &c. &c.t

AWAKE, my harp, and breathe a lay
Which poets oft have loved to tell,
Of Tristan and his lady gay,

The fortunes that to each befel;

Of all their fondness, all their care,

Of Tristan's wand'rings far away;
And lovely Yseult, call'd the Fair,+
Who died upon the selfsame day.

How Mark, the aged, jealous king,

Their fatal passion came to know,

And banish'd Tristan, sorrowing,

Where Wales a while conceal'd his woe.

There, wand'ring like a restless shade,
From weary night to cheerless morn,
He roam'd o'er mountain, wood, and glade,
Abandon'd, hopeless, and forlorn !

Nor marvel ye, who hear the tale,

For such their fate will ever prove,
Whose constant hearts in vain bewail
The lot of early, blighted, love.

A weary year in sullen mood

With anxious memory he strove,

But found at length that solitude
But added deeper wounds to love.

Lai du Chèvre-foil.

+ Roquefort.

Yseult la Blonde, daughter of Argius, King of Ireland, and wife of Marc, King of Cornouailles, uncle of Tristan.

"Alas!" he said, "why ling'ring stay,
Why hover round this living tomb?
Where Yseult pines far far away,

'Twere meet I sought my final doom.
"There to some forest haunt I'll go,
And, hid from every human eye,
Some solace yet my soul may know,
Near where she dwells at least to die!"

He went-and many a lonely night
In Cornwall's deep retreats he lay,
Nor ventured forth to mortal sight,
An exile from the face of day.

At length along the flowery plains
He stole at eve with humble mien,
To ask the simple shepherd swains
Some tidings of the hapless queen.*

Then told they how the baron bold
Was banish'd to his distant home,

And to Tintagel's mighty hold

The king, with all his court, was come.

For Pentecost, with pride elate,

The feast, the tourney, they prepare,

And, mistress of the regal state,

The lovely Yseult would be there.

Joy sprung in Tristan's eager heart—
The queen must through the forest wend,
While he, unnoticed, there apart

Secure her coming could attend.

But how to bid her understand,

When close to him she loved she drew?

He cut in haste a hazel wand,

And clove the yielding wood in two.

Then on the bark his name he traced,
To lure her for a while to stay;

Each branch with trembling hand he placed
At distance in fair Yseult's way.

* Tristan de Léonois, Knight of the Round Table, is the hero of one of the most pleasing of the romances of antiquity. The translation of it into French prose in the twelfth century is by Luces de Gast, a Norman, who lived at Salisbury. The celebrated poet, Chrestien de Troyes, versified it, but his work is unfortunately lost. Sir Walter Scott has published an edition of Sir Tristrem by Thomas the Rhymer of Ercildown.

It was their sign of love before,

And when she saw that name so dear,
The deepest shade she would explore,
To find if he were wand'ring near.

"Oh! well thou know'st, dear love," he said, "No life has Tristan but in thee'

And all my fondness is repaid,

My Yseult lives alone for me!

"Thou know'st the tree around whose stem The eglantine so fondly clings,

And hangs her flowery diadem

From bough to bough in perfumed rings.

"Clasp'd in each other's arms they smile,
And flourish long in bliss and joy,
As though nor time nor age the while
Their tender union could destroy.

"But if it chance by Fate's hard hest
The tree is destined to decay,
The eglantine droops on his breast,
And both together fade away.

"Ah, even such, dear love, are we,
How can we learn to live apart?
To pine in absence thus from thee

Will break this too devoted heart!"

She came she saw the dear loved name,
So long to deep regret consign'd,
And rosy bright her cheek became,

As thoughts flash'd quick across her mind.

She bade her knights a space delay,
While she reposed amidst the shade;

Obedient all at distance stay,

Nor seek her slumber to invade.

The faithful Brangian alone

Companion of her search she chose,
To whom their early hopes were known,
Their tender love and after woes!

Nor long amidst the woods she sought,
Ere she beheld, with wild delight,
Him whom she loved beyond all thought
Rush forth to bless her eager sight.

Oh, boundless joy unspeakable!
After an age of absent pain,

How much to say-how much to tell-
To vow, regret, and vow again!

She bade him hope the time was near
When his sad exile would be o'er,
When the stern king her prayer would hear,
And call him to his court once more.

She told of many a bitter tear,

Of hopes, of wishes, unsubdued,
Ah! why midst scenes so brief, so dear,
Will thoughts of parting still intrude!

Yes they must part-so lately met,
For envious steps are lurking round,
Delay can only bring regret,

And danger wakes in every sound.

"Adieu! adieu!" and now 'tis past,

And now each path far distant lies,
Fair Yseult gains her train in haste,
And through the forest Tristan bies.

To Wales again his steps he bent,

And there his life of care renew'd,
Until, his uncle's fury spent,

He call'd him from that solitude.

'Twas then, in mem'ry of the scene,

To both with joy so richly fraught;
And to record how blest had been

The signal love himself had taught:

That Tristan waked the softest tone

His lute had ever breath'd before,

Though well to him, Love's slave, was known
All the deep springs of minstrel lore.

His strain to future times shall last,
For 'twas a dream of joy divine:
And that sweet record of the past

He call'd The Lay of Eglantine.**

* There is printed "Le Roman du noble et vaillant Chevalier Tristan fils du noble roy Meliadus de Leonnoys, par Luce, chevalier, seigneur du chateau de Gast." Rouen, 1489, fol.

In Caxton's Morte Arthur,' the 8th, 9th, and 10th books treat of Sir Trystram.'