106 AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF FRENCH LITERATURE. 
ror Barbarossa, though generally represented merely as the bloody 
conqueror and scourge of Italy, presents one of the earliest examples 
of that regard for the prosperity of literature which reflects so much 
honour on sovereigns, and contributes so essentially to their own im- 
mortality. As he was king of Arles, on which Provence is depen- 
dent, his court resounded with the wild notes of the Troubadours ; 
and we know that he himself was no mean proficient in the fascinat- 
ing art. The romantic, though doubtless true, history of the impri- 
sonment of our own Richard I. (himself a Troubadour) in the Tour 
Ténébreuse, is too well known to need repetition here. Unfortu- 
nately we do not possess the ¢enson which delivered the King of 
England from his captivity ; we have, however, a sirvente* which was 
composed by him in prison after fifteen months captivity. The spirit 
of calm dejectedness and elevated melancholy which pervades the 
whole of this poetical effusion of the lion-hearted king, renders it 
one of the precious monuments of this most interesting period. The 
success of a few inspired the rest with hope, and their united exertions 
impelled the Troubadours to perfection with an astonishing rapidity. 
Their name, their honours, and their reputation, extended far and 
wide ; and the Provencal, far outstripping every rival, seemed at once 
to assume the place of the now neglected Latin. At once, however, 
the voice of the Troubadours was silent; and, after a brief, though 
brilliant, existence of three centuries, the Provencal was no more; 
and its eloquent and melodious productions, which erewhile formed 
the solace and delight of the fair, the brave, and the gay, were now 
cast aside, and ranked amongst those of the dead languages. 
* The insertion of the two first stanzas of this most beautiful poem, with 
the translation by Burney ( History of Music, vol. ii. pp. 238-39), will, it is 
trusted, be acceptable to all classes of readers; and we only regret that want 
of space prevents our giving the whole of this most interesting production. 
Ja nus hom pris non dira sa razon 
Adreschement se com hom dolens non ; 
Ma per conort pot il faire canson 
Prou ai d’amis, mas poure son li don. 
Onta i auron se por ma reenzon 
Soi fuit dos yver pris. 
Or sachon ben mi home mi baron 
Engles, Norman, Pettaven, et Guascon, 
Que ge n'avoie si povre compagnon 
Que laissasses por aver en preison 
Ge nil di pas, por nulla retraison 
Mas anquor soige pris. 
No wretched captive of his prison speaks, 
Unless with pain and bitterness of soul; 
Yet consolation from the muse he seeks, 
Whose voice alone misfortune can control. 
Where now is each ally, each baron, friend, 
Whose face I ne’er beheld without asmile ? 
Will none, his sovereign to redeem, expend 
The smallest portion of his treasures vile ? 
Though none may blush that near two tedious years, 
Without relief, my bondage has endured, 
Yet know, my English, Norman, Gascon peers, 
Not one of you shonld thus remain immured. 
The meanest subject of my wide domains, 
Had 1 been free, a ransom should have found. 
1 mean not to reproach you with my chains, 
Yet still I wear them on a foreign ground. 
