APPENDIX III.

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APPENDIX III.

Translations from Alesso Donati.

(See Chapter III. p. 157.)

THE NUN.

The knotted cord, dark veil and tunic grey,
I'll fling aside, and eke this scapulary,
Which keeps me here a nun immured alway:
And then with thee, dressed like a gallant gay,
With girded loins and limber gait and free,
I'll roam the world, where chance us twain may carry.
I am content slave, scullion-wench to be;
That will not irk me as this irketh me!

THE LOVERS.

Nay, get thee gone now, but so quietly,

By God, so gently go, my love,

That yon damned villain may hear nought thereof!
He's quick of hearing: if he hears but me

Turn myself round in bed,

He clasps me tight for fear I may be sped.
God curse whoever joined me to this hind,
Or hopes in churls good merchandise to find!

THE GIRL.

In dole I dree the days all lonely here,
A young girl by her mother shut from life,
Who guardeth me with jealousy and strife:
But by the cross of God I swear to her,
If still she keeps me pent up thus to pine,
I'll say Aroint thee, thou fell hag malign!'
And fling yon wheel and distaff to the wall,
And fly to thee, my love, who art mine all!

APPENDIX IV.

Facopone's Presepio, Corrotto, and Cantico dell' Amore Superardente, Translated into English Verse.

(See Chapter V. pp. 291 et seq.)

THREE POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO JACOPONE DA TODI. THOUGH judging it impossible to preserve the least part of Jacopone's charm in a translation, I have made versions of the Christmas Carol, the Passion Poem, and the Hymn of Divine Love, alluded to in chapter v., pp. 291–298. The metrical structure of the first is confused in the original; but I have adopted a stanza which follows the scheme pretty closely, and reproduces the exact number of the lines. In the second I have forced myself to repeat the same rhyme at the close of each of the thirty-four strophes, which in the Italian has a very fine effect-the sound being ato. No English equivalent can do it justice. The third poem I admit to be really untranslatable. The recurrences of strong vowelled endings in ore, are, ezza, ate cannot be imitated.

THE PRESEPIO.

By thy great and glorious merit,
Mary, Mother, Maid!

In thy firstling, new-born child

All our life is laid.

That sweet smiling infant child,

Born for us, I wis;

That majestic baby mild,

Yield him to our kiss!

She with left hand cradling
Rocked and hushed her boy,
And with holy lullabies

Quieted her toy.

Who so churlish but would rise

To behold heaven's joy

Sleeping? In what darkness drowned,

Dead and renegade?-

Little angels all around

Danced, and carols flung;

Making verselets sweet and true,

Still of love they sung;

Calling saints and sinners too
With love's tender tongue;
Now that heaven's high glory is
On this earth displayed.

Choose we gentle courtesies,

Churlish ways forswear;

Let us one and all behold

Jesus sleeping there.

Earth, air, heaven he will unfold,

Flowering, laughing fair;

Such a sweetness, such a grace
From his eyes hath rayed.

O poor humble human race,
How uplift art thou!
With the divine dignity
Re-united now!

Even the Virgin Mary, she
All amazed doth bow;
And to us who sin inherit,
Seems as though she prayed

By thy great and glorious merit,
Mary, Mother, Maid!

In thy firstling, new-born child
All our life is laid.

Messenger. Lady of Paradise, woe's me,
Thy son is taken, even he,

Christ Jesus, that saint blessed!
Run, Lady, look amain

How the folk him constrain:
Methinks they him have slain,
Sore scourged, with rods opprest.

Mary. Nay, how could this thing be?
To folly ne'er turned he,

Jesus, the hope of me:
How did they him arrest?

Messenger. Lady, he was betrayed;

Judas sold him, and bade
Those thirty crowns be paid-
Poor gain, where bad is best.

Mary. Ho, succour! Magdalen!

The storm is on me: men

My own son, Christ, have ta'en!
This news hath pierced my breast.

Messenger. Aid, Lady! Up and run!

They spit upon thy son,

And hale him through the town;

To Pilate they him wrest.

Mary. O Pilate, do not let

My son to pain be set!

That he is guiltless, yet
With proofs I can protest.

The Jews. Crucify! Crucify!

Who would be King, must die.
He spurns the Senate by

Our laws, as these attest.

We'll see if, stanch of state,

He can abide this fate;
Die shall he at the gate,
And Barab be redressed.