FOOTNOTES:[29]Wright'sWalter Mapes, p. xlv.
[29]Wright'sWalter Mapes, p. xlv.
[29]Wright'sWalter Mapes, p. xlv.
Boiling in my spirit's veinsWith fierce indignation,From my bitterness of soulSprings self-revelation:Framed am I of flimsy stuff,Fit for levitation,Like a thin leaf which the windScatters from its station.While it is the wise man's partWith deliberationOn a rock to base his heart'sPermanent foundation,With a running river IFind my just equation,Which beneath the self-same skyHath no habitation.Carried am I like a shipLeft without a sailor,Like a bird that through the airFlies where tempests hale her;Chains and fetters hold me not,Naught avails a jailer;Still I find my fellows out,Toper, gamester, railer.To my mind all gravityIs a grave subjection;Sweeter far than honey areJokes and free affection.All that Venus bids me do,Do I with erection,For she ne'er in heart of manDwelt with dull dejection.Down the broad road do I run,As the way of youth is;Snare myself in sin, and ne'erThink where faith and truth is;Eager far for pleasure moreThan soul's health, the sooth is,For this flesh of mine I care,Seek not ruth where ruth is.Prelate, most discreet of priests,Grant me absolution!Dear's the death whereof I die,Sweet my dissolution;For my heart is wounded byBeauty's soft suffusion;All the girls I come not nigh,Mine are in illusion.'Tis most arduous to makeNature's self surrender;Seeing girls, to blush and bePurity's defender!We young men our longings ne'erShall to stern law render,Or preserve our fancies fromBodies smooth and tender.Who, when into fire he falls,Keeps himself from burning?Who within Pavia's wallsFame of chaste is earning?Venus with her finger callsYouths at every turning,Snares them with her eyes, and thrallsWith her amorous yearning.If you brought HippolitusTo Pavia Sunday,He'd not be HippolitusOn the following Monday;Venus there keeps holidayEvery day as one day;'Mid these towers in no tower dwellsVenus Verecunda.In the second place I ownTo the vice of gaming:Cold indeed outside I seem,Yet my soul is flaming:But when once the dice-box hathStripped me to my shaming,Make I songs and verses fitFor the world's acclaiming.In the third place, I will speakOf the tavern's pleasure;For I never found nor findThere the least displeasure;Nor shall find it till I greetAngels without measure,Singing requiems for the soulsIn eternal leisure.In the public-house to dieIs my resolution;Let wine to my lips be nighAt life's dissolution:That will make the angels cry,With glad elocution,"Grant this toper, God on high,Grace and absolution!"With the cup the soul lights up,Inspirations flicker;Nectar lifts the soul on highWith its heavenly ichor:To my lips a sounder tasteHath the tavern's liquorThan the wine a village clerkWaters for the vicar.Nature gives to every manSome gift serviceable;Write I never could nor canHungry at the table;Fasting, any stripling toVanquish me is able;Hunger, thirst, I liken toDeath that ends the fable.Nature gives to every manGifts as she is willing;I compose my verses whenGood wine I am swilling,Wine the best for jolly guestJolly hosts are filling;From such wine rare fancies fineFlow like dews distilling.Such my verse is wont to beAs the wine I swallow;No ripe thoughts enliven meWhile my stomach's hollow;Hungry wits on hungry lipsLike a shadow follow,But when once I'm in my cups,I can beat Apollo.Never to my spirit yetFlew poetic visionUntil first my belly hadPlentiful provision;Let but Bacchus in the brainTake a strong position,Then comes Phoebus flowing inWith a fine precision.There are poets, worthy men,Shrink from public places,And in lurking-hole or denHide their pallid faces;There they study, sweat, and wooPallas and the Graces,But bring nothing forth to viewWorth the girls' embraces.Fasting, thirsting, toil the bards,Swift years flying o'er them;Shun the strife of open life,Tumults of the forum;They, to sing some deathless thing,Lest the world ignore them,Die the death, expend their breath,Drowned in dull decorum.Lo! my frailties I've betrayed,Shown you every token,Told you what your servitorsHave against me spoken;But of those men each and allLeave their sins unspoken,Though they play, enjoy to-day,Scorn their pledges broken.Now within the audience-roomOf this blessed prelate,Sent to hunt out vice, and fromHearts of men expel it;Let him rise, nor spare the bard,Cast at him a pellet;He whose heart knows not crime's smart,Show my sin and tell it!I have uttered openlyAll I knew that shamed me,And have spued the poison forthThat so long defamed me;Of my old ways I repent,New life hath reclaimed me;God beholds the heart—'twas manViewed the face and blamed me.Goodness now hath won my love,I am wroth with vices;Made a new man in my mind,Lo, my soul arises!Like a babe new milk I drink—Milk for me suffices,Lest my heart should longer beFilled with vain devices.Thou Elect of fair Cologne,Listen to my pleading!Spurn not thou the penitent;See, his heart is bleeding!Give me penance! what is dueFor my faults exceedingI will bear with willing cheer,All thy precepts heeding.Lo, the lion, king of beasts,Spares the meek and lowly;Toward submissive creatures heTames his anger wholly.Do the like, ye powers of earth,Temporal and holy!Bitterness is more than's rightWhen 'tis bitter solely.
Boiling in my spirit's veinsWith fierce indignation,From my bitterness of soulSprings self-revelation:Framed am I of flimsy stuff,Fit for levitation,Like a thin leaf which the windScatters from its station.
While it is the wise man's partWith deliberationOn a rock to base his heart'sPermanent foundation,With a running river IFind my just equation,Which beneath the self-same skyHath no habitation.
Carried am I like a shipLeft without a sailor,Like a bird that through the airFlies where tempests hale her;Chains and fetters hold me not,Naught avails a jailer;Still I find my fellows out,Toper, gamester, railer.
To my mind all gravityIs a grave subjection;Sweeter far than honey areJokes and free affection.All that Venus bids me do,Do I with erection,For she ne'er in heart of manDwelt with dull dejection.
Down the broad road do I run,As the way of youth is;Snare myself in sin, and ne'erThink where faith and truth is;Eager far for pleasure moreThan soul's health, the sooth is,For this flesh of mine I care,Seek not ruth where ruth is.
Prelate, most discreet of priests,Grant me absolution!Dear's the death whereof I die,Sweet my dissolution;For my heart is wounded byBeauty's soft suffusion;All the girls I come not nigh,Mine are in illusion.
'Tis most arduous to makeNature's self surrender;Seeing girls, to blush and bePurity's defender!We young men our longings ne'erShall to stern law render,Or preserve our fancies fromBodies smooth and tender.
Who, when into fire he falls,Keeps himself from burning?Who within Pavia's wallsFame of chaste is earning?Venus with her finger callsYouths at every turning,Snares them with her eyes, and thrallsWith her amorous yearning.
If you brought HippolitusTo Pavia Sunday,He'd not be HippolitusOn the following Monday;Venus there keeps holidayEvery day as one day;'Mid these towers in no tower dwellsVenus Verecunda.
In the second place I ownTo the vice of gaming:Cold indeed outside I seem,Yet my soul is flaming:But when once the dice-box hathStripped me to my shaming,Make I songs and verses fitFor the world's acclaiming.
In the third place, I will speakOf the tavern's pleasure;For I never found nor findThere the least displeasure;Nor shall find it till I greetAngels without measure,Singing requiems for the soulsIn eternal leisure.
In the public-house to dieIs my resolution;Let wine to my lips be nighAt life's dissolution:That will make the angels cry,With glad elocution,"Grant this toper, God on high,Grace and absolution!"
With the cup the soul lights up,Inspirations flicker;Nectar lifts the soul on highWith its heavenly ichor:To my lips a sounder tasteHath the tavern's liquorThan the wine a village clerkWaters for the vicar.
Nature gives to every manSome gift serviceable;Write I never could nor canHungry at the table;Fasting, any stripling toVanquish me is able;Hunger, thirst, I liken toDeath that ends the fable.
Nature gives to every manGifts as she is willing;I compose my verses whenGood wine I am swilling,Wine the best for jolly guestJolly hosts are filling;From such wine rare fancies fineFlow like dews distilling.
Such my verse is wont to beAs the wine I swallow;No ripe thoughts enliven meWhile my stomach's hollow;Hungry wits on hungry lipsLike a shadow follow,But when once I'm in my cups,I can beat Apollo.
Never to my spirit yetFlew poetic visionUntil first my belly hadPlentiful provision;Let but Bacchus in the brainTake a strong position,Then comes Phoebus flowing inWith a fine precision.
There are poets, worthy men,Shrink from public places,And in lurking-hole or denHide their pallid faces;There they study, sweat, and wooPallas and the Graces,But bring nothing forth to viewWorth the girls' embraces.
Fasting, thirsting, toil the bards,Swift years flying o'er them;Shun the strife of open life,Tumults of the forum;They, to sing some deathless thing,Lest the world ignore them,Die the death, expend their breath,Drowned in dull decorum.
Lo! my frailties I've betrayed,Shown you every token,Told you what your servitorsHave against me spoken;But of those men each and allLeave their sins unspoken,Though they play, enjoy to-day,Scorn their pledges broken.
Now within the audience-roomOf this blessed prelate,Sent to hunt out vice, and fromHearts of men expel it;Let him rise, nor spare the bard,Cast at him a pellet;He whose heart knows not crime's smart,Show my sin and tell it!
I have uttered openlyAll I knew that shamed me,And have spued the poison forthThat so long defamed me;Of my old ways I repent,New life hath reclaimed me;God beholds the heart—'twas manViewed the face and blamed me.
Goodness now hath won my love,I am wroth with vices;Made a new man in my mind,Lo, my soul arises!Like a babe new milk I drink—Milk for me suffices,Lest my heart should longer beFilled with vain devices.
Thou Elect of fair Cologne,Listen to my pleading!Spurn not thou the penitent;See, his heart is bleeding!Give me penance! what is dueFor my faults exceedingI will bear with willing cheer,All thy precepts heeding.
Lo, the lion, king of beasts,Spares the meek and lowly;Toward submissive creatures heTames his anger wholly.Do the like, ye powers of earth,Temporal and holy!Bitterness is more than's rightWhen 'tis bitter solely.
Having been introduced to the worshipful order of vagrants both in their collective and in their personal capacity, we will now follow them to the woods and fields in spring. It was here that they sought love-adventures and took pastime after the restraints of winter.
The spring-songs are all, in the truest sense of the word,lieder—lyrics for music. Their affinities of form and rhythm are less with ecclesiastical verse than with the poetry of the Minnesinger and the Troubadour. Sometimes we are reminded of the Frenchpastourelle, sometimes of the rustic ditty, with its monotonous refrain.
The exhilaration of the season which they breathe has something of the freshness of a lark's song, something at times of the richness of the nightingale's lament. The defect of the species may be indicated in a single phrase. It is a tedious reiteration of commonplaces in the opening stanzas. Here, however, is a lark-song.
Spring is coming! longed-for springNow his joy discloses;On his fair brow in a ringBloom empurpled roses!Birds are gay; how sweet their lay!Tuneful is the measure;The wild wood grows green again,Songsters change our winter's painTo a mirthful pleasure.Now let young men gather flowers,On their foreheads bind them,Maidens pluck them from the bowers,Then, when they have twined them,Breathe perfume from bud and bloom,Where young love reposes,And into the meadows soAll together laughing go,Crowned with ruddy roses.
Spring is coming! longed-for springNow his joy discloses;On his fair brow in a ringBloom empurpled roses!Birds are gay; how sweet their lay!Tuneful is the measure;The wild wood grows green again,Songsters change our winter's painTo a mirthful pleasure.
Now let young men gather flowers,On their foreheads bind them,Maidens pluck them from the bowers,Then, when they have twined them,Breathe perfume from bud and bloom,Where young love reposes,And into the meadows soAll together laughing go,Crowned with ruddy roses.
Here again the nightingale's song, contending with the young man's heart's lament of love, makes itself heard.
These hours of spring are jolly;Maidens, be gay!Shake off dull melancholy,Ye lads, to-day!Oh! all abloom am I!It is a maiden love that makes me sigh,A new, new love it is wherewith I die!The nightingale is singingSo sweet a lay!Her glad voice heavenward flinging—No check, no stay.Flower of girls love-ladenIs my sweetheart;Of roses red the maidenFor whom I smart.The promise that she gives meMakes my heart bloom;If she denies, she drives meForth to the gloom.My maid, to me relenting,Is fain for play;Her pure heart, unconsenting,Saith, "Lover, stay!"Hush, Philomel, thy singing,This little rest!Let the soul's song rise ringingUp from the breast!In desolate DecembersMan bides his time:Spring stirs the slumbering embers;Love-juices climb.Come, mistress, come, my maiden!Bring joy to me!Come, come, thou beauty-laden!I die for thee!O all abloom am I!It is a maiden love that makes me sigh,A new, new love it is wherewith I die!
These hours of spring are jolly;Maidens, be gay!Shake off dull melancholy,Ye lads, to-day!Oh! all abloom am I!It is a maiden love that makes me sigh,A new, new love it is wherewith I die!
The nightingale is singingSo sweet a lay!Her glad voice heavenward flinging—No check, no stay.
Flower of girls love-ladenIs my sweetheart;Of roses red the maidenFor whom I smart.
The promise that she gives meMakes my heart bloom;If she denies, she drives meForth to the gloom.
My maid, to me relenting,Is fain for play;Her pure heart, unconsenting,Saith, "Lover, stay!"
Hush, Philomel, thy singing,This little rest!Let the soul's song rise ringingUp from the breast!
In desolate DecembersMan bides his time:Spring stirs the slumbering embers;Love-juices climb.
Come, mistress, come, my maiden!Bring joy to me!Come, come, thou beauty-laden!I die for thee!O all abloom am I!It is a maiden love that makes me sigh,A new, new love it is wherewith I die!
There is a very prettyInvitation to Youth, the refrain of which, though partly undecipherable, seems to indicate an Italian origin. I have thought it well to omit this refrain; but it might be rendered thus, maintaining the strange and probably corrupt reading of the last line:—
"List, my fair, list,bela mia,To the thousand charms of Venus!Da hizevaleria."
"List, my fair, list,bela mia,To the thousand charms of Venus!Da hizevaleria."
Take your pleasure, dance and play,Each with other while ye may:Youth is nimble, full of grace;Age is lame, of tardy pace.We the wars of love should wage,Who are yet of tender age;'Neath the tents of Venus dwellAll the joys that youth loves well.Young men kindle heart's desire;You may liken them to fire:Old men frighten love awayWith cold frost and dry decay.
Take your pleasure, dance and play,Each with other while ye may:Youth is nimble, full of grace;Age is lame, of tardy pace.
We the wars of love should wage,Who are yet of tender age;'Neath the tents of Venus dwellAll the joys that youth loves well.
Young men kindle heart's desire;You may liken them to fire:Old men frighten love awayWith cold frost and dry decay.
A roundelay, which might be styled thePraise of Mayor the exhortation to be liberal in love byThe Example of the Rose, shall follow.
Winter's untruth yields at last,Spring renews old mother earth;Angry storms are overpast,Sunbeams fill the air with mirth;Pregnant, ripening unto birth,All the world reposes.Our delightful month of May,Not by birth, but by degree,Took the first place, poets say;Since the whole year's cycle he,Youngest, loveliest, leads with glee,And the cycle closes.From the honours of the roseThey decline, the rose abuse,Who, when roses red unclose,Seek not their own sweets to use;'Tis with largess, liberal dues,That the rose discloses.Taught to wanton, taught to play,By the young year's wanton flower,We will take no heed to-day,Have no thought for thrift this hour;Thrift, whose uncongenial powerLaws on youth imposes.
Winter's untruth yields at last,Spring renews old mother earth;Angry storms are overpast,Sunbeams fill the air with mirth;Pregnant, ripening unto birth,All the world reposes.
Our delightful month of May,Not by birth, but by degree,Took the first place, poets say;Since the whole year's cycle he,Youngest, loveliest, leads with glee,And the cycle closes.
From the honours of the roseThey decline, the rose abuse,Who, when roses red unclose,Seek not their own sweets to use;'Tis with largess, liberal dues,That the rose discloses.
Taught to wanton, taught to play,By the young year's wanton flower,We will take no heed to-day,Have no thought for thrift this hour;Thrift, whose uncongenial powerLaws on youth imposes.
Another song, blending the praises of spring with a little pagan vow to Cupid, has in the original Latin a distinction and purity of outline which might be almost called Horatian.
Winter, now thy spite is spent,Frost and ice and branches bent!Fogs and furious storms are o'er,Sloth and torpor, sorrow frore,Pallid wrath, lean discontent.Comes the graceful band of May!Cloudless shines the limpid day,Shine by night the Pleiades;While a grateful summer breezeMakes the season soft and gay.Golden Love I shine forth to view!Souls of stubborn men subdue!See me bend! what is thy mind?Make the girl thou givest kind,And a leaping ram's thy due!O the jocund face of earth,Breathing with young grassy birth!Every tree with foliage clad,Singing birds in greenwood glad,Flowering fields for lovers' mirth!
Winter, now thy spite is spent,Frost and ice and branches bent!Fogs and furious storms are o'er,Sloth and torpor, sorrow frore,Pallid wrath, lean discontent.
Comes the graceful band of May!Cloudless shines the limpid day,Shine by night the Pleiades;While a grateful summer breezeMakes the season soft and gay.
Golden Love I shine forth to view!Souls of stubborn men subdue!See me bend! what is thy mind?Make the girl thou givest kind,And a leaping ram's thy due!
O the jocund face of earth,Breathing with young grassy birth!Every tree with foliage clad,Singing birds in greenwood glad,Flowering fields for lovers' mirth!
Nor is the next far below it in the same qualities of neatness and artistic brevity.
Now the fields are laughing; now the maidsTake their pastime; laugh the leafy glades:Now the summer days are blooming,And the flowers their chaliced lamps for love illuming.Fruit-trees blossom; woods grow green again;Winter's rage is past: O ye young men,With the May-bloom shake off sadness!Love is luring you to join the maidens' gladness.Let us then together sport and play;Cytherea bids the young be gay:Laughter soft and happy voices,Hope and love invite to mirth when May rejoices.
Now the fields are laughing; now the maidsTake their pastime; laugh the leafy glades:Now the summer days are blooming,And the flowers their chaliced lamps for love illuming.Fruit-trees blossom; woods grow green again;Winter's rage is past: O ye young men,With the May-bloom shake off sadness!Love is luring you to join the maidens' gladness.
Let us then together sport and play;Cytherea bids the young be gay:Laughter soft and happy voices,Hope and love invite to mirth when May rejoices.
All the spring is in the lyric next upon my list.
Spring returns, the glad new-comer,Bringing pleasure, banning pain:Meadows bloom with early summer,And the sun shines out again:All sad thoughts and passions vanish;Plenteous Summer comes to banishWinter with his starveling train.Hails and snows and frosts togetherMelt and thaw like dews away;While the spring in cloudless weatherSucks the breast of jocund May;Sad's the man and born for sorrowWho can live not, dares not borrowGladness from a summer's day.Full of joy and jubilation,Drunk with honey of delight,Are the lads whose aspirationIs the palm of Cupid's fight!Youths, we'll keep the laws of Venus,And with joy and mirth between usLive and love like Paris wight!
Spring returns, the glad new-comer,Bringing pleasure, banning pain:Meadows bloom with early summer,And the sun shines out again:All sad thoughts and passions vanish;Plenteous Summer comes to banishWinter with his starveling train.
Hails and snows and frosts togetherMelt and thaw like dews away;While the spring in cloudless weatherSucks the breast of jocund May;Sad's the man and born for sorrowWho can live not, dares not borrowGladness from a summer's day.
Full of joy and jubilation,Drunk with honey of delight,Are the lads whose aspirationIs the palm of Cupid's fight!Youths, we'll keep the laws of Venus,And with joy and mirth between usLive and love like Paris wight!
The next has the same accent of gladness, though it is tuned to a somewhat softer and more meditative note of feeling.
Vernal hours are sweet as clover,With love's honey running over;Every heart on this earth burningFinds new birth with spring's returning.In the spring-time blossoms flourish,Fields drink moisture, heaven's dews nourish;Now the griefs of maidens, afterDark days, turn to love and laughter.Whoso love, are loved, togetherSeek their pastime in spring weather;And, with time and place agreeing,Clasp, kiss, frolic, far from seeing.
Vernal hours are sweet as clover,With love's honey running over;Every heart on this earth burningFinds new birth with spring's returning.
In the spring-time blossoms flourish,Fields drink moisture, heaven's dews nourish;Now the griefs of maidens, afterDark days, turn to love and laughter.
Whoso love, are loved, togetherSeek their pastime in spring weather;And, with time and place agreeing,Clasp, kiss, frolic, far from seeing.
Gradually the form of the one girl whom the lyrist loves emerges from this wealth of description.
Hail! thou longed-for month of May,Dear to lovers every day!Thou that kindlest hour by hourLife in man and bloom in bower!O ye crowds of flowers and huesThat with joy the sense confuse,Hail! and to our bosom bringBliss and every jocund thing!Sweet the concert of the birds;Lovers listen to their words:For sad winter hath gone by,And a soft wind blows on high.Earth hath donned her purple vest,Fields with laughing flowers are dressed,Shade upon the wild wood spreads,Trees lift up their leafy heads;Nature in her joy to-dayBids all living things be gay;Glad her face and fair her graceUnderneath the sun's embrace!Venus stirs the lover's brain,With life's nectar fills his vein,Pouring through his limbs the heatWhich makes pulse and passion beat.O how happy was the birthWhen the loveliest soul on earthTook the form and life of thee,Shaped in all felicity!O how yellow is thy hair!There is nothing wrong, I swear,In the whole of thee; thou artFramed to fill a loving heart!Lo, thy forehead queenly crowned,And the eyebrows dark and round,Curved like Iris at the tips,Down the dark heavens when she slips!Red as rose and white as snowAre thy cheeks that pale and glow;'Mid a thousand maidens thouHast no paragon, I vow.Round thy lips and red as beApples on the apple-tree;Bright thy teeth as any star;Soft and low thy speeches are;Long thy hand, and long thy side,And the throat thy breasts divide;All thy form beyond compareWas of God's own art the care.Sparks of passion sent from theeSet on fire the heart of me;Thee beyond all whom I knowI must love for ever so.Lo, my heart to dust will burnUnless thou this flame return;Still the fire will last, and I,Living now, at length shall die!Therefore, Phyllis, hear me pray,Let us twain together play,Joining lip to lip and breastUnto, breast in perfect rest!
Hail! thou longed-for month of May,Dear to lovers every day!Thou that kindlest hour by hourLife in man and bloom in bower!O ye crowds of flowers and huesThat with joy the sense confuse,Hail! and to our bosom bringBliss and every jocund thing!Sweet the concert of the birds;Lovers listen to their words:For sad winter hath gone by,And a soft wind blows on high.
Earth hath donned her purple vest,Fields with laughing flowers are dressed,Shade upon the wild wood spreads,Trees lift up their leafy heads;Nature in her joy to-dayBids all living things be gay;Glad her face and fair her graceUnderneath the sun's embrace!Venus stirs the lover's brain,With life's nectar fills his vein,Pouring through his limbs the heatWhich makes pulse and passion beat.
O how happy was the birthWhen the loveliest soul on earthTook the form and life of thee,Shaped in all felicity!O how yellow is thy hair!There is nothing wrong, I swear,In the whole of thee; thou artFramed to fill a loving heart!Lo, thy forehead queenly crowned,And the eyebrows dark and round,Curved like Iris at the tips,Down the dark heavens when she slips!
Red as rose and white as snowAre thy cheeks that pale and glow;'Mid a thousand maidens thouHast no paragon, I vow.Round thy lips and red as beApples on the apple-tree;Bright thy teeth as any star;Soft and low thy speeches are;Long thy hand, and long thy side,And the throat thy breasts divide;All thy form beyond compareWas of God's own art the care.
Sparks of passion sent from theeSet on fire the heart of me;Thee beyond all whom I knowI must love for ever so.Lo, my heart to dust will burnUnless thou this flame return;Still the fire will last, and I,Living now, at length shall die!Therefore, Phyllis, hear me pray,Let us twain together play,Joining lip to lip and breastUnto, breast in perfect rest!
The lover is occasionally bashful, sighing at a distance.
Summer sweet is coming in;Now the pleasant days begin;Phoebus rules the earth at last;For sad winter's reign is past.Wounded with the love aloneOf one girl, I make my moan:Grief pursues me till she bendUnto me and condescend.Take thou pity on my plight!With my heart thy heart unite!In my love thy own love blending,Finding thus of life the ending!
Summer sweet is coming in;Now the pleasant days begin;Phoebus rules the earth at last;For sad winter's reign is past.
Wounded with the love aloneOf one girl, I make my moan:Grief pursues me till she bendUnto me and condescend.
Take thou pity on my plight!With my heart thy heart unite!In my love thy own love blending,Finding thus of life the ending!
Occasionally his passion assumes a romantic tone, as is the case with the followingSerenadeto a girl called Flos-de-spina in the Latin. Whether that was her real name, or was only used for poetical purposes, does not admit of debate now. Anyhow, Flos-de-spina, Fior-di-spina, Fleur-d'epine, and English Flower-o'-the-thorn are all of them pretty names for a girl.
The blithe young year is upward steering.Wild winter dwindles, disappearing;The short, short days are growing longer,Rough weather yields and warmth is stronger.Since January dawned, my mindWaves hither, thither, love-inclinedFor one whose will can loose or bind.Prudent and very fair the maiden,Than rose or lily more love-laden;Stately of stature, lithe and slender,There's naught so exquisite and tender.The Queen of France is not so dear;Death to my life comes very nearIf Flower-o'-the-thorn be not my cheer.The Queen of Love my heart is killingWith her gold arrow pain-distilling;The God of Love with torches burningLights pyre on pyre of ardent yearning.She is the girl for whom I'd die;I want none dearer, far or nigh,Though grief on grief upon me lie.I with her love am thralled and taken,Whose flower doth flower, bud, bloom, and waken;Sweet were the labour, light the burden,Could mouth kiss mouth for wage and guerdon.No touch of lips my wound can still,Unless two hearts grow one, one will,One longing! Flower of flowers, farewell!
The blithe young year is upward steering.Wild winter dwindles, disappearing;The short, short days are growing longer,Rough weather yields and warmth is stronger.Since January dawned, my mindWaves hither, thither, love-inclinedFor one whose will can loose or bind.
Prudent and very fair the maiden,Than rose or lily more love-laden;Stately of stature, lithe and slender,There's naught so exquisite and tender.The Queen of France is not so dear;Death to my life comes very nearIf Flower-o'-the-thorn be not my cheer.
The Queen of Love my heart is killingWith her gold arrow pain-distilling;The God of Love with torches burningLights pyre on pyre of ardent yearning.She is the girl for whom I'd die;I want none dearer, far or nigh,Though grief on grief upon me lie.
I with her love am thralled and taken,Whose flower doth flower, bud, bloom, and waken;Sweet were the labour, light the burden,Could mouth kiss mouth for wage and guerdon.No touch of lips my wound can still,Unless two hearts grow one, one will,One longing! Flower of flowers, farewell!
Once at least we find him writing in absence to his mistress, and imploring her fidelity. This ranks among the most delicate in sentiment of the whole series.
Now the sun is streaming,Clear and pure his ray;April's glad face beamingOn our earth to-day.Unto love returnethEvery gentle mind;And the boy-god burnethJocund hearts to bind.All this budding beauty,Festival array,Lays on us the dutyTo be blithe and gay.Trodden ways are known, love!And in this thy youth,To retain thy own loveWere but faith and truth.In faith love me solely,Mark the faith of me,From thy whole heart wholly,From the soul of thee.At this time of bliss, dear,I am far away;Those who love like this, dear,Suffer every day!
Now the sun is streaming,Clear and pure his ray;April's glad face beamingOn our earth to-day.Unto love returnethEvery gentle mind;And the boy-god burnethJocund hearts to bind.
All this budding beauty,Festival array,Lays on us the dutyTo be blithe and gay.Trodden ways are known, love!And in this thy youth,To retain thy own loveWere but faith and truth.
In faith love me solely,Mark the faith of me,From thy whole heart wholly,From the soul of thee.At this time of bliss, dear,I am far away;Those who love like this, dear,Suffer every day!
At one time he seems upon the point of clasping his felicity.
In the spring, ah happy day!Underneath a leafy sprayWith her sister stands my may.O sweet love!He who now is reft of theePoor is he!Ah, the trees, how fair they flowerBirds are singing in the bower;Maidens feel of love the power.O sweet love!See the lilies, how they blow!And the maidens row by rowPraise the best of gods below.O sweet love!If I held my sweetheart now,In the wood beneath the bough,I would kiss her, lip and brow.O sweet love!He who now is reft of thee,Poor is he!
In the spring, ah happy day!Underneath a leafy sprayWith her sister stands my may.O sweet love!He who now is reft of theePoor is he!
Ah, the trees, how fair they flowerBirds are singing in the bower;Maidens feel of love the power.O sweet love!
See the lilies, how they blow!And the maidens row by rowPraise the best of gods below.O sweet love!
If I held my sweetheart now,In the wood beneath the bough,I would kiss her, lip and brow.O sweet love!He who now is reft of thee,Poor is he!
At another time he has clasped it, but he trembles lest it should escape him.
With so sweet a promise givenAll my bosom burneth;Hope uplifts my heart to heaven,Yet the doubt returneth,Lest perchance that hope should beCrushed and shattered suddenly.On one girl my fancy so,On one star, reposes;Her sweet lips with honey flowAnd the scent of roses:In her smile I laugh, and fireFills me with her love's desire.Love in measure over-muchStrikes man's soul with anguish;Anxious love's too eager touchMakes man fret and languish:Thus in doubt and grief I pine;Pain more sure was none than mine.Burning in love's fiery flood,Lo, my life is wasted!Such the fever of my bloodThat I scarce have tastedMortal bread and wine, but supLike a god love's nectar-cup.
With so sweet a promise givenAll my bosom burneth;Hope uplifts my heart to heaven,Yet the doubt returneth,Lest perchance that hope should beCrushed and shattered suddenly.
On one girl my fancy so,On one star, reposes;Her sweet lips with honey flowAnd the scent of roses:In her smile I laugh, and fireFills me with her love's desire.
Love in measure over-muchStrikes man's soul with anguish;Anxious love's too eager touchMakes man fret and languish:Thus in doubt and grief I pine;Pain more sure was none than mine.
Burning in love's fiery flood,Lo, my life is wasted!Such the fever of my bloodThat I scarce have tastedMortal bread and wine, but supLike a god love's nectar-cup.
The village dance forms an important element in the pleasures of the season. Here is a pretty picture in two stanzas of a linden sheltering some Suabian meadow.
Wide the lime-tree to the airSpreads her boughs and foliage fair;Thyme beneath is growingOn the verdant meadow-whereDancers' feet are going.Through the grass a little springRuns with jocund murmuring;All the place rejoices;Cooling zephyrs breathe and singWith their summer voices.
Wide the lime-tree to the airSpreads her boughs and foliage fair;Thyme beneath is growingOn the verdant meadow-whereDancers' feet are going.
Through the grass a little springRuns with jocund murmuring;All the place rejoices;Cooling zephyrs breathe and singWith their summer voices.
I have freely translated a second, which presents a more elaborate picture of a similar scene.
Yonder choir of virgins seeThrough the spring advancing,Where the sun's warmth, fair and free,From the green leaves glancing,Weaves a lattice of light gloomAnd soft sunbeams o'er us,'Neath the linden-trees in bloom,For the Cyprian chorus.In this vale where blossoms blow,Blooming, summer-scented,'Mid the lilies row by row,Spreads a field flower-painted.Here the blackbirds through the daleEach to each are singing,And the jocund nightingaleHer fresh voice is flinging.See the maidens crowned with roseSauntering through the grasses!Who could tell the mirth of thoseLaughing, singing lasses?Or with what a winning graceThey their charms discover,Charms of form and blushing face,To the gazing lover?Down the flowery greenwood gladeAs I chanced to wander,From bright eyes a serving-maidShot Love's arrows yonder;I for her, 'mid all the crewOf the girls of Venus,Wait and yearn until I viewLove spring up between us.
Yonder choir of virgins seeThrough the spring advancing,Where the sun's warmth, fair and free,From the green leaves glancing,Weaves a lattice of light gloomAnd soft sunbeams o'er us,'Neath the linden-trees in bloom,For the Cyprian chorus.
In this vale where blossoms blow,Blooming, summer-scented,'Mid the lilies row by row,Spreads a field flower-painted.Here the blackbirds through the daleEach to each are singing,And the jocund nightingaleHer fresh voice is flinging.
See the maidens crowned with roseSauntering through the grasses!Who could tell the mirth of thoseLaughing, singing lasses?Or with what a winning graceThey their charms discover,Charms of form and blushing face,To the gazing lover?
Down the flowery greenwood gladeAs I chanced to wander,From bright eyes a serving-maidShot Love's arrows yonder;I for her, 'mid all the crewOf the girls of Venus,Wait and yearn until I viewLove spring up between us.
Another lyric of complicated rhyming structure introduces a not dissimilar motive, with touches that seem, in like manner, to indicate its German origin. It may be remarked that the lover's emotion has here unusual depth, a strain ofsehnsucht; and the picture of the mother followed by her daughter in the country-dance suggests the domesticity of Northern races.
Meadows bloom, in Winter's roomReign the Loves and Graces,With their gift of buds that liftBright and laughing faces;'Neath the ray of genial May,Shining, glowing, blushing, growing,They the joys of spring are showingIn their manifold array.Song-birds sweet the season greet,Tune their merry voices;Sound the ways with hymns of praise,Every lane rejoices.On the bough in greenwood nowFlowers are springing, perfumes flinging,While young men and maids are clingingTo the loves they scarce avow.O'er the grass together passBands of lads love-laden:Row by row in bevies goBride and blushing maiden.See with glee 'neath linden-tree,Where the dancing girls are glancing,How the matron is advancing!At her side her daughter see!She's my own, for whom alone,If fate wills, I'll tarry;Young May-moon, or late or soon,'Tis with her I'd marry!Now with sighs I watch her rise,She the purely loved, the surelyChosen, who my heart securelyTurns from grief to Paradise.In her sight with heaven's own lightLike the gods I blossom;Care for nought till she be broughtYielding to my bosom.Thirst divine my soul doth pineTo behold her and enfold her,With clasped arms alone to hold herIn Love's holy hidden shrine.
Meadows bloom, in Winter's roomReign the Loves and Graces,With their gift of buds that liftBright and laughing faces;'Neath the ray of genial May,Shining, glowing, blushing, growing,They the joys of spring are showingIn their manifold array.
Song-birds sweet the season greet,Tune their merry voices;Sound the ways with hymns of praise,Every lane rejoices.On the bough in greenwood nowFlowers are springing, perfumes flinging,While young men and maids are clingingTo the loves they scarce avow.
O'er the grass together passBands of lads love-laden:Row by row in bevies goBride and blushing maiden.See with glee 'neath linden-tree,Where the dancing girls are glancing,How the matron is advancing!At her side her daughter see!
She's my own, for whom alone,If fate wills, I'll tarry;Young May-moon, or late or soon,'Tis with her I'd marry!Now with sighs I watch her rise,She the purely loved, the surelyChosen, who my heart securelyTurns from grief to Paradise.
In her sight with heaven's own lightLike the gods I blossom;Care for nought till she be broughtYielding to my bosom.Thirst divine my soul doth pineTo behold her and enfold her,With clasped arms alone to hold herIn Love's holy hidden shrine.
But the theme of the dance is worked up with even greater elaboration and a more studied ingenuity of rhyme and rhythm in the following characteristic song. This has the true accent of what may be called theMusa Vagabundula, and is one of the best lyrics of the series:—