Chapter 10

How Galahad and his fellows were fed of the holy Sangreal, and how our Lord appeared to them, and other things. Then king Pelles and his son departed. And therewithal beseemed them that there came a man and four angels from heaven, clothed in likeness of a bishop, and had a cross in his hand, and these four angels bare him up in a chair, and set him down before the table of silver whereupon the Sancgreal was, and it seemed that he had in midst of his forehead letters that said, See ye here Joseph the first bishop of Christendom, the same which our Lord succoured in the city of Sarras, in the spiritual place. Then the knights marvelled, for that bishop was dead more than three hundred years tofore. Oh knights, said he, marvel not, for I was sometime an earthly man. With that they heard the chamber door open, and there they saw angels, and two bare candles of wax, and the third a towel, and the fourth a spear which bled marvellously, that three drops fell within a box which he held with his other hand. And they set the candles upon the table, and the third the towel upon the vessel, and the fourth, the holy spear even upright upon the vessel. And then the bishop made semblant as though he would have gone to the sacring of the mass. And then he took an ubbly, which was made in likeness of bread; and at the lifting up there came a figure in likeness of a child, and the visage was as red and as bright as any fire, and smote himself into the bread, so that they all saw it, that the bread was formed of a fleshly man, and then he put it into the holy vessel again. And then he did that longed to a priest to do to a mass. And then he went to Galahad and kissed him, and bad him go and kiss his fellows, and so he did anon. Now, said he, servants of Jesu Christ, ye shall be fed afore this table with sweet meats, that never knights tasted. And when he had said, he vanished away; and they set them at the table in great dread, and made their prayers. Then looked they, and saw a man come out of the holy vessel, that had all the signs of the passion of Jesu Christ, bleeding all openly, and said, My knights and my servants and my true children, which be come out of deadly life into spiritual life, I will now no longer hide me from you, but ye shall see now a part of my secrets and of my hid things: now hold and receive the high meat which ye have so much desired. Then took he himself the holy vessel, and came to Galahad, and he kneeled down and there he received his Saviour, and after him so received all his fellows; and they thought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. Then said he to Galahad, Son, wotest thou what I hold betwixt my hands? Nay, said he, but if ye will tell me. This is, said he, the holy dish wherein I ate the lamb on Sher-thursday. And now hast thou seen that thou most desiredst to see, but yet hast thou not seen it so openly as thou shalt see it in the city of Sarras, in the spiritual place.

LYRIC POETRY--FRENCH.

Lyric poetry sprang up very early in Northern France, having a spontaneous and abundant growth in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Of the earliest lyrics, the critics distinguish two varieties (l) the Romance, and (2) the Pastourelle. These are generally dramatic love stories, full of gay and simple life and extremely artistic and musical in form. Along with these was produced a vast amount of simple lyric poetry on love and other personal emotions. The number of poems written was immense. About two hundred names of poets have come down to us, besides hundreds of anonymous pieces.

The Romances and Pastourelles of the northern trouveres were soon greatly influenced by the more artful poetry of the Provencal troubadours, producing the highly artificial but charming rondeaus and ballades of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. But the freshest, most individual work is that of the earlier time.

CHATELAIN DE COUCY. Thirteenth Century.

The first approach of the sweet spring Returning here once more,-- The memory of the love that holds In my fond heart such power,-- The thrush again his song assaying,-- The little rills o'er pebbles playing, And sparkling as they fall,-- The memory recall Of her on whom my heart's desire Is, shall be, fixed till I expire.

With every season fresh and new That love is more inspiring: Her eyes, her face, all bright with joy,-- Her coming, her retiring, Her faithful words, her winning ways,-- That sweet look, kindling up the blaze, Of love, so gently still, To wound, but not to kill,-- So that when most I weep and sigh, So much the higher springs my joy.

--Tr. by Taylor.

THIBAUT OF CHAMPAGNE, KING OF NAVARRE. Early Thirteenth Century.

Lady, the fates command, and I must go,-- Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me: Here my heart suffered many a heavy woe; But what is left to love, thus leaving thee? Alas! that cruel land beyond the sea! Why thus dividing many a faithful heart, Never again from pain and sorrow free, Never again to meet, when thus they part?

I see not, when thy presence bright I leave, How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my lot; Ne'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve As now in leaving thee; and if thy thought Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught, Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee, Dwelling in fruitless wishes, on this spot, And all the gracious words here said to me.

O gracious God! to thee I bend my knee, For thy sake yielding all I love and prize; And O, how mighty must that influence be, That steals me thus from all my cherished joys! Here, ready, then, myself surrendering, Prepared to serve thee, I submit; and ne'er To one so faithful could I service bring, So kind a master, so beloved and dear.

And strong my ties,--my grief unspeakable! Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign; Yet stronger still the affections that impel My heart toward Him, the God whose love is mine. That holy love, how beautiful! how strong! Even wisdom's favorite sons take refuge there; 'T is the redeeming gem that shines among Men's darkest thoughts,--for ever bright and fair.

--Tr. by Taylor.

GACE BRULE. Thirteenth Century.

The birds, the birds of mine own land I heard in Brittany; And as they sung, they seemed to me The very same I heard with thee. And if it were indeed a dream, Such thoughts they taught my soul to frame That straight a plaintive number came, Which still shall be my song, Till that reward is mine which love hath promised long.

--Tr. by Taylor.

RAOUL DE SOISSONS. Thirteenth Century.

Ah! beauteous maid, Of form so fair! Pearl of the world, Beloved and dear! How does my spirit eager pine But once to press those lips of thine!-- Yes, beauteous maid, Of form so fair! Pearl of the world, Beloved and dear!

And if the theft Thine ire awake, A hundred fold I'd give it back,-- Thou beauteous maid, Of form so fair! Pearl of the world, Beloved and dear!

--Tr. by Taylor.

LATER FRENCH LYRICS.

During the latter half of the thirteenth century several new and highly artificial forms of verse were developed. The chief of these were the Ballade and Chant Royal, the Rondel, Roudeau, Triolet, Virelay. These are all alike in being short poems, generally treating of love, and making special use of a refrain and the repetition of words and lines. They differ in the number of verses in a stanza, of stanzas In the poem, and the order and number of rhymes. Their poetic value is not great because the poet so easily lost sight of his subject in perfecting his verse form.

A TRIOLET.

Take time while yet it is in view, For fortune is a fickle fair: Days fade, and others spring anew; Then take the moment still in view. What boots to toil and cares pursue? Each month a new moon hangs in air. Take, then, the moment still in view, For fortune is a fickle fair.

--Froissart. Tr. Anonymous.

RONDEL.

Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

--Charles d'Orleans. Tr. by Longfellow.

THE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.

Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,-- She whose beauty was more than human? .... But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where's Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? .... But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,-- Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,-- And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,-- Mother of God, where are they then? .... But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Save with thus much for an overword,-- But where are the snows of yester-year?

--Villon. Tr. by D. G. Rossetti.

LYRIC POETRY--PROVENCAL.

Modern scholars separate the treatment of Provencal literature from that of French. It was written in a different dialect, was subject to somewhat different laws of development, and after a short period of activity died almost completely away.

Provencal literature is that produced in ancient Provence or Southern France. Its period of life extended from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, its middle and only important period being that of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This literature contains examples of all the varieties of French literature of the Middle Ages, but the only work that is original and important is its lyric poetry. This was composed by the troubadours (corresponding to the French trouveres) and sung by jongleurs or minstrels. The names of 460 Provencal poets and 251 anonymous pieces have come down to us. The one great theme of troubadour-singing--one, too, upon which he was original and a master--was that of passionate love. With this as subject, these poets united an eagerness for form, and were the first to perfect verse in any modern language.

PIERRE ROGIERS. Twelfth Century.

Who has not looked upon her brow Has never dreamed of perfect bliss, But once to see her is to know What beauty, what perfection, is.

Her charms are of the growth of heaven, She decks the night with hues of day: Blest are the eyes to which 't is given On her to gaze the soul away!

--Tr. by Costello.

GUILLEM DE CABESTANH. Twelfth Century.

No, never since the fatal time When the world fell for woman's crime, Has Heaven in tender mercy sent-- All preordaining, all foreseeing-- A breath of purity that lent Existence to so fair a being! Whatever earth can boast of rare, Of precious, and of good,-- Gaze on her form, 't is mingled there, With added grace endued.

Why, why is she so much above All others whom I might behold, Whom I, unblamed, might dare to love, To whom my sorrows might be told? O, when I see her, passing fair, I feel how vain is all my care: I feel she all transcends my praise, I feel she must contemn my lays: I feel, alas! no claim have I To gain that bright divinity! Were she less lovely, less divine, Less passion and despair were mine.

--Tr. by Costello.

THE MONK OF MONTAUDON. Thirteenth Century.

I love the court by wit and worth adorned, A man whose errors are abjured and mourned, My gentle mistress by a streamlet clear, Pleasure, a handsome present, and good cheer.

I love fat salmon, richly dressed, at noon; I love a faithful friend both late and soon.

I hate small gifts, a man that's poor and proud, The young who talk incessantly and loud; I hate in low-bred company to be, I hate a knight that has not courtesy. I hate a lord with arms to war unknown, I hate a priest or monk with beard o'ergrown; A doting husband, or a tradesman's son, Who apes a noble, and would pass for one. I hate much water and too little wine, A prosperous villain and a false divine; A niggard lout who sets the dice aside; A flirting girl all frippery and pride; A cloth too narrow, and a board too wide; Him who exalts his handmaid to his wife, And her who makes her groom her lord for life; The man who kills his horse with wanton speed, And him who fails his friend in time of need.

--Tr. by Costello.

PIERRE VIDAL. End Twelfth Century.

Of all sweet birds, I love the most The lark and nightingale: For they the first of all awake, The opening spring with songs to hail.

And I, like them, when silently Each Troubadour sleeps on, Will wake me up, and sing of love And thee, Vierna, fairest one! . . . . The rose on thee its bloom bestowed, The lily gave its white, And nature, when it planned thy form A model framed of fair and bright.

For nothing, sure, that could be given, To thee hath been denied; That there each thought of love and joy In bright perfection might reside.

--Tr. by Taylor.

GUIRAUT DE BORNEILH. End Thirteenth Century.

Companion dear! or sleeping or awaking, Sleep not again! for, lo! the morn is nigh, And in the east that early star is breaking, The day's forerunner, known unto mine eye. The morn, the morn is near.

Companion dear! with carols sweet I'll call thee; Sleep not again! I hear the birds' blithe song Loud in the woodlands; evil may befall thee, And jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long, Now that the morn is near.

Companion dear! forth from the window looking, Attentive mark the signs of yonder heaven; Judge if aright I read what they betoken: Thine all the loss, if vain the warning given. The morn, the morn is near.

Companion dear! since thou from hence wert straying, Nor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited; My prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying, That thou in peace thy backward way might tread. The morn, the morn, is near.

Companion dear! hence to the fields with me! Me thou forbad'st to slumber through the night, And I have watched that livelong night for thee; But thou in song or me hast no delight, And now the morn is near.

ANSWER.

Companion dear! so happily sojourning, So blest am I, I care not forth to speed: Here brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorning Her dwelling-place,--then wherefore should I heed The morn or jealous eyes?

--Tr. by Taylor.

FABLES AND TALES.

FABLES.

A large and popular class of writing of the French Middle Ages was that of FABLIAUX or Fables. A Fable is "a recital, for the most part comic, of a real or possible event occurring in the ordinary affairs of human life."[1] We possess some two hundred of these fables, varying in length from twenty to five hundred lines. They are generally mocking, jocular, freespoken, half satirical stories of familiar people, and incidents in ordinary life. The follies of the clergy are especially exposed, though the peasants, knights, and even kings furnish frequent subjects. They are commonly very free and often licentious in language. The following is an example of the simpler kind of Fables.

[1] Quoted by Saintsbury from M. de Montaiglon, editor of the latest collection of Fabliaux (Parts 1872-'88).

THE PRIEST WHO ATE MULBERRIES.

Ye lordlings all, come lend an ear; It boots ye naught to chafe or fleer, As overgrown with pride: Ye needs must hear Dan Guerin tell What once a certain priest befell, To market bent to ride.

The morn began to shine so bright, When up this priest did leap full light And called his folk around: He bade them straight bring out his mare, For he would presently repair Unto the market-ground.

So bent he was on timely speed, So pressing seemed his worldly need, He weened 't were little wrong If pater-nosters he delayed, And cast for once they should be said E'en as he rode along.

And now with tower and turret near Behold the city's walls appear, When, as he turned aside, He chanced in evil hour to see All hard at hand a mulberry-tree That spread both far and wide.

Its berries shone so glossy black, The priest his lips began to smack, Full fain to pluck the fruit; But, woe the while! the trunk was tall, And many a brier and thorn did crawl Around that mulberry's root.

The man, howbe, might not forbear, But reckless all he pricked his mare In thickest of the brake; Then climbed his saddle-bow amain, And tiptoe 'gan to stretch and strain Some nether bough to take. A nether bough he raught at last; He with his right hand held it fast, And with his left him fed: His sturdy mare abode the shock, And bore, as steadfast as a rock, The struggling overhead.

So feasted long the merry priest, Nor much bethought him of his beast Till hunger's rage was ended: Then, "Sooth!" quoth he, "whoe'er should cry, 'What ho, fair sir!' in passing by, Would leave me here suspended."

Alack! for dread of being hanged, With voice so piercing shrill he twanged The word of luckless sound, His beast sprang forward at the cry, And plumb the priest dropped down from high Into the brake profound.

There, pricked and pierced with many a thorn, And girt with brier, and all forlorn, Naught boots him to complain: Well may ye ween how ill bested He rolled him on that restless bed, But rolled and roared in vain:

For there algates he must abide The glowing noon, the eventide, The livelong night and all; The whiles with saddle swinging round, And bridle trailing on the ground, His mare bespoke his fall.

O, then his household shrieked for dread, And weened at least he must be dead; His lady leman swooned: Eftsoons they hie them all to look If haply in some dell or nook His body might be found.

Through all the day they sped their quest; The night fled on, they took no rest; Returns the morning hour: When, lo! at peeping of the dawn. It chanced a varlet boy was drawn Nigh to the mulberry-bower.

The woful priest the help descried: "O, save my life! my life!" he cried, "Enthralled in den profound! O, pluck me out, for pity's sake, From this inextricable brake, Begirt with brambles round!"

"Alas, my lord! my master dear! What ugly chance hath dropped thee here?" Exclaimed the varlet youth. "'T was gluttony"' the priest replied, With peerless folly by her side: But help me straight, for ruth!"

By this were come the remnant rout; With passing toil they plucked him out, And slowly homeward led: But, all so tattered in his hide, Long is he fain in bed to bide, But little less than dead.

--Tr. by Way.

A special development of the fable is the mock-epic "Reynard the Fox", one of the most noteworthy developments in literature of the Middle Ages. It is an elaborate, semi-epic set of stories in which Reynard is the embodiment of cunning and discreet valor, while his great enemy, Isegrim, the wolf, represents stupid strength. From the beginning of this set of fables, there is a tone of satirical comment on men and their affairs. In the later developments of the story, elaborate allegories are introduced, and monotonous moralizings take the place of the earlier, simpler humor.

The fable reached its greatest development in France, but all Europe shared in making and delighting in it.

Our extracts are taken from Caxton's translation of the Flemish form of the legend.

FROM REYNARD THE FOX.