There are three classical periods in German literature.[1]
[1] See Scherer's "History of German Literature." Vol. I., page 16.
1. The Old High German Period, culminating about 600 A. D. The chief development of this period is the epic legend and poetry. As this literature remained largely unwritten, it is all lost except one fragment, The Song of Hildebrand.
2. The Middle High German Period, culminating about 1200 A. D. This was in Germany, as elsewhere in Europe, a time of abundant literary activity. It is the period of the renaissance of the heroic legends of the first period, and their remaking into developed epic poetry; of the writing of romances of chivalry and of antiquity; of the development of the lyric poetry of the Minnesingers; of the growth of popular fables and tales and of the drama. In short, all the forms of literary production known to the Middle Ages flourished in Germany in this period.
3. The Modern Classical Period, culminating about 1800 in the work of Goethe, Schiller, and the many poets and scholars surrounding them.
The fragment of the "Song of Hildebrand" is the sole surviving portion of the heroic literature of the first period. The story runs that "Hildebrand had fought in his youth in Italy, married there, and left a three-year son, when he was driven by Odoacer to Attila, king of the Huns. After years, in which the son grew up to manhood, Hildebrand re-entered Italy as a great chief in the army of Theodorle. His son, Hadubrand was then a chief combatant in Odoacer's army." They challenge each other to combat, and though the fragment ends before the fight is over, it is thought from other references that Hildebrand is victor.
I have heard tell, they called each other forth,Hildebrand, Hadubrand, among the hosts.Son, father, made them ready for the strife.Donned their war shirts, and girded on their swordsOver ringed mail, rode, heroes, to the fight.
Hildebrand, Herbrand's son, the elder manAnd wiser, spake, well skilled in questioningsAsked in few words, who among all the folkHis father was, "or of what stock thou be?Tell, and I'll give a mail of triple web:Child in this realm, I knew its families."Hadubrand spoke, Hildebrand's son: "The oldAnd wise among our folk tell me my fatherWas Hildebrand, my name is Hadubrand.My father went to the east to fly the hateOf Otaker, with Dietrich and his bands.A slender bride abiding in the landsHe left in bower, with an ungrown child,And weapons masterless. Eastward he wentWhen sorrow came to Deitrich, friendless man,My kinsman Otaker became his foe.Most famed of warriors, since Dietrich fell,Foremost in every field, he loved the fight,Praised by the bold, I doubt not he is dead."
"Lord God of men," spake Hildebrand, "from heavenStay strife between two men so near in blood!"Then twisted from his arm the bracelet ringThat once the King of Huns had given him,I give it you in token of my love."Spake Hadubrand, the son of Hildebrand,"At the spear's point I take of you such gifts,Point against point. No comrade thou, old Hun,With Bly, enticing words wouldst win me near:My answer to thee is with cast of spear.Thou'rt old. This cunning out of age is bred."Over the Midland Sea came foes who said,"Hildebrand, son of Herbrand, he is dead."
Hildebrand, son of Herbrand, spake again:"Thine arms show that in this land thou couldst not gainA liberal leader or a royal friend.Now well away. Great God, fate's evil end!For sixty years, exile in stranger lands,Summer and winter with spear-darting bands,Never once leg bound within city wall,I come back by my own son's hand to fall,Hewn by his sword, or be his murderer,—But if thy strength hold, thou canst readilyWin of the brave his arms, spoil of the slain,When thine by right." Said Hildebrand, "Now, worstOf Ostrogoths be he who holds me back! My heart is for the fray.Judge comrades who look on, which of us winsThe fame, best throws the dart, and earns the spoil."The ashen spears then sped, stuck in the shieldsWith their keen points, and down on the white shieldsThe heavy axes rang with sounding blows,Shattering their rims, the flesh behind stood firm. . . .
—Tr. by Morley.
In the second, or Middle High German Period, the heroic legends of early times were revived and formed the subject matter of many epic and semi epic poems. These legends have been classified into six several cycles of romances:[1]
[1] Cf. Morley's "English Writers." Vol. III., pp. 152-4.
1. The Frankish cycle contains the stories of Siegfried, the Sigurd of the Scandinavian tradition.
2. The Burgundian cycle contains King Gunther.
3. The Ostrogoth cycle contains Dietrich, Theodoric, and Hildebrand.
4. The Hungarian cycle, to which belongs Attila or Etzel, and Rudiger.
5. The Lombard cycle, to which belong King Rother, King Otnit, and Wolfdietrich.
6. The North Saxon cycle, to which belongs the tale of Gudrun. The two most important of all the epics based upon these cycles are the Gudrun and the Niebelungenlied. The latter is the more comprehensive, national, and famous. It includes and unifies all the tales from the first four cycles of heroic legends.[1] The whole of German art, literature, and tradition is full of reflections of this poem. The best scholarship has concluded that the poem is not the work of a single author, but, like other folk epics, an edited collection of songs. The work was finished about 1190-1210. It consists of two greater parts, (1) the "Death of Siegfried" and (2) the "Vengeance of Kriemhild".
[1] See Kluge, "Geschichte der Deutschen National-Literature," p. 33.
From the "Niebelungenlied". The first song in the poem gives usKriemhild's foreboding dream.
KRIEMHILD'S DREAM.Stanzas 1-19.
In stories of our fathers high marvels we are toldOf champions well approved in perils manifold.Of feasts and merry meetings, of weeping and of wail,And deeds of gallant daring I'll tell you in my tale.
In Burgundy there flourish'd a maid so fair to see,That in all the world together a fairer could not be.This maiden's name was Kriemhild; through her in dismal strifeFull many a proudest warrior thereafter lost his life.
Many a fearless champion, as such well became,Woo'd the lovely lady; she from none had blame.Matchless was her person, matchless was her mind.This one maiden's virtue grac'd all womankind.
Three puissant Kings her guarded with all the care they might,Gunther and eke Gernot, each a redoubted knight,And Giselher the youthful, a chosen champion he;This lady was their sister, well lov'd of all the three.
They were high of lineage, thereto mild of mood,But in field and foray champions fierce and rude.They rul'd a mighty kingdom, Burgundy by name;They wrought in Etzel's country deeds of deathless fame.
At Worms was their proud dwelling, the fair Rhine flowing by,There had they suit and service from haughtiest chivalryFor broad lands and lordships, and glorious was their state,Till wretchedly they perish'd by two noble ladies' hate.
Dame Uta was their mother, a queen both rich and sage;Their father hight Dancrat, who the fair heritageLeft to his noble children when he his course had run;He too by deeds of knighthood in youth had worship won.
Each of these three princes, as you have heard me say,Were men of mighty puissance. They had beneath their swayThe noblest knights for liegemen that ever dwelt on ground;For hardihood and prowess were none so high renown'd.
There was Hagan of Troy of a noble line,His brother nimble Dankwart, and the knight of Metz, Ortwine,Eckewart and Gary, the margraves stout in fight,Folker of Alzeia, full of manly might.
Rumolt the steward (a chosen knight was he),Sindolt, and Hunolt; these serv'd the brethren three,At their court discharging their several duties well;Besides, knights had they many whom now I cannot tell.
Dankwart was marshal to the king his lord,Ortwine of Metz, his nephew, was carver at the board,Sindolt he was butler, a champion choice and true,The chamberlain was Hunolt; they well their duties knew.
The gorgeous pomp and splendour, wherein these brethren reign'd,How well they tended knighthood, what worship they attain'd,How they thro' life were merry, and mock'd at woe and bale—Who'd seek all this to tell you, would never end his tale.
A dream was dreamt by Kriemhild the virtuous and the gay,How a wild young falcon she train'd for many a day,Till two fierce eagles tore it; to her there could not beIn all the world such sorrow at this perforce to see.To her mother Uta at once the dream she told,
But she the threatening future could only thus unfold;"The falcon that thou trainedst is sure a noble mate;God shield him in his mercy, or thou must lose him straight."
"A mate for me? what say'st thou, dearest mother mine?Ne'er to love, assure thee, my heart will I resign.I'll live and die a maiden, and end as I began,Nor (let what else befall me) will suffer woe for man."
"Nay", said her anxious mother, "renounce not marriage so;Wouldst thou true heartfelt pleasure taste ever here below,Man's love alone can give it. Thou'rt fair as eye can see,A fitting mate God send thee, and nought will wanting be."
"No more," the maiden answer'd, "no more, dear mother, say;From many a woman's fortune this truth is clear as day,That falsely smiling Pleasure with Pain requites us ever.I from both will keep me, and thus will sorrow never."
So in her lofty virtues, fancy-free and gay,Liv'd the noble maiden many a happy day,Nor one more than another found favour in her sight;Still at the last she wedded a far-renowned knight.
He was the self-same falcon she in her dream had seen,Foretold by her wise mother. What vengeance took the queenOn her nearest kinsmen who him to death had done!That single death atoning died many a mother's son.
In his home in the Netherlands the hero Siegfried hears of the beauty of Kriemhild and after magnificent preparations comes to Worms to win her, if possible, for his bride. After a long stay at the court of her brother, he finally sees her at a feast. They love each other at their first meeting. In Isenstein, far over the sea, lives Brunhild, the Amazon-queen, who is pledged to wed only him who can conquer her in single combat. Gunther, the brother of Kriemhild, desires her for his wife. Siegfried promises to win her for him on condition that Gunther grant him Kriemhild's hand in return. They proceed to Brunhild's land, where Siegfried, by the aid of a magic cloak, which renders him invisible, helps Gunther to overcome Brunhild.
THE CONQUEST OF BRUNHILD.Stanza 447-455.
There too was come fair Brunhild; arm'd might you see her stand,As though resolv'd to champion all kings for all their land.She bore on her silk surcoat, gold spangles light and thin,That quivering gave sweet glimpses of her fair snowy skin.
Then came on her followers, and forward to the fieldOf ruddy gold far-sparkling bore a mighty shield,Thick, and broad, and weighty, with studs of steel o'erlaid,The which was wont in battle to wield the martial maid.
As thong to that huge buckler a gorgeous band there lay;Precious stones beset it as green as grass in May;With varying hues it glitter'd against the glittering gold.Who would woo its wielder must be boldest of the bold.
Beneath its folds enormous three spans thick was the shield,If all be true they tell us, that Brunhild bore in field.Of steel and gold compacted all gorgeously it glow'd.Four chamberlains, that bore it, stagger'd beneath the load.
Grimly smil'd Sir Hagan, Trony's champion strong,And mutter'd, as he mark'd it trail'd heavily along,"How now, my lord king Gunther? who thinks to scape with life?This love of yours and lady—'faith she's the devil's wife.". . . . . . . . . . .Then to the maid was carried heavily and slowA strong well-sharpen'd jav'lin, which she ever us'd to throw,Huge and of weight enormous, fit for so strong a queen,Cutting deep and deadly with its edges keen.
To form the mighty spear-head a wondrous work was done;Three weights of iron and better were welden into one;The same three men of Brunhild's scarcely along could bring;Whereat deeply ponder'd the stout Burgundian king.
To himself thus thought he, "What have I not to fear?The devil himself could scarcely 'scape from such danger clear.In sooth, if I were only in safety by the Rhine,Long might remain this maiden free from all suit of mine.". . . . . . . . . . . . .
Stanza 464-483.Then was the strength of Brunhild to each beholder shown.Into the ring by th' effort of panting knights a stoneWas borne of weight enormous, massy and large and round.It strain'd twelve brawny champions to heave it to the ground.
This would she cast at all times when she had hurl'd the spear;The sight the bold Burgundians fill'd with care and fear.Quoth Hagan, "she's a darling to lie by Gunther's side.Better the foul fiend take her to serve him as a bride."
Her sleeve back turn'd the maiden, and bar'd her arm of snow,Her heavy shield she handled, and brandished to and froHigh o'er her head the jav'lin; thus began the strife.Bold as they were, the strangers each trembled for his life;
And had not then to help him come Siegfried to his side,At once by that grim maiden had good King Gunther died.Unseen up went he to him, unseen he touch'd his hand.His trains bewilder'd Gunther was slow to understand.
"Who was it just now touch'd me?" thought he and star'd aroundTo see who could be near him; not a soul he found.Said th' other, "I am Siegfried, thy trusty friend and true;Be not in fear a moment for all the queen can do."
Said he, "off with the buckler and give it me to bear;Now, what I shall advise thee, mark with thy closest care.Be it thine to make the gestures, and mine the work to do."Glad man was then king Gunther, when he his helpmate knew.
"But all my trains keep secret; thus for us both 'twere best;Else this o'erweening maiden, be sure, will never rest,Till her grudge against thee to full effect she bring.See where she stands to face thee so sternly in the ring!"
With all her strength the jav'lin the forceful maiden threw.It came upon the buckler massy, broad, and new,That in his hand unshaken, the son of Sieglind bore.Sparks from the steel came streaming, as if the breeze before.
Right through the groaning buckler the spear tempestuous broke;Fire from the mail-links sparkled beneath the thund'ring stroke,Those two mighty champions stagger'd from side to side;But for the wondrous cloud-cloak both on the spot had died.
From the mouth of Siegfried burst the gushing blood;Soon he again sprung forward; straight snatch'd the hero goodThe spear that through his buckler she just had hurl'd amain,And sent it at its mistress in thunder back again.
Thought he "'t were sure a pity so fair a maid to slay;"So he revers'd the jav'lin, and turn'd the point away.Yet, with the butt end foremost, so forceful was the throw,That the sore-smitten damsel totter'd to and fro.
From her mail fire sparkled as driven before the blast;With such huge strength the jav'lin by Sieglind's son was cast,That 'gainst the furious impulse she could no longer stand.A stroke so sturdy never could come from Gunther's hand.
Up in a trice she started, and straight her silence broke,"Noble knight, Sir Gunther, 'thank thee for the stroke."She thought 't was Gunther's manhood had laid her on the lea;No! It was not he had fell'd her, but a mightier far than he.
Then turn'd aside the maiden; angry was her mood;On high the stone she lifted rugged and round and rude,And brandish'd it with fury, and far before her flung,Then bounded quick behind it, that loud her armour rung.
Twelve fathoms' length or better the mighty mass was thrown,But the maiden bounded further than the stone.To where the stone was lying Siegfried fleetly flewGunther did but lift it, th' Unseen it was, who threw.
Bold, tall, and strong was Siegfried, the first all knightsamong;He threw the stone far further, behind it further sprung.His wondrous arts had made him so more than mortal strong,That with him as he bounded, he bore the king along.
The leap was seen of all men, there lay as plain the stone,But seen was no one near it, save Gunther all alone.Brunhild was red with anger, quick came her panting breath;Siegfried has rescued Gunther that day from certain death.
Then all aloud fair Brunhild bespake her courtier band,Seeing in the ring at distance unharm'd her wooer stand,"Hither, my men and kinsmen: low to my better bow;I am no more your mistress; you're Gunther's liegemen now."
Down cast the noble warriors their weapons hastily,And lowly kneel'd to Gunther the king of Burgundy.To him as to their sovran was kingly homage done,Whose manhood, as they fancied, the mighty match had won.
He fair the chiefs saluted bending with gracious look;Then by the hand the maiden her conquering suitor took,And granted him to govern the land with sovran sway;Whereat the warlike nobles were joyous all and gay.
Upon the return to Worms the double marriage feast is celebrated—the weddings of Gunther and Brunhild, of Siegfried and Kriemhild. A second time is Gunther compelled to ask the help of Siegfried in conquering Brunhild, who again thinks that Gunther is the conqueror. From this second struggle Siegfried carries away Brunhild's ring and girdle, which he gives to Kriemhild. Siegfried and Kriemhild depart to his country, and not until after ten years do they visit again the court of Gunther. At the festival given in honor of this visit, the two queens, looking on at the knightly games, fall into a bitter quarrel concerning the prowess of their husbands. Kriemhild boasts to Brunhild that it was Siegfried and not Gunther who overcame her in both struggles. To prove her taunt she shows the girdle and ring. Brunhild is thrown into violent anger by the insult and desires only vengeance upon Siegfried and Kriemhild. Hagen, the most valiant of Gunther's vassals, takes up her cause, and seeks opportunity to kill Siegfried. A war against the Saxons is declared, in which Siegfried offers to assist Gunther. On the eve of the departure to battle, Hagen visits Kriemhild. She begs him to protect Siegfried, and tells him the story of her husband's one vulnerable spot—when Siegfried had killed the dragon, he bathed in its blood, and was rendered invulnerable, except in one spot, where a lime leaf fell between his shoulders. This spot the dragon blood did not touch. Kriemhild promises to mark this spot with a silken cross, that Hagen may the better protect her husband. The next morning the excursion against the Saxons is withdrawn, and the heroes conclude to go on a hunting party.
THE HUNTING AND THE DEATH OF SIEGFRIED.Stanzas 944-958.
Gunther and Hagan, the warriors fierce and bold,To execute their treason, resolved to scour the wold.The bear, the boar, the wild bull, by hill or dale or fen,To hunt with keen-edg'd javelins; what fitter sport for valiantmen?
In lordly pomp rode with them Siegfried the champion strong.Good store of costly viands they brought with them along.Anon by a cool runnel he lost his guiltless life.'T was so devis'd by Brunhild, King Gunther's moody wife.
But first he sought the chamber where he his lady found.He and his friends already had on the sumpters boundTheir gorgeous hunting raiment; they o'er the Rhine would go.Never before was Kriemhild sunk so deep in woe.
On her mouth of roses he kiss'd his lady dear;"God grant me, dame, returning in health to see thee here;So may those eyes see me too; meanwhile be blithe and gayAmong thy gentle kinsmen; I must hence away."
Then thought she on the secret (the truth she durst not tell)How she had told it Hagan; then the poor lady fellTo wailing and lamenting that ever she was born.Then wept she without measure, sobbing and sorrow-worn.
She thus bespake her husband, "Give up that chace of thine.I dreamt last night of evil, how two fierce forest swineOver the heath pursued thee; the flowers turn'd bloody red.I cannot help thus weeping; I'm chill'd with mortal dread.
I fear some secret treason, and cannot lose thee hence,Lest malice should be borne thee from misconceiv'd offence.Stay, my beloved Siegfried, take not my words amiss.'T is the true love I bear thee that bids me counsel this."
"Back shall I be shortly, my own beloved mate.Not a soul in Rhineland know I, who bears me hate.I'm well with all thy kinsmen; they're all my firm allies;Nor have I from any e'er deserv'd otherwise."
"Nay! do not, dearest Siegfried! 't is e'en thy death I dread.Last night I dreamt, two mountains fell thundering on thy head,And I no more beheld thee; if thou from me wilt go,My heart will sure be breaking with bitterness of woe."
Round her peerless body his clasping arms he threw;Lovingly he kiss'd her, that faithful wife and true;Then took his leave, and parted;—in a moment all was o'er—Living, alas poor lady! she saw him never more.
In the chase Siegfried prefers to hunt with a single limehound.But he achieves most marvelous feats of skill and strength.
Stanzas 962-971.All, that the limehound started, anon with mighty handWere slain by noble Siegfried the chief of Netherland.No beast could there outrun him, so swift is steed could race;He won from all high praises for mastery in the chace.
Whatever he attempted, he went the best before.The first beast he encounter'd was a fierce half-bred boar.Him with a mighty death-stroke he stretch'd upon the ground;Just after in a thicket a lion huge he found.
Him the limehound started; his bow Sir Siegfried drew;With a keen-headed arrow he shot the lion through.But three faint bounds thereafter the dying monster made.His wond'ring fellow-huntsmen thanks to Sir Siegfried paid.
Then one upon another a buffalo, an elkHe slew, four strong ureoxen, and last a savage shelk.No beast, how swift soever, could leave his steed behind;Scarcely their speed could profit the flying hart or hind. . . . . . .They heard then all about them, throughout those forest grounds,Such shouting and such baying of huntsmen and of hounds,That hill and wood re-echoed with the wild uproar.Th' attendants had uncoupled four and twenty dogs or more.
Then full many a monster was doom'd his last to groan.They thought with glad expectance to challenge for their ownThe praise for the best hunting; but lower sunk their pride,When to the tryst-fire shortly they saw Sir Siegfried ride.
The hunting now was over for the most part at least;Game was brought in plenty and skins of many a beastTo the place of meeting, and laid the hearth before.Ah! to the busy kitchen what full supplies they bore!. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The chase being done, the hunters are summoned to a feast in a neighboring glade. Here, though they are served with a profusion of sumptuous viands, there is, according to Hagen's plot, no wine to drink. When, toward the end of the meal Siegfried is tormented with thirst, Hagen tells him of a cool runnel near by under a linden, and proposes that he and Gunther and Siegfried shall try a race to this brook. Siegfried gaily consents, and boasts that he will run with all his clothing and his weapons upon him.
Stanzas 1005-1029.King Gunther and Sir Hagan to strip were nothing slow;Both for the race stood ready in shirts as white as snow.Long bounds, like two wild panthers o'er the grass they took,But seen was noble Siegfried before them at the brook.
Whate'er he did, the warrior high o'er his fellows soar'd.Now laid he down his quiver, and quick ungirt his sword.Against the spreading linden he lean'd his mighty spear.So by the brook stood waiting the chief without a peer.
In every lofty virtue none with Sir Siegfried vied.Down he laid his buckler by the water's side.For all the thirst that parch'd him, one drop he never drankTill the king had finished; he had full evil thank.
Cool was the little runnel, and sparkled clear as glass.O'er the rill king Gunther knelt down upon the grass.When he his draught had taken, he rose and stepp'd aside.Full fain alike would Siegfried his thirst have satisfied.
Dear paid he for his courtesy; his bow, his matchless blade,His weapons all, Sir Hagan far from their lord convey'd,Then back sprung to the linden to seize his ashen spear,And to find out the token survey'd his vesture near;
Then, as to drink Sir Siegfried down kneeling there he found,He pierc'd him through the croslet, that sudden from the woundForth the life-blood spouted e'en o'er his murderer's weed.Never more will warrior dare so foul a deed.
Between his shoulders sticking he left the deadly spear.Never before Sir Hagan so fled for ghastly fear,As from the matchless champion whom he had butcher'd there.Soon as was Sir Siegfried of the mortal wound aware,
Up he from the runnel started, as he were woodOut from betwixt his shoulders his own hugh boar-spear stood.He thought to find his quiver or his broadsword true.The traitor for his treason had then receiv'd his due.
But, ah! the deadly-wounded nor sword nor quiver found;His shield alone beside him lay there upon the ground.This from the bank he lifted and straight at Hagan ran;Him could not then by fleetness escape king Gunther's man.
E'en to the death though wounded, he hurl'd it with such power,That the whirling buckler scatter'd wide a showerOf the most precious jewels, then straight in shivers broke.Full gladly had the warrior then vengeance with that stroke.
E'en as it was, his manhood fierce Hagan level'd low.Loud, all around, the meadow rang with the wondrous blow.Had he in hand good Balmung, the murderer he had slain.His wound was sore upon him; he writh'd in mortal pain;
His lively colour faded; a cloud came o'er his sight:He could stand no longer; melted all his might;In his paling visage the mark of death he bore.Soon many a lovely lady sorrow'd for him sore.
So the lord of Kriemhild among the flowerets fell.From the wound fresh gushing his heart's blood fast did well.Then thus amidst his tortures, e'en with his failing breath,The false friends he upbraided who had contriv'd his death.
Thus spake the deadly-wounded, "Ay! cowards false as hell!To you I still was faithful; I serv'd you long and well;But what boots all?—for guerdon treason and death I've won.By your friends, vile traitors! foully have you done.
Whoever shall hereafter from your loins be born,Shall take from such vile fathers a heritage of scorn.On me you have wreak'd malice where gratitude was due.With shame shall you be banish'd by all good knights and true."
Thither ran all the warriors where in his blood he lay.To many of that party sure it was a joyless day.Whoever were true and faithful, they sorrow'd for his fall.So much the peerless champion had merited of all.
With them the false king Gunther bewept his timeless end.Then spake the deadly-wounded; "little it boots your friendYourself to plot his murder, and then the deed deplore.Such is a shameful sorrow; better at once it were o'er."
Then spake the low'ring Hagan, "I know not why you moan.Our cares all and suspicions are now for ever flown.Who now are left, against us who'll dare to make defence?Well's me, for all this weeping, that I have rid him hence."
"Small cause hast thou," said Siegfried, "to glory in my fate.Had I ween'd thy friendship cloak'd such murderous hate,From such as thou full lightly could I have kept my life.Now grieve I but for Kriemhild, my dear, my widow'd wife.. . . . . . . . .Then further spake the dying, and speaking sigh'd full deep,"Oh king! if thou a promise with any one wilt keep,Let me in this last moment thy grace and favour findFor my dear love and lady, the wife I leave behind.
Remember, she's thy sister, yield her a sister's right,Guard her with faith and honour, as thou'rt a king and knight.My father and my followers for me they long must wait.Comrade ne'er found from comrade so sorrowful a fate."
In his mortal anguish he writh'd him to and fro,And then said, deadly groaning, "this foul and murderous blowDeep will ye rue hereafter; this for sure truth retain,That in slaying Siegfried you yourselves have slain."
With blood were all bedabbled the flowerets of the field.Some time with death he struggled, as though he scorn'd to yieldE'en to the foe, whose weapon strikes down the loftiest head.At last prone in the meadow lay mighty Siegfried dead.
They carry the body of Siegfried back to Worms, and lay it at Kriemhild's door. Here she finding it next morning. She has it carried to the church and stands by it while the heroes come to view it, expecting to discover the murderer.
KRIEMHILD'S TEST.Stanza 1071-1078.
And now the night was over; forth peep'd the morning fair;Straight had the noble lady thence to the minster bearThe matchless champion Siegfried, her husband lov'd so dear.All her friends close follow'd with many a sigh and tear.
When they the minster enter'd, how many a bell was rung!How many a priest on all sides the mournful requiem sung!Then thither with his meiny came Dancrat's haughty son,And thither too grim Hagan; it had been better left undone.
Then spoke the king, "dear sister, woe worth this loss of thine!Alas that such misfortune has happ'd to me and mine!For sure the death of Siegfried we ever both must rue.""Nay", said the mournful lady, "so without cause you do,
For if you really rued it, never had it been.I know, you have your sister forgotten quite and clean,So I and my beloved were parted as you see.Good God! would he had granted the stroke had fall'n on me!"
Firmly they made denial; Kriemhild at once replied,"Whoe'er in this is guiltless, let him this proof abide.In sight of all the people let him approach the bier,And so to each beholder shall the plain truth appear."
It is a mighty marvel, which oft e'en now we spy,That when the blood-stain'd murderer comes to the murder'd nigh,The wounds break out a-bleeding; then too the same befell,And thus could each beholder the guilt of Hagan tell.
The wounds at once burst streaming fast as they did before;Those, who then sorrow'd deeply, now yet lamented more.Then outspake king Gunther, "I give you here to know,He was slain by robbers; Hagan struck ne'er a blow."
"Ay! well know I those robbers," his widow'd sister said;"By the hands of his true comrades may God revenge the dead!False Gunther, and false Hagan! 't was you, your friend thatslew."Thereat the knights of Siegfried grip'd to their swords anew.
After the burial of Siegfried, Kriemhild decides to remain at the court of Gunther, in the care of her brothers. Thither is brought the enormous treasures of the Niebelungen, which Siegfried had won, and of which he had been the guardian, and which now fell to Kriemhild. The crafty Hagen gains possession of this horde, and conceals it by sinking it in the Rhine, hoping some day to recover and enjoy it. For thirteen years Kriemhild remains at the court of her brother, brooding over her wrongs and meditating revenge. The second part of the poem begins by telling how Etzel, king of the Huns, proposed for the hand of the widowed Kriemhild, and how she finally, hoping to use him in her plan of vengeance, consents to a marriage with him and goes away with him into his land. Here for many years she lives the beloved queen of the Huns. But her purpose of vengeance never falters, and at last she persuades Etzel to invite her brothers to his court on a visit. Against many forebodings and warnings they come, Hagen with them. After numerous interesting episodes upon the journey, they arrive at Etzell's court and are handsomely welcomed. But the inevitable quarrel soon breaks out and a desperate fight begins. After a most desperate and bloody struggle, Gunther, Hagen, and a few followers are shut up in a hall. To this Kriemhild sets fire.
THE BURNING OF THE HALL.Stanza, 2186-2194.
With that, the wife of Etzel had set the hall on fire.How sore then were they tortur'd in burning anguish dire!At once, as the wind freshen'd, the house was in a glow.Never, I ween, were mortals in such extremes of woe.
"We all are lost together," each to his neighbour cried,"It had been far better we had in battle died.Now God have mercy on us! woe for this fiery pain!Ah! what a monstrous vengeance the bloody queen has ta'en!"
Then faintly said another, "needs must we here fall dead;What boots us now the greeting, to us by Etzel sped?Ah me! I'm so tormented by thirst from burning heat,That in this horrid anguish my life must quickly fleet."
Thereat outspake Sir Hagan, the noble knight and good,"Let each, by thirst tormented, take here a draught of blood.In such a heat, believe me, 't is better far than wine.Nought's for the time so fitting; such counsel, friends, ismine."
With that straight went a warrior, where a warm corpse he found.On the dead down knelt he; his helmet he unbound;Then greedily began he to drink the flowing blood.However unaccustom'd, it seem'd him passing good.
"Now God requite thee, Hagan," the weary warrior cried,"For such refreshing beverage by your advice supplied.It has been my lot but seldom to drink of better wine.For life am I thy servant for this fair hint of thine."
When th' others heard and witness'd with that delight he quaff'd,Yet many more among them drank too the bloody draught.It strung again their sinews, and failing strength renew'd.This in her lover's person many a fair lady rued.
Into the hall upon them the fire-flakes thickly fell;These with their shields they warded warily and well.With smoke and heat together they were tormented sore.Never, I ween, good warriors such burning anguish bore.
Through smoke and flame cried Hagan, "stand close against thewall;Let not the burning ashes on your helm-laces fall.Into the blood yet deeper tread every fiery flake.In sooth, this feast of Kriemhild's is ghastly merry-make."
One by one the champions fall, until only Hagen and Gunther, exhausted with fighting, are left to contend with Dietrich, the most Valisntof Etzel's vassals. The conclusion of the poem tells of the fate of Hagen, Gunther, and Kriemhild.
THE FALL OF THE NIEBELUNGEN.Stanza 2428-2459.
Well knew the noble Dietrich how fierce and fell a knightWas standing now against him; so warily the fight'Gainst those tempestuous swordstrokes wag'd the good lord ofBern.The strength and skill of Hagan he had not now to learn.
He fear'd too, mighty Balmung as down it swept amain;Yet at times Sir Dietrich with craft would strike again,Till that to sink before him he brought his foeman strong;A fearful wound, he gave him that was both deep and long.
Sir Dietrich then bethought him, "thou'rt faint and ill besteadI should win little worship, were I to strike thee dead.I'll make a different trial, if thou can'st now be wonBy main force for a pris'ner." With wary heed 't was done.
Down he threw his buckler; wondrous was his might;He his arms resistless threw round Trony's knight.So was by his stronger the main of strength subdued.Thereat the noble Gunther remain'd in mournful mood.
His vanquish'd foe Sir Dietrich bound in a mighty band,And led him thence to Kriemhild, and gave into her handThe best and boldest champion that broadsword ever bore.She after all her anguish felt comfort all the more.
For joy the queen inclin'd her before the welcome guest;"Sir knight I in mind and body heaven keep thee ever blest!By thee all my long sorrows are shut up in delight.Even if death prevent not, thy service I'll requite."
"Fair and noble Kriemhild," thus Sir Dietrich spake,"Spare this captive warrior, who full amends will makeFor all his past transgressions; him here in bonds you see;Revenge not on the fetter'd th' offences of the free."
With that she had Sir Hagan to durance led away,Where no one could behold him, where under lock he lay.Meanwhile the fierce king Gunther shouted loud and strong,"Whither is gone the Berner? he hath done me grievous wrong."
Straight, at the call, to meet him Sir Dietrich swiftly went.Huge was the strength of Gunther, and deadly his intent.There he no longer dallied; from th' hall he forward ran;Sword clash'd with sword together, as man confronted man.
Howe'er renown'd was Dietrich, and train'd in combat well,Yet Gunther fought against him so furious and so fell,And bore him hate so deadly, now friendless left and lone,It seemed past all conceiving, how Dietrich held his own.
Both were of mighty puissance, and neither yielded ground;Palace and airy turret rung with their strokes around,As their swift swords descending their temper'd helmets hew'dWell there the proud king Gunther display'd his manly mood.
Yet him subdued the Berner, as Hagan erst befell;Seen was the blood of the warrior forth through his mail to wellBeneath the fatal weapon that Dietrich bore in fright.Tir'd as he was, still Gunther had kept him like a knight.
So now at length the champion was bound by Dietrich there,How ill soe'er it fitteth a king such bonds to bear.Gunther and his fierce liegeman if he had left unbound,He ween'd they'd deal destruction on all, whome'er they found.
Then by the hand Sir Dietrich took the champion good.And in his bonds thence led him to where fair Kriemhild stood.She cried, "thou'rt welcome, Gunther, hero of Burgundy.""Now God requite you, Kriemhild, if you speak lovingly."
Said he, "I much should thank you, and justly, sister dear,If true affection prompted the greeting which I hear;But, knowing your fierce temper, proud queen, too well I see,Such greeting is a mocking of Hagan and of me."
Then said the noble Berner, "high-descended dame,Ne'er have been brought to bondage knights of such peerless fame,As those, whom you, fair lady, now from your servant take.Grant these forlorn and friendless fair treatment for my sake."
She said she fain would do so; then from the captive pairWith weeping eyes Sir Dietrich retir'd and left them there.Straight a bloody vengeance wreak'd Etzell's furious wifeOn those redoubted champions, and both bereft of life.
In dark and dismal durance them kept apart the queen,So that from that hour neither was by the other seen,Till that at last to Hagan her brother's head she bore.On both she took with vengeance as tongue ne'er told before.
To the cell of Hagan eagerly she went;Thus the knight bespake she, ah! with what fell intent!"Wilt thou but return me what thou from me hast ta'en,Back thou may'st go living to Burgundy again."
Then spake grim-visag'd Hagan, "you throw away your prayer,High-descended lady; I took an oath whilere,That, while my lords were living, or of them only one,I'd ne'er point out the treasure; thus 't will be given to none."
Well knew the subtle Hagan, she ne'er would let him 'scape.Ah! when did ever falsehood assume so foul a shape?He fear'd, that, soon as ever the queen his life had ta'en,She then would send her brother to Rhineland back again.
"I'll make an end, and quickly," Kriemhild fiercely spake.Her brother's life straight had she in his dungeon take.Off his head was smitten; she bore it by the hairTo the lord of Trony; such sight he well could spare.
A while in gloomy sorrow he view'd his master's head;Then to remorseless Kriemhild thus the warrior said;"E'en to thy wish this business thou to an end hast brought,To such an end, moreover, as Hagan ever thought.
Now the brave king Gunther of Burgundy is deadYoung Giselher and eke Gernot alike with him are sped;So now, where lies the treasure, none knows save God and me,And told shall it be never, be sure, she-fiend! to thee."
Said she, "ill hast thou quitted a debt so deadly scor'd;At least in my possession I'll keep my Siegfried's sword.My lord and lover bore it, when last I saw him go.For him woe wring my bosom, that pass'd all other woe."
Forth from the sheath she drew it; that could not be prevent;At once to slay the champion was Kriemhild's stern intent.High with both hands she heav'd it, and off his head did smite.That was seen of king Etzel; he shudder'd at the sight.
"Ah!" cried the prince impassion'd, "harrow and welaway!That the hand of a woman the noblest knight should slay,That e'er struck stroke in battle, or ever buckler bore!Albeit I was his foeman, needs must I sorrow sore."
Then said the aged Hildebrand, "let not her boast of gain,In that by her contrivance this noble chief was slain.Though to sore strait he brought me, let ruin on me light,But I will take full vengeance for Trony's murdered knight."
Hildebrand the aged fierce on Kriemhild sprung:To the death he smote her as his sword he swung.Sudden and remorseless he his wrath did wreak.What could then avail her her fearful thrilling shriek?
There now the dreary corpses stretch'd all around were seen;There lay, hewn in pieces, the fair and noble queen.Sir Dietrich and king Etzel, their tears began to start;For kinsmen and for vassals each sorrow'd in his heart.
The mighty and the noble there lay together dead;For this had all the people dole and drearihead.The feast of royal Etzel was thus shut up in woe.Pain in the steps of Pleasure treads ever here below.
'Tis more than I can tell you what afterwards befell,Save that there was weeping for friends belov'd so well;Knights and squires, dames and damsels, were seen lamenting all,So here I end my story. This is THE NIBELUNGERS' FALL.
—Tr. by Littsom.
As elsewhere in Europe, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Germany produced numberless romances. These may be classed under (1) Romances of Arthur, (2) Romances of the Holy Graal, (3) Romances of Antiquity, and (4) Romances of Love and Chivalry. The chief poets of romances were Hartmann von Aue, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Wolfram von Eschenbach. A good example of the romance of love is "Der Arme Heinrich of Hartmann von Aue". "Poor Henry", to quote Scherer, "is a kind of Job, a man of noble birth; rich, handsome, and beloved, who is suddenly visited by God with the terrible affliction of leprosy, and who can be cured only by the lifeblood of a young maiden who is willing to die for him. The daughter of a peasant, to whose house he has retired in his despair, resolves to sacrifice her life for him. Heinrich accepts her offer, and the knife to kill her is already whetted, when a better feeling arises in his breast, and he refuses to take upon himself the guilt of her death, resolving to resign himself to the will of God. This resignation saves him; he recovers and marries the maiden." Our extracts are from the first and last of the poem.
HENRY THE LEPER.Ll. 1-131.—
Once on a time, rhymeth the rhyme,In Swabia land once on a time,There was a nobleman so journeying,Unto whose nobleness everythingOf virtue and high-hearted excellenceWorthy his line and his high pretenseWith plentiful measure was meted out:The land rejoiced in him round about.He was like a prince in his governing—In his wealth he was like a king;But most of all by the fame far-flownOf his great knightliness was he known,North and south, upon land and sea.By his name he was Henry of the Lea.All things whereby the truth grew dimWere held as hateful foes with him:By solemn oath was he bounden fastTo shun them while his life should last.In honour all his days went by:Therefore his soul might look up highTo honorable authority.
A paragon of all graciousness,A blossoming branch of youthfulness,A looking-glass to the world around,A stainless and priceless diamond,Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,A home when the tyrant menaceth,A buckler to the breast of his friend,And courteous without measure or end;Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell;Of precious wisdom a limpid well,A singer of ladies every one,And very lordly to look uponIn feature and hearing and countenance:Say, failed he in anything, perchance,The summit of all glory to gain.And the lasting honour of all men.
Alack! the soul that was up so highDropped down into pitiful misery;The lofty courage was stricken low,The steady triumph stumbled in woe,And the world-joy was hidden in the dust,Even as all such shall be and must.He whose life in the senses centrethIs already in the shades of death.The joys, called great, of this under-stateBurn up the bosom early and late;And their shining is altogether vain,For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain,The torch that flames for men to seeAnd wasteth to ashes inwardlyIs verily but an imagingOf man's own life, the piteous thing.The whole is brittleness and mishap:We sit and dally in Fortune's lapTill tears break in our smiles betwixt,And the shallow honey-draught be mix'dWith sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep.Oh! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep:In the blossoming of thy flower-crownA sword is raised to smite thee down.
It was thus with Earl Henry, upon whom for his pride God sent a leprosy, as He did upon Job. But he did not bear his affliction as did Job.
Its duteousness his heart forgot;His pride waxed hard, and kept its place,But the glory departed from his face,And that which was his strength, grew weak.The hand that smote him on the cheekWas all too heavy. It was night,Now, and his sun withdrew its light.To the pride of his uplifted thoughtMuch woe the weary knowledge broughtThat the pleasant way his feet did wendWas all passed o'er and had an end.The day wherein his years had begunWent in his mouth with a malison.As the ill grew stronger and more strong,—There was but hope bore him along;Even yet to hope he was full fainThat gold might help him back againThither whence God had cast him out.Ah! weak to strive and little stout'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possessed.North and south and east and west,Far and wide from every side,Mediciners well proved and triedCame to him at the voice of his woe;But, mused and pondered they ever so,They could but say, for all their care,That he must be content to bearThe burthen of the anger of God;For him there was no other road.Already was his heart nigh downWhen yet to him one chance was shown;For in Salerno dwelt, folk said,A leach who still might lend him aid,Albeit unto his body's cure,All such had been as nought before.
Earl Henry visits the leach in Salerno whom he implores to tell him the means by which he may be healed.
Quoth the leach, "Then know them what they are;Yet still all hope must stand afar.Truly if the cure for your careMight be gotten anyway anywhere,Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth,This-wise I had not sent you forth.But all my knowledge hath none avail;There is but one thing would not fail:An innocent virgin for to find,Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind,Who to save you from death might chooseHer own young body's life to lose;The heart's blood of the excellent maid—That and nought else can be your aid.But there is none will be won therebyFor the love of another's life to die.
"'T was then poor Henry knew indeedThat from his ill he might not be freed,Sith that no woman he might winOf her own will to act herein.Thus got he but an ill returnFor the journey he made unto Salerne,And the hope he had upon that dayWas snatched from him and rent away.Homeward he hied him back: fall fainWith limbs in the dust he would have lain.Of his substance—lands and riches both—He rid himself; even as one dothWho the breath of the last life of his hopeOnce and forever hath rendered up.To his friends he gave and to the poor,Unto God praying evermoreThe spirit that was in him to save,And make his bed soft in the grave.What still remained aside he setFor Holy Church's benefit.Of all that heretofore was hisNought held he for himself, I wis,Save one small house with byre and field:There from the world he lived concealed,—There lived he, and awaited Death,Who being awaited, lingereth.Pity and ruth his troubles foundAlway through all the country round.Who heard him named, had sorrow deepAnd for his piteous sake would weep.
The poor man who tilled Earl Henry's field had a daughter, a sweet and tender maiden who, out of love for Henry and a heart of Christ-like pity, at last offers herself to die for him. After a struggle Henry accepts the sacrifice. But when he knows it is about to be made his heart rises against it and he refuses to permit it. At this the maiden is much grieved. She takes it as a token that she is not pure enough to be offered for him. She prays for a sign that she may hope to become wholly cleansed. In answer to this prayer Earl Henry is in one night cleansed of the leprosy. He then joyfully takes the maiden for his bride and leads her before his kinsman and nobles for their consent.
"Then," quoth the Earl, "hearken me this.The damozel who standeth here,—And whom I embrace, being most dear,—She it is unto whom I oweThe grace it hath pleased God to bestow.He saw the simple spiritedEarnestness of the holy maid,And even in guerdon of her truthGave me back the joys of my youth,Which seemed to be lost beyond all doubt,And therefore I have chosen her outTo wed with me knowing her free.I think that God will let this be.Lo! I enjoin ye, with God's willThat this my longing ye fulfill.I pray ye all have but one voiceAnd let your choice go with my choice."
Then the cries ceased, and the counter-cries,And all the battle of advice,And every lord, being contentWith Henry's choice, granted assent.
Then the priests came to bind as oneTwo lives in bridal unison,Into his hand they folded hers,Not to be loosed in coming years,And uttered between man and wifeGod's blessing on the road of this life.Many a bright and pleasant dayThe twain pursued their steadfast way,Till hand in hand, at length they trodUpward to the kingdom of God.Even as it was with them, even thus,And quickly, it must be with us.To such reward as theirs was then,God help us in His hour. Amen.
— Tr. by Rossetti.
In the twelfth century, Germany had a remarkable outburst of lyric poetry, chiefly songs of love. The influence of the crusades, the spread of the romances of Arthur and Charlemagne roused over all Germany the spirit of poetry. The poets of this new movement are called Minnesingers. It is interesting to notice that the same poets who wrote these love lyrics, wrote also long romances of chivalry; the greatest names among them being Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Walther von der Vogelweide. They were of all ranks, but chiefly belonged to the upper classes—knights, squires, princes, and even kings being numbered among them. Their extraordinarily large number may be gathered from the fact that from the twelfth century alone the names of one hundred and sixty Minnesingers have come down to us. Their names and their songs have been handed down largely by tradition, since the mass of them could neither read nor write, and for a century or more their work was preserved orally.
The subject of these songs was almost always love—generally love of a sweetheart; sometimes of the simpler aspects of nature, sometimes the love of the Virgin. Besides this they wrote also many didactic, religious, and patriotic songs. The rhythmical and metrical structure of their verse was very complicated and generally very skillful, sometimes, however, running into eccentricities and barren technicalities. The Minnesinger generally composed the music of his song at the same time with the verse.
The bloom of the Minnesong passed away in the latter half of the thirteenth century. The songs became theological, didactic, political, more and more forced and complicated in form, more and more filled with quaint new figures, far-fetched conceits, and obscure allusions. Then gradually developed the school of the Meistersingers, who formed themselves into a guild of poets to which only those were admitted who passed examination upon the difficult technical rules that had been built up. The poetry of the Meistersinigers was, for the most part, tedious and artificial. The poets were not nobles and soldiers, but burghers and artisans. They reached their highest development in the sixteenth century. The most famous of them was Hans Sachs (1494-1575), who, in the space of fifty-three years, wrote 6181 pieces of verse.
DIETMAR VON AIST. Twelfth Century.
By the heath stood a ladyAll lonely and fair;As she watched for her lover,A falcon flew near."Happy falcon!" she cried"Who can fly where he list,And can choose in the forestThe tree he loves best!
"Thus, too, had I chosenOne knight for mine own,Him my eye had selected,Him prized I alone:But other fair ladiesHave envied my joy,And why? for I sought notTheir bliss to destroy.
"As to thee, lovely summer,Returns the birds' strain,As on yonder green lindenThe leaves spring again,So constant doth griefAt my eyes overflow,And wilt not thou, dearest,Return to me now?"
"Yes, come, my own hero,All others desert!When first my eye saw thee,How graceful thou wert;How fair was thy presence,How graceful, how bright!Then think of me only,My own chosen knight!". . . . . .There sat upon the linden-treeA bird and sang its strain;So sweet it sang, that, as I heard,My heart went back again:It went to one remembered spot,I saw the rose-trees grow,And thought again the thoughts of loveThere cherished long ago.
A thousand years to me it seemsSince by my fair I sat,Yet thus to have been a stranger longWas not my choice, but fate:Since then I have not seen the flowers,Nor heard the birds' sweet song;My joys have all too briefly passed,My griefs been all too long.
—Tr. by Taylor.
WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. Early nineteenth Century.UNDER THE LINDEN.
Under the lindenOn the meadowWhere our bed arrange'd was,There now you may find e'enIn the shadow Broken flowers and crushe'd grass.Near the woods, down in the valeTandaradi!Sweetly sang the nightingale.
I, poor sorrowing one,Came to the prairie,Look, my lover had gone before.There he received me—Gracious Mary!—That now with bliss I am brimming o'er.Kissed he me? Ah, thousand hours!Tandaradi!See my mouth, how red it flowers!
Then 'gan he makingOh! so cheery,From flowers a couch most rich outspread.At which outbreakingIn laughter merryYou'll find, whoe'er the path does tread.By the rose he can seeTandaradi!Where my head lay cozily.
How he caressed meKnew it one everGod defend! ashamed I'd be.Whereto he pressed meNo, no, neverShall any know it but him and meAnd a birdlet on the treeTandaradi!Sure we can trust it, cannot we?
—Tr. by Kroeger.
Sweet love of Holy SpiritDirect sick mind and steer it,God, who the first didst rear it,Protect thou Christendom.It lies of pleasure barrenNo rose blooms more in Sharon;Comfort of all th' ill-starren,Oh! help dispel the gloom!Keep, Savior, from all ill us!We long for the bounding billows,Thy Spirit's love must thrill us,Repentant hearts' true friend.Thy blood for us thou'st given,Unlocked the gates of heaven.Now strive we as we've strivenTo gain the blessed land.Our wealth and blood grows thinner;God yet will make us winnerGainst him, who many a sinnerHolds pawne'd in his hand.. . . . . . . . .God keep thy help us sending,With thy right hand aid lending,Protect us till the endingWhen at last our soul us leaves,From hell-fires, flaming clamorLest we fall 'neath the hammer!Too oft we've heard with tremor,How pitiably it grievesThe land so pure and holyAll helplessly and fearfully!Jerusalem, weep lowly,That thou forgotten art!The heathen's boastful gloryPut thee in slavery hoary.Christ, by thy name's proud storyIn mercy take her part!And help those sorely shakenWho treaties them would makenThat we may not be takenAnd conquered at the start.
— Tr. by Kroeger.
When from the sod the flowerets spring,And smile to meet the sun's bright ray,When birds their sweetest carols sing,In all the morning pride of May,What lovelier than the prospect there?Can earth boast any thing more fair?To me it seems an almost heaven,So beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is given.
But when a lady chaste and fair,Noble, and clad in rich attire,Walks through the throng with gracious air,As sun that bids the stars retire,Then, where are all thy boastings, May?What hast thou beautiful and gay,Compared with that supreme delight?We leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that lady bright.
Wouldst thou believe me,—come and placeBefore thee all this pride of May;Then look but on my lady's face,And which is best and brightest say:For me, how soon (if choice were mine)This would I take, and that resign,And say, "Though sweet thy beauties, May,I'd rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay!"
—Tr. by Taylor.
The Minnesingers wrote many songs in praise of the Virgin. She was the embodiment of pure womanhood, their constant object of devotion. The following extracts are taken from a hymn to the Virgin, formerly attributed to Gottfried von Strassburg. It is one of the greatest of the Minnesongs. It consists of ninety-three stanzas, of which six are given.
Stanza 1.—Ye who your life would glorifyAnd float in bliss to God on high,There to dwell nighHis peace and love's salvation;Who fain would learn how to enrollAll evil under your control,And rid your soulOf many a sore temptation;Give heed unto this song of love,And follow its sweet story.Then will its passing sweetness proveUnto your hearts a winge'd doveAnd upward moveYour souls to bliss and glory.
Stanza 12.—Ye fruitful heavens, from your waysBend down to hear the tuneful laysI sing in praiseOf her, the sainted maiden,Who unto us herself has shownA modest life, a crown and throne;Whose love has flownO'er many a heart grief-laden.Thou too, O Christ, thine ear inclineTo this my adoration,In honor of that mother thineWho ever blest must stay and shine,For she's the shrineOf God's whole vast creation.
Stanza 19.—Thou sheen of flowers through clover place,Thou lignum aloe's blooming face,Thou sea of grace,Where man seeks blessed landing.Thou roof of rapture high and blest,Through which no rain has ever passed,Thou goodly rest,Whose end is without ending.Thou to help-bearing strength a towerAgainst all hostile evils.Thou parriest many a stormy showerWhich o'er us cast in darkest hour,The hell worm's powerAnd other ruthless devils.
Stanza 20.—Thou art a sun, a moon, a star,'Tis thou can'st give all good and mar,Yea, and debarOur enemies' great cunning.That power God to thee hath givenThat living light, that light of heaven:Hence see we evenThy praise from all lips running.Thou' st won the purest, noblest fame,In all the earth's long story,That e'er attached to worldly name;It shineth brightly like a flame;All hearts the sameAdore its lasting glory.
Stanza 82.—To worship, Lady, thee is bliss,And fruitful hours ne'er pass amissTo heart that isSo sweet a guest's host-mansion.He who thee but invited hathInto his heart's heart love with faith,Must live and batheIn endless bliss-expansion.To worship thee stirs up in manA love now tame, now passion.To worship thee doth waken, thenLove e'en in those love ne'er could gain;Thus now amainShines forth thy love's concession.
From praising Mary, the poet passes to praising Christ.
Stanza 59.—Thou cool, thou cold, thou warmth, thou heat,Thou rapture's circle's central seat,Who does not meetWith thee stays dead in sadness;Each day to him appears a year,Seldom his thoughts wear green bloom's gear;He doth appearForever without gladness.Thou art most truly our heart's shineOur sun wide joy-inspiring;A sweet heart's love for all that pine,For all the sad a joyful shrine,A spring divineFor the thirsty and desiring.
—Tr. by Kroeger.
There was no folk poetry and no popular literature in Mediaeval Italy. There were two reasons for this: (1) Italian history, political and intellectual, attaches itself very closely to that of Rome. The traditions of classic learning never died out. Hence the Italian nation was always too learned, too literary to develop a folk literature. (2) Italy was for many centuries dominated by ecclesiastical influence, and the people's minds were full of matters of religious and scholastic philosophy, which excluded art.
The Italians translated and adapted some of the epics, romances, and tales of other countries, during the earlier years of the Middle Ages; but they were written in Latin, or in a kind of French. They produced none of their own. There was no literature written in Italian before the thirteenth century.
In the thirteenth century (1250) there came the first outburst of Italian literature—religious songs, love songs, dramas, and tales. In almost every part of Italy men began to write. But it was in Tuscany, in Florence, that the most remarkable literary development of this period appeared. It was of the nature chiefly of lyric and allegoric poetry. The work of this group of Tuscan poets was really the beginning of Italian literary art. Yet it was a finished art product, not at all like the beginnings of poetry in other countries.
The group numbered a dozen poets of considerable power and skill. The greatest of them and the greatest of Italian poets was Dante Alighieri. In Italian mediaeval literature three names stand out far above all others. They are Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. So completely do they overshadow their contemporaries, that in making our selection of Italian literature we shall confine ourselves entirely to these three.