THE INVITATION TO LOVE.

Love rules everything that is:Love doth change hearts in a kiss:Love seeks devious ways of bliss:Love than honey sweeter,Love than gall more bitter.Blind Love hath no modesties.Love is lukewarm, fiery, cold;Love is timid, overbold;Loyal, treacherous, manifold.Present time is fit for play:Let Love find his mate to-day:Hark, the birds, how sweet their lay!Love rules young men wholly;Love lures maidens solely.Woe to old folk! sad are they.Sweetest woman ever seen,Fairest, dearest, is my queen;And alas! my chiefest teen.Let an old man, chill and drear,Never come thy bosom near;Oft he sleeps with sorry cheer,Too cold to delight thee:Naught could less invite thee.Youth with youth must mate, my dear.Blest the union I desire;Naught I know and naught require,Better than to be thy squire.Love flies all the world around:Love in wanton wiles is wound:Therefore youth and maid are boundIn Love's fetters duly.She is joyless trulyWho no lover yet hath found!All the night in grief and smartShe must languish, wear her heart;Bitter is that woman's part.Love is simple, Love is sly;Love is pale, of ruddy dye:Love is all things, low and high:Love is serviceable,Constant and unstable:Love obeys Art's empery.In this closed room Love takes flight,In the silence of the night,Love made captive, conquered quite.

Present time is fit for play:Let Love find his mate to-day:Hark, the birds, how sweet their lay!Love rules young men wholly;Love lures maidens solely.Woe to old folk! sad are they.Sweetest woman ever seen,Fairest, dearest, is my queen;And alas! my chiefest teen.

Let an old man, chill and drear,Never come thy bosom near;Oft he sleeps with sorry cheer,Too cold to delight thee:Naught could less invite thee.Youth with youth must mate, my dear.Blest the union I desire;Naught I know and naught require,Better than to be thy squire.

Love flies all the world around:Love in wanton wiles is wound:Therefore youth and maid are boundIn Love's fetters duly.She is joyless trulyWho no lover yet hath found!All the night in grief and smartShe must languish, wear her heart;Bitter is that woman's part.

Love is simple, Love is sly;Love is pale, of ruddy dye:Love is all things, low and high:Love is serviceable,Constant and unstable:Love obeys Art's empery.In this closed room Love takes flight,In the silence of the night,Love made captive, conquered quite.

The next is singularly, quaintly musical in the original, but for various reasons I have not been able to adhere exactly to its form. I imagine that it is the work of the same poet who composed the longer piece which I shall give immediately after. Both are addressed to Caecilia; I have used the name Phyllis in my version.

List, my girl, with words I woo;Lay not wanton hands on you:Sit before you, in your faceGazing, ah! and seeking grace:Fix mine eyes, nor let them roveFrom the mark where shafts of loveTheir flight wing.Try, my girl, O try what blissYoung men render when they kiss!Youth is alway sturdy, straight;Old age totters in its gait.These delights of love we bringHave the suppleness of spring,Softness, sweetness, wantoning;Clasp, my Phyllis, in their ringSweeter sweets than poets sing,Anything and everything!After daytime's heat from heavenDews on thirsty fields are given;After verdant leaf and stemShoots the white flower's diadem;After the white flower's bloomTo the night their faint perfumeLilies fling.Try, my girl, etc.,da capo.

After daytime's heat from heavenDews on thirsty fields are given;After verdant leaf and stemShoots the white flower's diadem;After the white flower's bloomTo the night their faint perfumeLilies fling.Try, my girl, etc.,da capo.

The poem,Ludo cum Caecilia, which comes next in order, is one of the most perfect specimens of Goliardic writing. To render its fluent, languid, and yet airy grace, in any language but the Latin, is, I think, impossible. Who could have imagined that the subtlety, the refinement, almost the perversity of feeling expressed in it, should have been proper to a student of the twelfth century? The poem is spoiled toward its close by astrological and grammatical conceits; and the text is corrupt. That part I have omitted, together with some stanzas which offend a modern taste.

Think no evil, have no fear,If I play with Phyllis;I am but the guardian dearOf her girlhood's lilies,Lest too soon her bloom should swoonLike spring's daffodillies.All I care for is to play,Gaze upon my treasure,Now and then to touch her hand,Kiss in modest measure;But the fifth act of love's game,Dream not of that pleasure!For to touch the bloom of youthSpoils its frail complexion;Let the young grape gently growTill it reach perfection;Hope within my heart doth glowOf the girl's affection.Sweet above all sweets that are'Tis to play with Phyllis;For her thoughts are white as snow,In her heart no ill is;And the kisses that she givesSweeter are than lilies.Love leads after him the godsBound in pliant traces;Harsh and stubborn hearts he bends,Breaks with blows of maces;Nay, the unicorn is tamedBy a girl's embraces.Love leads after him the gods,Jupiter with Juno;To his waxen measure treadsMasterful Neptune O!Pluto stern to souls belowMelts to this one tune O!Whatsoe'er the rest may do,Let us then be playing:Take the pastime that is dueWhile we're yet a-Maying;I am young and young are you;'Tis the time for playing.

Think no evil, have no fear,If I play with Phyllis;I am but the guardian dearOf her girlhood's lilies,Lest too soon her bloom should swoonLike spring's daffodillies.

All I care for is to play,Gaze upon my treasure,Now and then to touch her hand,Kiss in modest measure;But the fifth act of love's game,Dream not of that pleasure!

For to touch the bloom of youthSpoils its frail complexion;Let the young grape gently growTill it reach perfection;Hope within my heart doth glowOf the girl's affection.

Sweet above all sweets that are'Tis to play with Phyllis;For her thoughts are white as snow,In her heart no ill is;And the kisses that she givesSweeter are than lilies.

Love leads after him the godsBound in pliant traces;Harsh and stubborn hearts he bends,Breaks with blows of maces;Nay, the unicorn is tamedBy a girl's embraces.

Love leads after him the gods,Jupiter with Juno;To his waxen measure treadsMasterful Neptune O!Pluto stern to souls belowMelts to this one tune O!

Whatsoe'er the rest may do,Let us then be playing:Take the pastime that is dueWhile we're yet a-Maying;I am young and young are you;'Tis the time for playing.

Up to this time, the happiness of love returned and satisfied has been portrayed. The following lyric exhibits a lover pining at a distance, soothing his soul with song, and indulging in visions of happiness beyond his grasp εἰδώλοις κάλλευς κῶφα χλιαινόμενος, as Meleager phrased it on a similar occasion.

With song I seek my fate to cheer,As doth the swan when death draws near;Youth's roses from my cheeks retire,My heart is worn with fond desire.Since care and woe increase and grow, whilelight burns low,Poor wretch I die!Heigho! I die, poor wretch I die!Constrained to love, unloved; such luck have I!If she could love me whom I love,I would not then exchange with Jove:Ah! might I clasp her once, and drainHer lips as thirsty flowers drink rain!With death to meet, his welcome greet, fromlife retreat,I were full fain!Heigho! full fain, I were full fain,Could I such joy, such wealth of pleasure gain!When I bethought me of her breast,Those hills of snow my fancy pressed;Longing to touch them with my hand,Love's laws I then did understand.Rose of the south, blooms on her mouth; I feltlove's drouthThat mouth to kiss!Heigho! to kiss, that mouth to kiss!Lost in day-dreams and vain desires of bliss.

If she could love me whom I love,I would not then exchange with Jove:Ah! might I clasp her once, and drainHer lips as thirsty flowers drink rain!With death to meet, his welcome greet, fromlife retreat,I were full fain!Heigho! full fain, I were full fain,Could I such joy, such wealth of pleasure gain!

When I bethought me of her breast,Those hills of snow my fancy pressed;Longing to touch them with my hand,Love's laws I then did understand.Rose of the south, blooms on her mouth; I feltlove's drouthThat mouth to kiss!Heigho! to kiss, that mouth to kiss!Lost in day-dreams and vain desires of bliss.

The next is the indignant repudiation by a lover of the calumny that he has proved unfaithful to his mistress. The strongly marked double rhymes of the original add peculiar vehemence to his protestations; while the abundance of cheap mythological allusions is emphatically Goliardic.

False the tongue and foul with slander,Poisonous treacherous tongue of pander,Tongue the hangman's knife should sever,Tongue in flames to burn for ever;Which hath called me a deceiver,Faithless lover, quick to leave her,Whom I love, and leave her slighted,For another, unrequited!Hear, ye Muses nine! nay, rather,Jove, of gods and men the father!Who for Danae and EuropaChanged thy shape, thou bold eloper!Hear me, god! ye gods all, hear me!Such a sin came never near me.Hear, thou god! and gods all, hear ye!Thus I sinned not, as I fear ye.I by Mars vow, by Apollo,Both of whom Love's learning follow;Yea, by Cupid too, the terrorOf whose bow forbids all error!By thy bow I vow and quiver,By the shafts thou dost deliver,Without fraud, in honour dulyTo observe my troth-plight truly.I will keep the troth I plighted,And the reason shall be cited:'Tis that 'mid the girls no maidenEver met I more love-laden.'Mid the girls thou art beholdenLike a pearl in setting golden;Yea, thy shoulder, neck, and bosomBear of beauty's self the blossom.Oh, her throat, lips, forehead, nourishLove, with food that makes him flourish!And her curls, I did adore them—They were blonde with heaven's light o'er them.Therefore, till, for Nature's scorning,Toil is rest and midnight morning,Till no trees in woods are growing,Till fire turns to water flowing;Till seas have no ships to sail them,Till the Parthians' arrows fail them,I, my girl, will love thee ever,Unbetrayed, betray thee never!

False the tongue and foul with slander,Poisonous treacherous tongue of pander,Tongue the hangman's knife should sever,Tongue in flames to burn for ever;

Which hath called me a deceiver,Faithless lover, quick to leave her,Whom I love, and leave her slighted,For another, unrequited!

Hear, ye Muses nine! nay, rather,Jove, of gods and men the father!Who for Danae and EuropaChanged thy shape, thou bold eloper!

Hear me, god! ye gods all, hear me!Such a sin came never near me.Hear, thou god! and gods all, hear ye!Thus I sinned not, as I fear ye.

I by Mars vow, by Apollo,Both of whom Love's learning follow;Yea, by Cupid too, the terrorOf whose bow forbids all error!

By thy bow I vow and quiver,By the shafts thou dost deliver,Without fraud, in honour dulyTo observe my troth-plight truly.

I will keep the troth I plighted,And the reason shall be cited:'Tis that 'mid the girls no maidenEver met I more love-laden.

'Mid the girls thou art beholdenLike a pearl in setting golden;Yea, thy shoulder, neck, and bosomBear of beauty's self the blossom.

Oh, her throat, lips, forehead, nourishLove, with food that makes him flourish!And her curls, I did adore them—They were blonde with heaven's light o'er them.

Therefore, till, for Nature's scorning,Toil is rest and midnight morning,Till no trees in woods are growing,Till fire turns to water flowing;

Till seas have no ships to sail them,Till the Parthians' arrows fail them,I, my girl, will love thee ever,Unbetrayed, betray thee never!

In the following poem a lover bids adieu for ever to an unworthy woman, who has betrayed him. This is a remarkable specimen of the songs written for a complicated melody. The first eight lines seem set to one tune; in the next four that tune is slightly accelerated, and a double rhyme is substituted for a single one in the tenth and twelfth verses. The five concluding lines go to a different kind of melody, and express in each stanza a changed mood of feeling.

I have tried in this instance to adopt the plaster-cast method of translation, as described above,[32]and have even endeavoured to obtain the dragging effect of the first eight lines of each strophe, which are composed neither of exact accentual dactyls nor yet of exact accentual anapaests, but offer a good example of that laxity of rhythm permitted in this prosody for music.

Comparison with the original will show that I was not copying Byron'sWhen we Two Parted; yet the resemblance between that song and the tone which my translation has naturally assumed from the Latin, is certainly noticeable. That Byron could have seen the piece before he wrote his own lines in question is almost impossible, for this portion of theCarmina Buranahad not, so far as I am aware, been edited before the year 1847. The coincidence of metrical form, so far as it extends, only establishes the spontaneity of emotion which, in the case of the medieval and the modern poet, found a similar rhythm for the utterance of similar feeling.

FOOTNOTES:[32]Page38.

[32]Page38.

A mortal anguishHow often woundeth me;Grieving I languish,Weighed down with misery;Hearing the mournfulTale of thy fault and fallBlown by Fame's scornfulTrump to the ears of all!Envious rumourLate or soon will slay thee:Love with less humour,Lest thy love betray thee.Whate'er thou dost, do secretly,Far from Fame's curiosity;Love in the dark delights to be,His sports are wiles and witchery,With laugh of lovers greeting.Thou wert not slighted,Stained in thine honour, whenWe were united,Lovers unknown to men;But when thy passionGrew like thy bosom cold,None had compassion,Then was thy story told.Fame, who rejoicethNew amours to utter,Now thy shame voiceth,Wide her pinions flutter.The palace home of modestyIs made a haunt for harlotry;The virgin lily you may seeDefiled by fingers lewd and free,With vile embraces meeting.I mourn the tenderFlower of the youth of thee,Brighter in splendourThan evening's star can be.Pure were thy kisses,Dove-like thy smile;As the snake hissesNow is thy guile.Lovers who pray theeFrom thy door are scattered;Lovers who pay theeIn thy bed are flattered.Thou bidst them from thy presence fleeFrom whom thou canst not take thy fee;Blind, halt, and lame thy suitors be;Illustrious men with subtletyAnd poisonous honey cheating.

A mortal anguishHow often woundeth me;Grieving I languish,Weighed down with misery;

Hearing the mournfulTale of thy fault and fallBlown by Fame's scornfulTrump to the ears of all!

Envious rumourLate or soon will slay thee:Love with less humour,Lest thy love betray thee.

Whate'er thou dost, do secretly,Far from Fame's curiosity;Love in the dark delights to be,His sports are wiles and witchery,With laugh of lovers greeting.

Thou wert not slighted,Stained in thine honour, whenWe were united,Lovers unknown to men;But when thy passionGrew like thy bosom cold,None had compassion,Then was thy story told.

Fame, who rejoicethNew amours to utter,Now thy shame voiceth,Wide her pinions flutter.

The palace home of modestyIs made a haunt for harlotry;The virgin lily you may seeDefiled by fingers lewd and free,With vile embraces meeting.

I mourn the tenderFlower of the youth of thee,Brighter in splendourThan evening's star can be.Pure were thy kisses,Dove-like thy smile;As the snake hissesNow is thy guile.

Lovers who pray theeFrom thy door are scattered;Lovers who pay theeIn thy bed are flattered.

Thou bidst them from thy presence fleeFrom whom thou canst not take thy fee;Blind, halt, and lame thy suitors be;Illustrious men with subtletyAnd poisonous honey cheating.

I may add that a long soliloquy printed inCarmina Burana, pp. 119-121, should be compared with the foregoing lyric. It has a similar motive, though the lover in this case expresses his willingness for reconciliation.One part of its expostulation with the faithless woman is beautiful in its simplicity:—

"Amaveram prae caeterisTe, sed amici veterisEs jam oblita! SuperisVel inferisReam te criminamur."

I will close this section with the lament written for a medieval Gretchen whose fault has been discovered, and whose lover has been forced to leave the country. Its bare realism contrasts with the lyrical exuberance of the preceding specimens.

Up to this time, well-away!I concealed the truth from day,Went on loving skilfully.Now my fault at length is clear:That the hour of need is near,From my shape all eyes can see.So my mother gives me blows,So my father curses throws;They both treat me savagely.In the house alone I sit,Dare not walk about the street,Nor at play in public be.If I walk about the street,Every one I chance to meetScans me like a prodigy:When they see the load I bear,All the neighbours nudge and stare,Gaping while I hasten by;With their elbows nudge, and soWith their finger point, as thoughI were some monstrosity;Me with nods and winks they spurn,Judge me fit in flames to burnFor one lapse from honesty.Why this tedious tale prolong?Short, I am become a song,In all mouths a mockery.By this am I done to death,Sorrow kills me, chokes my breath,Ever weep I bitterly.One thing makes me still more grieve,That my friend his home must leaveFor the same cause instantly;Therefore is my sadness soMultiplied, weighed down with woe,For he too will part from me.

If I walk about the street,Every one I chance to meetScans me like a prodigy:When they see the load I bear,All the neighbours nudge and stare,Gaping while I hasten by;With their elbows nudge, and soWith their finger point, as thoughI were some monstrosity;Me with nods and winks they spurn,Judge me fit in flames to burnFor one lapse from honesty.

Why this tedious tale prolong?Short, I am become a song,In all mouths a mockery.By this am I done to death,Sorrow kills me, chokes my breath,Ever weep I bitterly.One thing makes me still more grieve,That my friend his home must leaveFor the same cause instantly;Therefore is my sadness soMultiplied, weighed down with woe,For he too will part from me.

A separate section should be assigned to poems of exile. They are not very numerous, but are interesting in connection with the wandering life of their vagrant authors. The first has all the dreamy pathos felt by a young German leaving his beloved home in some valley of the Suabian or Thuringian hills.

Oh, of love twin-brother anguish!In thy pangs I faint and languish,Cannot find relief from thee!Nay, no marvel! I must grieve her,Wander forth in exile, leave her,Who hath gained the heart of me;Who of loveliness so rare isThat for her sake Trojan ParisWould have left his Helenë.Smile, thou valley, sweetest, fairest,Wreathed with roses of the rarest,Flower of all the vales that be!Vale of vales, all vales excelling,Sun and moon thy praise are telling,With the song-birds' melody;Nightingales thy praise are singing,O thou soothing solace-bringingTo the soul's despondency!

Smile, thou valley, sweetest, fairest,Wreathed with roses of the rarest,Flower of all the vales that be!Vale of vales, all vales excelling,Sun and moon thy praise are telling,With the song-birds' melody;Nightingales thy praise are singing,O thou soothing solace-bringingTo the soul's despondency!

The second was probably intended to be sung at a drinking-party by a student taking leave of his companions. It is love that forces him to quit their society and to break with his studies. The long rhyming lines, followed by a sharp drop at the close of each stanza upon a short disjointed phrase, seem to indicate discouragement and melancholy.

Sweet native soil, farewell! dear country of my birth!Fair chamber of the loves! glad home of joy and mirth!To-morrow or to-day I leave you, o'er the earthTo wander struck with love, to pine with rage and dearthIn exile!Farewell, sweet land, and ye, my comrades dear, adieu!To whom with kindly heart I have been ever true;The studies that we loved I may no more pursue;Weep then for me, who part as though I died to you,Love-laden!As many as the flowers that Hybla's valley cover,As many as the leaves that on Dodona hover,As many as the fish that sail the wide seas over,So many are the pangs that pain a faithful lover,For ever!With the new fire of love my wounded bosom burns;Love knows not any ruth, all tender pity spurns;How true the proverb speaks that saith to him that yearns,"Where love is there is pain; thy pleasure love returnsWith anguish!"Ah, sorrow! ah, how sad the wages of our bliss!In lovers' hearts the flame's too hot for happiness;For Venus still doth send new sighs and new distressWhen once the enamoured soul is taken with excessOf sweetness!

Farewell, sweet land, and ye, my comrades dear, adieu!To whom with kindly heart I have been ever true;The studies that we loved I may no more pursue;Weep then for me, who part as though I died to you,Love-laden!

As many as the flowers that Hybla's valley cover,As many as the leaves that on Dodona hover,As many as the fish that sail the wide seas over,So many are the pangs that pain a faithful lover,For ever!

With the new fire of love my wounded bosom burns;Love knows not any ruth, all tender pity spurns;How true the proverb speaks that saith to him that yearns,"Where love is there is pain; thy pleasure love returnsWith anguish!"

Ah, sorrow! ah, how sad the wages of our bliss!In lovers' hearts the flame's too hot for happiness;For Venus still doth send new sighs and new distressWhen once the enamoured soul is taken with excessOf sweetness!

The third introduces us to a little episode of medieval private life which must have been frequent enough. It consists of a debate between a father and his son upon the question whether the young man should enter into a monastic brotherhood. The youth is lying on a sickbed, and thinks that he is already at the point of death. It will be noticed that he is only diverted from his project by the mention of a student friend (indicated, as usual, by an N), whom he would never be able to see again if he assumed the cowl. I suspect, however, that the poem has not been transmitted to us entire.

Son.

Oh, my father! help, I pray!Death is near my soul to-day;With your blessing let me beMade a monk right speedily!See the foe my life invade!Haste, oh haste, to give me aid!Bring me comfort and heart's ease,Strengthen me in this disease!

Oh, my father! help, I pray!Death is near my soul to-day;With your blessing let me beMade a monk right speedily!

See the foe my life invade!Haste, oh haste, to give me aid!Bring me comfort and heart's ease,Strengthen me in this disease!

Father.

Oh, my best-belovèd son,What is this thou wouldst have done?Weigh it well in heart and brain:Do not leave me here in pain.

Son.

Father, this thy loving careMakes me weep full sore, I swear;For you will be childless whenI have joined those holy men.

Father.

Therefore make a little stay,Put it off till the third day;It may be your danger isNot unto the death, I wis.

Son.

Such the anguish that I feelThrough my inmost entrails steal,That I bide in doubt lest deathEre to-morrow end my breath.

Father.

Those strict rules that monks observe,Well I know them! They must serveHeaven by fasting every day,And by keeping watch alway.

Son.

Who for God watch through the nightShall receive a crown of light;Who for heaven's sake hungers, heShall be fed abundantly.

Father.

Hard and coarse the food they eat,Beans and pottage-herbs their meat;After such a banquet, think,Water is their only drink!

Son.

What's the good of feasts, or brightCups of Bacchus, when, in spiteOf all comforts, at the lastThis poor flesh to worms is cast?

Father.

Well, then, let thy parent's moanMove thee in thy soul, my son!Mourning for thee made a monk,Dead-alive in darkness sunk.

Son.

They who father, mother love,And their God neglect, will proveThat they are in error foundWhen the judgment trump shall sound.

Father.

Logic! would thou ne'er hadst beenKnown on earth for mortal teen!Many a clerk thou mak'st to roamWretched, exiled from his home.—Never more thine eyes, my son,Shall behold thy darling one,Him, that little clerk so fair,N., thy friend beyond compare!

Logic! would thou ne'er hadst beenKnown on earth for mortal teen!Many a clerk thou mak'st to roamWretched, exiled from his home.—

Never more thine eyes, my son,Shall behold thy darling one,Him, that little clerk so fair,N., thy friend beyond compare!

Son.

Oh, alas! unhappy me!What to do I cannot see;Wandering lost in exile so,Without guide or light I go!—Dry your tears, my father dear,Haply there is better cheer;Now my mind on change is set,I'll not be a monk, not yet.

Oh, alas! unhappy me!What to do I cannot see;Wandering lost in exile so,Without guide or light I go!—

Dry your tears, my father dear,Haply there is better cheer;Now my mind on change is set,I'll not be a monk, not yet.

The order adopted in this essay brings us now to drinking-songs. Next to spring and love, our students set their affections principally on the tavern and the winebowl. In the poems on the Order we have seen how large a space in their vagrant lives was occupied by the tavern and its jovial company of topers and gamesters. It was there that—

"Some are gaming, some are drinking,Some are living without thinking;And of those who make the racket,Some are stripped of coat and jacket;Some get clothes of finer feather,Some are cleaned out altogether;No one there dreads death's invasion,But all drink in emulation."

The song from which I have extracted this stanza contains a parody of S. Thomas Aquinas' hymn on the Eucharist.[33]To translate it seemed to me impossible; but I will cite the following stanza, which may be compared with stanzas ix. and x. ofLauda Sion:—

"Bibit hera, bibit herus,Bibit miles, bibit clerus,Bibit ille, bibit illa,Bibit servus cum ancilla,Bibit velox, bibit piger,Bibit albus, bibit niger,Bibit constans, bibit vagus,Bibit rudis, bibit magus."

Several of the best anacreontics of the period are even more distinctly parodies. The following panegyric of wine, for example, is modelled upon a hymn to the Virgin:—

FOOTNOTES:[33]In Taberna, Carm. Bur., p. 235.

[33]In Taberna, Carm. Bur., p. 235.

Wine the good and bland, thou blessingOf the good, the bad's distressing,Sweet of taste by all confessing,Hail, thou world's felicity!Hail thy hue, life's gloom dispelling;Hail thy taste, all tastes excelling;By thy power, in this thy dwellingDeign to make us drunk with thee!Oh, how blest for bounteous usesIs the birth of pure vine-juices!Safe's the table which producesWine in goodly quality.Oh, in colour how auspicious!Oh, in odour how delicious!In the mouth how sweet, propitiousTo the tongue enthralled by thee!Blest the man who first thee planted,Called thee by thy name enchanted!He whose cups have ne'er been scantedDreads no danger that may be.Blest the belly where thou bidest!Blest the tongue where thou residest!Blest the mouth through which thou glidest,And the lips thrice blest by thee!Therefore let wine's praise be sounded,Healths to topers all propounded;We shall never be confounded,Toping for eternity!Pray we: here be thou still flowing,Plenty on our board bestowing,While with jocund voice we're showingHow we serve thee—Jubilee!

Oh, how blest for bounteous usesIs the birth of pure vine-juices!Safe's the table which producesWine in goodly quality.Oh, in colour how auspicious!Oh, in odour how delicious!In the mouth how sweet, propitiousTo the tongue enthralled by thee!

Blest the man who first thee planted,Called thee by thy name enchanted!He whose cups have ne'er been scantedDreads no danger that may be.Blest the belly where thou bidest!Blest the tongue where thou residest!Blest the mouth through which thou glidest,And the lips thrice blest by thee!

Therefore let wine's praise be sounded,Healths to topers all propounded;We shall never be confounded,Toping for eternity!Pray we: here be thou still flowing,Plenty on our board bestowing,While with jocund voice we're showingHow we serve thee—Jubilee!

Another, regarding the date of which I have no information, is an imitation of a well-knownChristmas Carol.

In dulci jubiloSing we, make merry so!Since our heart's pleasureLatet in poculo,Drawn from the cask, good measure.Pro hoc convivio,Nunc, nunc bibito!O crater parvule!How my soul yearns for thee!Make me now merry,O potus optime,Claret or hock or sherry!Et vos concinite:Vivant socii!O vini caritas!O Bacchi lenitas!We've drained our pursesPer multa pocula:Yet hope we for new mercies,Nummoram gaudia:Would that we had them, ah!Ubi sunt gaudia? where,If that they be not there?There the lads are singingSelecta cantica:There are glasses ringingIn villae curia;Oh, would that we were there!

In dulci jubiloSing we, make merry so!Since our heart's pleasureLatet in poculo,Drawn from the cask, good measure.Pro hoc convivio,Nunc, nunc bibito!

O crater parvule!How my soul yearns for thee!Make me now merry,O potus optime,Claret or hock or sherry!Et vos concinite:Vivant socii!

O vini caritas!O Bacchi lenitas!We've drained our pursesPer multa pocula:Yet hope we for new mercies,Nummoram gaudia:Would that we had them, ah!

Ubi sunt gaudia? where,If that they be not there?There the lads are singingSelecta cantica:There are glasses ringingIn villae curia;Oh, would that we were there!

In Dulci Jubiloyields an example of mixed Latin and German. This is the case too with a comparatively ancient drinking-song quoted by Geiger in hisRenaissance und Humanismus, p. 414. It may bementioned that the wordBursae, forBurschen, occurs in stanza v. This word, to indicate a student, can also be found inCarm. Bur., p. 236, where we are introduced to scholars drinking yellow Rhine wine out of glasses of a pale pink colour—already in the twelfth century!

Ho, all ye jovial brotherhood,Quos sitis vexat plurima,I know a host whose wits are good,Quod vina spectat optima.His wine he blends not with the juiceE puteo qui sumitur;Each kind its virtue doth produceE botris ut exprimitur.Host, bring us forth good wine and strong,In cella quod est optimum!We brethren will our sport prolongAd noctis usque terminum.Whoso to snarl or bite is fain,Ut canes decet rabidos,Outside our circle may remain,Ad porcos eat sordidos,Hurrah! my lads, we'll merry make!Levate sursum pocula!God's blessing on all wine we take,In sempiterna saecula!

Ho, all ye jovial brotherhood,Quos sitis vexat plurima,I know a host whose wits are good,Quod vina spectat optima.

His wine he blends not with the juiceE puteo qui sumitur;Each kind its virtue doth produceE botris ut exprimitur.

Host, bring us forth good wine and strong,In cella quod est optimum!We brethren will our sport prolongAd noctis usque terminum.

Whoso to snarl or bite is fain,Ut canes decet rabidos,Outside our circle may remain,Ad porcos eat sordidos,

Hurrah! my lads, we'll merry make!Levate sursum pocula!God's blessing on all wine we take,In sempiterna saecula!

Two lyrics of distinguished excellence, which still hold their place in theCommersbuch, cannot claim certain antiquity in their present form. They are not included in theCarmina Burana; yet their style is so characteristic of the Archipoeta, that I believe we may credit him with at least a share in their composition. The first starts with an allusion to the Horatiantempus edax rerum.

Laurel-crowned Horatius,True, how true thy saying!Swift as wind flies over usTime, devouring, slaying.Where are, oh! those goblets fullOf wine honey-laden,Strifes and loves and bountifulLips of ruddy maiden?Grows the young grape tenderly,And the maid is growing;But the thirsty poet, see,Years on him are snowing!What's the use on hoary curlsOf the bays undying.If we may not kiss the girls,Drink while time's a-flying?

Grows the young grape tenderly,And the maid is growing;But the thirsty poet, see,Years on him are snowing!What's the use on hoary curlsOf the bays undying.If we may not kiss the girls,Drink while time's a-flying?

The second consists of a truly brilliant development of the theme which our Herrick condensed into one splendid phrase—"There's no lust like to poetry!"

Sweet in goodly fellowshipTastes red wine and rare O!But to kiss a girl's ripe lipIs a gift more fair O!Yet a gift more sweet, more fine,Is the lyre of Maro!While these three good gifts were mine,I'd not change with Pharaoh.Bacchus wakes within my breastLove and love's desire,Venus comes and stirs the blessedRage of Phoebus' fire;Deathless honour is our dueFrom the laurelled sire:Woe should I turn traitor toWine and love and lyre!Should a tyrant rise and say,"Give up wine!" I'd do it;"Love no girls!" I would obey,Though my heart should rue it."Dash thy lyre!" suppose he saith,Naught should bring me to it;"Yield thy lyre or die!" my breath,Dying, should thrill through it!

Bacchus wakes within my breastLove and love's desire,Venus comes and stirs the blessedRage of Phoebus' fire;Deathless honour is our dueFrom the laurelled sire:Woe should I turn traitor toWine and love and lyre!

Should a tyrant rise and say,"Give up wine!" I'd do it;"Love no girls!" I would obey,Though my heart should rue it."Dash thy lyre!" suppose he saith,Naught should bring me to it;"Yield thy lyre or die!" my breath,Dying, should thrill through it!

A lyric of the elder period in praise of wine and love, which forcibly illustrates the contempt felt by the student class for the unlettered laity and boors, shall be inserted here. It seems to demand a tune.

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