On the Death of Barral of Marseilles, 1192

E'en as when some grievous blow
Deadeneth the heart and brain,
And unfelt are grief and pain,
Stunned am I by bitter woe —
For my loss surpassing great
Nowise can my heart conceive,
None its bitterness believe
Till they meet like piteous fate.
For Barral by cruel death is slain,
And I to weep or laugh am fain,
Since reft of reason is my state.

Am I bound by wizard's spell,
That all sense from me hath fled?
No, 'tis that my lord is dead,
He that prized us passing well.
Even as the loadstone bright,
Draweth upward iron and steel,
So did Barral ever deal
Unto many a lowly wight;
And he that spoiled us of the head
Of joy, and fame to virtue wed,
Regardeth not our hapless plight.

Needs must I resemble thee
To the flowers, whose fate thou sharest,
That when sweetest are and fairest,
Soonest fade and cease to be;
Then because our Lord hath died,
Let us lift to God our eyes,
And the wretched world despise,
Where as pilgrims we abide:
For fame and wisdom of the rarest
Thou God all-righteous no-wise sparest
Of those that scorn Thee in their pride.