Author: Madison Julius Cawein

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Knight and Troubadour, to his Lady the Beautiful Maenz of Martagnac

    The burden of the sometime years,
    That once my soul did overweigh,
    Falls from me, with its griefs and fears,
    When gazing in thine eyes of gray;
    Wherein, behold, like some bright ray
    Of dawn, thy heart's fond love appears,
    To cheer my life upon its way.

    Thine eyes! the daybreak of my heart!
    That give me strength to do and dare;
    Whose beauty is a radiant part
    Of all my songs; the music there;
    The morning, that makes dim each care,
    And glorifies my mind's dull mart,
    And helps my soul to do and dare.

    God, when He made thy fresh fair face,
    And thy young body, took the morn
    And made thee like a rose, whose race
    Is not of Earth; without a thorn,
    And dewed thee with the joy that's born
    Of love, wherein hope hath its place
    Like to the star that heralds morn.

    I go my way through town and thorp:
    In court and hall and castle bower
    I tune my lute and strike my harp:
    And often from some twilight tower
    A lady drops to me a flower,
    That bids me scale the moat's steep scarp,
    And climb to love within her bower.

    I heed them not, but go my ways:
    What is their passion unto me!
    My songs are only in thy praise;
    Thy face alone it is I see,
    That fills my heart with melody
    My sweet aubade! that makes my days
    All music, singing here in me!

    One time a foul knight in his towers
    Sneered thus: "God's blood! why weary us
    With this one woman all our hours!
    Sing of our wenches! amorous
    Yolande and Ysoarde here! Not thus
    Shalt sing, but of our paramours!

    What is thy Lady unto us!"
    And then I flung my lute aside;
    And from its baldric flew my sword;
    And down the hall 't was but a stride;
    And in his brute face and its word
    My gauntlet; and around the board
    The battle, till all wild-beast-eyed
    He lay and at his throat my sword.

    Thou dost remember in Provence
    The vile thing that I slew; and how
    With my good jongleurs and my lance
    Kept back his horde! The memory now
    Makes fierce my blood and hot my brow
    With rage. Ah, what a madman dance
    We led them, and escaped somehow!

    Oft times, when, in the tournament,
    I see thee sitting yet uncrowned;
    And bugles blow and spears are bent,
    And shields and falchions clash around,
    And steeds go crashing to the ground;
    And thou dost smile on me, 'though spent
    With war, again my soul is crowned:

    And I am fire to strike and slay;
    Before my face there comes a mist
    Of blood; and like a flame I play
    Through the loud lists; all who resist
    Go down like corn; until thy wrist,
    Kneeling, I kiss; the wreath they lay
    Of beauty on thy head's gold mist.

    And then I seize my lute and sing
    Some chanson or some wild aubade
    Full of thy beauty and the swing
    Of swords and love which I have had
    Of thee, until, with music mad,
    The lists reel with thy name and ring
    The echoed words of my aubade.

    I am thy knight and troubadour,
    Bertrand de Born, whom naught shall part
    From thee: who art my life's high lure,
    And wild bird of my wilder heart
    And all its music: yea, who art
    My soul's sweet sickness and its cure,
    From which, God grant! it ne 'er shall part.

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Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem explores the themes of love, loyalty, honour, and the chivalric code, embodying a romanticized depiction of the medieval era. The speaker, a knight and troubadour, expresses unwavering devotion to his lady, Maenz of Martagnac, whose beauty and virtue inspire him in both his martial and musical pursuits.

The tone of the poem is one of passionate adoration and determination, reflected in the speaker's vivid descriptions of his beloved and his fervour in defending her honour. The structure of the poem is intricately layered, with consistent rhyming patterns weaving throughout the lengthy narrative, lending a rhythmic quality that echoes the troubadour's songs.

The poet employs various literary devices to enhance the narrative. Personification and simile are used to portray Maenz as a celestial figure, akin to a rose "whose race/Is not of Earth", thereby elevating her status. The poet also uses dramatic imagery and intense metaphorical language, particularly when describing the knight's combat experiences, mirroring the intensity of his devotion.

Furthermore, the recurring motif of the troubadour's lute and songs symbolizes his artistic expression, reinforcing the theme of love as a source of inspiration. The poem's ending, where the speaker affirms his role as a knight and troubadour, effectively underscores the unity of his martial and artistic identities, both of which are devoted to his love for Maenz.