BORN, BERTRAND DE, a French soldier and troubadour, was born at Born, Perigord, France, about 1140; died previous to 1215. He bore an important part in the troubles of his time, and had much to do in inciting John and the other sons of Henry II. of England to quarrel with their father. He supported the pretensions of the youthful Prince Henry to the Duchy of Aquitaine, both by the sword and by his poetry, inciting the Provençal nobles to form a league in defence of the young prince's right. Born waged war against Richard Cœur de Lion, though he wrote in favor of the crusades, but in a satirical vein. He was a powerful man in his day, being possessed of vast estates and numerous followers, which were augmented by the influence of his writings, which were warlike, satirical, or eulogistic, as his caprice dictated. He terminated his stormy career in a monastery, having assumed the habit of the Order of Citeaux. Dante assigns him a place among those who were doomed to eternal suffering in the Inferno, as one who "gave King John the counsel mischievous, which set father and son at mutual war." The poems of Bertrand dwell mainly on love and arms. The following is one of the best

of them:

THE DELIGHTS OF BATTLE.

The beautiful Spring delights me well,
When flowers and leaves are growing;
And it pleases my heart to hear the swell
Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing
In the echoing wood;

And I love to see all scattered around,
Pavilions, tents, on the martial ground;
And my spirit finds it good
To see on the level plains beyond,
Gay knights and steeds caparisoned.

It pleases me when the lancers bold
Set men and armies flying;
And it pleases me to hear around
The voice of soldiers crying;
And joy is mine,

When the castles strong, besiegèd, shake,
And the walls uprooted totter and crack;
And I see the foemen join,

On the moated shore all compassed round
With the palisade and guarded mound.

Lances and swords, and stained helms,
And shields, dismantled and broken,
On the verge of the bloody battle-scene,
The field of wrath betoken;

And the vassals are there

And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead, And where the mingled strife is spread

The noblest warrior's care

Is to cleave the foeman's limbs and head-
The conqueror less of the living than dead.

I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer-
Or banqueting, or reposing-

Like the onset-cry of "Charge them!" rung
From each side as in battle closing,

Where the horses neigh,

And the call to " Aid!" is echoing loud;
And there on the earth the lowly and proud
In the fosse together lie;

And yonder is piled the mangled heap
Of the brave that scaled the trench's steep.

Barons, your castles in safety place,
Your cities and villages too,
Before ye haste to the battle-scene:
And, Papiol, quickly go,

And tell the Lord of Oc and No

That peace already too long hath been.

-Translation of E. TAYLOR.