XV.

Cast aside dull books and thought;Sweet is folly, sweet is play:Take the pleasure Spring hath broughtIn youth's opening holiday!Right it is old age should ponderOn grave matters fraught with care;Tender youth is free to wander,Free to frolic light as air.Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study:Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.Lo, the Spring of life slips by,Frozen Winter comes apace;Strength is 'minished silently,Care writes wrinkles on our face:Blood dries up and courage fails us,Pleasures dwindle, joys decrease,Till old age at length assails usWith his troop of illnesses.Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study;Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.Live we like the gods above;This is wisdom, this is truth:Chase the joys of tender loveIn the leisure of our youth!Keep the vows we swore together,Lads, obey that ordinance;Seek the fields in sunny weather,Where the laughing maidens dance.Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study;Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.There the lad who lists may seeWhich among the maids is kind:There young limbs deliciouslyFlashing through the dances wind:While the girls their arms are raising,Moving, winding o'er the lea,Still I stand and gaze, and gazingThey have stolen the soul of me!Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study;Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.

Lo, the Spring of life slips by,Frozen Winter comes apace;Strength is 'minished silently,Care writes wrinkles on our face:Blood dries up and courage fails us,Pleasures dwindle, joys decrease,Till old age at length assails usWith his troop of illnesses.Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study;Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.

Live we like the gods above;This is wisdom, this is truth:Chase the joys of tender loveIn the leisure of our youth!Keep the vows we swore together,Lads, obey that ordinance;Seek the fields in sunny weather,Where the laughing maidens dance.Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study;Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.

There the lad who lists may seeWhich among the maids is kind:There young limbs deliciouslyFlashing through the dances wind:While the girls their arms are raising,Moving, winding o'er the lea,Still I stand and gaze, and gazingThey have stolen the soul of me!Like a dream our prime is flown,Prisoned in a study;Sport and folly are youth's own,Tender youth and ruddy.

A separate Section can be devoted to songs in the manner of the early French pastoral. These were fashionable at a remote period in all parts of Europe; and I have already had occasion, in another piece of literary history, to call attention to the Italian madrigals of the fourteenth century composed in this species.[30]Their point is mainly this: A man of birth and education, generally a dweller in the town, goes abroad into the fields, lured by fair spring weather, and makes love among trees to a country wench.

TheVagiturn the pastoral to their own purpose, and always represent the greenwood lover as aclericus. One of these rural nieces has a pretty opening stanza:—

"When the sweet Spring was ascending,Not yet May, at April's ending,While the sun was heavenward wending,Stood a girl of grace transcendingUnderneath the green bough, sendingSongs aloft with pipings."

Another gives a slightly comic turn to the chief incident.

FOOTNOTES:[30]SeeRenaissance in Italy, vol. iv. p. 156.

[30]SeeRenaissance in Italy, vol. iv. p. 156.

There went out in the dawning lightA little rustic maiden;Her flock so white, her crook so slight,With fleecy new wool laden.Small is the flock, and there you'll seeThe she-ass and the wether;This goat's a he, and that's a she,The bull-calf and the heifer.She looked upon the green sward, whereA student lay at leisure:"What do you there, young sir, so fair?""Come, play with me, my treasure!"

There went out in the dawning lightA little rustic maiden;Her flock so white, her crook so slight,With fleecy new wool laden.

Small is the flock, and there you'll seeThe she-ass and the wether;This goat's a he, and that's a she,The bull-calf and the heifer.

She looked upon the green sward, whereA student lay at leisure:"What do you there, young sir, so fair?""Come, play with me, my treasure!"

A third seems to have been written in the South, perhaps upon the shores of one of the Italian lakes—Como or Garda.

In the summer's burning heat,When the flowers were blooming sweet,I had chosen, as 'twas meet,'Neath an olive bough my seat;Languid with the glowing day,Lazy, careless, apt for play.Stood the tree in fields where grewPainted flowers of every hue,Grass that flourished with the dew,Fresh with shade where breezes blew;Plato, with his style so rare,Could not paint a spot more fair.Runs a babbling brook hard by,Chants the nightingale on high;Water-nymphs with song reply."Sure, 'tis Paradise," I cry;For I know not any placeOf a sweeter, fresher grace.While I take my solace here,And in solace find good cheer,Shade from summer, coolness dear,Comes a shepherd maiden near—Fairer, sure, there breathes not now—Plucking mulberries from the bough.Seeing her, I loved her there:Venus did the trick, I'll swear!"Come, I am no thief, to scare,Rob, or murder unaware;I and all I have are thine,Thou than Flora more divine!"But the girl made answer then:"Never played I yet with men;Cruel to me are my kin:My old mother scolds me whenIn some little thing I stray:—Hold, I prithee, sir, to-day!"

In the summer's burning heat,When the flowers were blooming sweet,I had chosen, as 'twas meet,'Neath an olive bough my seat;Languid with the glowing day,Lazy, careless, apt for play.

Stood the tree in fields where grewPainted flowers of every hue,Grass that flourished with the dew,Fresh with shade where breezes blew;Plato, with his style so rare,Could not paint a spot more fair.

Runs a babbling brook hard by,Chants the nightingale on high;Water-nymphs with song reply."Sure, 'tis Paradise," I cry;For I know not any placeOf a sweeter, fresher grace.

While I take my solace here,And in solace find good cheer,Shade from summer, coolness dear,Comes a shepherd maiden near—Fairer, sure, there breathes not now—Plucking mulberries from the bough.

Seeing her, I loved her there:Venus did the trick, I'll swear!"Come, I am no thief, to scare,Rob, or murder unaware;I and all I have are thine,Thou than Flora more divine!"

But the girl made answer then:"Never played I yet with men;Cruel to me are my kin:My old mother scolds me whenIn some little thing I stray:—Hold, I prithee, sir, to-day!"

A fourth, consisting of a short conventional introduction in praise of Spring, followed by a dialogue between a young man and a girl, in which the metre changes for the last two stanzas, may be classed among the pastorals, although it is a somewhat irregular example of the species.

All the woods are now in flower,Song-birds sing in field and bower,Orchards their white blossoms shower:Lads, make merry in Love's hour!Sordid grief hath flown away,Fervid Love is here to-day;He will tame without delayThose who love not while they may.

All the woods are now in flower,Song-birds sing in field and bower,Orchards their white blossoms shower:Lads, make merry in Love's hour!

Sordid grief hath flown away,Fervid Love is here to-day;He will tame without delayThose who love not while they may.

He.

"Fairest maiden, list to me;Do not thus disdainful be;Scorn and anger disagreeWith thy youth, and injure thee."I am weaker than thou art;Mighty Love hath pierced my heart;Scarce can I endure his dart:Lest I die, heal, heal my smart!"

"Fairest maiden, list to me;Do not thus disdainful be;Scorn and anger disagreeWith thy youth, and injure thee.

"I am weaker than thou art;Mighty Love hath pierced my heart;Scarce can I endure his dart:Lest I die, heal, heal my smart!"

She.

"Why d'you coax me, suitor blind?What you seek you will not find;I'm too young for love to bind;Such vain trifles vex my mind."Is't your will with me to toy?I'll not mate with man or boy:Like the Phoenix, to enjoySingle life shall be my joy."

"Why d'you coax me, suitor blind?What you seek you will not find;I'm too young for love to bind;Such vain trifles vex my mind.

"Is't your will with me to toy?I'll not mate with man or boy:Like the Phoenix, to enjoySingle life shall be my joy."

He.

"Yet Love is tyrannous,Harsh, fierce, imperious!He who man's heart can thusShatter, may make to bowMaidens as stern as thou!"

She.

"Now by your words I'm 'wareWhat you wish, what you are;You know love well, I swear!So I'll be loved by you;Now I'm on fire too!"

Some semi-descriptive pieces, which connect the songs of Spring with lyrics of a more purely personal emotion, can boast of rare beauty in the original.

The most striking of these, upon the theme of Sleep and Love, I have tried to render in trochaic verse, feeling it impossible, without knowledge of the medieval melody, to reproduce its complicated and now only half-intelligible rhythms.

When the lamp of Cynthia lateRises in her silver state,Through her brother's roseate light,Blushing on the brows of night;Then the pure ethereal airBreathes with zephyr blowing fair;Clouds and vapours disappear.As with chords of lute or lyre,Soothed the spirits now respire,And the heart revives againWhich once more for love is fain.But the orient evening starSheds with influence kindlier farDews of sweet sleep on the eyeOf o'er-tired mortality.Oh, how blessed to take and keepIs the antidote of sleep!Sleep that lulls the storms of careAnd of sorrow unaware,Creeping through the closed doorsOf the eyes, and through the poresBreathing bliss so pure and rareThat with love it may compare.Then the god of dreams doth bringTo the mind some restful thing,Breezes soft that rippling blowO'er ripe cornfields row by row,Murmuring rivers round whose brimSilvery sands the swallows skim,Or the drowsy circling soundOf old mill-wheels going round,Which with music steal the mindAnd the eyes in slumber bind.When the deeds of love are doneWhich bland Venus had begun,Languor steals with pleasant strainThrough the chambers of the brain,Eyes 'neath eyelids gently tiredSwim and seek the rest desired.How deliriously at lastInto slumber love hath passed!But how sweeter yet the wayWhich leads love again to play!From the soothed limbs upward spreadGlides a mist divinely shed,Which invades the heart and head:Drowsily it veils the eyes,Bending toward sleep's paradise,And with curling vapour roundFills the lids, the senses swound,Till the visual ray is boundBy those ministers which makeLife renewed in man awake.Underneath the leafy shadeOf a tree in quiet laid,While the nightingale complainsSinging of her ancient pains,Sweet it is still hours to pass,But far sweeter on the grassWith a buxom maid to playAll a summer's holiday.When the scent of herb and flowerBreathes upon the silent hour,When the rose with leaf and bloomSpreads a couch of pure perfume,Then the grateful boon of sleepFalls with satisfaction deep,Showering dews our eyes above,Tired with honeyed strife of love.In how many moods the mindOf poor lovers, weak and blind,Wavers like the wavering wind!As a ship in darkness lost,Without anchor tempest-tossed,So with hope and fear imbuedIt roams in great incertitudeLove's tempestuous ocean-flood.

Oh, how blessed to take and keepIs the antidote of sleep!Sleep that lulls the storms of careAnd of sorrow unaware,Creeping through the closed doorsOf the eyes, and through the poresBreathing bliss so pure and rareThat with love it may compare.

Then the god of dreams doth bringTo the mind some restful thing,Breezes soft that rippling blowO'er ripe cornfields row by row,Murmuring rivers round whose brimSilvery sands the swallows skim,Or the drowsy circling soundOf old mill-wheels going round,Which with music steal the mindAnd the eyes in slumber bind.

When the deeds of love are doneWhich bland Venus had begun,Languor steals with pleasant strainThrough the chambers of the brain,Eyes 'neath eyelids gently tiredSwim and seek the rest desired.How deliriously at lastInto slumber love hath passed!But how sweeter yet the wayWhich leads love again to play!

From the soothed limbs upward spreadGlides a mist divinely shed,Which invades the heart and head:Drowsily it veils the eyes,Bending toward sleep's paradise,And with curling vapour roundFills the lids, the senses swound,Till the visual ray is boundBy those ministers which makeLife renewed in man awake.

Underneath the leafy shadeOf a tree in quiet laid,While the nightingale complainsSinging of her ancient pains,Sweet it is still hours to pass,But far sweeter on the grassWith a buxom maid to playAll a summer's holiday.When the scent of herb and flowerBreathes upon the silent hour,When the rose with leaf and bloomSpreads a couch of pure perfume,Then the grateful boon of sleepFalls with satisfaction deep,Showering dews our eyes above,Tired with honeyed strife of love.

In how many moods the mindOf poor lovers, weak and blind,Wavers like the wavering wind!As a ship in darkness lost,Without anchor tempest-tossed,So with hope and fear imbuedIt roams in great incertitudeLove's tempestuous ocean-flood.

A portion of this descant finds an echo in another lyric of theCarmina Burana:—

"With young leaves the wood is new;Now the nightingale is singing;And field-flowers of every hueOn the sward their bloom are flinging.Sweet it is to brush the dewFrom wild lawns and woody places!Sweeter yet to wreathe the roseWith the lily's virgin graces;But the sweetest sweet man knows,Is to woo a girl's embraces."

The most highly wrought of descriptive poems in this species is theDispute of Flora and Phyllis, which occurs both in theCarmina Buranaand in the English MSS.edited by Wright. The motive of the composition is as follows:—Two girls wake in the early morning, and go out to walk together through the fields. Each of them is in love; but Phyllis loves a soldier, Flora loves a scholar. They interchange confidences, the one contending with the other for the superiority of her own sweetheart.

Having said so much, I will present the first part of the poem in the English version I have made.

In the spring-time, when the skiesCast off winter's mourning,And bright flowers of every hueEarth's lap are adorning,At the hour when LuciferGives the stars their warning,Phyllis woke, and Flora too,In the early morning.Both the girls were fain to goForth in sunny weather,For love-laden bosoms throwSleep off like a feather;Then with measured steps and slowTo the fields togetherWent they, seeking pastime new'Mid the flowers and heather.Both were virgins, both, I ween,Were by birth princesses;Phyllis let her locks flow free,Flora trained her tresses.Not like girls they went, but likeHeavenly holinesses;And their faces shone like dawn'Neath the day's caresses.Equal beauty, equal birth,These fair maidens mated;Youthful were the years of both,And their minds elated;Yet they were a pair unpaired,Mates by strife unmated;For one loved a clerk, and oneFor a knight was fated.Naught there was of difference'Twixt them to the seeing,All alike, within without,Seemed in them agreeing;With one garb, one cast of mind,And one mode of being,Only that they could not loveSave with disagreeing.In the tree-tops overheadA spring breeze was blowing,And the meadow lawns aroundWith green grass were growing;Through the grass a rivuletFrom the hill was flowing,Lively, with a pleasant soundGarrulously going.That the girls might suffer lessFrom the noon resplendent,Near the stream a spreading pineRose with stem ascendant;Crowned with boughs and leaves aloft,O'er the fields impendent;From all heat on every handAirily defendent.On the sward the maidens sat,Naught that seat surpasses;Phyllis near the rivulet,Flora 'mid the grasses;Each into the chamber sweetOf her own soul passes,Love divides their thoughts, and woundsWith his shafts the lasses.Love within the breast of each,Hidden, unsuspected,Lurks and draws forth sighs of griefFrom their hearts dejected:Soon their ruddy cheeks grow pale,Conscious, love-affected;Yet their passion tells no tale,By soft shame protected.Phyllis now doth overhearFlora softly sighing:Flora with like luck detectsSigh to sigh replying.Thus the girls exchange the game,Each with other vying;Till the truth leaps out at length,Plain beyond denying.Long this interchange did lastOf mute conversation;All of love-sighs fond and fastWas that dissertation.Love was in their minds, and LoveMade their lips his station;Phyllis then, while Flora smiled,Opened her oration."Soldier brave, my love!" she said,"Where is now my Paris?Fights he in the field, or whereIn the wide word tarries?Oh, the soldier's life, I swear,All life's glory carries;Only valour clothed in armsWith Dame Venus marries!"

Both the girls were fain to goForth in sunny weather,For love-laden bosoms throwSleep off like a feather;Then with measured steps and slowTo the fields togetherWent they, seeking pastime new'Mid the flowers and heather.

Both were virgins, both, I ween,Were by birth princesses;Phyllis let her locks flow free,Flora trained her tresses.Not like girls they went, but likeHeavenly holinesses;And their faces shone like dawn'Neath the day's caresses.

Equal beauty, equal birth,These fair maidens mated;Youthful were the years of both,And their minds elated;Yet they were a pair unpaired,Mates by strife unmated;For one loved a clerk, and oneFor a knight was fated.

Naught there was of difference'Twixt them to the seeing,All alike, within without,Seemed in them agreeing;With one garb, one cast of mind,And one mode of being,Only that they could not loveSave with disagreeing.

In the tree-tops overheadA spring breeze was blowing,And the meadow lawns aroundWith green grass were growing;Through the grass a rivuletFrom the hill was flowing,Lively, with a pleasant soundGarrulously going.

That the girls might suffer lessFrom the noon resplendent,Near the stream a spreading pineRose with stem ascendant;Crowned with boughs and leaves aloft,O'er the fields impendent;From all heat on every handAirily defendent.

On the sward the maidens sat,Naught that seat surpasses;Phyllis near the rivulet,Flora 'mid the grasses;Each into the chamber sweetOf her own soul passes,Love divides their thoughts, and woundsWith his shafts the lasses.

Love within the breast of each,Hidden, unsuspected,Lurks and draws forth sighs of griefFrom their hearts dejected:Soon their ruddy cheeks grow pale,Conscious, love-affected;Yet their passion tells no tale,By soft shame protected.

Phyllis now doth overhearFlora softly sighing:Flora with like luck detectsSigh to sigh replying.Thus the girls exchange the game,Each with other vying;Till the truth leaps out at length,Plain beyond denying.

Long this interchange did lastOf mute conversation;All of love-sighs fond and fastWas that dissertation.Love was in their minds, and LoveMade their lips his station;Phyllis then, while Flora smiled,Opened her oration.

"Soldier brave, my love!" she said,"Where is now my Paris?Fights he in the field, or whereIn the wide word tarries?Oh, the soldier's life, I swear,All life's glory carries;Only valour clothed in armsWith Dame Venus marries!"

Phyllis thus opens the question whether a soldier or a scholar be the fitter for love. Flora responds, and for some time they conduct the dispute in true scholastic fashion. Being unable to settle it between themselves, they resolve to seek out Love himself, and to refer the matter to his judgment. One girl mounts a mule, the other a horse; and these are no ordinary animals, for Neptune reared one beast as a present to Venus, Vulcan forged the metal-work of bit and saddle, Minerva embroidered the trappings, and so forth. After a short journey they reach the Garden of Love, which is described with a truly luxuriant wealth of imagery. It resembles some of the earlier Renaissance pictures, especially one of great excellence by a German artist which I once saw in a dealer's shop at Venice, and which ought now to grace a public gallery.

On their steeds the ladies ride,Two fair girls and slender;Modest are their eyes and mild,And their cheeks are tender.Thus young lilies break the sheath,Budding roses renderBlushes, and twinned pairs of starsClimb the heavens with splendour.Toward Love's Paradise they fare,Such, I ween, their will is;While the strife between the pairTurns their cheeks to lilies;Phyllis Flora flouts, and fairFlora flouteth Phyllis;Flora's hand a hawk doth bear,And a goshawk Phyllis.After a short space they cameWhere a grove was growing;At the entrance of the sameRills with murmur flowing;There the wind with myrrh and spiceRedolent was blowing,Sounds of timbrel, harp, and lyreThrough the branches going.All the music man could makeThere they heard in plenty;Timbrel, psaltery, lyre, and lute,Harp and viol dainty;Voices that in part-song meetChoiring forte, lente;Sounds the diatesseron,Sounds the diapente.All the tongues of all the birdsWith full cry were singing;There the blackbird's melodySweet and true was ringing;Wood-dove, lark, and thrush on highJocund anthems flinging,With the nightingale, who stillTo her grief was clinging.When the girls drew nigh the grove,Some fear came upon them;Further as they fared, the charmOf the pleasance won them;All the birds so sweetly sangThat a spell was on them,And their bosoms warmed with loveAt the welcome shown them.Man would be immortal ifHe could there be dwelling:Every branch on every treeWith ripe fruit is swelling;All the ways with nard and myrrhAnd with spice are smelling:How divine the Master isAll the house is telling.Blithesome bands arrest their gaze,Youths and maidens dancing;Bodies beauteous as the stars,Eyes with heaven's light glancingAnd the bosoms of the girls,At the sight entrancing,Leap to view such marvels new,Joy with joy enhancing!They their horses check, and light,Moved with sudden pleasure;Half forget what brought them here,Thralled by love and leisure;Till once more the nightingaleTuned her thrilling measure;At that cry each girl againHugs her hidden treasure.Round the middle of the groveWas a place enchanted,Which the god for his own ritesSpecially had planted;Fauns and nymphs and satyrs hereFlowery alleys haunted,And before the face of LovePlayed and leaped and chaunted.In their hands they carry thyme,Crowns of fragrant roses;Bacchus leads the choir divineAnd the dance composes;Nymphs and fauns with feet in tuneInterchange their posies;But Silenus trips and reelsWhen the chorus closes.On an ass the elder borneAll the mad crew guideth;Mirth and laughter at the viewThrough Love's glad heart glideth."Io!" shouts the eld; that soundIn his throat subsideth,For his voice in wine is drowned,And his old age chideth.'Mid these pleasant sights appearsLove, the young joy-giver;Bright as stars his eyes, and wingsOn his shoulders shiver;In his left hand is the bow,At his side the quiver;From his state the world may knowHe is lord for ever.Leans the boy upon a staffIntertwined with flowers,Scent of nectar from his hairBreathes around the bowers;Hand in hand before him kneelThree celestial Hours,Graces who Love's goblet fillFrom immortal showers.

Toward Love's Paradise they fare,Such, I ween, their will is;While the strife between the pairTurns their cheeks to lilies;Phyllis Flora flouts, and fairFlora flouteth Phyllis;Flora's hand a hawk doth bear,And a goshawk Phyllis.

After a short space they cameWhere a grove was growing;At the entrance of the sameRills with murmur flowing;There the wind with myrrh and spiceRedolent was blowing,Sounds of timbrel, harp, and lyreThrough the branches going.

All the music man could makeThere they heard in plenty;Timbrel, psaltery, lyre, and lute,Harp and viol dainty;Voices that in part-song meetChoiring forte, lente;Sounds the diatesseron,Sounds the diapente.

All the tongues of all the birdsWith full cry were singing;There the blackbird's melodySweet and true was ringing;Wood-dove, lark, and thrush on highJocund anthems flinging,With the nightingale, who stillTo her grief was clinging.

When the girls drew nigh the grove,Some fear came upon them;Further as they fared, the charmOf the pleasance won them;All the birds so sweetly sangThat a spell was on them,And their bosoms warmed with loveAt the welcome shown them.

Man would be immortal ifHe could there be dwelling:Every branch on every treeWith ripe fruit is swelling;All the ways with nard and myrrhAnd with spice are smelling:How divine the Master isAll the house is telling.

Blithesome bands arrest their gaze,Youths and maidens dancing;Bodies beauteous as the stars,Eyes with heaven's light glancingAnd the bosoms of the girls,At the sight entrancing,Leap to view such marvels new,Joy with joy enhancing!

They their horses check, and light,Moved with sudden pleasure;Half forget what brought them here,Thralled by love and leisure;Till once more the nightingaleTuned her thrilling measure;At that cry each girl againHugs her hidden treasure.

Round the middle of the groveWas a place enchanted,Which the god for his own ritesSpecially had planted;Fauns and nymphs and satyrs hereFlowery alleys haunted,And before the face of LovePlayed and leaped and chaunted.

In their hands they carry thyme,Crowns of fragrant roses;Bacchus leads the choir divineAnd the dance composes;Nymphs and fauns with feet in tuneInterchange their posies;But Silenus trips and reelsWhen the chorus closes.

On an ass the elder borneAll the mad crew guideth;Mirth and laughter at the viewThrough Love's glad heart glideth."Io!" shouts the eld; that soundIn his throat subsideth,For his voice in wine is drowned,And his old age chideth.

'Mid these pleasant sights appearsLove, the young joy-giver;Bright as stars his eyes, and wingsOn his shoulders shiver;In his left hand is the bow,At his side the quiver;From his state the world may knowHe is lord for ever.

Leans the boy upon a staffIntertwined with flowers,Scent of nectar from his hairBreathes around the bowers;Hand in hand before him kneelThree celestial Hours,Graces who Love's goblet fillFrom immortal showers.

It would surely be superfluous to point out the fluent elegance of this poem, or to dwell farther upon the astonishing fact that anything so purely Renaissance in tone should have been produced in the twelfth century.

Cupid, as was natural, settles the dispute of the two girls by deciding that scholars are more suitable for love than soldiers.

This would be the place to introduce another long descriptive poem, if the nature of its theme rendered it fit for translation. It relates the visit of a student to what he calls theTemplum Veneris; in other words, to the house of a courtesan. Her attendants are sirens; and the whole poem, dealing with a vulgar incident, is conducted in this mock-heroic strain.[31]

FOOTNOTES:[31]Carmina Burana, p. 138.

[31]Carmina Burana, p. 138.

We pass now to love-poems of a more purely personal kind. One of these, which is too long for translation and in some respects ill-suited to a modern taste, forms the proper transition from the descriptive to the lyrical section. It starts with phrases culled from hymns to the Virgin:—

"Si linguis angelicisLoquar et humanis.""Ave formosissima,Gemma pretiosa;Ave decus virginum,Virgo gloriosa!"

"Si linguis angelicisLoquar et humanis."

"Ave formosissima,Gemma pretiosa;Ave decus virginum,Virgo gloriosa!"

These waifs and strays of religious diction are curiously blent with romantic and classical allusions. The girl is addressed in the same breath as—

"Blanziflor et Helena,Venus generosa."

Toward the close of the poem, the lover, who at length has reached the object of his heart's desire, breaks into this paean of victorious passion:—

"What more? Around the maiden's neckMy arms I flung with yearning;Upon her lips I gave and tookA thousand kisses burning:Again and yet again I cried,With whispered vows and sighing,This, this alone, sure, sure it wasFor which my heart was dying!"Who is the man that does not knowThe sweets that followed after?My former pains, my sobs and woe,Were changed for love and laughter:The joys of Paradise were oursIn overflowing measure;We tasted every shape of blissAnd every form of pleasure."

"Who is the man that does not knowThe sweets that followed after?My former pains, my sobs and woe,Were changed for love and laughter:The joys of Paradise were oursIn overflowing measure;We tasted every shape of blissAnd every form of pleasure."

The next piece which I shall quote differs in some important respects from the general style adopted by the Goliardi in their love-poetry. It is written in rhyming or leonine hexameters, and is remarkable for its quaint play on names, conceived and executed in a truly medieval taste.

Take thou this rose, O Rose! the loves in the rose repose:I with love of the rose am caught at the winter's close:Take thou this flower, my flower, and cherish it in thy bower:Thou in thy beauty's power shalt lovelier blow each hour:Gaze at the rose, and smile, my rose, in mine eyes the while:To thee the roses belong, thy voice is the nightingale's song:Give thou the rose a kiss, it blushes like thy mouth's bliss:Flowers in a picture seem not flowers, but flowers in a dream:Who paints the rose's bloom, paints not the rose's perfume.

In complete contrast to this conceited and euphuistic style of composition stands a slight snatch of rustic melody, consisting of little but reiteration and refrain.

Come to me, come, O come!Let me not die, but come!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.Fair is thy face, O fair!Fair thine eyes, O how fair!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.Fair is thy flowing hair!O fair, O fair, how fair!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.Redder than rose art thou,Whiter than lily thou!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.Fairer than all, I vow,Ever my pride art thou!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.

Come to me, come, O come!Let me not die, but come!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.

Fair is thy face, O fair!Fair thine eyes, O how fair!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.

Fair is thy flowing hair!O fair, O fair, how fair!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.

Redder than rose art thou,Whiter than lily thou!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.

Fairer than all, I vow,Ever my pride art thou!Hyria hysria nazazaTrillirivos.

The following displays an almost classical intensity of voluptuous passion, and belongs in all probability to a period later than theCarmina Burana. I have ventured, in translating it, to borrow the structure of a song which occurs in Fletcher'sRollo(act v. scene 2), the first stanza of which is also found in Shakespeare'sMeasure for Measure(act iv. scene 1), and to insert one or two phrases from Fletcher's version. Whether the composer of that song had ever met with the Latin lyric to Lydia can scarcely form the subject of critical conjecture. Yet there is a faint evanescent resemblance between the two poems.

Lydia bright, thou girl more whiteThan the milk of morning new,Or young lilies in the light!Matched with thy rose-whiteness, hueOf red rose or white rose pales,And the polished ivory fails,Ivory fails.Spread, O spread, my girl, thy hair,Amber-hued and heavenly bright,As fine gold or golden air!Show, O show thy throat so white,Throat and neck that marble fineOver thy white breasts incline,Breasts incline.Lift, O lift thine eyes that areUnderneath those eyelids dark,Lustrous as the evening star'Neath the dark heaven's purple arc!Bare, O bare thy cheeks of rose,Dyed with Tyrian red that glows,Red that glows.Give, O give those lips of loveThat the coral boughs eclipse;Give sweet kisses, dove by dove,Soft descending on my lips.See my soul how forth she flies!'Neath each kiss my pierced heart dies,Pierced heart dies.Wherefore dost thou draw my life,Drain my heart's blood with thy kiss?Scarce can I endure the strifeOf this ecstasy of bliss!Set, O set my poor heart free,Bound in icy chains by thee,Chains by thee.Hide, O hide those hills of snow,Twinned upon thy breast that rise,Where the virgin fountains flowWith fresh milk of Paradise!Thy bare bosom breathes of myrrh,From thy whole self pleasures stir,Pleasures stir.Hide, O hide those paps that tireSense and spirit with excessOf snow-whiteness and desireOf thy breast's deliciousness!See'st thou, cruel, how I swoon?Leav'st thou me half lost so soon?Lost so soon?

Spread, O spread, my girl, thy hair,Amber-hued and heavenly bright,As fine gold or golden air!Show, O show thy throat so white,Throat and neck that marble fineOver thy white breasts incline,Breasts incline.

Lift, O lift thine eyes that areUnderneath those eyelids dark,Lustrous as the evening star'Neath the dark heaven's purple arc!Bare, O bare thy cheeks of rose,Dyed with Tyrian red that glows,Red that glows.

Give, O give those lips of loveThat the coral boughs eclipse;Give sweet kisses, dove by dove,Soft descending on my lips.See my soul how forth she flies!'Neath each kiss my pierced heart dies,Pierced heart dies.

Wherefore dost thou draw my life,Drain my heart's blood with thy kiss?Scarce can I endure the strifeOf this ecstasy of bliss!Set, O set my poor heart free,Bound in icy chains by thee,Chains by thee.

Hide, O hide those hills of snow,Twinned upon thy breast that rise,Where the virgin fountains flowWith fresh milk of Paradise!Thy bare bosom breathes of myrrh,From thy whole self pleasures stir,Pleasures stir.

Hide, O hide those paps that tireSense and spirit with excessOf snow-whiteness and desireOf thy breast's deliciousness!See'st thou, cruel, how I swoon?Leav'st thou me half lost so soon?Lost so soon?

In rendering this lyric to Lydia, I have restored the fifth stanza, only one line of which,

"Quid mihi sugis vivum sanguinem,"

remains in the original. This I did because it seemed necessary to effect the transition from the stanzas beginningPande, puella, pande, to those beginningConde papillas, conde.

Among these more direct outpourings of personal passion, place may be found for a delicate littlePoem of Privacy, which forms part of theCarmina Burana. Unfortunately, the text of this slight piece is very defective in the MS., and has had to be conjecturally restored in several places.

When a young man, passion-laden,In a chamber meets a maiden,Then felicitous communion,By love's strain between the twain,Grows from forth their union;For the game, it hath no name,Of lips, arms, and hidden charms.

Nor can I here forbear from inserting anotherPoem of Privacy, bolder in its openness of speech, more glowing in its warmth of colouring. If excuse should be pleaded or the translation and reproduction of this distinctly Pagan ditty, it must be found in the singularity of its motive, which is as unmedieval as could be desired by the bitterest detractor of medieval sentiment. We seem, while reading it, to have before our eyes the Venetian picture of a Venus, while the almost prosaic particularity of description illustrates what I have said above about the detailed realism of the Goliardic style.

Rudely blows the winter blast,Withered leaves are falling fast,Cold hath hushed the birds at last.While the heavens were warm and glowing,Nature's offspring loved in May;But man's heart no debt is owingTo such change of month or dayAs the dumb brute-beasts obey.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessingThat my Flora yields to-day!Labour long I did not rue,Ere I won my wages due,And the prize I played for drew.Flora with her brows of laughter,Gazing on me, breathing bliss,Draws my yearning spirit after,Sucks my soul forth in a kiss:Where's the pastime matched with this?Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessingOf my Flora's loveliness!Truly mine is no harsh doom,While in this secluded roomVenus lights for me the gloom!Flora faultless as a blossomBares her smooth limbs for mine eyes;Softly shines her virgin bosom,And the breasts that gently riseLike the hills of Paradise.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessingWhen my Flora is the prize!From her tender breasts decline,In a gradual curving line,Flanks like swansdown white and fine.On her skin the touch discernethNaught of rough; 'tis soft as snow:'Neath the waist her belly turnethUnto fulness, where belowIn Love's garden lilies blow.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessing!Sweetest sweets from Flora flow!Ah! should Jove but find my fair,He would fall in love, I swear,And to his old tricks repair:In a cloud of gold descendingAs on Danae's brazen tower,Or the sturdy bull's back bending,Or would veil his godhood's powerIn a swan's form for one hour.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessing!How divine my Flora's flower!

Labour long I did not rue,Ere I won my wages due,And the prize I played for drew.Flora with her brows of laughter,Gazing on me, breathing bliss,Draws my yearning spirit after,Sucks my soul forth in a kiss:Where's the pastime matched with this?Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessingOf my Flora's loveliness!

Truly mine is no harsh doom,While in this secluded roomVenus lights for me the gloom!Flora faultless as a blossomBares her smooth limbs for mine eyes;Softly shines her virgin bosom,And the breasts that gently riseLike the hills of Paradise.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessingWhen my Flora is the prize!

From her tender breasts decline,In a gradual curving line,Flanks like swansdown white and fine.On her skin the touch discernethNaught of rough; 'tis soft as snow:'Neath the waist her belly turnethUnto fulness, where belowIn Love's garden lilies blow.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessing!Sweetest sweets from Flora flow!

Ah! should Jove but find my fair,He would fall in love, I swear,And to his old tricks repair:In a cloud of gold descendingAs on Danae's brazen tower,Or the sturdy bull's back bending,Or would veil his godhood's powerIn a swan's form for one hour.Oh, the joys of this possessing!How unspeakable the blessing!How divine my Flora's flower!

A third "poem of privacy" may be employed to temper this too fervid mood. I conceive it to be meant for the monologue of a lover in the presence of his sweetheart, and to express the varying lights and shades of his emotion.

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