{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_1893/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_1893","id":"gutenberg_1893","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1893","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Medieval/Middle Ages","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Literature, Medieval -- History and criticism","Literature, Medieval -- Translations into English"],"text":"Ver.04.29.93*END*\n\n\n\n\nEtext scanned by Dianne Bean of Phoenix, Arizona\n\n\n\n\n\nSONG AND LEGEND FROM THE MIDDLE AGES\n\nSELECTED AND ARRANGED\n\nBy WILLIAM D. MCCLINTOCK\nAssistant Professor of English Literature, University Of Chicago\nAND\nPORTER LANDER McCLINTOCK\n\n\n\n\nChautauqua Reading Circle Literature\n1893\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\nI.   FRENCH LITERATURE\nII.  SPANISH LITERATURE\nIII. SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE\nIV.  GERMAN LITERATURE\nV.   ITALIAN LITERATURE\n\nREADING LIST.\nOwing to the necessarily fragmentary character of the readings of\nthis volume, it has seemed well to the editors to indicate a list\nof books for those who wish a wider reading In Mediaeval\nLiterature. These books are all available and cheap.\n\n1. French Literature.\n(1) Longfellow's \"Poets and Poetry of Europe\".\n(2) O'Hagan's \"The Song of Roland\".\n(3) Rourdillon's \"Aucassin and Nicolette\".\n(4) Malory's \"Morte Darthur\".\n(5) Chaucer's \"Romance of the Rose\".\n(6) Caxton's \"Reynard the Fox\".\n(7) Saintsbury's \"Short History of French Literature\".\n2. Spanish Literature.\n(1) Longfellow, as above.\n(2) Ormsby's \"The Cid\".\n(3) Lockhart's \"Ancient Spanish Ballads\".\n3. Scandinavian Literature.\n(1) Longfellow, as above.\n(2) Anderson's \"Norse Mythology\".\n4. German Literature.\n(1) Longfellow, as above.\n(2) Lettsom's \"Niebelungenlied\".\n(3) Scherer's \"History of German Literature\".\n5. Italian Literature.\n(1) Longfellow, as above.\n(2) Rossetti's \"Dante and his Circle\".\n(3) Cary's \"The Divine Comedy\".\n(4) Norton's \"The Divine Comedy\".\n(5) Campbell's \"The Sonnets and Poems of Petrarch\".\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\nThe aim of this little book is to give general readers some idea\nof the subject and spirit of European Continental literature in\nthe later and culminating period of the Middle Ages--the\neleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries.\n\nIt goes without saying that translations and selections are, in\ngeneral, inadequate to the satisfactory representation of any\nliterature. No piece of writing, of course, especially no piece\nof poetry, can be perfectly rendered into another tongue; no\npiece of writing can be fairly represented by detached portions.\nBut to the general English reader Continental Mediaeval\nliterature, so long as it remains in the original tongues, is\ninaccessible; and translations of many entire works are not\nwithin easy reach.\n\nWhat translation and selection can do in this case, is to put\ninto the hands of the ordinary student of the Middle Ages\nsufficient material for forming an estimate of the subjects that\ninterested the mediaeval mind and the spirit in which they were\ntreated. And this is what the general reader desires. Matters of\nform and expression--the points that translation cannot\nreproduce--belong, of course, to the specialist.\n\nThe claim that so slender a volume of selections can represent\neven the subject and spirit of so vast a body of literature, is\nsaved from being unreasonable or presumptuous by a consideration\nof the fact that, from causes easy to trace, the national\nliteratures of Continental Europe had many common\ncharacteristics: the range of subjects was not unlimited; the\nspirit is the same in all.\n\nNo English is included for two reasons: Mediaeval English\nliterature is easily accessible to those readers for whom this\nbook is prepared; during the special period in which the best\nmediaeval literature was developed, England was comparatively\nunproductive.\n\nThe constant aim has been to put before the reader the literature\nitself, with comment barely sufficient to make an intelligible\nsetting for the selections. Criticism of all kinds has been\navoided, so that the reader may come to his material with\njudgment entirely unbiased.\nThe translations used have been selected largely with a view to\ntheir accessibility, so that readers who desire to enlarge the\nscope of their reading may easily find the books they need.\nCaxton's \"Reynard the Fox\", and \"The Romance of the Rose\",\nattributed to Chaucer, were chosen because they convey an\nimpression of the quaint flavor of the original, which is lost in\na modern version. The slight adaptations and transliterations\nmade in these two selections are entirely defensible on the score\nof intelligibility.\n\nOur acknowledgments are due to Prof. William I. Knapp, of the\nUniversity of Chicago, for the use of books from his valuable\nlibrary, and for the permission, most highly prized, to print for\nthe first time some of his translations of the Cid ballads.\n\nTHE EDITORS.  Chicago, April, 1893.\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\nThe Middle Ages extend from the fifth to the fifteenth century,\nfrom the fall of the Roman Empire to the establishment of the\ngreat modern states. The general outline of the history of the\nMiddle Ages can be seen in the following excellent table:[1]\n\n[1] Drury's \"History of the Middle Ages\",  page XIV.\n\n1. The decline of the Roman Empire and the successful\naccomplishment of two invasions.\n\n2. The transient brilliancy of the Arabian civilization.\n\n3. The attempted organization of a new empire by Charlemagne, and\nits dissolution.\n\n4. The rise and prevalence of feudalism.\n\n5. The successive crusades.\n\n6. The contest between the pope and the emperor for the\nsovereignty of the world.\n\nThe history of these ten centuries falls naturally into three\ngreat divisions:\n\n1. Fifth to tenth century, the destruction of the past and\ntransition to new forms.\n\n2. Eleventh to thirteenth century, feudal society with its\ncustoms, its institutions, its arts, and its literatures.\n\n3. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, a second time of\ntransition.\n\nThe period, then, of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth\ncenturies was one of intense political life, of advanced national\nself-consciousness, of rich, highly-organized society. It was\nmoreover a period of common ideas, movements, and tendencies over\nall Europe. Several factors enter into this result:\n\n1. The church was completely organized, forming a common life and\nteaching everywhere. She had learned to employ the savage vigor\nand conquering instincts of the northern barbarians as defenses\nand aggressive missions of her spirit and ideas. The monasteries\nwere homes of learning, and from them issued the didactic\nliterature and the early drama.\n\n2. This resulted in that romantic institution or ideal of\nchivalry, whose ten commandments explain so much of mediaeval\nlife and art.[1]\n\n[1] \"Chivalry\", by Leon Gautier, 1891, p. 26.\n\n\n(1) Thou shalt believe all the church teaches, and shalt observe\nall its directions.\n\n(2) Thou shalt defend the church.\n\n(3) Thou shalt respect all weaknesses, and shalt constitute\nthyself the defender of them.\n\n(4) Thou shalt love the country in which thou wast born.\n\n(5) Thou shalt not recoil before thine enemy.\n\n(6) Thou shalt make war against the inflael without cessation and\nwithout mercy.\n\n(7) Thou shalt perform scrupulously thy feudal duties, if they be\nnot contrary to the law of God.\n\n(8) Thou shalt never lie, and shalt remain faithful to thy\npledged word.\n\n(9) Thou shalt be generous and give largesse to every one.\n\n(10) Thou shalt be everywhere and always the champion of the\nRight and the Good against Injustice and Evil.\n\n3. This combination of the Christian and the warrior found its\npublic activity most completely in the Crusades. They gave a\ncommon motive and ideal to all the knights of Europe. They\nbrought them together for thinking and for fighting. They spread\nnational traditions and literatures. They made the whole face of\nEurope and the borders of the Mediterranean known to the\nambitious, venturesome, daring, and heroic of every European\ncountry. The exploits of chivalric knights were told from camp to\ncamp and taken back home to be told again in the castles.\n\n4. Another institution of feudalism that helped to make this\ncommon subject and spirit of mediaeval literature was the\nminstrel, who was attached to every well-appointed castle. This\npicturesque poet--gleeman, trouvere or troubadour sang heroic\nstories and romances of love in the halls of castles and in the\nmarket places of towns. He borrowed from and copied others and\nhelped to make the common method and traditions of mediaeval\nsong.\n\n5. Other elements in this result were the extensions of commerce\nand the growth of traveling as a pleasure.\n\n6. Finally, the itinerant students and teachers of mediaeval\nuniversities assisted in the making of this common fund of ideas\nand material for literature.\n\n(7) Behind and within all the separate national literatures lay\nthe common Christian-Latin literature of the early Middle Ages,\nundoubtedly the cause of the rather startling perfection of form\nshown by much of the work of the period we are studying.[1]\n\n[1] See Ebert \"Allgemeine Geschichte der Literatur des\nMittelalters\". Vol. I., p. 11.\n\n\nThe result of all these unifying tendencies is to give a strong\nfamily likeness to the productions of the various European\ncountries of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. The\nsubject matter often varies, but the motive and form of writing\nare much alike. This likeness can be seen by a short survey of\nthe more important kinds of literature of the period.\n\nI. THE NATIONAL EPIC.\n\nIn every country in which the national epic grew up it had the\nsame origin and line of development. First there was the\nhistorical hero. His deeds were related by the traveling gleeman\nor minstrel--in brief chapters or ballads. Gradually mythical and\nsupernatural elements came in; the number of achievements and the\nnumber of ballads grew very large; in this oral state they\ncontinued for many years, sometimes for centuries.\n\nFinally, they were collected, edited, and written down--generally\nby a single editor. In all cases the names of the poets of the\nballads are lost; in most cases the names of their redactors are\nbut conjectural. \"The Song of Roland\", and the \"Poem of the Cid\"\nare typical, simple, national epics. The \"Niebelungen Lied\" is\ncomplicated by the fact that the legends of many heroes are fused\ninto one poem, by the fact that it had more than one editor, and\nby the survival of mythological elements which mingle confusedly\nwith Christian features. The national epic is the expression of\nthe active side of chivalry. Italy has no national epic, both\nbecause she was too learned to develop a folk-poetry, and because\nthe ideas of chivalry were never very active in her history.\n\nII. ROMANCES.\n\nThe numberless romances that sprang up in the literary period of\nthe Middle Ages may be thrown into three groups:\n\n1. Those belonging to the legend of Arthur and the Round Table.\nThey had their starting point in the history of Geoffrey of\nMonmouth, which was partly invented, but had some basis in a\ntradition common to the Bretons and the Welsh. The romances based\nupon this legend sprang up apparently simultaneously in England\nand France. Through minstrel romances, founded upon the Breton\npopular tradition, the Arthur legend probably first found its way\ninto European literature. With it was early fused the stories of\nthe Holy Grail and of Parzival. In the twelfth century these\nstories were widely popular in literary form in France and\nGermany, and later they passed into Italy, Spain, and\nScandinavia. Their influence upon the life and thought of\nMediaeval Europe is very important. They did much to modify the\nentire institution of chivalry.[1]\n\n[1] Leon Gautier's \"Chivalry\", chap. IV., Section V.\n\n\n2. The Romances of Antiquity, of which there are three varieties:\n\n(1) Those which were believed to be direct reproductions, such as\nthe Romances of Thebes, of Aeneas, of Troy, whose authors\nacknowledged a debt to Vergil, Statius, and other classic\nwriters.\n\n(2) Those based upon ancient history not previously versified,\nsuch as the Romance of Alexander.\n\n(3) Those which reproduced the names and nothing else from\nantiquity.\n\nThese romances, too, were a common European possession. The most\nimportant and influential of them are the Romance of Troy, and\nthe Romance of Alexander. They appear in different forms in the\nliterature of every mediaeval nation in Europe.\n\n3. There was in each national literature a vast number of\nunaffiliated romances. A romance of this group usually contained\na love story, a tale of adventure, or a religious experience in\nthe form of a story. They are not clearly distinct from the class\nof popular tales. On the whole, the romance is more serious and\ndignified than the tale. Examples of this kind of a romance are\nHartmann von Aue's \"Henry the Leper\", and the French \"Flore et\nBlanchefleur\".\n\n\nIII. LYRICS.\n\nPerhaps no other part of its literature shows more striking proof\nof the common life and interests of Mediaeval Europe than does\nthe lyric poetry of the period. In Northern France, in Provence,\nin all parts of Germany, in Italy, and a little later in Spain,\nwe see a most remarkable outburst of song. The subjects were the\nsame in all the countries. Love-the love of feudal\nchivalry--patriotism, and religion were the themes that employed\nthe mediaeval lyrist in whatever country he sang. In all these\nlyrics much was made of form, the verse being always skillfully\nconstructed, sometimes very complicated. The lyric poetry of\nItaly was more learned and more finished in style than that of\nthe other countries.\n\nIn Northern France the poet was called a trouvere, in Provence a\ntroubadour, in Germany a minnesinger. The traveling minstrel was\nin France a jongleur (Provencal jogleur). The distinction between\ntrouvere or troubadour and jongleur is not always to be sharply\ndrawn. Sometimes in France and Provence the same poet composed\nhis verses and sang them--was both trouvere or troubadour and\njongleur; while in Germany the minnesingers were generally both\npoets and minstrels.\n\nIV. TALES AND FABLES.\n\nNo distinct line can be drawn between Tales and Fables; between\nRomances and Tales; nor between Fables and Allegories. These\nvarieties of writings merge into one another.\n\nThe number of tales in circulation in Mediaeval Europe was\nexceedingly large. These tales came from many different sources:\nfrom Oriental lands, introduced by the Moors, or brought back by\nthe crusaders; from ancient classical literature; from traditions\nof the church and the lives of the saints; from the old\nmythologies; from common life and experience. Among many\nmediaeval collections of them, the most famous are the\n\"Decameron\" of Boccaccio, and the \"Geste Romanorum\", a collection\nmade and used by the priests in instructing their people.\n\nV. DIDACTIC AND ALLEGORICAL LITERATURE.\n\nUnder didactic literature we would include a large mass of\nwriting not strictly to be called pure literature--sermons,\nhomilies, chronicles, bestiaries, and chronologies. Nearly all\nthese were written in verse, as prose did not begin to be used\nfor literature until very late in the Middle Ages.\nThe mediaeval mind, under the influence of the scholastic\ntheology, grew very fond of allegory. The list of allegories is\nexhaustless, and some of the allegories well-nigh interminable.\nIt is not easy to say whether the \"Romance of Reynard the Fox\" is\na series of fables or an allegory. The fact that a satire on\nhuman affairs runs through it constantly, warrants us in calling\nit an allegory. Some phase of the Reynard legend formed the\nmedium of expression of the thought of every mediaeval nation in\nEurope. Perhaps the most popular and influential allegory of the\nMiddle Ages was \"The Romance of the Rose\", written in France but\ntranslated or imitated in every other country. Dante's \"Divine\nComedy\" is an allegory of a very elevated kind.\n\nVI. THE DRAMA.\n\nThe origin and line of development of the drama in all the\ncountries of Mediaeval Europe is this: Dramatic representations\nin connection with the liturgy of the church were first used in\nthe service; then they were extended to church festivals and\nceremonies. By degrees portions of Bible history were thrown into\ndramatic form; then the lives of the saints furnished material. A\ndistinction grew up between Mystery Plays--those founded on Bible\nhistory--and Miracle Plays--those founded on the lives of the\nsaints. These plays were performed both in the churches and in\nthe open air. They were written usually by the clergy. Gradually\nthere grew up a play in which the places of religious characters\nwere taken by abstract virtues and vices personified, and plays\ncalled Moralities were produced. They were played chiefly by\ntradesmen's guilds. Alongside the sacred drama are to be found\noccasional secular dramatic attempts, farces, carnival plays, and\nprofane mysteries. But their number and significance are small.\nThe mediaeval drama is historically interesting, but in itself\ndoes not contain much interest. It is impossible to give an idea\nof it by selection.\n\n\nSONG AND LEGEND FROM THE MIDDLE AGES.\n\nCHAPTER I. FRENCH LITERATURE.\n\nFrench Literature of the Middle Ages was produced between the\neleventh and the fifteenth centuries, having its greatest\ndevelopment in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It must be\ndivided into two sections according to the part of France where\nit was produced.\n\nI. French Literature proper, or that composed in the northern\nhalf of France.\n\nII. Provencal Literature, or that developed in Provence.\n\nThe most obvious difference between these is that the Provencal\nliterature had little of the epic and romantic, but developed the\nlyric extensively, especially lyrics of love.\n\nThe following table will show the more important kinds of French\nMediaeval Literature.[1]\n\n[1] This classification is adapted from M. Gaston Paris'\nexcellent sketch \"La Litterature Francaise au Moyen Age\", 1890,\nand Saintsbury's \"Short History of French Literature\", 1889.\n\n\nI. Narrative Literature.\n\n1. The National Epics.\n\n2. Romances of Antiquity.\n\n3. Arthurian Romances.\n\n4. Romances of Adventure.\n\n5. Tales and Fables.\n\n6. Chronicles.\n\nII. Didactic Literature.\n\n1. Allegories--\"The Romance of the Rose\".\n\n2. Satires.\n\n3. Homilies, etc.\n\n\nIII. Lyric Literature.\n\nTHE NATIONAL EPICS.\n\nThe French national epics (called \"Chansons de Gestes\", songs of\nheroic deeds) are those narrative poems which are founded on\nearly French history, and recount the deeds of national heroes.\nThey are, for the most part, based on the deeds of Charlemagne\nand his nobles. They are peculiar to Northern France. Their date\nof production extends from the eleventh to the fourteenth\ncentury, their best development being in the eleventh and\ntwelfth.\n\nThese epic poems number more than one hundred. They vary in\nlength from one thousand to thirty thousand lines. The whole mass\nis said to contain between two and three million lines. Like all\nfolk epics, they are based upon earlier ballads composed by many\ndifferent poets. These ballads were never written down and are\ncompletely lost. The epic is a compilation and adaptation,\npresumably by a single poet, of the material of the ballads. In\nevery case the names of the poets of the French epics are lost.\nThey were trouveres and their poems were carried about in memory\nor in manuscript by the jongleurs or minstrels, and sung from\ncastle to castle and in the market places. The best of them are:\n\"The Song of Roland\"; \"Amis et Amiles\"; \"Aliscans\"; \"Gerard de\nRoussillon\"; \"Raoul de Cambrai\". Of these the oldest and\nconfessedly the greatest is The Song of Roland, from which our\nextracts are taken.\n\nThe Song of Roland is based upon the following events (the events\nas narrated in the poem differ widely from those of the actual\nhistory): Charlemagne has warred seven years in Spain, when\nMarsile, king of Saragossa, the only city that has withstood the\nemperor, sends a feigned submission. Roland, the king's nephew,\noffers to go to Saragossa to settle the terms of the treaty. He\nis rejected as too impetuous, when he suggests that Ganelon go.\nThis bitterly annoys Ganelon, and when he meets Marsile he makes\na treacherous plot by which Charlemagne is to be induced to go\nback to France, with Roland in command of the rear guard. The\nplan works, and when the advanced party of the French army is out\nof reach, the Saracens fall upon the rear guard in the pass of\nRoncevalles and completely destroy it. The death of Roland, the\nreturn and grief of the king, and his vengeance on the pagans\nform the central incident of the poem. Ganelon is afterwards\ntried for his treachery, condemned, and executed.\n\nTHE SONG OF ROLAND.\n\nStanza I.--\nThe king, our Emperor Carlemaine,\nHath been for seven full years in Spain.\nFrom highland to sea hath he won the land;\nCity was none might his arm withstand;\nKeep and castle alike went down--\nSave Saragossa, the mountain town.\nThe King Marsilius holds the place,\nWho loveth not God, nor seeks His grace:\nHe prays to Apollin, and serves Mahound;\nBut he saved him not from the fate he found.\n\nKing Marsile held a council and decided to offer Charlemagne a\nfeigned submission. Karl summons his council to consider this.\n\nStanza 8.--\nKing Karl is jocund and gay of mood,\nHe hath Cordres city at last subdued;\nIts shattered walls and turrets fell\nBy catapult and mangonel;\nNot a heathen did there remain\nBut confessed himself Christian or else was slain.\nThe Emperor sits in an orchard wide,\nRoland and Olivier by his side:\nSamson the duke, and Anseis proud;\nGeoffrey of Anjou, whose arm was vowed\nThe royal gonfalon to rear;\nGereln, and his fellow in arms, Gerier:\nWith them many a gallant lance,\nFull fifteen thousand of gentle France.\nThe cavaliers sit upon carpets white\nPlaying at tables for their delight;\nThe older and sager sit at chess,\nThe bachelors fence with a light address.\nSeated underneath a pine,\nClose beside an eglantine,\nUpon a throne of beaten gold,\nThe lord of ample France behold;\nWhite his hair and beard were seen,\nFair of body, and proud of mien,\nWho sought him needed not ask, I ween.\nThe ten alight before his feet,\nAnd him in all observance greet.\n\nThe treacherous plot has succeeded. Charles, with the main part\nof his army, has gone ahead, the Saracens have fallen on the\nrear-guard, and are destroying it. Oliver begs Roland to sound\nhis wonderful horn and summon aid.\n\nStanza 87.--\n\"O Roland, sound on your ivory horn,\nTo the ear of Karl shall the blast be borne:\nHe will bid his legions backward bend,\nAnd all his barons their aid will lend.\"\n\"Now God forbid it, for very shame,\nThat for my kindred were stained with blame,\nOr that gentle France to such vileness fell:\nThis good sword that hath served me well,\nMy Durindana such strokes shall deal,\nThat with blood encrimsoned shall be the steel.\nBy their evil star are the felons led;\nThey shall all be numbered among the dead!\"\n\nStanza 88.--\n\"Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast!\nKarl will hear ere the gorge be passed,\nAnd the Franks return on their path fall fast!\n\"I will not sound on mine ivory horn:\nIt shall never be spoken of me in scorn,\nThat for heathen felons one blast I blew;\nI may not dishonour my lineage true.\nBut I will strike, ere this fight be o'er,\nA thousand strokes and seven hundred more,\nAnd my Durindana will drip with gore.\nOur Franks shall bear them like vassals brave.\nThe Saracens shall flock but to find a grave.\"\n\nStanza 89.--\n\"I deem of neither reproach nor stain.\nI have seen the Saracen host of Spain,\nOver plain and valley and mountain spread,\nAnd the regions hidden beneath their tread.\nCountless the swarm of the foe, and we\nA marvellous little company.\"\nRoland answered him, \"All the more\nMy spirit within me burns therefore.\nGod and the angels of heaven defend\nThat France through me from her glory bend.\nDeath were better than fame laid low.\nOur Emperor loveth a downright blow.\"\n\nAt last Roland blows his horn, but it is too late. All the Moors\nare slain or routed, but so are all the Franks save Roland, and\nhe has received his death blow.\n\nStanza 195--\nThat Death was on him he knew full well;\nDown from his head to his heart it fell.\nOn the grass beneath a pinetree's shade,\nWith face to earth his form he laid,\nBeneath him placed he his horn and sword,\nAnd turned his face to the heathen horde.\nThus hath he done the sooth to show,\nThat Karl and his warriors all may know,\nThat the gentle count a conqueror died.\nMea Culpa full oft he cried;\nAnd, for all his sins, unto God above,\nIn sign of penance, he raised his glove.\n\nStanza 197.--\nBeneath a pine was his resting-place,\nTo the land of Spain hath he turned his face.\nOn his memory rose full many a thought\nOf the lands he won and the fields he fought;\nOf his gentle France, of his kin and line;\nOf his nursing father King Karl benign;\nHe may not the tear and sob control,\nNor yet forgets he his parting soul.\nTo God's compassion he makes his cry:\n\"O Father true, who canst not lie,\nWho didst Lazarus raise unto life again,\nAnd Daniel shield in the lions' den;\nShield my soul from its peril, due\nFor the sins I sinned my lifetime through.\"\nHe did his right hand glove upliftst.\nGabriel took from his hand the gift;\nThen drooped his head upon his breast,\nAnd with clasped hands he went to rest.\nGod from on high sent down to him\nOne of his angel cherubim--\nSaint Michael of Peril of the sea,\nSaint Gabriel in company--\nFrom heaven they came for that soul of price,\nAnd they bore it with them to Paradise.\n\nThe king hears Roland's horn and hurries back, only to find him\nand all his knights slain. He swoons, revives, but swoons again.\n\nStanza 212.--\nAs Karl the king revived once more,\nHis hands were held by barons four.\nHe saw his nephew, cold and wan;\nStark his frame, but his hue was gone;\nHis eyes turned inward, dark and dim;\nAnd Karl in love lamented him:\n\"Dear Roland, God thy spirit rest\nIn paradise, amongst His blest!\nIn evil hour thou soughtest Spain:\nNo day shall dawn but sees my pain,\nAnd me of strength and pride bereft,\nNo champion of mine honour left;\nWithout a friend beneath the sky;\nAnd though my kindred still be nigh,\nIs none like thee their ranks among.\"\nWith both his hands his beard he wrung.\nThe Franks bewailed in unison;\nA hundred thousand wept like one.\n\nStanza 213.--\n\"Dear Roland, I return again\nTo Laon, to mine own domain;\nWhere men will come from many a land,\nAnd seek Count Roland at my hand.\nA bitter tale must I unfold--\n'In Spanish earth he lieth cold.'\nA joyless realm henceforth I hold,\nAnd weep with daily tears untold.\n\n Stanza 214--\n\"Dear Roland, beautiful and brave,\nAll men of me will tidings crave,\nWhen I return to La Chapelle.\nOh, what a tale is mine to tell!\nThat low my glorious nephew lies.\nNow will the Saxon foeman rise;\nPalermitan and Afric bands,\nAnd men from fierce and distant lands.\nTo sorrow sorrow must succeed;\nMy hosts to battle who shall lead,\nWhen the mighty captain is overthrown?\nAh! France deserted now, and lone.\nCome, death, before such grief I bear.\"\nBegan he with his hands to tear;\nA hundred thousand fainted there.\n\nStanza 215.--\n\"Dear Roland, and was this thy fate?\nMay Paradise thy soul await.\nWho slew thee wrought fair France's bane:\nI cannot live so deep my pain.\nFor me my kindred lie undone;\nAnd would to Holy Mary's Son,\nEre I at Cizra's gorge alight,\nMy soul may take its parting flight:\nMy spirit would with theirs abide;\nMy body rest their dust beside.\"\nWith sobs his hoary beard he tore.\n\"Alas!\" said Naimes, \"for the Emperor.\"\n\nThe Franks take terrible vengeance on the Moors who survive. Then\nthey bury their dead comrades and all return to France.\n\nStanza 225.\n--From Spain the Emperor made retreat,\nTo Aix in France, his kingly seat;\nAnd thither, to his halls, there came,\nAlda, the fair and gentle dame.\n\"Where is my Roland, sire,\" she cried,\n\"Who vowed to take me for his bride?\nO'er Karl the flood of sorrow swept;\nHe tore his beard and loud he wept.\n\"Dear Sister, gentle friend,\" he said,\n\"Thou seekest one who lieth dead:\nI plight to thee my son instead,--\nLouis, who lord of my realm shall be.\"\n\"Strange,\" she said, \"this seems to me.\nGod and his angels forbid that I\nShould live on earth if Poland die.\"\nPale grow her cheek--she sank amain,\nDown at the feet of Carlemaine.\nSo died she. God receive her soul!\nThe Franks bewail her in grief and dole.\n\nStanza 226.--\nSo to her death went Alda fair.\nThe king but deemed she fainted there.\nWhile dropped his tears of pity warm,\nHe took her hands and raised her form.\nUpon his shoulder drooped her head,\nAnd Karl was ware that she was dead.\nWhen thus he saw that life was o'er,\nHe summoned noble ladies four.\nWithin a cloister was she borne;\nThey watched beside her until morn;\nBeneath a shrine her limbs were laid;\nSuch honour Karl to Alda paid.\n\n\nROMANCES.\n\nAnother form of narrative literature in the Middle Ages is that\nof Romances, and the great products of it are the Arthurian\nRomances and the Romances of Antiquity. THE ARTHURIAN CYCLE OF\nROMANCES is a set of romantic stories founded on the legends of\nArthur and the Knights of the Round Table, with which was early\nfused the legend of the Holy Graal. The legend has sources as far\nback as the ninth century, but expanded into definite shape in\nFrance and England in the twelfth. It had its first and highest\npopular development in France. Here they were collected and\nthrown into verse by Chrestien de Troyes. It became at once a\ngeneral European possession and expanded to vast proportions. In\nEngland the Arthur stories flourished both independently and as\ntranslations from French. Sir Thomas Malory collected in the\nlatter part of the fifteenth century a great number of these\nsources, translated, edited, abridged, and rewrote the whole into\nthat charming book \"Morte D'Arthur\". It is accepted that this\nbook, though so late, gives a true impression of the\ncharacteristics of the older romances. We select from this rather\nthan from other translations of French originals, to give a\nmediaeval flavor to the selection and have the advantage of\nquoting a classic.\n\nAlongside the Arthurian Romances, flourished many romances of\nantiquity. The more important of these cycles are the ROMANCE OF\nALEXANDER and the ROMANCE OF TROY, while others worth mentioning\nare the ROMANCE OF THEBES and the ROMANCE OF AENEAS. They are all\nvery long poems, consisting of series of stories partly derived\nfrom classic sources, partly invented by trouveres. They are\nimportant (1) as connecting, however loosely, mediaeval with\nclassical literature, and (2) as showing some scholarship on the\npart of their authors and interest in general culture.\n\n\nFROM MORTE D'ARTHUR.\n\nBook I. Chapter 23.\n\nHow Arthur by the mean of Merlin gat Excalibur his sword of the\nLady of the lake.\n\nRight so the king and he departed, and went until an hermit that\nwas a good man and a great leach. So the hermit searched all his\nwounds and gave him good salves; so the king was there three\ndays, and then were his wounds well amended that he might ride\nand go, and so departed. And as they rode, Arthur said, I have no\nsword. No force, said Merlin, hereby is a sword that shall be\nyours and I may. So they rode till they came to a lake, the which\nwas a fair water and broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur\nwas ware of an arm clothed in white samite, that held a fair\nsword in that hand. Lo, said Merlin, yonder is that sword that I\nspake of. With that they saw a damsel going upon the lake: What\ndamsel is that? said Arthur. That is the Lady of the lake, said\nMerlin; and within that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a\nplace as any on earth, and richly beseen, and this damsel will\ncome to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her that she will\ngive you that sword. Anon withal came the damsel unto Arthur and\nsaluted him, and he her again. Damsel, said Arthur, what sword is\nthat, that yonder the arm holdeth above the water? I would it\nwere mine' for I have no sword. Sir Arthur king, said the damsel,\nthat sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it\nyou, ye shall have it. By my faith, said Arthur, I will give you\nwhat gift ye will ask. Well, said the damsel, go ye into yonder\nbarge and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard\nwith you, and I will ask my gift when I see my time. So Sir\nArthur and Merlin alight, and tied their horses to two trees, and\nso they went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that\nthe hand held, Sir Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it\nwith him. And the arm and the hand went under the water; and so\nthey came unto the land and rode forth.\n\nBook III. Chapter 1.\n\nHow king Arthur took a wife, and wedded Guenever daughter to\nLeodegrance, king of the land of Cameliard, with whom he had the\nRound Table.\n\nIn the beginning of Arthur, after he was chosen king by adventure\nand by grace--for the most part of the barons knew not that he\nwas Uther Pendragon's son, but as Merlin made it openly\nknown,--many kings and lords made great war against him for that\ncause; but well Arthur overcame them all; for the most part of\nthe days of his life he was ruled much by the council of Merlin.\nSo it fell on a time king Arthur said unto Merlin, My barons will\nlet me have no rest, but needs I must take a wife, and I will\nnone take but by thy council and by thine advice. It is well\ndone, said Merlin, that ye take a wife, for a man of your bounty\nand nobleness should not be without a wife. Now is there any that\nye love more than another? Yea, said king Arthur, I love\nGuenever, the daughter of king Leodegrance, of the land of\nCameliard, which Leodegrance holdeth in his house the Table\nRound, that ye told he had of my father, Uther. And this damsel\nis the most valiant and fairest lady that I know living, or yet\nthat ever I could find. Sir, said Merlin, as of her beauty and\nfairness she is one of the fairest on live. But and ye loved her\nnot so well as ye do, I could find you a damsel of beauty and of\ngoodness that should like you and please you, and your heart\nwere not set; but there as a man's heart is set, he will be loth\nto return. That is truth, said king Arthur. But Merlin warned the\nking covertly that Guenever was not wholesome for him to take to\nwife, for he warned him that Launcelot should love her, and she\nhim again; and so he turned his tale to the adventures of the\nSangreal. Then Merlin desired of the king to have men with him\nthat should enquire of Guenever, and so the king granted him. And\nMerlin went forth to king Leodegrance of Cameliard, and told him\nof the desire of the king that he would have unto his wife\nGuenever his daughter. That is to me, said king Leodegrance, the\nbest tidings that ever I heard, that so worthy a king of prowess\nand noblesse will wed my daughter. And as for my lands I will\ngive him wist I it might please him, but he hath lands enough,\nhim needeth none, but I shall send him a gift shall please him\nmuch more, for I shall give him the Table Round, the which Uther\nPendragon gave me, and when it is full complete there is an\nhundred knights and fifty. And as for an hundred good knights I\nhave myself, but I lack fifty, for so many have been slain in my\ndays. And so king Leodegrance delivered his daughter Guenever\nunto Merlin, and the Table Round, with the hundred knights, and\nso they rode freshly, with great royalty, what by water and what\nby land, till that they came nigh unto London.\n\nBook III. Chapter 2.\n\nHow the knights of the Round Table were ordained, and their\nsieges blessed by the bishop of Canterbury.\n\nWhen king Arthur heard Of the coming of Guenever and the hundred\nknights with the Table Round, then king Arthur made great joy for\ntheir coming, and that rich present, and said openly, This fair\nlady is passing welcome unto me, for I have loved her long, and\ntherefore there is nothing so lief to me. And these knights with\nthe Round Table please me more than right great riches. And in\nall haste the king let ordain for the marriage and the coronation\nin the most honourablest wise that could be devised. Now Merlin,\nsaid king Arthur, go thou and espy me in all this land fifty\nknights which be of most prowess and worship. Within short time\nMerlin had found such knights that should fulfil twenty and eight\nknights, but no more he could find. Then the bishop of Canterbury\nwas fetched, and he blessed the sieges with great royalty and\ndevotion, and there set the eight and twenty knights in their\nsieges. And when this was done Merlin said, Fair sirs, ye must\nall arise and come to king Arthur for to do him homage; he will\nhave the better will to maintain you. And so they arose and did\ntheir homage. And when they were gone Merlin found in every siege\nletters of gold that told the knights' names that had sitten\ntherein. But two sieges were void: And so anon came young\nGawaine, and asked the king a gift. Ask, said the king, and I\nshall grant it you. Sir, I ask that ye will make me knight that\nsame day ye shall wed fair Guenever. I will do it with a good\nwill, said king Arthur, and do unto you all the worship that I\nmay, for I must by reason you are my nephew, my sister's son.\n\nIt is now the Vigil of the feast of Pentecost, and the knights\nare all at Arthur's court. Sir Launcelot is suddenly desired to\ngo on a mission by a fair damsel who takes him to a forest and an\nabbey.\n\nBook XIII. Chapter 1.\n\nTruly, said Sir Launcelot, a gentlewoman brought me hither, but I\nknow not the cause. In the meanwhile, as they thus stood talking\ntogether, there came twelve nuns which brought with them Galahad,\nthe which was passing fair and well made, that unneth in the\nworld men might not find his match; and all those ladies wept.\nSir, said the ladies, we bring you here this child, the which we\nhave nourished, and we pray you to make him a knight; for of a\nmore worthier man's hand may he not receive the order of\nknighthood. Sir Launcelot beheld that young squire, and saw him\nseemly and demure as a dove, with all manner of good features,\nthat he wend of his age never to have seen so fair a man of form.\nThen said Sir Launcelot, Cometh this desire of himself? He and\nall they said, Yea. Then shall he, said Sir Launcelot, receive\nthe high order of knighthood as tomorrow at the reverence of the\nhigh feast. That night Sir Launcelot had passing good cheer, and\non the morn at the hour of prime, at Galahad's desire, he made\nhim knight, and said, God make him a good man, For beauty faileth\nyou not as any that liveth.\n\nSir Launcelot returns to court. It is noticed that the back of\nthe \"siege (seat) perilous,\" at the Round Table has a new\ninscription saying that this day this long unfilled seat should\nbe filled. Before sitting down to feast on this day, it was an\nold custom to see \"some adventure.\"\n\nBook XIII. Chapter 2.\n\nSo as they stood speaking, in came a squire, and said unto the\nking, Sir, I bring unto you marvellous tidings. What be they?\nsaid the king. Sir, there is here beneath at the river a great\nstone, which I saw fleet above the water, and therein saw I\nsticking a sword. The king said, I will see that marvel. So all\nthe knights went with him, and when they came unto the river,\nthey found there a stone fleeting, as it were of red marble, and\ntherein stack a fair and a rich sword, and in the pomell thereof\nwere precious stones, wrought with subtil letters of gold. Then\nthe barons read the letters, which said in this wise: Never shall\nman take me hence but only he by whose side I ought to hang, and\nhe shall be the best knight of the world. When the king had seen\nthese letters, he said unto Sir Launcelot, Fair sir, this sword\nought to be yours, for I am sure ye be the best knight of the\nworld. Then Sir Launcelot answered full soberly: Certes, sir, it\nis not my sword: also, sir, wit ye well I have no hardiness to\nset my hand to, for it longed not to hang by my side. Also who\nthat assayeth to take that sword, and falleth of it, he shall\nreceive a wound by that sword, that he shall not be whole long\nafter. And I will that ye wit that this same day will the\nadventures of the Sancgreal, that is called the holy vessel,\nbegin.\n\nSir Gawaine tries to draw out the sword but fails. They sit at\ntable and an old man brings in the young knight, Sir Galahad.\n\nBook XIII. Chapter 4.\n\nThen the old man made the young man to unarm him; and he was in a\ncoat of red sendel, and bare a mantle upon his shoulder that was\nfurred with ermine, and put that upon him. And the old knight\nsaid unto the young knight, Sir, follow me. And anon he led him\nunto the siege perilous, where beside sat Sir Launcelot, and the\ngood man lift up the cloth, and found there letters that said\nthus: This is the siege of Galahad the haut prince. Sir, said the\nold knight, wit ye well that place is yours. And then he set him\ndown surely in that siege . . . . . . . . . Then all the knights\nof the Table Round marvelled them greatly of Sir Galahad, that he\ndurst sit there in that siege perilous, and was so tender of age,\nand wist not from whence he came, but all only by God, and said,\nThis is he by whom the Sancgreal shall be achieved, for there sat\nnever none but he, but he were mischieved.\n\nKing Arthur showed the stone with the sword in it to Sir Galahad.\nHe lightly drew out the sword and put it in his sheath. Then the\nking had all his knights come together to joust ere they\ndeparted.\n\n\nBook XIII. Chapter 6.\n\nNow, said the king, I am sure at this quest of the Sancgreal\nshall all ye of the Table Round depart, and never shall I see you\nagain whole together, therefore I will see you all whole together\nin the meadow of Camelot, to just and to tourney, that after your\ndeath men may speak of it, that such good knights were wholly\ntogether such a day. As unto that council, and at the king's\nrequest, they accorded ill, and took on their harness that longed\nunto justing. But all this moving of the king was for this\nintent, for to see Galahad proved, for the king deemed he should\nnot lightly come again unto the court after his departing. So\nwere they assembled in the meadow, both more and less. Then Sir\nGalahad, by the prayer of the king and the queen, did upon him a\nnoble jesserance, and also he did on his helm, but shield would\nhe take none for no prayer of the king. And then Sir Gawaine and\nother knights prayed him to take a spear. Right so he did; and\nthe queen was in a tower with all her ladies for to behold that\ntournament. Then Sir Galahad dressed him in the midst of the\nmeadow, and began to break spears marvellously, that all men had\nwonder of him, for he there surmounted all other knights, for\nwithin a while he had thrown down many good knights of the Table\nRound save twain, that was Sir Launcelot and Sir Percivale.\n\nBook XIII. Chapter 7.\n\nAnd then the king and all estates went home unto Camelot, and so\nwent to evensong to the great minster. And so after upon that to\nsupper, and every knight sat in his own place as they were\ntoforehand. Then anon they heard cracking and crying of thunder,\nthat them thought the place should all to- drive. In the midst of\nthis blast entered a sun-beam more clearer by seven times than\never they saw day, and all they were alighted of the grace of the\nHoly Ghost. Then began every knight to behold other, and either\nsaw other by their seeming fairer than ever they saw afore. Not\nfor then there was no knight might speak one word a great while,\nand so they looked every man on other, as they had been dumb.\nThen there entered into the hall the holy Graile covered with\nwhite samite, but there was none might see it, nor who bare it.\nAnd there was all the hall full filled with good odours, and\nevery knight had such meats and drinks as he best loved in this\nworld: and when the holy Graile had been borne through the hall,\nthen the holy vessel departed suddenly, that they wist not where\nit became. Then had they all breath to speak. And then the king\nyielded thankings unto God of his good grace that he had sent\nthem. Certes, said the king, we ought to thank our Lord Jesu\ngreatly, for that he hath shewed us this day at the reverence of\nthis high feast of Pentecost. Now, said Sir Gawaine, we have been\nserved this day of what meats and drinks we thought on, but one\nthing beguiled us, we might not see the holy Graile, it was so\npreciously covered: wherefore I will make here avow, that\nto-morn, without longer abiding, I shall labour in the quest of\nthe Sancgreal, that I shall hold me out a twelvemonth and a day,\nor more if need be, and never shall I return again unto the court\ntill I have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here; and\nif I may not speed, I shall return again as he that may not be\nagainst the will of our Lord Jesu Christ. When they of the Table\nRound heard Sir Gawaine say so, they arose up the most party, and\nmade such avows as Sir Gawaine had made.\n\nBook XVII. Chapter 20.\n\nHow Galahad and his fellows were fed of the holy Sangreal, and\nhow our Lord appeared to them, and other things.  Then king\nPelles and his son departed. And therewithal beseemed them that\nthere came a man and four angels from heaven, clothed in likeness\nof a bishop, and had a cross in his hand, and these four angels\nbare him up in a chair, and set him down before the table of\nsilver whereupon the Sancgreal was, and it seemed that he had in\nmidst of his forehead letters that said, See ye here Joseph the\nfirst bishop of Christendom, the same which our Lord succoured in\nthe city of Sarras, in the spiritual place. Then the knights\nmarvelled, for that bishop was dead more than three hundred years\ntofore. Oh knights, said he, marvel not, for I was sometime an\nearthly man. With that they heard the chamber door open, and\nthere they saw angels, and two bare candles of wax, and the third\na towel, and the fourth a spear which bled marvellously, that\nthree drops fell within a box which he held with his other hand.\nAnd they set the candles upon the table, and the third the towel\nupon the vessel, and the fourth, the holy spear even upright upon\nthe vessel. And then the bishop made semblant as though he would\nhave gone to the sacring of the mass. And then he took an ubbly,\nwhich was made in likeness of bread; and at the lifting up there\ncame a figure in likeness of a child, and the visage was as red\nand as bright as any fire, and smote himself into the bread, so\nthat they all saw it, that the bread was formed of a fleshly man,\nand then he put it into the holy vessel again. And then he did\nthat longed to a priest to do to a mass. And then he went to\nGalahad and kissed him, and bad him go and kiss his fellows, and\nso he did anon. Now, said he, servants of Jesu Christ, ye shall\nbe fed afore this table with sweet meats, that never knights\ntasted. And when he had said, he vanished away; and they set them\nat the table in great dread, and made their prayers. Then looked\nthey, and saw a man come out of the holy vessel, that had all the\nsigns of the passion of Jesu Christ, bleeding all openly, and\nsaid, My knights and my servants and my true children, which be\ncome out of deadly life into spiritual life, I will now no longer\nhide me from you, but ye shall see now a part of my secrets and\nof my hid things: now hold and receive the high meat which ye\nhave so much desired. Then took he himself the holy vessel, and\ncame to Galahad, and he kneeled down and there he received his\nSaviour, and after him so received all his fellows; and they\nthought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. Then said he\nto Galahad, Son, wotest thou what I hold betwixt my hands? Nay,\nsaid he, but if ye will tell me. This is, said he, the holy dish\nwherein I ate the lamb on Sher-thursday. And now hast thou seen\nthat thou most desiredst to see, but yet hast thou not seen it so\nopenly as thou shalt see it in the city of Sarras, in the\nspiritual place.\n\nLYRIC POETRY--FRENCH.\n\nLyric poetry sprang up very early in Northern France, having a\nspontaneous and abundant growth in the twelfth and thirteenth\ncenturies. Of the earliest lyrics, the critics distinguish two\nvarieties (l) the Romance, and (2) the Pastourelle. These are\ngenerally dramatic love stories, full of gay and simple life and\nextremely artistic and musical in form. Along with these was\nproduced a vast amount of simple lyric poetry on love and other\npersonal emotions. The number of poems written was immense. About\ntwo hundred names of poets have come down to us, besides hundreds\nof anonymous pieces.\n\nThe Romances and Pastourelles of the northern trouveres were soon\ngreatly influenced by the more artful poetry of the Provencal\ntroubadours, producing the highly artificial but charming\nrondeaus and ballades of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.\nBut the freshest, most individual work is that of the earlier\ntime.\n\nCHATELAIN DE COUCY.  Thirteenth Century.\n\nThe first approach of the sweet spring\n Returning here once more,--\nThe memory of the love that holds\n In my fond heart such power,--\nThe thrush again his song assaying,--\nThe little rills o'er pebbles playing,\n And sparkling as they fall,--\n The memory recall\nOf her on whom my heart's desire\nIs, shall be, fixed till I expire.\n\nWith every season fresh and new\n That love is more inspiring:\nHer eyes, her face, all bright with joy,--\n Her coming, her retiring,\nHer faithful words, her winning ways,--\nThat sweet look, kindling up the blaze,\n Of love, so gently still,\n To wound, but not to kill,--\nSo that when most I weep and sigh,\nSo much the higher springs my joy.\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nTHIBAUT OF CHAMPAGNE, KING OF NAVARRE. Early Thirteenth Century.\n\nLady, the fates command, and I must go,--\n Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me:\nHere my heart suffered many a heavy woe;\n But what is left to love, thus leaving thee?\nAlas! that cruel land beyond the sea!\n Why thus dividing many a faithful heart,\nNever again from pain and sorrow free,\n Never again to meet, when thus they part?\n\nI see not, when thy presence bright I leave,\n How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my lot;\nNe'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve\n As now in leaving thee; and if thy thought\nOf me in absence should be sorrow-fraught,\n Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee,\nDwelling in fruitless wishes, on this spot,\n And all the gracious words here said to me.\n\nO gracious God! to thee I bend my knee,\n For thy sake yielding all I love and prize;\nAnd O, how mighty must that influence be,\n That steals me thus from all my cherished joys!\nHere, ready, then, myself surrendering,\n Prepared to serve thee, I submit; and ne'er\nTo one so faithful could I service bring,\n  So kind a master, so beloved and dear.\n\nAnd strong my ties,--my grief unspeakable!\n Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign;\nYet stronger still the affections that impel\n My heart toward Him, the God whose love is mine.\nThat holy love, how beautiful! how strong!\n Even wisdom's favorite sons take refuge there;\n'T is the redeeming gem that shines among\n  Men's darkest thoughts,--for ever bright and fair.\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nGACE BRULE. Thirteenth Century.\n\n The birds, the birds of mine own land\n  I heard in Brittany;\n And as they sung, they seemed to me\n The very same I heard with thee.\n And if it were indeed a dream,\n Such thoughts they taught my soul to frame\n That straight a plaintive number came,\n  Which still shall be my song,\nTill that reward is mine which love hath promised long.\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nRAOUL DE SOISSONS. Thirteenth Century.\n\nAh! beauteous maid,\n  Of form so fair!\nPearl of the world,\n  Beloved and dear!\nHow does my spirit eager pine\nBut once to press those lips of thine!--\n Yes, beauteous maid,\n  Of form so fair!\n Pearl of the world,\n  Beloved and dear!\n\nAnd if the theft\n Thine ire awake,\nA hundred fold\n I'd give it back,--\nThou beauteous maid,\n Of form so fair!\nPearl of the world,\n Beloved and dear!\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nLATER FRENCH LYRICS.\n\nDuring the latter half of the thirteenth century several new and\nhighly artificial forms of verse were developed. The chief of\nthese were the Ballade and Chant Royal, the Rondel, Roudeau,\nTriolet, Virelay. These are all alike in being short poems,\ngenerally treating of love, and making special use of a refrain\nand the repetition of words and lines. They differ in the number\nof verses in a stanza, of stanzas In the poem, and the order and\nnumber of rhymes. Their poetic value is not great because the\npoet so easily lost sight of his subject in perfecting his verse\nform.\n\nA TRIOLET.\n\nTake time while yet it is in view,\n For fortune is a fickle fair:\nDays fade, and others spring anew;\nThen take the moment still in view.\nWhat boots to toil and cares pursue?\n Each month a new moon hangs in air.\nTake, then, the moment still in view,\n For fortune is a fickle fair.\n\n--Froissart. Tr. Anonymous.\n\n\nRONDEL.\n\nNow Time throws off his cloak again\nOf ermined frost, and cold and rain,\nAnd clothes him in the embroidery\nOf glittering sun and clear blue sky.\nWith beast and bird the forest rings,\nEach in his jargon cries or sings;\nAnd Time throws off his cloak again\nOf ermined frost, and cold and rain.\n\nRiver, and fount, and tinkling brook\n Wear in their dainty livery\n Drops of silver jewelry;\nIn new-made suit they merry look;\nAnd Time throws off his cloak again\nOf ermined frost, and cold and rain.\n\n--Charles d'Orleans. Tr. by Longfellow.\n\n\nTHE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.\n\nTell me now in what hidden way is\n Lady Flora the lovely Roman?\nWhere's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,\n Neither of them the fairer woman?\n Where is Echo, beheld of no man,\nOnly heard on river and mere,--\n She whose beauty was more than human? ....\nBut where are the snows of yester-year?\n\nWhere's Heloise, the learned nun,\n For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,\nLost manhood and put priesthood on?\n (From love he won such dule and teen!)\n And where, I pray you, is the Queen\nWho willed that Buridan should steer\n Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? ....\nBut where are the snows of yester-year?\n\nWhite Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,\n With a voice like any mermaiden,--\nBertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,\n And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,--\n And that good Joan whom Englishmen\nAt Rouen doomed and burned her there,--\n Mother of God, where are they then? ....\nBut where are the snows of yester-year?\n\nNay, never ask this week, fair lord,\n Where they are gone, nor yet this year,\nSave with thus much for an overword,--\n But where are the snows of yester-year?\n\n--Villon. Tr. by D. G. Rossetti.\n\n\nLYRIC POETRY--PROVENCAL.\n\nModern scholars separate the treatment of Provencal literature\nfrom that of French. It was written in a different dialect, was\nsubject to somewhat different laws of development, and after a\nshort period of activity died almost completely away.\n\nProvencal literature is that produced in ancient Provence or\nSouthern France. Its period of life extended from the eleventh to\nthe fifteenth centuries, its middle and only important period\nbeing that of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This\nliterature contains examples of all the varieties of French\nliterature of the Middle Ages, but the only work that is original\nand important is its lyric poetry. This was composed by the\ntroubadours (corresponding to the French trouveres) and sung by\njongleurs or minstrels. The names of 460 Provencal poets and 251\nanonymous pieces have come down to us. The one great theme of\ntroubadour-singing--one, too, upon which he was original and a\nmaster--was that of passionate love. With this as subject, these\npoets united an eagerness for form, and were the first to perfect\nverse in any modern language.\n\n\nPIERRE ROGIERS. Twelfth Century.\n\nWho has not looked upon her brow\n  Has never dreamed of perfect bliss,\nBut once to see her is to know\n  What beauty, what perfection, is.\n\nHer charms are of the growth of heaven,\n  She decks the night with hues of day:\nBlest are the eyes to which 't is given\n  On her to gaze the soul away!\n\n--Tr. by Costello.\n\n\nGUILLEM DE CABESTANH. Twelfth Century.\n\nNo, never since the fatal time\nWhen the world fell for woman's crime,\n  Has Heaven in tender mercy sent--\nAll preordaining, all foreseeing--\n  A breath of purity that lent\nExistence to so fair a being!\nWhatever earth can boast of rare,\nOf precious, and of good,--\nGaze on her form, 't is mingled there,\nWith added grace endued.\n\nWhy, why is she so much above\n  All others whom I might behold,\nWhom I, unblamed, might dare to love,\n  To whom my sorrows might be told?\nO, when I see her, passing fair,\nI feel how vain is all my care:\nI feel she all transcends my praise,\nI feel she must contemn my lays:\nI feel, alas! no claim have I\nTo gain that bright divinity!\nWere she less lovely, less divine,\nLess passion and despair were mine.\n\n--Tr. by Costello.\n\n\nTHE MONK OF MONTAUDON. Thirteenth Century.\n\nI love the court by wit and worth adorned,\nA man whose errors are abjured and mourned,\nMy gentle mistress by a streamlet clear,\nPleasure, a handsome present, and good cheer.\n\nI love fat salmon, richly dressed, at noon;\nI love a faithful friend both late and soon.\n\nI hate small gifts, a man that's poor and proud,\nThe young who talk incessantly and loud;\nI hate in low-bred company to be,\nI hate a knight that has not courtesy.\nI hate a lord with arms to war unknown,\nI hate a priest or monk with beard o'ergrown;\nA doting husband, or a tradesman's son,\nWho apes a noble, and would pass for one.\nI hate much water and too little wine,\nA prosperous villain and a false divine;\nA niggard lout who sets the dice aside;\nA flirting girl all frippery and pride;\nA cloth too narrow, and a board too wide;\nHim who exalts his handmaid to his wife,\nAnd her who makes her groom her lord for life;\nThe man who kills his horse with wanton speed,\nAnd him who fails his friend in time of need.\n\n--Tr. by Costello.\n\n\nPIERRE VIDAL. End Twelfth Century.\n\nOf all sweet birds, I love the most\nThe lark and nightingale:\nFor they the first of all awake,\nThe opening spring with songs to hail.\n\nAnd I, like them, when silently\nEach Troubadour sleeps on,\nWill wake me up, and sing of love\nAnd thee, Vierna, fairest one!\n. . . .\nThe rose on thee its bloom bestowed,\nThe lily gave its white,\nAnd nature, when it planned thy form\nA model framed of fair and bright.\n\nFor nothing, sure, that could be given,\nTo thee hath been denied;\nThat there each thought of love and joy\nIn bright perfection might reside.\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nGUIRAUT DE BORNEILH. End Thirteenth Century.\n\nCompanion dear! or sleeping or awaking,\nSleep not again! for, lo! the morn is nigh,\nAnd in the east that early star is breaking,\nThe day's forerunner, known unto mine eye.\nThe morn, the morn is near.\n\nCompanion dear! with carols sweet I'll call thee;\nSleep not again! I hear the birds' blithe song\nLoud in the woodlands; evil may befall thee,\nAnd jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long,\nNow that the morn is near.\n\nCompanion dear! forth from the window looking,\nAttentive mark the signs of yonder heaven;\nJudge if aright I read what they betoken:\nThine all the loss, if vain the warning given.\nThe morn, the morn is near.\n\nCompanion dear! since thou from hence wert straying,\nNor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited;\nMy prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying,\nThat thou in peace thy backward way might tread.\nThe morn, the morn, is near.\n\nCompanion dear! hence to the fields with me!\nMe thou forbad'st to slumber through the night,\nAnd I have watched that livelong night for thee;\nBut thou in song or me hast no delight,\nAnd now the morn is near.\n\nANSWER.\n\nCompanion dear! so happily sojourning,\nSo blest am I, I care not forth to speed:\nHere brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorning\nHer dwelling-place,--then wherefore should I heed\nThe morn or jealous eyes?\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nFABLES AND TALES.\n\nFABLES.\n\nA large and popular class of writing of the French Middle Ages\nwas that of FABLIAUX or Fables. A Fable is \"a recital, for the\nmost part comic, of a real or possible event occurring in the\nordinary affairs of human life.\"[1] We possess some two hundred\nof these fables, varying in length from twenty to five hundred\nlines. They are generally mocking, jocular, freespoken, half\nsatirical stories of familiar people, and incidents in ordinary\nlife. The follies of the clergy are especially exposed, though\nthe peasants, knights, and even kings furnish frequent subjects.\nThey are commonly very free and often licentious in language. The\nfollowing is an example of the simpler kind of Fables.\n\n[1] Quoted by Saintsbury from M. de Montaiglon, editor of the\nlatest collection of Fabliaux (Parts 1872-'88).\n\n\nTHE PRIEST WHO ATE MULBERRIES.\n\nYe lordlings all, come lend an ear;\nIt boots ye naught to chafe or fleer,\nAs overgrown with pride:\nYe needs must hear Dan Guerin tell\nWhat once a certain priest befell,\nTo market bent to ride.\n\nThe morn began to shine so bright,\nWhen up this priest did leap full light\nAnd called his folk around:\nHe bade them straight bring out his mare,\nFor he would presently repair\nUnto the market-ground.\n\nSo bent he was on timely speed,\nSo pressing seemed his worldly need,\nHe weened 't were little wrong\nIf pater-nosters he delayed,\nAnd cast for once they should be said\nE'en as he rode along.\n\nAnd now with tower and turret near\nBehold the city's walls appear,\nWhen, as he turned aside,\nHe chanced in evil hour to see\nAll hard at hand a mulberry-tree\nThat spread both far and wide.\n\nIts berries shone so glossy black,\nThe priest his lips began to smack,\nFull fain to pluck the fruit;\nBut, woe the while! the trunk was tall,\nAnd many a brier and thorn did crawl\nAround that mulberry's root.\n\nThe man, howbe, might not forbear,\nBut reckless all he pricked his mare\nIn thickest of the brake;\nThen climbed his saddle-bow amain,\nAnd tiptoe 'gan to stretch and strain\nSome nether bough to take.\nA nether bough he raught at last;\nHe with his right hand held it fast,\nAnd with his left him fed:\nHis sturdy mare abode the shock,\nAnd bore, as steadfast as a rock,\nThe struggling overhead.\n\nSo feasted long the merry priest,\nNor much bethought him of his beast\nTill hunger's rage was ended:\nThen, \"Sooth!\" quoth he, \"whoe'er should cry,\n'What ho, fair sir!' in passing by,\nWould leave me here suspended.\"\n\nAlack! for dread of being hanged,\nWith voice so piercing shrill he twanged\nThe word of luckless sound,\nHis beast sprang forward at the cry,\nAnd plumb the priest dropped down from high\nInto the brake profound.\n\nThere, pricked and pierced with many a thorn,\nAnd girt with brier, and all forlorn,\nNaught boots him to complain:\nWell may ye ween how ill bested\nHe rolled him on that restless bed,\nBut rolled and roared in vain:\n\nFor there algates he must abide\nThe glowing noon, the eventide,\nThe livelong night and all;\nThe whiles with saddle swinging round,\nAnd bridle trailing on the ground,\nHis mare bespoke his fall.\n\nO, then his household shrieked for dread,\nAnd weened at least he must be dead;\nHis lady leman swooned:\nEftsoons they hie them all to look\nIf haply in some dell or nook\nHis body might be found.\n\nThrough all the day they sped their quest;\nThe night fled on, they took no rest;\nReturns the morning hour:\nWhen, lo! at peeping of the dawn.\nIt chanced a varlet boy was drawn\nNigh to the mulberry-bower.\n\nThe woful priest the help descried:\n\"O, save my life! my life!\" he cried,\n\"Enthralled in den profound!\nO, pluck me out, for pity's sake,\nFrom this inextricable brake,\nBegirt with brambles round!\"\n\n\"Alas, my lord! my master dear!\nWhat ugly chance hath dropped thee here?\"\nExclaimed the varlet youth.\n\"'T was gluttony\"' the priest replied,\nWith peerless folly by her side:\nBut help me straight, for ruth!\"\n\nBy this were come the remnant rout;\nWith passing toil they plucked him out,\nAnd slowly homeward led:\nBut, all so tattered in his hide,\nLong is he fain in bed to bide,\nBut little less than dead.\n\n--Tr. by Way.\n\n\nA special development of the fable is the mock-epic \"Reynard the\nFox\", one of the most noteworthy developments in literature of\nthe Middle Ages. It is an elaborate, semi-epic set of stories in\nwhich Reynard is the embodiment of cunning and discreet valor,\nwhile his great enemy, Isegrim, the wolf, represents stupid\nstrength. From the beginning of this set of fables, there is a\ntone of satirical comment on men and their affairs. In the later\ndevelopments of the story, elaborate allegories are introduced,\nand monotonous moralizings take the place of the earlier, simpler\nhumor.\n\nThe fable reached its greatest development in France, but all\nEurope shared in making and delighting in it.\n\nOur extracts are taken from Caxton's translation of the Flemish\nform of the legend.\n\nFROM REYNARD THE FOX.\n\nPart II. Chapter 33.\n\nREYNARD AND ERSWYNDE (THE WOLF'S WIFE) AT THE WELL.\n\nThen spoke Erswynde, the wolf's wife, \"Ach! Fell Reynard, no man\ncan keep himself from thee, thou canst so well utter thy words\nand thy falseness; but it shall be evil, rewarded in the end. How\nbroughtest thou me once, into the well, where the two buckets\nhung by one cord running through one pulley which went one up and\nanother down? Thou sattest in one bucket beneath in the pit in\ngreat dread. I came thither and heard thee sigh and make sorrow,\nand asked thee how thou camest there. Thou saidst that thou hadst\nthere so many good fishes eaten out of the water that thy belly\nwouldst burst. I said, 'tell me how I shall come to thee.' Then\nsaidst thou: 'Aunt, spring into that bucket that hangeth there,\nand thou shalt come anon to me.' I did so, and I went downward\nand ye came upward, and then I was all angry. Thou saidst, 'thus\nfareth the world, that one goeth up and another goeth down.' Then\nsprang ye forth and went your way, and I abode there alone,\nsitting an whole day, sore and hungry and acold. And thereto had\nI many a stroke ere I could get thence.\"  \"Aunt,\" said the fox,\n\"though the strokes did you harm, I had leifer ye had them than\nI, for ye may better bear them, for one of us must needs have had\nthem. I taught you good; will you understand it and think on it,\nthat ye another time take heed and believe no man over hastily,\nis he friend or cousin. For every man seeketh his own profit.\nThey be now fools that do not so, and especially when they be in\njeopardy of their lives.\"\n\nPart II. Chapter 35.\n\nHOW ISEGRYM PROFFERED HIS GLOVE TO THE FOX FOR TO FIGHT WITH HIM.\n\nThe wolf said, \"I may well forbear your mocks and your scorns,\nand also your fell, venomous words' strong thief that you are. Ye\nsaid that I was almost dead for hunger when ye helped me in my\nneed. That is falsely lied; for it was but a bone that ye gave to\nme; ye had eaten away all the flesh that was thereon. And ye mock\nme and say that I am hungry here where I stand. That touched my\nworship too nigh. What many a spighty word have ye brought forth\nwith false lesings.[1] And that I have conspired the king's\ndeath, for the treasure that you have said to him is in\nHulsterlo. And ye have also my wife shamed and slandered that she\nshall never recover it. And I should ever be disworshipped\nthereby if I avenged it not. I have forborne you long, but now ye\nshall not escape me. I cannot make here of great proof, but I say\nhere before my lord, and before all them that been here, that\nthou art a false traitor and a murderer, and that I shall prove\nand make good on thy body within lists in the field, and that,\nbody against body. And then shall our strife have an end. And\nthereto I cast to thee my glove, and take thou it up. I shall\nhave right of thee or die therefor.\n\n[1] Lyings.\n\n\nReynard the Fox thought, \"how came I on this company? We been not\nboth alike.[1] I shall not well con[2] stand against this strong\nthief. All my proof is now come to an end.\"\n\n[1] Of equal strength. [2] Know how to.\n\n\nYet, thought the fox, \"I have good advantage. The claws of his\nfore feet been off and his feet been yet sore thereof, when for\nmy sake he was unshod. He shall be somewhat the weaker.\"\n\nThen said the fox, \"who that sayeth that I am a traitor or a\nmurderer? I say he lieth falsely, and that art thou especially\nIsegrym. Thou bringest me there as I would be. This have I oft\ndesired. Lo! there is my pledge that all thy words been false and\nthat I shall defend me and make good that thou liest.\n\nThe king received the pledges and amitted[1] the battle, and\nasked borrows[2] of them both, that on the morn they should come\nand perform their battle and do as they ought to do. Then the\nBear and the Cat were borrows for the wolf, and for the Fox were\nborrows Grymbert,[3] the dasse,[4] and Bytelnys.[5]\n\n[1] Admitted. [2] Pledges. [3] The badger. [4] A small fox. [5]\nThe elder daughter of the apes.\n\n\nTALES.\n\nFrench mediaeval literature includes many tales less elaborate in\nform and less \"heroic\" in subject than the epics and romances and\nwithout the satire and humor of the fables. The best of them are\nthe love stories, and of these the most beautiful is \"Aucassin\nand Nicolette\", by an unknown trouvere of the thirteenth century.\nIt is an alternation of prose narrative and dainty narrative\nlyrics. The story is that of two lovers parted temporarily by the\npride and cruelty of the youth's father. But, remaining true to\neach other, they are, after many vicissitudes, happily united.\nOur extracts are from Bourdillon's beautiful translation.\n\nFROM AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE.\n\nSec. 1.--\nWho were fain good verse to hear,\nOf the aged captives' cheer,\nOf two children fair and feat,\nAucassin and Nicolette,--\nWhat great sorrows suffered he,\nAnd what deeds did valiantly\nFor his love, so bright of blee?\nSweet the song, and fair the say,\nDainty and of deft array.\nSo astonied wight is none,\nNor so doleful nor undone,\nNone that doth so sorely ail,\nIf he hear, shall not be hale,\nAnd made glad again for bliss,\nSo sweet it is!\n\nThe hero refuses to become a knight and go to war unless his\nfather will give him Nicolette for wife.\n\nSec. 8.--\nAucassin was of Beaucaire,\nAnd abode in castle fair.\nNone can move him to forget\nDainty-fashioned Nicolette\nWhom his sire to him denies;\nAnd his mother sternly cries:\n\"Out on thee! what wilt thou, loon?\nNicolette is blithe and boon?\nCastaway from Carthage she!\nBought of Paynim compayne!\nIf with woman thou wilt mate,\nTake thee wife of high estate!\"\n\"Mother, I can else do ne'er!\nNicolette is debonair;\nHer lithe form, her face, her bloom,\nDo the heart of me illume.\nFairly mine her love may be\nSo sweet is she!\"\n\nThis the father refuses to do, and has Nicolette shut up in a\ntower. But the son stubbornly persists. At last it is agreed that\nif Aucassin returns from fighting he may see and kiss his lover.\n\nSec. 9.--\nAucassin heard of the kiss\nWhich on return shall be his.\nHad one given him of pure gold\nMarks a hundred thousand told,\nNot so blithe of hear he were.\nRich array he bade them bear:\nThey made ready for his wear.\nHe put on a hauberk lined,\nHelmet on his head did bind,\nGirt his sword with hilt pure gold,\nMounted on his charger bold;\nSpear and buckler then he took;\nAt his two feet cast a look:\nThey trod in the stirrups trim.\nWondrous proud he carried him\nHis dear love he thought upon,\nAnd his good horse spurred anon,\nWho right eagerly went on.\nThrough the gate he rode straightway,\nInto the fray.\n\nAucassin was greatly successful, but on his return his father\nwould not keep his promise, and shut him up in prison.\n\nSec. 12.--\nAucassin was put in prison, as you have listened and heard, and\nNicolette on the other hand, was in the chamber. It was in the\nsummer-time, in the month of May, when the days are warm, long,\nand bright, and the nights still and cloudless. Nicolette lay one\nnight on her bed and saw the moon shine bright through a window,\nand heard the nightingale sing in the garden, and then she\nbethought her of Aucassin, her friend, whom she loved so much.\nShe began to consider of the Count Garin of Beaucaire, who hated\nher to death; and she thought to herself that she would remain\nthere no longer; since if she were betrayed, and the Count Garin\nknew it, he would make her to die an evil death. She perceived\nthat the old woman who was with her was asleep. She got up, and\nput on a gown which she had, of cloth-of-silk and very good; and\nshe took bedclothes and towels, and tied one to another, and made\na rope as long as she could, and tied it to the pillar of the\nwindow, and let herself down into the garden; and she took her\ndress in one hand before and in the other behind, and tucked it\nup, because of the dew which she saw thick on the grass, and she\nwent away down in the garden.\n\nHer hair was golden and in little curls, and her eyes blue-gray\nand laughing, and- her face oval, and her nose high and well set,\nand her lips vermeil, so as is no rose nor cherry in summertime,\nand her teeth white and small, and her bosom was firm, and heaved\nher dress as if it had been two walnuts; and atween the sides she\nwas so slender that you could have clasped her in your two hands;\nand the daisy blossoms which she broke off with the toes of her\nfeet, which lay fallen over on the bend of her foot, were right\nblack against her feet and her legs, so very white was the\nmaiden.\n\nShe came to the postern door, and unfastened it, and went out\nthrough the streets of Beaucaire, keeping in the shadow, for the\nmoon shone very bright; and she went on till she came to the\ntower where her lover was. The tower was shored up here and\nthere, and she crouched down by one of the pillars, and wrapped\nherself in her mantle; and she thrust her head into a chink in\nthe tower, which was old and ruinous, and heard Aucassin within\nweeping and making great ado, and lamenting for his sweet friend\nwhom he loved so much. And when she had listened enough to him\nshe began to speak.\n\nAfter telling each their love, Nicolette was obliged to flee. She\nwent to a great forest and talked with the herd-boys.\n\nSec. 19.--\nNicolette, bright-favored maid,\nTo the herds her farewell bade,\nAnd her journey straight addressed\nRight amid the green forest,\nDown a path of olden day;\nTill she reached an open way\nWhere seven roads fork, that go out\nThrough the region round about.\nThen the thought within her grew,\nShe will try her lover true,\nIf he love her as he said:\nShe took many a lily head,\nWith the bushy kermes-oak shoot,\nAnd of leafy boughs to boot,\nAnd a bower so fair made she,--\nDaintier I did never see!\nBy the ruth of heaven she sware,\nShould Aucassin come by there,\nAnd not rest a little space,\nFor her love's sake' in that place,\nHe should ne'er her lover be,\nNor his love she.\n\nAucassin escapes, comes to the forest, finds his lover, and they\nagree to go away together.\n\nSec. 27--\nAucassin, the fair, the blond,\nGentle knight and lover fond,\nRode from out the thick forest;\nIn his arms his love was pressed,\nOn the saddlebow before;\nAnd he kissed her o'er and o'er,\nEyes and brows and lips and chin.\nThen to him did she begin;\n\n\"Aucassin, fair lover sweet,\nTo what country shall we fleet?\n\"Sweet my love, what should I know?\nLittle care I where we go,\nIn the greenwood or away,\nSo I am with thee alway.\"\nHill and vale they fleeted by,\nTown and fortress fenced high,\nTill they came at dawn of day\nWhere the sea before them lay;\nThere they lighted on the sand,\nBeside the strand.\n\nThey have many adventures and are again separated. Nicolette is\ncarried to Carthage. She finally escapes and makes her way in\ndisguise to Beaucaire where Aucassin was.\n\nSec. 39.--\nAucassin was at Beaucaire\n'Neath the tower a morning fair.\nOn a stair he sat without,\nWith his brave lords round about:\nSaw the leaves and flowers spring,\nHeard the song-birds carolling;\nOf his love he thought anew,\nNicolette the maiden true,\nWhom he loved so long a day;\nThen his tears and sighs had way.\nWhen, behold before the stair,\nNicolette herself stood there,\nLifted viol, lifted bow,\nThen she told her story so:\n\"Listen, lordlings brave, to me,\nYe that low or lofty be!\nLiketh you to hear a stave,\nAll of Aucassin the brave,\nAnd of Nicolette the true?\nLong they loved and long did rue,\nTill into the deep forest\nAfter her he went in quest.\nFrom the tower of Torelore\nThem one day the Paynim bore,\nAnd of him I know no more.\nBut true-hearted Nicolette\nIs in Carthage castle yet;\nTo her sire so dear is she,\nWho is king of that countrie.\nFain they would to her award\nFelon king to be her lord.\nNicolette will no Paynim,\nFor she loves a lording slim,\nAucassin the name of him.\nBy the holy name she vows\nThat no lord will she espouse,\nSave she have her love once moe\nShe longs for so!\"\n\nShe is at last revealed to him, and all ends happily.\n\nSec. 41.--\nNow when Aucassin did hear\nOf his own bright favored fere,\nThat she had arrived his shore,\nGlad he was as ne'er before.\nForth with that fair dame he made\nNor until the hostel stayed.\nQuickly to the room they win,\nWhere sat Nicolette within.\nWhen she saw her love once more,\nGlad she was as ne'er before.\nUp she sprang upon her feet,\nAnd went forward him to meet.\nSoon as Aucassin beheld,\nBoth his arms to her he held,\nGently took her to his breast,\nAll her face and eyes caressed.\nLong they lingered side by side;\nAnd the next day by noontide Aucassin her lord became;\nOf Beaucaire he made her Dame.\nAfter lived they many days,\nAnd in pleasure went their ways.\nNow has Aucassin his bliss,\nLikewise Nicolette ywis.\nEnds our song and story so;\nNo more I know.\n\nDIDACTIC LITERATURE.\n\nFrance produced, along with its heroic poetry, its romances,\ntales, and lyrics, much serious and allegorical work. This was in\nthe shape of homilies, didactic poems, and long allegories\ntouching manners and morals. Of these last the most famous and\nimportant is \"The Romance of the Rose\". It was the most popular\nbook of the Middle Ages in France. It was begun by William of\nLorris about 1240, the first draft extending to 4670 lines. Some\nforty years later, Jean de Meung, or Clapinel, wrote a\ncontinuation extending the poem to 22,817 lines. The general\nstory is of a visit to a garden of delights, on the outside of\nwhich are all unlovely things. Within the garden the personages\nand action are allegories of the art of love. Here are Leisure,\nEnjoyment, Courtesy, the God of Love himself, love in the form of\na beautiful Rose, Gracious Reception, Guardianship, Coyness, and\nReason. Our extracts are taken from the translation into English\nattributed--it now seems with great probability--to Chaucer.\n\nNOTE.--These extracts from Chaucer's translation are not\nre-translated nor adapted. Chaucer's words are retained in every\ncase. Their spelling is modernized. In those cases in which they\nneeded for the rhythm, certain inflectional endings, e, en, es,\nare retained and are printed in parentheses. The reader has only\nto remember that he must pronounce every syllable needed to make\nthe lines rhythmical. In only four cases has the rhyme been\naffected by the changed spelling. For defense of this modern\nspelling of Chaucer, the reader is referred to Lounsbury's\n\"Studies in Chaucer,\" Vol. III., pp. 264-279.\n\nLl. 49-91.--\nThat it was May me thought(e) tho[1]\nIt is five year or more ago;\nThat it was May, thus dreamed me,\nIn time of love and jollity.\nThat all thing 'ginneth waxen gay,\nFor there is neither busk nor hay[2]\nIn May, that it nill[3] shrouded been\nAnd [4] it with new(e) leaves wrene[5]\nThese wood(e)s eek recover green,\nThat dry in winter been to seen;[6]\nAnd the earth waxeth proud withal\nFor sweet dews that on it fall.\nAnd the poor estate forget\nIn which that winter had it set.\nAnd then becometh the ground so proud,\nThat it will have a new(e) shroud,\nAnd maketh so quaint his robe and fair\nThat it had hews an hundred pair,\nOf grass and flowers, inde and perse[7]\nAnd many hew(e)s full diverse:\nThat is the robe, I mean, ivis,[8]\nThrough which the ground to praise(n)[9] is.\nThe birds that have(n) left their song,\nWhile they have suffered cold so strong,\nIn weathers grill [10] and dark to sight,\nBen [11] in May for [12] the sun(en) bright\nSo glad(e), that they show in singing\nThat in (t)heir hearts is such liking,[13]\nThat they mote [14] sing(en) and be light.\nThen doth the nightingale her might\nTo make noise and sing(en) blithe,\nThen is bussful many sithe,[15]\nThe calandra [16] and the popinjay.[17]\nThen young(e) folk entend(en)[18] aye\nFor to be gay and amorous,\nThe time is then so favorous.[19]\n  Hard is the heart that loveth nought,\nIn May when all this mirth is wrought:\nWhen he may on these branches hear\nThe small(e) bird(e)s sing(en) clear\n(T)heir blissful' sweet song piteous,\nAnd in this season delightous[20]\nWhen love affrayeth[21] all(e) thing.\n\n[1] Then. [2] Bush nor hedge. [3] Will not. [4] As if. [5] Were\ncovered. [6] Are to be seen. [7] Azure and sky-colored. [8]\nCertainly. [9] To be praised. [10] Severe. [11] Are. [12] On\naccount of. [13] Good bodily condition. [14] Must. [15] Times.\n[16] A kind of lark. [17] Parrot. [18] Attend. [19] Favorable.\n[20] Delightful. [21] Moveth.\n\n\nThe poet sees in vision the Garden of Love. He knocks at \"a wiket\nsmalle,\" which was finally opened by a maiden.\n\nLl. 539.--\nHer hair was as yellow of hew\nAs any basin scoured new,\nHer flesh tender as is a chick,\nWith bent brow(e)s, smooth and sleek;\nAnd by measure large were,\nThe opening of her eyen [1]clere,\nHer nose of good proportion,\nHer eyen [1] gray as is a falcon,\nWith sweet(e) breath and well savored,\nHer face white and well colored,\nWith little mouth and round to see;\nA clove[2] chin eek had(de) she.\nHer neek(e) was of good fashion[3]\nIn length and greatness by reason,[4]\nWithout(e) blain(e),[5] scab or roigne.[6]\nFrom Jerusalem unto Burgoyne,\nThere nys [7] a fairer neck, iwis,[8]\nTo feel how smooth and soft it is.\nHer throat also white of hew\nAs snow on branch(e) snowed new.\nOf body full well wrought was she;\nMen needed not in no country\nA fairer body for to seek,\nAnd of fine orphreys [9] had she eek\nA chap(e)let; so seemly one,\nNe[10] I werede never maid upon,\nAnd fair above that chap(e)let\nA rose garland had she set.\nShe had a gay mirror,\nAnd with a rich(e) gold treasure\nHer head was tressed [11] quaint(e)ly;\nHer sleeves sewed fetisely,[12]\nAnd for to keep her hand(e)s fair\nOf gloves white she had a pair.\nAnd she had on a coat of green,\nOf cloth of Gaunt; without(e) ween[13]\nWell seemed by her apparel\nShe was not wont to great travail,\nFor when she kempto was fetisely[14]\nAnd well arrayed and rich(e)ly\nThen had she done all her journey;\nFor merry and well begun was she.\nShe had a lusty[15] life in May,\nShe had no thought by night nor day,\nOf no thing but if it were only\nTo graith[16] her well and uncouthly.[17]\nWhen that this door had opened me\nThis May, seemly for to see,\nI thanked her as I best might,\nAnd asked her how that she hight[18]\nAnd what she was' I asked eek.\nAnd she to me was nought unmeek [19]\nNe of her answer dangerous [20]\nBut fair answered and said(e) thus:\n\"Lo, sir, my name is Idleness;\nSo clepe[21] men me, more and less.\"\nFull mighty and full rich am I,\nAnd that of one thing, namely,\"\nFor I entend(e)[28] to no thing\nBut to my joy, and my playing,\nAnd for to kemb[29] and tress(e)[30] me.\nAcquainted am I and privy\nWith Mirth(e), lord of this garden,\nThat from the land of Alexander\nMade the trees hither be fet[31]\nThat in this garden be i-set.\nAnd when the trees were waxen on height[32]\nThis wall, that stands here in thy sight,\nDid Mirth enclose(n) all about;\nAnd these images[33] all without\nHe did 'em both entail[43] and paint.\nThat neither be joly,[35] nor quaint,[36]\nBut they be full of sorrow and woe\nAs thou hast seen a while ago.\n  \"And oft(e) time him to solace,\nSir Mirth(e) cometh into this place\nAnd eek with him cometh his meiny[37]\nThat live in lust[38] and jollity,\nAnd now is Mirth therein to hear\nThe bird(e)s, how they sing(en) clear\nThe mavis and the nightingale,\nAnd other jolly bird(e)s small,\nAnd thus he walketh to solace\nHim and his folk; for sweeter place\nTo play(en) in he may not find,\nAlthough he sought one in till[39] Inde.[40]\nThe alther fairest[41] folk to see\nThat in this world may found(e) be\nHath Mirth(e) with him in his rout,\nThat follow him always about.\n. . . . .\nAnd forth without(e) word(e)s mo,[42]\nIn at that wicket went I tho,[43]\nThat idleness had opened me,\nInto that garden fair to see.\n\n[1] Eyes. [2] Dimpled. [3] Form. [4] Proportion. [5] Pustule. [6]\nPimple. [7] Is not. [8] Certainly. [9] Fringe of gold. [10] Not.\n[11] Wore. [12] Plaited. [13] Neatly. [14] Doubt. [15] Combed,\nironed. [16] Day's work. [17] In fine form. [18] Pleasant. [19]\nDress. [20] Unusually, elegantly. [21] Was called. [22] Bold.\n[23] Sparing. [24] Name. [25] Great and small. [26] Chiefly. [27]\nAttend. [29] Comb. [30] Plait. [31] Fetched.  [32] Were grown to\na height. [33] The pictures on the outside of the wall. [34]\nScarve.[35] Joyful, pleasant. [36] Unusual, queer. [37] Retinue.\n[38] Pleasure. [39] To. [40] India. [41] Fairest of all. [42]\nMore. [43] Then.\n\n\nAfter wandering about the garden hearing the birds and getting\nacquainted with the inhabitants, he saw\n\nAmong a thousand thing(e)s mo[1]\nA roser [2] charged full of roses,\nThat with an hedge about enclosed is.\nTho[3] had I such lust[4] and envy,\nThat for Paris nor for Pavie,\nNolde[5]I have left to go at see\nThere greatest heap of roses be.\n  When I was with this rage hent[6]\nThat caught hath many a man and shent[7]\nToward the roser I gan go.\nAnd when I was not far therefro,[8]\nThe savor of the roses sweet\nMe smote right to the heart(e) root\nAs I had all embalmed be.\nAnd if I had ne[9] endoubted[10] me\nTo have been hated or assailed,\nMe thank(e)s[11] would I not been failed\nTo pull a rose of all that rout,[12]\nTo bear(en) in my hand about\nAnd smell(en) to it where I went;\nBut ever I dreaded me to repent,\nAnd lest it grieved or forthought[13]\nThe lord that thilke[14] garden wrought,\nOf roses there were great(e) wone,[15]\nSo fair(e) waxe [16] never in Rone.[17]\n  Of knop(e)s[18] close,[19] some saw I there\nAnd some well better waxen[20] were,\nAnd some there be of other moison[21]\nThat drew(e) nigh to their season,\nAnd sped 'em fast(e) for to spread;\nI love well such roses red;\nFor broad[22] roses, and open also,\nBe passed in a day or two;\nBut knop(e)s[18] will(e) fresh(e) be\nTwo day(e)s at the least, or three,\nThe knop(e)s greatly liked[23]me,\nFor fairer may there no man see\nWhoso might have one of all\nIt aught him be full lief[24]withall.\nMight I one garland of 'em get\nFor no riches I would it let.[25]\nAmong the knop(e)s I chose one\nSo fair, that of the remnant none\nNe prize I half so well as it,\nWhen I avise[26] it is my wit.\nIn it so well was enlumined\nWith color red, as well y-fined[27]\nAs nature couthe[28]it make fair.\nAnd it had leaves well four pair,\nThat Kynde[29] hath set through his knowing\nAbout the red roses springing.\nThe stalk(e) was as rush(e) right\nAnd thereon stood the knop upright,\nThat it ne bowed upon no side,\nThe sweet(e) smell(e) sprang so wide\nThat it did[30] all the place about.\nWhen I had smelled the savor sweet\nNo will had I from thence yet go\nBut somedeal[31] nearer it went I tho[32]\nTo take it: but mine hand for dread\nNe durst I to the rose bede[33]\nFor thistles sharp of many manners,\nNettles, thornes, and hooked briers;\nFor mickle they disturbed me,\nFor sore I dreaded to harmed be.\n\n[1] More. [2] Rose-bush. [3] Then. [4] Desire. [5] Would not. [6]\nSeized. [7] Ruined. [8] There from. [9] Not. [10] Feared. [11]\nWillingly. [12] Company. [13] Caused to repent. [14] That. [15]\nQuantity. [16] Waxed, grew. [17] Provence. [18] Buds. [19]\nClosed. [20] Much better grown. [21] Harvest. [22] Blown. [23]\nPleased. [24] Pleasing. [25] Let go. [26] Consider.[27] Polished.\n[28] Knew how. [29] Nature. [30] Filled. [31] Somewhat. [32]\nThen. [33] Offer.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.  SPANISH LITERATURE.\n\nThe golden age of Spanish literature embraces the sixteenth and\nseventeenth centuries; but the twelfth and thirteenth centuries\nwere, in Spain as in other European countries, a period of\nspecial literary activity. The impulses at work were the same as\nthose to be noted in contemporary France, England, and Germany,\nand the work produced of the same general types. The chief phases\nof  Spanish mediaeval literature are these:\n\n1. Epic and heroic poetry. Here, as elsewhere, heroic ballads\ngrew up about the national heroes. These were gradually fused\ninto long epic poems by the wandering minstrels. The best of\nthese Chansons de Geste are (1) \"The Poem of the Cid\", (2)\n\"Rhymed Chronicle of the Cid\". Both of them belong probably to\nthe twelfth century.\n\n2. Romances. Many romances, or short semi-epic poems, grew up\nabout the Cid. Of others, some were of the Carlovingian cycle,\nthe most famous being that concerning Bernardo del Carpio, the\ntraditional rival and conqueror of Roland. Some were devoted to\nthe  Arthurian legend. This latter cycle of stories was immensely\npopular in Spain, though rather in translation and imitation than\nin original works. In the fourteenth century these older romances\nwere technically called \"books of chivalry\" and their popularity\nand influence was widespread.\n\n3. Lyric poetry. There seems to have been no special development\nof lyric poetry early in Spain, such as is found in France. The\nearliest noteworthy lyric poet is Juan Ruiz (1300-1350).\n\n4. Didactic literature. As early as the first half of the\nthirteenth century, we have in Spain a strong didactic\nliterature. Gonzalo de Berceo (d. 1268) wrote many lives of the\nsaints, miracles, hymns to the Virgin, and other devotional\npieces. But the impulse to allegorizing does not seem to come to\nSpain till much later.\n\n5. Fables and tales. Though a little later in being developed in\nSpain than in France, the same delight was taken in fables and\nshort tales. About the middle of the fourteenth century, Juan\nManul (d. 1349) made, in his \"El Conde Lucanor\", a large\ncollection of these tales.\n\n6. Chronicles.  Spain had early an excellent school of\nchroniclers. An example of their work is The General Chronicle of\nSpain, compiled under Alphonso the Wise (d. 1284).\n\n\nANCIENT BALLADS.\n\nRomantic ballads grew up in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries\nin Spain, centering chiefly about the national hero, Rodrigo Diaz\nde Bivar, who was called THE CID, some account of whom is\nnecessary in order to an understanding of the poems.\n\nHistory--Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, born 1030-40, died 1099, was the\nforemost warrior of the great struggle between the Christians and\nthe Moors in Spain. The Moors called him the CID (Seid, the\nLord), and the Champion (El Campeador). He was a vigorous,\nunscrupulous fighter, now on one side, now on the other. He was\nat one time entrusted with high embassies of state, at others, a\nrebel. His true place in history seems to be that of a great\nfreebooter and guerrilla. His contemporary fame was really great.\n\nLegend--During the lifetime of the CID many marvels and myths\ngrew up about him, and within the next century they became almost\nnumberless. He became the hero of poet and of romancer to the\nSpanish people. His story was told everywhere by the wandering\nminstrels, and his name became the center of all popular\nromances.\n\nLiterature.--At once, then, a large literature sprang up\nconcerning the CID--ballads, romances, and incipient dramas. The\nchief pieces are (1)\"The Ballads of the Cid\", composed from the\ntwelfth to the fifteenth century, of which nearly two hundred\nsurvive; (2)\"The Poem of the Cid\", a noble fragment; (3)\"The\nChronicle of the Cid\".\n\nThe early history of Spain's popular hero is traced very\naccurately in (1)\"The General Chronicle of Spain\", compiled under\nAlphonso X. (died 1284); (2)\"The Chronicle of the Cid\", perhaps\nextracts from the first, and (3) Various Poems and Romances of\nthe CID from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century.\n\nThe following give some of his adventures, and show the spirit of\nthis interesting early literature--the earliest ballad literature\nin Europe.\n\n\nFrom the Cid Ballads.\n\nCUYDANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TEST.)\n\nBrooding sat Diego Laynez o'er the insult to his name,\nNobler and more ancient far than Inigo Abarca's fame;\nFor he felt that strength was wanting to avenge the craven blow,\nIf he himself at such an age to fight should think to go.\nSleepless he passed the weary nights, his food untasted lay,\nNe'er raised his eyes from off the ground, nor ventured forth to\nstray,\nRefused all converse with his friends, impelled by mortal fear,\nLest fame of outrage unatoned should aggravate his care.\nWhile pondering thus his honor's claims in search of just\nredress,\nHe thought of an expedient his failing house to test;\nSo summoning to his side his sons, excused all explanation,\nSilent began to clutch their hands in proper alternation,\n(Not by their tender palms to trace the chiromantic linings,\nFor at that day no place was found in Spain for such divinings),\nBut calling on his honor spent for strength and self-denial,\nHe set aside parental love and steeled his nerves to trial,\nGriping their hands with all his might till each cried: \"Hold,\nSir, hold!\nWhat meaneth this? pray, let me go; thou'rt killing me, behold!\"\nNow when he came to Roderick, the youngest of them all,\nDespair had well-nigh banished hope of cherished fruit withal\n(Though ofttimes lingering nearest when farthest thought to be);\nThe young man's eyes flashed fury, like tiger fierce stood he\nAnd cried: \"Hold, father, hold, a curse upon ye, stay!\nAn ye were not my father, I would not stop to pray,\nBut by this good right arm of mine would straight pluck out your\nlife\nWith a bare digit of my hand, in lieu of vulgar knife!\nThe old man wept for joy: \"Son of my soul,\" quoth he,\n\"Thy rage my rage disarmeth, thine ire is good to see;\nProve now thy mettle, Rod'rick; wipe out my grievous stain,\nRestore the honor I have lost, unless thou it regain--\"\nThen quickly told him of the wrong to which he was a prey,\nGave him his blessing and a sword and bade him go his way\nTo end the Count's existence and begin a brighter day.\n\n--Tr. by Knapp.\n\n\nPENSATIVO ESTAVA EL CID.  (THE SOLILOQUY.)\nPensive stood the young Castilian, musing calmly on his plight;\n'Gainst a man like Count Lozano to avenge a father's slight!\nThought of all the trained dependents that his foe could quickly\ncall,\nA thousand brave Asturians scattered through the highlands all;\nThought, too, how at the Cortes of Leon his voice prevailed,\nAnd how in border forays the Moor before him quailed;\nAt last reviewed the grievance--No sacrifice too great\nTo vindicate the first affront to Layn Calvo's state;\nThen calls on Heaven for justice, and on the earth for space,\nCraves strength of honor injured, and of his father grace,\nNor heeds his youthful bearing, for men of rank like he\nAre wont from birth to prove their worth by deeds of chivalry.\n\nNext from the wainscot took he down an ancient sword and long:\nOnce it had been Mudarra's, but now had rusty grown,\nAnd, holding it sufficient to achieve the end he sought,\nBefore he girt it on him, he addressed the fitting thought:\n\"Consider, valiant claymore, that Mudarrals arm is mine,\nAnd the cause wherein ye wrestle is Mudarra's cause and thine;\nBut if, forsooth, thou scornest to be grasped by youthful hand,\nThink not 'twill lead thee backward e'en a jot from the demand;\nFor as firm as thine own steel thou wilt find me in the fray,\nAnd as good as e'er the best man--Thou hast gained a lord to-day;\nAnd if perchance they worst thee, enraged at such a stain,\nI shall plunge thee to the cross in my breast for very shame.\nThen on to the field away, for the hour to fight is come,\nTo requite on Count Lozano all the mischief he has done.\"\nSo, full of courage and emprise the Cid rode forth to war,\nAnd his triumph was accomplished in the space of one short hour.\n\n--Tr. by KNAPP.\n\n\nNON ES DE SESSUDOS HOMES. (ON THE FIELD).\n\n\"It is not meet for men of brain, nor yet for champion true,\nTo offer insult to a man of better blood than you!\nThe brawny warrior, howe'er fierce and valiant he may be,\nWas never wont to test his power on aged infirmity.\nThe men of Leon need not boast of high emprise, forsooth,\nWho craven smite the face of age, and not the breast of youth.\nYe should have known who was my sire, and Layn Calvo's line,\nA breed that never brook offence, nor challenge fit decline;\nHow dared ye thus provoke a man whom only Heaven may,\nAnd not another' while the son lives to avenge the day!\nYe cast about his noble face dishonor's sombre pall,\nBut I am here to strip it off and expiate it all;\nFor only blood will cleanse the stain attainted honor brings,\nAnd valid blood is that alone which from the aggressor springs;\nYours it must be, Oh tyrant, since by its overplay\nIt moved ye to so foul a deed and robbed your sense away;\nOn my father ye laid hand, in the presence of the king,\nAnd I, his son, am here to-day atonement fall to bring.\nCount, ye did a craven business and I call ye COWARD here!\nBehold, if I await you, think not I come with fear,\nFor Diego Laynez wrought me well set in his own mould,\nAnd while I prove my birthright I your baseness shall unfold.\nYour valor as a crafty blade will not avail ye more,\nFor to my needs I bring a sword and charger trained to war.\"\nThus spake to Count Lozano Spain's champion, the Cid,\n(Ere long he won the title by achievements which he did)\nThat day he slew his enemy and severing quick the head,\nBore high the bleeding trophy as he homeward proudly sped.\n\n--Tr. by Knapp.\n\n\nLLORANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TRIUMPH.)\n\nWeeping sat Diego Laynez still o'er his untasted meal;\nStill o'er his shame was brooding, the tears his thoughts reveal;\nBeset with a thousand fancies, and crazed with honest care,\nSensitive to a footfall lest some foe were lurking there,\nWhen Rod'rick, bearing by the locks the Count's dissevered poll,\nTracking the floor with recent gore, advanced along the hall.\nHe touched his father's shoulder and roused him from his dream,\nAnd proudly flaunting his revenge he thus addresses him:\n\"Behold the evil tares, sir, that ye may taste the wheat;\nOpen thine eyes, my father, and lift thy head, 'tis meet,\nFor this thine honor is secure, is raised to life once more,\nAnd all the stain is washed away in spite of pride and power:\nFor here are hands that are not hands, this tongue no tongue is\nnow,\nI have avenged thee, sir, behold, and here the truth avow.\"\nThe old man thinks he dreams; but no, no dream is there;\n'Twas only his long grieving that had filled his heart with care.\nAt length he lifts his eyes, spent by chivalrous deeds,\nAnd turns them on his enemy clad in the ghastly weeds:\n\"Roderick, son of my soul, mantle the spectre anon,\nLest, like a new Medusa, it change my heart to stone,\nAnd leave me in such plight at last, that, ere I wish ye joy,\nMy heart should rend within me of bliss without alloy.\nOh, infamous Lozano! kind heaven hath wrought redress,\nAnd the great justice of my claim hath fired Rodrigo's breast!\nSit down, my son, and dine, here at the head with me,\nFor he who bringest such a gift, is head of my family.\"\n\n--Tr. by Knapp.\n\n\nTHE YOUNG CID.\n\nNow rides Diego Laynez, to kiss the good King's hand,\nThree hundred men of gentry go with him from his land,\nAmong them, young Rodrigo, the proud Knight of Bivar;\nThe rest on mules are mounted, he on his horse of war.\n\nThey ride in glittering gowns of soye--He harnessed like a lord;\nThere is no gold about the boy, but the crosslet of his sword;\nThe rest have gloves of sweet perfume,--He gauntlets strong of\nmail;\nThey broidered cap and flaunting plume,--He crest untaught to\nquail.\n\nAll talking with each other thus along their way they passed,\nBut now they've come to Burgos, and met the King at last;\nWhen they came near his nobles, a whisper through them ran,--\n\"He rides amidst the gentry that slew the Count Lozan.\"\n\nWith very haughty gesture Rodrigo reined his horse,\nRight scornfully he shouted, when he heard them so discourse,\n\"If any of his kinsmen or vassals dare appear,\nThe man to give them answer, on horse or foot, is here.\"--\n\n\"The devil ask the question,\" thus muttered all the band;--\nWith that they all alighted, to kiss the good King's hand,--\nAll but the proud Rodrigo, he in his saddle stayed,--\nThen turned to him his father (you may hear the words he said).\n\n\"Now, light, my son, I pray thee, and kiss the good King's hand,\nHe is our lord, Rodrigo; we hold of him our land.\"--\nBut when Rodrigo heard him, he looked in sulky sort,\nI wot the words he answered they were both cold and short.\n\n\"Had any other said it, his pains had well been paid,\nBut thou, sir, art my father, thy word must be obeyed.\"--\nWith that he sprung down lightly, before the King to kneel,\nBut as the knee was bending, out leapt his blade of steel.\n\nThe King drew back in terror, when he saw the sword was bare;\n\"Stand back, stand back, Rodrigo, in the devil's name beware;\nYour looks bespeak a creature of father Adam's mould,\nBut in your wild behaviour you're like some lion bold.\"\n\nWhen Rodrigo heard him say so, he leapt into his seat,\nAnd thence he made his answer, with visage nothing sweet,--\n\"I'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm,\nAnd if my father's kissed it, thereof ashamed I am.\"--\n\nWhen he these words had uttered, he turned him from the gate.\nHis true three hundred gentles behind him followed straight;\nIf with good gowns they came that day, with better arms they\nwent;\nAnd if their mules behind did stay, with horses they're content.\n\n--Tr. by Lockhart.\n\n\nTHE CID'S COURTSHIP.\n\nNow, of Rodrigo de Bivar great was the fame that run,\nHow he five Kings had vanquished, proud Moormen every one;\nAnd how, when they consented to hold of him their ground,\nHe freed them from the prison wherein they had been bound.\n\nTo the good King Fernando, in Burgos where he lay,\nCame then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say:--\n\"I am Don Gomez, daughter, in Gormaz Count was he;\nHim slew Rodrigo of Bivar in battle valiantly.\n\n\"Now am I come before you, this day a boon to crave,\nAnd it is that I to husband may this Rodrigo have;\nGrant this, and I shall hold me a happy damosell,\nMuch honoured shall I hold me, I shall be married well.\n\n\"I know he's born for thriving, none like him in the land;\nI know that none in battle against his spear may stand;\nForgiveness is well pleasing in God our Saviour's view,\nAnd I forgive him freely, for that my sire he slew.\"--\n\nRight pleasing to Fernando was the thing she did propose;\nHe writes his letter swiftly, and forth his foot-page goes;\nI wot, when young Rodrigo saw how the King did write,\nHe leapt on Bavieca--I wot his leap was light.\n\nWith his own troop of true men forthwith he took the way,\nThree hundred friends and kinsmen, all gently born were they;\nAll in one colour mantled, in armour gleaming gay,\nNew were both scarf and scabbard, when they went forth that day.\n\nThe King came out to meet him with words of hearty cheer;\nQuoth he, \"My good Rodrigo, you are right welcome here;\nThis girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord,\nAlready for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.\n\n\"I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great;\nYou shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate.\"\n\"Lord King\", Rodrigo answers, \"in this and all beside,\nCommand, and I'll obey you. The girl shall be my bride.\"--\n\nBut when the fair Ximena came forth to plight her hand,\nRodrigo, gazing on her, his face could not command:\nHe stood and blushed before her;--thus at the last said he--\n\"I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villany:-\n\n\"In no disguise I slew him, man against man I stood;\nThere was some wrong between us* and I did shed his blood.\nI slew a man, I owe a man; fair lady, by God's grace,\nAn honoured husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place.\"\n\n[1] See the account of this quarrel, \"Non es de Sessudos Homes.\"\n\n--Tr. by Lockhart.\n\n\nBAVIECA.\n\nThe favorite warrior horse of the Cid. There are several more\nballads devoted to this charger.\n\nThe King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;\nThen to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,--\n\"O King, the thing is shameful, that any man beside\nThe liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:\n\n\"For neither Spain or Araby could another charger bring\nSo good as he, and certes, the best befits my King.\nBut that you may behold him, and know him to the core,\nI'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the\nMoor.\"\n\nWith that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide,\nOn Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side;\nAnd up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,\nStreamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.\n\nAnd all that saw them praised them--they lauded man and horse,\nAs matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force\nNe'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near,\nNor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.\n\nThus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed,\nHe snapt in twain his hither rein:--\"God pity now the Cid.\"\n\"God pity Diaz,\" cried the Lords,--but when they looked again,\nThey saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein;\nThey saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,\nLike a true lord commanding--and obeyed as by a lamb.\n\nAnd so he led him foaming and panting to the King,\nBut \"No,\" said Don Alphonso, \"it were a shameful thing\nThat peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid\nBy any mortal but Bivar--Mount, mount again, my Cid.\"\n\n--Tr. by Lockhart.\n\n\nFROM THE POEM OF THE CID.\n\nThe Cid has been banished by King Alphonso, has entered the\nMoors, country and taken a city. The Moors rally, gather their\nallies and surround the Cid's army. He turns to consult with his\nmen.\n\n\"From water they have cut us off, our bread is running low;\nIf we would steal away by night, they will not let us go;\nAgainst us there are fearful odds if we make choice to fight;\nWhat would ye do now gentlemen, in this our present plight?\"\nMinaya was the first to speak: said the stout cavalier,\n\"Forth from Castile the gentle thrust, we are but exiles here;\nUnless we grapple with the Moor bread he will never yield;\nA good six hundred men or more we have to take the field;\nIn God's name let us falter not, nor countenance delay,\nBut sally forth and strike a blow upon to-morrow's day.\"\n  \"Like thee the counsel,\" said my Cid; \"thou speakest to my mind;\nAnd ready to support thy word thy hand we ever find.\"\nThen all the Moors that bide within the walls he bids to go\nForth from the gates, lest they, perchance, his purpose come to\nknow\nIn making their defences good they spend the day and night,\nAnd at the rising of the sun they arm them for the fight.\nThen said the Cid: \"Let all go forth, all that are in our band;\nSave only two of those on foot, beside the gate to stand.\nHere they will bury us if death we meet on yonder plain,\nBut if we win our battle there, rich booty we shall gain.\nAnd thou Pero Bermuez, this my standard thou shalt hold;\nIt is a trust that fits thee well, for thou art stout and bold;\nBut see that thou advance it not unless I give command.\"\nBermuez took the standard and he kissed the Champion's hand.\nThen bursting through the castle gates upon the plain they is\nhow;\nBack on their lines in panic fall the watchmen of the foe.\nAnd hurrying to and fro the Moors are arming all around,\nWhile Moorish drums go rolling like to split the very ground,\nAnd in hot haste they mass their troops behind their standards\ntwain,\nTwo mighty bands of men-at-arms to count them it were vain.\nAnd now their line comes sweeping on, advancing to the fray,\nSure of my Cid and all his band to make an easy prey.\n  \"Now steady, comrades\"' said my Cid; \"our ground we have to\nstand;\nLet no man stir beyond the ranks until I give command.\"\nBermuez fretted at the word, delay he could not brook;\nHe spurred his charger to the front, aloft the banner shook:\n\"O loyal Cid Campeador, God give the aid! I go\nTo plant thy ensign in among the thickest of the foe;\nAnd ye who serve it, be it yours our standard to restore.\"\n\"Not so--as thou dost love me, stay!\" called the Campeador.\nCame Pero's answer, \"Their attack I cannot, will not stay.\"\nHe gave his horse the spur and dashed against the Moors array.\nTo win the standard eager all the Moors await the shock,\nAmid a rain of blows he stands unshaken as a rock.\nThen cried my Cid: \"In charity, on to the rescue--ho!\"\nWith bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing\nlow,\nWith stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle bow,\nAll firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe.\nAnd he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out,\nAnd clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout,\n\"Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity!\nThe Champion of Bivar is here--Ruy Diaz--I am he!\"\nThen bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight,\nThree hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering\nwhite;\nDown go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow;\nAnd when they wheel three hundred more, as wheeling back they go.\nIt was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day;\nThe shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay;\nThe pennons that went in snow-white come out a gory red;\nThe horses running riderless, the riders lying dead;\nWhile Moors call on Mohammed, and \"St. James!\" the Christians\ncry,\nAnd sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.\nAbove his gilded saddle-bow there played the Champion's sword;\nAnd Minaya Alvar Fanez, Zurita's gallant lord;\nAdd Martin Antolinez the worthy Burgalese;\nAnd Muno Gustioz his squire--all to the front were these.\nAnd there was Martin Mufloz, he who ruled in Mont Mayor;\nAnd there was Alvar Alvarez, and Alvar Salvador;\nAnd the good Galin Garcia, stout lance of Arragon;\nAnd Felix Mufloz, nephew of my Cid the Champion.\nWell did they quit themselves that day, all these and many more,\nIn rescue of the standard for my Cid Campeador.\n\n--Tr. by Ormsby.\n\n\nTHE BATTLE WITH KING BUCAR OF MOROCCO, AT VALENCIA.\n\nLoud from among the Moorish tents the call to battle comes,\nAnd some there are, unused to war, awed by the rolling drums.\nFerrando and Diego most: of troubled mind are they;\nNot of their will they find themselves before the Moors that day.\n\"Pero Burmuez,\" said the Cid, \"my nephew staunch and true,\nFerrando and Diego do I give in charge to you;\nBe yours the task in this day's fight my sons-in-law to shield,\nFor, by God's grace to-day we sweep the Moors from off the\nfield!\"\n\"Nay,\" said Bermuez, \"Cid, for all the love I bear to thee,\nThe safety of thy sons-in-law no charge of mine shall be.\nLet him who will the office fill; my place is at the front,\nAmong the comrades of my choice to bear the battle's brunt;\nAs it is thine upon the rear against surprise to guard,\nAnd ready stand to give support where'er the fight goes hard.\"\nCame Alvar Fanez: \"Loyal Cid Campeador,\" he cried,\n\"This battle surely God ordains--He will be on our side;\nNow give the order of attack which seems to thee the befit,\nAnd, trust me, every man of us will do his chief's behest.\"\nBut lo! all armed from head to heel the Bishop Jeronie shows;\nHe ever brings good fortune to my Cid where'er he goes.\n  \"Mass have I said, and now I come to join you in the fray;\nTo strike a blow against the Moor in battle if I may,\nAnd in the field win honor for my order and my hand.\nIt is for this that I am here, far from my native land.\nUnto Valencia did I come to cast my lot with you,\nAll for the longing that I had to slay a Moor or two.\nAnd so in warlike guise I come, with blazoned shield and lance,\nThat I may flesh my blade to-day, if God but give the chance,\nThen send me to the front to do the bidding of my heart:\nGrant me this favor that I ask, or else, my Cid, we part.\"\n\"Good!\" said my Cid. \"Go, flesh thy blade; there stand thy Moorish\nfoes.\nNow shall we see how gallantly our fighting Abbot goes.\"\nHe said; and straight the Bishop's spurs are in his charger's\nflanks,\nAnd with a will he flings himself against the Moorish ranks.\nBy his good fortune, and the aid of God, that loved him well,\nTwo of the foe before his point at the first onset fell.\nHis lance he broke, he drew his sword--God! how the good steel\nplayed!\nTwo with the lance he slew, now five go down beneath his blade.\nBut many are the Moors and round about him fast they close,\nAnd on his hauberk, and his shield, they rain a shower of blows.\nHe in the good hour born beheld Don Jerome sorely pressed;\nHe braced his buckler on his arm, he laid his lance in rest,\nAnd aiming where beset by Moors the Bishop stood at bay,\nTouched Bavieca with the spur and plunged into the fray;\nAnd flung to earth unhorsed were seven, and lying dead were four,\nWhere breaking through the Moorish ranks came the Campeador.\nGod it so pleased, that this should be the finish of the fight;\nBefore the lances of my Cid the fray became a flight;\nAnd then to see the tent-ropes burst, the tent-poles prostrate\nflung!\nAs the Cid's horsemen crashing came the Moorish tents among.\nForth from the camp King Bucar's Moors they drove upon the plain,\nAnd charging on the rout, they rode and cut them down amain\nHere severed lay the mail-clad arm, there lay the steel-capped\nhead,\nAnd here the charger riderless, ran trampling on the dead.\nBehind King Bucar as he fled my Cid came spurring on;\n\"Now, turn thee, Bucar, turn!\" he cried; \"here is the Bearded\nOne:\nHere is that Cid you came to seek, King from beyond the main,\nLet there be peace and amity to-day between us twain.\"\nSaid Bucar, \"Nay; thy naked sword, thy rushing steed, I see;\nIf these mean amity, then God confound such amity.\nThy hand and mine shall never join unless in yonder deep,\nIf the good steed that I bestride his footing can but keep.\"\nSwift was the steed, but swifter borne on Bavieca's stride,\nThree fathoms from the sea my Cid rode at King Bucar's side;\nAloft his blade a moment played, then on the helmet's crown,\nShearing the steel-cap dight with gems, Colada he brought down.\nDown to the belt, through helm and mail, he cleft the Moor in\ntwain.\nAnd so he slew King Bucar, who came from beyond the main.\nThis was the battle, this the day, when he the great sword won,\nWorth a full thousand marks of gold--the famous Brand Tizon.\n\n--Tr. by Ormsby.\n\n\nCHAPTER III. SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE.\n\nScandinavian literature embraces the literature of Norway,\nSweden, Iceland, and their western colonies. In the Middle Ages\nthis literature reached its fullest and best development in\nIceland.\n\nThe earliest and greatest portion of this literature is the\nheroic poetry forming the collection called the Poetic or Elder\nEdda. Like all early poetry these were minstrel poems, passing\norally from singer (skald) to singer for centuries. Some of them\nwere composed as early as the eighth century. The collection was\nprobably made in the thirteenth century (1240). The collection\nconsists of thirty-nine distinct songs or poems. They are based\nupon common Norse mythology and tradition. In one section of this\ncollection is found in outline the story of the Nibelungs and\nBrunhild-the story which later formed the basis of the\n\"Niebelungen-Lied\". This fact connects the two literatures with\nthe original common Teutonic traditions. Anderson says, \"The\nElder Edda presents the Norse cosmogony, the doctrines of the\nOdinic mythology, and the lives and doings of the gods. It\ncontains also a cycle of poems on the demigods and mythic heroes\nand heroines of the same period. It gives us as complete a view\nof the mythological world of the North as Homer and Hesiod do of\nthat of Greece\" (Norse Mythology).  Almost equal in importance\nand interest is the Prose Edda, sometimes called the Younger\nEdda, arranged and in part written by Snorra Sturleson, who lived\nfrom 1178 to 1241. The chief portions of it are:\n\n1. \"Gylfaginning,\" in which Odin recounts to Gylf the history of\nthe gods.\n\n2. \"Bragaraethur, the conversations of Braga the god of poetry.\n\nOther and less important varieties of Scandinavian literature are\nthe romances of history and romances of pure fiction.\n\n\nVOLUSPA.  THE ORACLE OF THE PROPHETESS VALA.\n\nThe Voluspa is the first song in the Elder Edda. It is a song of\na prophetess and gives an account of the creation of the world,\nof man, giants, and dwarfs; of the employments of fairies or\ndestinies; of the functions of the gods, their adventures, their\nquarrels, and the vengeance they take; of the final state of the\nuniverse and its dissolution; of the battle of the lower deities\nand the evil beings; of the renovation of the world; of the happy\nlot of the good, and the punishment of the wicked. The first\npassage selected gives the account of creation.\n\nIn early times,\nWhen Ymer[1] lived,\nWas sand, nor sea,\nNor cooling wave;\nNo earth was found,\nNor heaven above;\nOne chaos all,\nAnd nowhere grass:\n\nUntil Bor's[2] sons\nTh' expanse did raise,\nBy whom Midgard [3]\nThe great was made.\nFrom th' south the sun\nShone on the walls;\nThen did the earth\nGreen herbs produce.\n\nThe sun turned south;\nThe moon did shine;\nHer right hand held\nThe horse of heaven.\nThe sun knew not\nHis proper sphere;\nThe stars knew not\nTheir proper place;\nThe moon know not\nHer proper power.\n\nThen all the powers\nWent to the throne,\nThe holy gods,\nAnd held consult:\nNight and cock-crowing\nTheir names they gave,\nMorning also,\nAnd noon-day tide,\nAnd afternoon,\nThe years to tell.\n\nThe Asas[4] met\nOn Ida's plains,\nWho altars raised\nAnd temples built;\nAnvils they laid,\nAnd money coined;\nTheir strength they tried\nIn various ways,\nWhen making songs,\nAnd forming tools.\n\nOn th' green they played\nIn joyful mood,\nNor knew at all\nThe want of gold,\nUntil there came\nThree Thursa maids,\nExceeding strong,\nFrom Jotunheim:[5]\n. . . .\nUntil there came\nOut of the ranks,\nPowerful and fair,\nThree Asas home,\nAnd found on shore,\nIn helpless plight,\nAsk and Embla [6]\nWithout their fate.\n\nThey had not yet\nSpirit or mind,\nBlood, or beauty,\nOr lovely hue.\nOdin gave spirit,\nHeinir gave mind,\nLothur gave blood\nAnd lovely hue.\n\n[1] Ymer, the progenitor of the giants.\n\n[2] Bor, the father of Odin, Vile, and Ve.\n\n[3] Midgard, the earth.\n\n[4] Asas, the gods.\n\n[5] The home of the giants.\n\n[6] The first man and first woman made out of pine trees by the\nthree gods Odin, Heinir, and Lothur.\n\n--Tr. by Henderson.\n\n\nThe second passage gives an account of the universal\ndissolution--called Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods.\n\nLoud barks Garm 1]\nAt Gnipa-cave;\nThe fetters are severed,\nThe wolf is set free,\nVala[2] knows the future.\nMore does she see\nOf the victorious gods,\nTerrible fall.\n\nFrom the east drives Hrym,[3]\nBears his child before him;\nJormungander welters\nIn giant fierceness;\nThe waves thunder;\nThe eagle screams,\nRends the corpses with pale beak,\nAnd Naglfar[4] is launched.\nA ship from the east nears,\nThe hosts of Muspel\nCome o'er the main,\nBut Loke is pilot.\nAll grim and gaunt monsters\nConjoin with the wolf,\nAnd before them all goes\nThe brother of Byleist.[5]\n\nFrom the south wends Surt [6]\nWith seething fire;\nThe sun of the war-god\nShines in his sword;\nMountains together dash,\nAnd frighten the giant-maids;\nHeroes tread the paths to Hel,\nAnd heaven in twain is rent.\nOver Him [7] then shall come\nAnother woe,\nWhen Odin goes forth\nThe wolf to combat.\n. . . .\nAll men\nAbandon the earth.\n\nThe sun darkens,\nThe earth sinks into the ocean;\nThe lucid stars\nFrom heaven vanish;\nFire and vapor\nRage toward heaven;\nHigh flames\nInvolve the skies.\n\nLoud barks Garm\nAt Gnipa-eave:\nThe fetters are severed,\nThe wolf is set free,--\nVala knows the future.\nMore does she see\nOf the victorious gods,\nTerrible fall.\n\n[1] Hel's dog.\n\n[2] Vala, the prophetess.\n\n[3] The winter.\n\n[4] Naglfar, a ship of the gods.\n\n[5] The brother of Byleist, Loke.\n\n[6] Surt, a fire-giant.\n\n[7] Hlin, a name sometimes used for the goddess, Frigg.\n\n\n--Tr. by Thorpe.\n\n\nThe conclusion of the \"Voluspa \"is the following picture of the\nregenerated earth.\n\nShe sees arise,\nThe second time,\nFrom the sea, the earth\nCompletely green:\nCascades do fall;\nThe eagle soars,\nThat on the hills\nPursues his prey.\n\nThe gods convene\nOn Ida's plains,\nAnd talk of man,\nThe worm of dust:\nThey call to mind\nTheir former might,\nAnd the ancient runes\nOf Fimbultyr.[1]\n\nThe fields unsown\nShall yield their growth;\nAll ills shall cease;\nBalder[2] shall come,\nAnd dwell with Hauthr[3]\nIn Hropt's[4] abodes.\nSay, warrior-gods,\nConceive ye yet?\n\nA hall she sees\nOutshine the sun,\nOf gold its roof,\nIt stands in heaven:\nThe virtuous there\nShall always dwell,\nAnd evermore\nDelights enjoy.\n\n[1] Fimbultyr, Odin.\n\n[2] Balder, the god of the summer.\n\n[3] Hauthr, Hoder, the brother of Balder.\n\n[4] Hropt, Odin. of Odinic morality and precepts of wisdom, in\nthe form of social and moral maxims.\n\n--Tr. by Henderson.\n\n\nHAVAMAL.\n\nThe High-Song of Odin. This is the second song in the Elder Edda.\nOdin himself is represented as its author. It contains a pretty\ncomplete code.\n\nAll door-ways\nBefore going forward,\nShould be looked to;\nFor difficult it is to know\nWhere foes may sit\nWithin a dwelling.\n. . . .\nOf his understanding\nNo one should be proud,\nBut rather in conduct cautious.\nWhen the prudent and taciturn\nCome to a dwelling,\nHarm seldom befalls the cautious;\nFor a firmer friend\nNo man ever gets\nThan great sagacity.\n. . . .\nOne's own house is best,\nSmall though it be;\nAt home is every one his own master.\nThough he but two goats possess,\nAnd a straw-thatched cot,\nEven that is better than begging.\n\nOne's own house is best,\nSmall though it be;\nAt home is every one his own master.\nBleeding at heart is he\nWho has to ask\nFor food at every meal-tide.\n. . . .\nA miserable man,\nAnd ill-conditioned,\nSneers at everything:\nOne thing he knows not,\nWhich he ought to know,\nThat he is not free from faults.\n. . . .\nKnow if thou hast a friend\nWhom thou fully trustest,\nAnd from whom thou would'st good derive;\nThou should'st blend thy mind with his,\nAnd gifts exchange,\nAnd often go to see him.\n\nIf thou hast another\nWhom thou little trustest,\nYet would'st good from him derive,\nThou should'st speak him fair,\nBut think craftily,\nAnd leasing pay with lying.\n\nBut of him yet further\nWhom thou little trustest,\nAnd thou suspectest his affection,\nBefore him thou should'st laugh,\nAnd contrary to thy thoughts speak;\nRequital should the gift resemble.\n\nI once was young,\nI was journeying alone\nAnd lost my way;\nRich I thought myself\nWhen I met another:\nMan is the joy of man.\n\nLiberal and brave\nMen live best,\nThey seldom cherish sorrow;\nBut a bare-minded man\nDreads everything;\nThe niggardly is uneasy even at gifts.\n\nMy garments in a field\nI gave away\nTo two wooden men:\nHeroes they seemed to be\nWhen they got cloaks:[1]\nExposed to insult is a naked man.\n. . . . .\nSomething great\nIs not always to be given,\nPraise is often for a trifle bought.\nWith half a loaf\nAnd a tilted vessel\nI got myself a comrade.\nLittle are the sand grains,\nLittle the wits,\nLittle the minds of men;\nFor all men\nAre not wise alike:\nMen are everywhere by halves.\nModerately wise\nShould each one be,\nBut never over-wise;\nFor a wise man's heart\nIs seldom glad,\nIf he is all-wise who owns it.\n. . . .\nMuch too early\nI came to many places,\nBut too late to others;\nThe beer was drunk, or not ready:\nThe disliked seldom hits the moment.\n. . . .\nCattle die,\nKindred die,\nWe ourselves also die;\nBut the fair fame\nNever dies of him who has earned it.\n\nCattle die,\nKindred die,\nWe ourselves also die;\nBut I know one thing\nThat never dies,\nJudgment on each one dead.\n\n[1] The tailor makes the man.\n\n\n--Tr. by Thorpe.\n\n\nVAFTHRUDNISMAL. THE SONG OF VAFTHRUDNER.\n\nFrom the third poem in the Elder Edda came the following lines,\ndescribing the day and the night:\n\nDelling called is he\nWho the Day's father is,\nBut Night was of Norve born;\nThe new and waning moons\nThe beneficent powers created\nTo count years for men.\n\nSkinfaxe[1] he is named\nThat the bright day draws\nForth over human kind;\nOf coursers he is best accounted\nAmong faring men;\nEver sheds light that horse's mane.\n\nHrimfaxe[2] he is called\nThat each night draws forth\nOver the beneficent powers;\nHe from his bit lets fall\nDrops every morn\nWhence in the dells comes dew.\n--Tr. by Thorpe\n\n[1] Skinfaxe (shining mane), the horse of Day.\n\n[2] Hrimfaxe (Rime mane), the horse of Night.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. GERMAN LITERATURE.\n\nThere are three classical periods in German literature.[1]\n\n[1] See Scherer's \"History of German Literature.\" Vol. I., page\n16.\n\n\n1. The Old High German Period, culminating about 600 A. D. The\nchief development of this period is the epic legend and poetry.\nAs this literature remained largely unwritten, it is all lost\nexcept one fragment, The Song of Hildebrand.\n\n2. The Middle High German Period, culminating about 1200 A. D.\nThis was in Germany, as elsewhere in Europe, a time of abundant\nliterary activity. It is the period of the renaissance of the\nheroic legends of the first period, and their remaking into\ndeveloped epic poetry; of the writing of romances of chivalry and\nof antiquity; of the development of the lyric poetry of the\nMinnesingers; of the growth of popular fables and tales and of\nthe drama. In short, all the forms of literary production known\nto the Middle Ages flourished in Germany in this period.\n\n3. The Modern Classical Period, culminating about 1800 in the\nwork of Goethe, Schiller, and the many poets and scholars\nsurrounding them.\n\n\nTHE NATIONAL EPIC.\n\nThe fragment of the \"Song of Hildebrand\" is the sole surviving\nportion of the heroic literature of the first period. The story\nruns that \"Hildebrand had fought in his youth in Italy, married\nthere, and left a three-year son, when he was driven by Odoacer\nto Attila, king of the Huns. After years, in which the son grew\nup to manhood, Hildebrand re-entered Italy as a great chief in\nthe army of Theodorle. His son, Hadubrand was then a chief\ncombatant in Odoacer's army.\" They challenge each other to\ncombat, and though the fragment ends before the fight is over, it\nis thought from other references that Hildebrand is victor.\n\n\nTHE SONG OF HILDEBRAND.\n\nI have heard tell, they called each other forth,\nHildebrand, Hadubrand, among the hosts.\nSon, father, made them ready for the strife.\nDonned their war shirts, and girded on their swords\nOver ringed mail, rode, heroes, to the fight.\n\nHildebrand, Herbrand's son, the elder man\nAnd wiser, spake, well skilled in questionings\nAsked in few words, who among all the folk\nHis father was, \"or of what stock thou be?\nTell, and I'll give a mail of triple web:\nChild in this realm, I knew its families.\"\nHadubrand spoke, Hildebrand's son: \"The old\nAnd wise among our folk tell me my father\nWas Hildebrand, my name is Hadubrand.\nMy father went to the east to fly the hate\nOf Otaker, with Dietrich and his bands.\nA slender bride abiding in the lands\nHe left in bower, with an ungrown child,\nAnd weapons masterless. Eastward he went\nWhen sorrow came to Deitrich, friendless man,\nMy kinsman Otaker became his foe.\nMost famed of warriors, since Dietrich fell,\nForemost in every field, he loved the fight,\nPraised by the bold, I doubt not he is dead.\"\n\n\"Lord God of men,\" spake Hildebrand, \"from heaven\nStay strife between two men so near in blood!\"\nThen twisted from his arm the bracelet ring\nThat once the King of Huns had given him,\nI give it you in token of my love.\"\nSpake Hadubrand, the son of Hildebrand,\n\"At the spear's point I take of you such gifts,\nPoint against point. No comrade thou, old Hun,\nWith Bly, enticing words wouldst win me near:\nMy answer to thee is with cast of spear.\nThou'rt old. This cunning out of age is bred.\"\nOver the Midland Sea came foes who said,\n\"Hildebrand, son of Herbrand, he is dead.\"\n\nHildebrand, son of Herbrand, spake again:\n\"Thine arms show that in this land thou couldst not gain\nA liberal leader or a royal friend.\nNow well away. Great God, fate's evil end!\nFor sixty years, exile in stranger lands,\nSummer and winter with spear-darting bands,\nNever once leg bound within city wall,\nI come back by my own son's hand to fall,\nHewn by his sword, or be his murderer,--\nBut if thy strength hold, thou canst readily\nWin of the brave his arms, spoil of the slain,\nWhen thine by right.\" Said Hildebrand, \"Now, worst\nOf Ostrogoths be he who holds me back! My heart is for the fray.\nJudge comrades who look on, which of us wins\nThe fame, best throws the dart, and earns the spoil.\"\nThe ashen spears then sped, stuck in the shields\nWith their keen points, and down on the white shields\nThe heavy axes rang with sounding blows,\nShattering their rims, the flesh behind stood firm. . . .\n\n--Tr. by Morley.\n\n\nIn the second, or Middle High German Period, the heroic legends\nof early times were revived and formed the subject matter of many\nepic and semi epic poems. These legends have been classified into\nsix several cycles of romances:[1]\n\n[1] Cf. Morley's \"English Writers.\" Vol. III., pp. 152-4.\n\n\n1. The Frankish cycle contains the stories of Siegfried, the\nSigurd of the Scandinavian tradition.\n\n2. The Burgundian cycle contains King Gunther.\n\n3. The Ostrogoth cycle contains Dietrich, Theodoric, and\nHildebrand.\n\n4. The Hungarian cycle, to which belongs Attila or Etzel, and\nRudiger.\n\n5. The Lombard cycle, to which belong King Rother, King Otnit,\nand Wolfdietrich.\n\n6. The North Saxon cycle, to which belongs the tale of Gudrun.\nThe two most important of all the epics based upon these cycles\nare the Gudrun and the Niebelungenlied. The latter is the more\ncomprehensive, national, and famous. It includes and unifies all\nthe tales from the first four cycles of heroic legends.[1] The\nwhole of German art, literature, and tradition is full of\nreflections of this poem. The best scholarship has concluded that\nthe poem is not the work of a single author, but, like other folk\nepics, an edited collection of songs. The work was finished about\n1190-1210. It consists of two greater parts, (1) the \"Death of\nSiegfried\" and (2) the \"Vengeance of Kriemhild\".\n\n[1] See Kluge, \"Geschichte der Deutschen National-Literature,\" p.\n33.\n\n\nFrom the \"Niebelungenlied\". The first song in the poem gives us\nKriemhild's foreboding dream.\n\nKRIEMHILD'S DREAM.\nStanzas 1-19.\n\nIn stories of our fathers high marvels we are told\nOf champions well approved in perils manifold.\nOf feasts and merry meetings, of weeping and of wail,\nAnd deeds of gallant daring I'll tell you in my tale.\n\nIn Burgundy there flourish'd a maid so fair to see,\nThat in all the world together a fairer could not be.\nThis maiden's name was Kriemhild; through her in dismal strife\nFull many a proudest warrior thereafter lost his life.\n\nMany a fearless champion, as such well became,\nWoo'd the lovely lady; she from none had blame.\nMatchless was her person, matchless was her mind.\nThis one maiden's virtue grac'd all womankind.\n\nThree puissant Kings her guarded with all the care they might,\nGunther and eke Gernot, each a redoubted knight,\nAnd Giselher the youthful, a chosen champion he;\nThis lady was their sister, well lov'd of all the three.\n\nThey were high of lineage, thereto mild of mood,\nBut in field and foray champions fierce and rude.\nThey rul'd a mighty kingdom, Burgundy by name;\nThey wrought in Etzel's country deeds of deathless fame.\n\nAt Worms was their proud dwelling, the fair Rhine flowing by,\nThere had they suit and service from haughtiest chivalry\nFor broad lands and lordships, and glorious was their state,\nTill wretchedly they perish'd by two noble ladies' hate.\n\nDame Uta was their mother, a queen both rich and sage;\nTheir father hight Dancrat, who the fair heritage\nLeft to his noble children when he his course had run;\nHe too by deeds of knighthood in youth had worship won.\n\nEach of these three princes, as you have heard me say,\nWere men of mighty puissance. They had beneath their sway\nThe noblest knights for liegemen that ever dwelt on ground;\nFor hardihood and prowess were none so high renown'd.\n\nThere was Hagan of Troy of a noble line,\nHis brother nimble Dankwart, and the knight of Metz, Ortwine,\nEckewart and Gary, the margraves stout in fight,\nFolker of Alzeia, full of manly might.\n\nRumolt the steward (a chosen knight was he),\nSindolt, and Hunolt; these serv'd the brethren three,\nAt their court discharging their several duties well;\nBesides, knights had they many whom now I cannot tell.\n\nDankwart was marshal to the king his lord,\nOrtwine of Metz, his nephew, was carver at the board,\nSindolt he was butler, a champion choice and true,\nThe chamberlain was Hunolt; they well their duties knew.\n\nThe gorgeous pomp and splendour, wherein these brethren reign'd,\nHow well they tended knighthood, what worship they attain'd,\nHow they thro' life were merry, and mock'd at woe and bale--\nWho'd seek all this to tell you, would never end his tale.\n\nA dream was dreamt by Kriemhild the virtuous and the gay,\nHow a wild young falcon she train'd for many a day,\nTill two fierce eagles tore it; to her there could not be\nIn all the world such sorrow at this perforce to see.\nTo her mother Uta at once the dream she told,\n\nBut she the threatening future could only thus unfold;\n\"The falcon that thou trainedst is sure a noble mate;\nGod shield him in his mercy, or thou must lose him straight.\"\n\n\"A mate for me? what say'st thou, dearest mother mine?\nNe'er to love, assure thee, my heart will I resign.\nI'll live and die a maiden, and end as I began,\nNor (let what else befall me) will suffer woe for man.\"\n\n\"Nay\", said her anxious mother, \"renounce not marriage so;\nWouldst thou true heartfelt pleasure taste ever here below,\nMan's love alone can give it. Thou'rt fair as eye can see,\nA fitting mate God send thee, and nought will wanting be.\"\n\n\"No more,\" the maiden answer'd, \"no more, dear mother, say;\nFrom many a woman's fortune this truth is clear as day,\nThat falsely smiling Pleasure with Pain requites us ever.\nI from both will keep me, and thus will sorrow never.\"\n\nSo in her lofty virtues, fancy-free and gay,\nLiv'd the noble maiden many a happy day,\nNor one more than another found favour in her sight;\nStill at the last she wedded a far-renowned knight.\n\nHe was the self-same falcon she in her dream had seen,\nForetold by her wise mother. What vengeance took the queen\nOn her nearest kinsmen who him to death had done!\nThat single death atoning died many a mother's son.\n\n\nIn his home in the Netherlands the hero Siegfried hears of the\nbeauty of Kriemhild and after magnificent preparations comes to\nWorms to win her, if possible, for his bride. After a long stay\nat the court of her brother, he finally sees her at a feast. They\nlove each other at their first meeting.  In Isenstein, far over\nthe sea, lives Brunhild, the Amazon-queen, who is pledged to wed\nonly him who can conquer her in single combat. Gunther, the\nbrother of Kriemhild, desires her for his wife. Siegfried\npromises to win her for him on condition that Gunther grant him\nKriemhild's hand in return. They proceed to Brunhild's land,\nwhere Siegfried, by the aid of a magic cloak, which renders him\ninvisible, helps Gunther to overcome Brunhild.\n\n\nTHE CONQUEST OF BRUNHILD.\nStanza 447-455.\n\nThere too was come fair Brunhild; arm'd might you see her stand,\nAs though resolv'd to champion all kings for all their land.\nShe bore on her silk surcoat, gold spangles light and thin,\nThat quivering gave sweet glimpses of her fair snowy skin.\n\nThen came on her followers, and forward to the field\nOf ruddy gold far-sparkling bore a mighty shield,\nThick, and broad, and weighty, with studs of steel o'erlaid,\nThe which was wont in battle to wield the martial maid.\n\nAs thong to that huge buckler a gorgeous band there lay;\nPrecious stones beset it as green as grass in May;\nWith varying hues it glitter'd against the glittering gold.\nWho would woo its wielder must be boldest of the bold.\n\nBeneath its folds enormous three spans thick was the shield,\nIf all be true they tell us, that Brunhild bore in field.\nOf steel and gold compacted all gorgeously it glow'd.\nFour chamberlains, that bore it, stagger'd beneath the load.\n\nGrimly smil'd Sir Hagan, Trony's champion strong,\nAnd mutter'd, as he mark'd it trail'd heavily along,\n\"How now, my lord king Gunther? who thinks to scape with life?\nThis love of yours and lady--'faith she's the devil's wife.\"\n. . . . . . . . . . .\nThen to the maid was carried heavily and slow\nA strong well-sharpen'd jav'lin, which she ever us'd to throw,\nHuge and of weight enormous, fit for so strong a queen,\nCutting deep and deadly with its edges keen.\n\nTo form the mighty spear-head a wondrous work was done;\nThree weights of iron and better were welden into one;\nThe same three men of Brunhild's scarcely along could bring;\nWhereat deeply ponder'd the stout Burgundian king.\n\nTo himself thus thought he, \"What have I not to fear?\nThe devil himself could scarcely 'scape from such danger clear.\nIn sooth, if I were only in safety by the Rhine,\nLong might remain this maiden free from all suit of mine.\"\n. . . . . . . . . . . . .\n\nStanza 464-483.\nThen was the strength of Brunhild to each beholder shown.\nInto the ring by th' effort of panting knights a stone\nWas borne of weight enormous, massy and large and round.\nIt strain'd twelve brawny champions to heave it to the ground.\n\nThis would she cast at all times when she had hurl'd the spear;\nThe sight the bold Burgundians fill'd with care and fear.\nQuoth Hagan, \"she's a darling to lie by Gunther's side.\nBetter the foul fiend take her to serve him as a bride.\"\n\nHer sleeve back turn'd the maiden, and bar'd her arm of snow,\nHer heavy shield she handled, and brandished to and fro\nHigh o'er her head the jav'lin; thus began the strife.\nBold as they were, the strangers each trembled for his life;\n\nAnd had not then to help him come Siegfried to his side,\nAt once by that grim maiden had good King Gunther died.\nUnseen up went he to him, unseen he touch'd his hand.\nHis trains bewilder'd Gunther was slow to understand.\n\n\"Who was it just now touch'd me?\" thought he and star'd around\nTo see who could be near him; not a soul he found.\nSaid th' other, \"I am Siegfried, thy trusty friend and true;\nBe not in fear a moment for all the queen can do.\"\n\nSaid he, \"off with the buckler and give it me to bear;\nNow, what I shall advise thee, mark with thy closest care.\nBe it thine to make the gestures, and mine the work to do.\"\nGlad man was then king Gunther, when he his helpmate knew.\n\n\"But all my trains keep secret; thus for us both 'twere best;\nElse this o'erweening maiden, be sure, will never rest,\nTill her grudge against thee to full effect she bring.\nSee where she stands to face thee so sternly in the ring!\"\n\nWith all her strength the jav'lin the forceful maiden threw.\nIt came upon the buckler massy, broad, and new,\nThat in his hand unshaken, the son of Sieglind bore.\nSparks from the steel came streaming, as if the breeze before.\n\nRight through the groaning buckler the spear tempestuous broke;\nFire from the mail-links sparkled beneath the thund'ring stroke,\nThose two mighty champions stagger'd from side to side;\nBut for the wondrous cloud-cloak both on the spot had died.\n\nFrom the mouth of Siegfried burst the gushing blood;\nSoon he again sprung forward; straight snatch'd the hero good\nThe spear that through his buckler she just had hurl'd amain,\nAnd sent it at its mistress in thunder back again.\n\nThought he \"'t were sure a pity so fair a maid to slay;\"\nSo he revers'd the jav'lin, and turn'd the point away.\nYet, with the butt end foremost, so forceful was the throw,\nThat the sore-smitten damsel totter'd to and fro.\n\nFrom her mail fire sparkled as driven before the blast;\nWith such huge strength the jav'lin by Sieglind's son was cast,\nThat 'gainst the furious impulse she could no longer stand.\nA stroke so sturdy never could come from Gunther's hand.\n\nUp in a trice she started, and straight her silence broke,\n\"Noble knight, Sir Gunther, 'thank thee for the stroke.\"\nShe thought 't was Gunther's manhood had laid her on the lea;\nNo! It was not he had fell'd her, but a mightier far than he.\n\nThen turn'd aside the maiden; angry was her mood;\nOn high the stone she lifted rugged and round and rude,\nAnd brandish'd it with fury, and far before her flung,\nThen bounded quick behind it, that loud her armour rung.\n\nTwelve fathoms' length or better the mighty mass was thrown,\nBut the maiden bounded further than the stone.\nTo where the stone was lying Siegfried fleetly flew\nGunther did but lift it, th' Unseen it was, who threw.\n\nBold, tall, and strong was Siegfried, the first all knights\namong;\nHe threw the stone far further, behind it further sprung.\nHis wondrous arts had made him so more than mortal strong,\nThat with him as he bounded, he bore the king along.\n\nThe leap was seen of all men, there lay as plain the stone,\nBut seen was no one near it, save Gunther all alone.\nBrunhild was red with anger, quick came her panting breath;\nSiegfried has rescued Gunther that day from certain death.\n\nThen all aloud fair Brunhild bespake her courtier band,\nSeeing in the ring at distance unharm'd her wooer stand,\n\"Hither, my men and kinsmen: low to my better bow;\nI am no more your mistress; you're Gunther's liegemen now.\"\n\nDown cast the noble warriors their weapons hastily,\nAnd lowly kneel'd to Gunther the king of Burgundy.\nTo him as to their sovran was kingly homage done,\nWhose manhood, as they fancied, the mighty match had won.\n\nHe fair the chiefs saluted bending with gracious look;\nThen by the hand the maiden her conquering suitor took,\nAnd granted him to govern the land with sovran sway;\nWhereat the warlike nobles were joyous all and gay.\n\n\nUpon the return to Worms the double marriage feast is\ncelebrated--the weddings of Gunther and Brunhild, of Siegfried\nand Kriemhild. A second time is Gunther compelled to ask the help\nof Siegfried in conquering Brunhild, who again thinks that\nGunther is the conqueror. From this second struggle Siegfried\ncarries away Brunhild's ring and girdle, which he gives to\nKriemhild.  Siegfried and Kriemhild depart to his country, and\nnot until after ten years do they visit again the court of\nGunther. At the festival given in honor of this visit, the two\nqueens, looking on at the knightly games, fall into a bitter\nquarrel concerning the prowess of their husbands. Kriemhild\nboasts to Brunhild that it was Siegfried and not Gunther who\novercame her in both struggles. To prove her taunt she shows the\ngirdle and ring. Brunhild is thrown into violent anger by the\ninsult and desires only vengeance upon Siegfried and Kriemhild.\nHagen, the most valiant of Gunther's vassals, takes up her cause,\nand seeks opportunity to kill Siegfried.  A war against the\nSaxons is declared, in which Siegfried offers to assist Gunther.\nOn the eve of the departure to battle, Hagen visits Kriemhild.\nShe begs him to protect Siegfried, and tells him the story of her\nhusband's one vulnerable spot--when Siegfried had killed the\ndragon, he bathed in its blood, and was rendered invulnerable,\nexcept in one spot, where a lime leaf fell between his shoulders.\nThis spot the dragon blood did not touch.  Kriemhild promises to\nmark this spot with a silken cross, that Hagen may the better\nprotect her husband. The next morning the excursion against the\nSaxons is withdrawn, and the heroes conclude to go on a hunting\nparty.\n\n\nTHE HUNTING AND THE DEATH OF SIEGFRIED.\nStanzas 944-958.\n\nGunther and Hagan, the warriors fierce and bold,\nTo execute their treason, resolved to scour the wold.\nThe bear, the boar, the wild bull, by hill or dale or fen,\nTo hunt with keen-edg'd javelins; what fitter sport for valiant\nmen?\n\nIn lordly pomp rode with them Siegfried the champion strong.\nGood store of costly viands they brought with them along.\nAnon by a cool runnel he lost his guiltless life.\n'T was so devis'd by Brunhild, King Gunther's moody wife.\n\nBut first he sought the chamber where he his lady found.\nHe and his friends already had on the sumpters bound\nTheir gorgeous hunting raiment; they o'er the Rhine would go.\nNever before was Kriemhild sunk so deep in woe.\n\nOn her mouth of roses he kiss'd his lady dear;\n\"God grant me, dame, returning in health to see thee here;\nSo may those eyes see me too; meanwhile be blithe and gay\nAmong thy gentle kinsmen; I must hence away.\"\n\nThen thought she on the secret (the truth she durst not tell)\nHow she had told it Hagan; then the poor lady fell\nTo wailing and lamenting that ever she was born.\nThen wept she without measure, sobbing and sorrow-worn.\n\nShe thus bespake her husband, \"Give up that chace of thine.\nI dreamt last night of evil, how two fierce forest swine\nOver the heath pursued thee; the flowers turn'd bloody red.\nI cannot help thus weeping; I'm chill'd with mortal dread.\n\nI fear some secret treason, and cannot lose thee hence,\nLest malice should be borne thee from misconceiv'd offence.\nStay, my beloved Siegfried, take not my words amiss.\n'T is the true love I bear thee that bids me counsel this.\"\n\n\"Back shall I be shortly, my own beloved mate.\nNot a soul in Rhineland know I, who bears me hate.\nI'm well with all thy kinsmen; they're all my firm allies;\nNor have I from any e'er deserv'd otherwise.\"\n\n\"Nay! do not, dearest Siegfried! 't is e'en thy death I dread.\nLast night I dreamt, two mountains fell thundering on thy head,\nAnd I no more beheld thee; if thou from me wilt go,\nMy heart will sure be breaking with bitterness of woe.\"\n\nRound her peerless body his clasping arms he threw;\nLovingly he kiss'd her, that faithful wife and true;\nThen took his leave, and parted;--in a moment all was o'er--\nLiving, alas poor lady! she saw him never more.\n\n\nIn the chase Siegfried prefers to hunt with a single limehound.\nBut he achieves most marvelous feats of skill and strength.\n\n\nStanzas 962-971.\nAll, that the limehound started, anon with mighty hand\nWere slain by noble Siegfried the chief of Netherland.\nNo beast could there outrun him, so swift is steed could race;\nHe won from all high praises for mastery in the chace.\n\nWhatever he attempted, he went the best before.\nThe first beast he encounter'd was a fierce half-bred boar.\nHim with a mighty death-stroke he stretch'd upon the ground;\nJust after in a thicket a lion huge he found.\n\nHim the limehound started; his bow Sir Siegfried drew;\nWith a keen-headed arrow he shot the lion through.\nBut three faint bounds thereafter the dying monster made.\nHis wond'ring fellow-huntsmen thanks to Sir Siegfried paid.\n\nThen one upon another a buffalo, an elk\nHe slew, four strong ureoxen, and last a savage shelk.\nNo beast, how swift soever, could leave his steed behind;\nScarcely their speed could profit the flying hart or hind\n . . . . . . .\nThey heard then all about them, throughout those forest grounds,\nSuch shouting and such baying of huntsmen and of hounds,\nThat hill and wood re-echoed with the wild uproar.\nTh' attendants had uncoupled four and twenty dogs or more.\n\nThen full many a monster was doom'd his last to groan.\nThey thought with glad expectance to challenge for their own\nThe praise for the best hunting; but lower sunk their pride,\nWhen to the tryst-fire shortly they saw Sir Siegfried ride.\n\nThe hunting now was over for the most part at least;\nGame was brought in plenty and skins of many a beast\nTo the place of meeting, and laid the hearth before.\nAh! to the busy kitchen what full supplies they bore!\n. . . . . . . . . . . . .\n\nThe chase being done, the hunters are summoned to a feast in a\nneighboring glade. Here, though they are served with a profusion\nof sumptuous viands, there is, according to Hagen's plot, no wine\nto drink. When, toward the end of the meal Siegfried is tormented\nwith thirst, Hagen tells him of a cool runnel near by under a\nlinden, and proposes that he and Gunther and Siegfried shall try\na race to this brook. Siegfried gaily consents, and boasts that\nhe will run with all his clothing and his weapons upon him.\n\n\nStanzas 1005-1029.\nKing Gunther and Sir Hagan to strip were nothing slow;\nBoth for the race stood ready in shirts as white as snow.\nLong bounds, like two wild panthers o'er the grass they took,\nBut seen was noble Siegfried before them at the brook.\n\nWhate'er he did, the warrior high o'er his fellows soar'd.\nNow laid he down his quiver, and quick ungirt his sword.\nAgainst the spreading linden he lean'd his mighty spear.\nSo by the brook stood waiting the chief without a peer.\n\nIn every lofty virtue none with Sir Siegfried vied.\nDown he laid his buckler by the water's side.\nFor all the thirst that parch'd him, one drop he never drank\nTill the king had finished; he had full evil thank.\n\nCool was the little runnel, and sparkled clear as glass.\nO'er the rill king Gunther knelt down upon the grass.\nWhen he his draught had taken, he rose and stepp'd aside.\nFull fain alike would Siegfried his thirst have satisfied.\n\nDear paid he for his courtesy; his bow, his matchless blade,\nHis weapons all, Sir Hagan far from their lord convey'd,\nThen back sprung to the linden to seize his ashen spear,\nAnd to find out the token survey'd his vesture near;\n\nThen, as to drink Sir Siegfried down kneeling there he found,\nHe pierc'd him through the croslet, that sudden from the wound\nForth the life-blood spouted e'en o'er his murderer's weed.\nNever more will warrior dare so foul a deed.\n\nBetween his shoulders sticking he left the deadly spear.\nNever before Sir Hagan so fled for ghastly fear,\nAs from the matchless champion whom he had butcher'd there.\nSoon as was Sir Siegfried of the mortal wound aware,\n\nUp he from the runnel started, as he were wood\nOut from betwixt his shoulders his own hugh boar-spear stood.\nHe thought to find his quiver or his broadsword true.\nThe traitor for his treason had then receiv'd his due.\n\nBut, ah! the deadly-wounded nor sword nor quiver found;\nHis shield alone beside him lay there upon the ground.\nThis from the bank he lifted and straight at Hagan ran;\nHim could not then by fleetness escape king Gunther's man.\n\nE'en to the death though wounded, he hurl'd it with such power,\nThat the whirling buckler scatter'd wide a shower\nOf the most precious jewels, then straight in shivers broke.\nFull gladly had the warrior then vengeance with that stroke.\n\nE'en as it was, his manhood fierce Hagan level'd low.\nLoud, all around, the meadow rang with the wondrous blow.\nHad he in hand good Balmung, the murderer he had slain.\nHis wound was sore upon him; he writh'd in mortal pain;\n\nHis lively colour faded; a cloud came o'er his sight:\nHe could stand no longer; melted all his might;\nIn his paling visage the mark of death he bore.\nSoon many a lovely lady sorrow'd for him sore.\n\nSo the lord of Kriemhild among the flowerets fell.\nFrom the wound fresh gushing his heart's blood fast did well.\nThen thus amidst his tortures, e'en with his failing breath,\nThe false friends he upbraided who had contriv'd his death.\n\nThus spake the deadly-wounded, \"Ay! cowards false as hell!\nTo you I still was faithful; I serv'd you long and well;\nBut what boots all?--for guerdon treason and death I've won.\nBy your friends, vile traitors! foully have you done.\n\nWhoever shall hereafter from your loins be born,\nShall take from such vile fathers a heritage of scorn.\nOn me you have wreak'd malice where gratitude was due.\nWith shame shall you be banish'd by all good knights and true.\"\n\nThither ran all the warriors where in his blood he lay.\nTo many of that party sure it was a joyless day.\nWhoever were true and faithful, they sorrow'd for his fall.\nSo much the peerless champion had merited of all.\n\nWith them the false king Gunther bewept his timeless end.\nThen spake the deadly-wounded; \"little it boots your friend\nYourself to plot his murder, and then the deed deplore.\nSuch is a shameful sorrow; better at once it were o'er.\"\n\nThen spake the low'ring Hagan, \"I know not why you moan.\nOur cares all and suspicions are now for ever flown.\nWho now are left, against us who'll dare to make defence?\nWell's me, for all this weeping, that I have rid him hence.\"\n\n\"Small cause hast thou,\" said Siegfried, \"to glory in my fate.\nHad I ween'd thy friendship cloak'd such murderous hate,\nFrom such as thou full lightly could I have kept my life.\nNow grieve I but for Kriemhild, my dear, my widow'd wife.\n. . . . . . . . .\nThen further spake the dying, and speaking sigh'd full deep,\n\"Oh king! if thou a promise with any one wilt keep,\nLet me in this last moment thy grace and favour find\nFor my dear love and lady, the wife I leave behind.\n\nRemember, she's thy sister, yield her a sister's right,\nGuard her with faith and honour, as thou'rt a king and knight.\nMy father and my followers for me they long must wait.\nComrade ne'er found from comrade so sorrowful a fate.\"\n\nIn his mortal anguish he writh'd him to and fro,\nAnd then said, deadly groaning, \"this foul and murderous blow\nDeep will ye rue hereafter; this for sure truth retain,\nThat in slaying Siegfried you yourselves have slain.\"\n\nWith blood were all bedabbled the flowerets of the field.\nSome time with death he struggled, as though he scorn'd to yield\nE'en to the foe, whose weapon strikes down the loftiest head.\nAt last prone in the meadow lay mighty Siegfried dead.\n\n\nThey carry the body of Siegfried back to Worms, and lay it at\nKriemhild's door. Here she finding it next morning. She has it\ncarried to the church and stands by it while the heroes come to\nview it, expecting to discover the murderer.\n\n\nKRIEMHILD'S TEST.\nStanza 1071-1078.\n\nAnd now the night was over; forth peep'd the morning fair;\nStraight had the noble lady thence to the minster bear\nThe matchless champion Siegfried, her husband lov'd so dear.\nAll her friends close follow'd with many a sigh and tear.\n\nWhen they the minster enter'd, how many a bell was rung!\nHow many a priest on all sides the mournful requiem sung!\nThen thither with his meiny came Dancrat's haughty son,\nAnd thither too grim Hagan; it had been better left undone.\n\nThen spoke the king, \"dear sister, woe worth this loss of thine!\nAlas that such misfortune has happ'd to me and mine!\nFor sure the death of Siegfried we ever both must rue.\"\n\"Nay\", said the mournful lady, \"so without cause you do,\n\nFor if you really rued it, never had it been.\nI know, you have your sister forgotten quite and clean,\nSo I and my beloved were parted as you see.\nGood God! would he had granted the stroke had fall'n on me!\"\n\nFirmly they made denial; Kriemhild at once replied,\n\"Whoe'er in this is guiltless, let him this proof abide.\nIn sight of all the people let him approach the bier,\nAnd so to each beholder shall the plain truth appear.\"\n\nIt is a mighty marvel, which oft e'en now we spy,\nThat when the blood-stain'd murderer comes to the murder'd nigh,\nThe wounds break out a-bleeding; then too the same befell,\nAnd thus could each beholder the guilt of Hagan tell.\n\nThe wounds at once burst streaming fast as they did before;\nThose, who then sorrow'd deeply, now yet lamented more.\nThen outspake king Gunther, \"I give you here to know,\nHe was slain by robbers; Hagan struck ne'er a blow.\"\n\n\"Ay! well know I those robbers,\" his widow'd sister said;\n\"By the hands of his true comrades may God revenge the dead!\nFalse Gunther, and false Hagan! 't was you, your friend that\nslew.\"\nThereat the knights of Siegfried grip'd to their swords anew.\n\n\nAfter the burial of Siegfried, Kriemhild decides to remain at the\ncourt of Gunther, in the care of her brothers. Thither is brought\nthe enormous treasures of the Niebelungen, which Siegfried had\nwon, and of which he had been the guardian, and which now fell to\nKriemhild. The crafty Hagen gains possession of this horde, and\nconceals it by sinking it in the Rhine, hoping some day to\nrecover and enjoy it. For thirteen years Kriemhild remains at the\ncourt of her brother, brooding over her wrongs and meditating\nrevenge.  The second part of the poem begins by telling how\nEtzel, king of the Huns, proposed for the hand of the widowed\nKriemhild, and how she finally, hoping to use him in her plan of\nvengeance, consents to a marriage with him and goes away with\nhim into his land. Here for many years she lives the beloved\nqueen of the Huns. But her purpose of vengeance never falters,\nand at last she persuades Etzel to invite her brothers to his\ncourt on a visit. Against many forebodings and warnings they\ncome, Hagen with them. After numerous interesting episodes upon\nthe journey, they arrive at Etzell's court and are handsomely\nwelcomed. But the inevitable quarrel soon breaks out and a\ndesperate fight begins. After a most desperate and bloody\nstruggle, Gunther, Hagen, and a few followers are shut up in a\nhall. To this Kriemhild sets fire.\n\n\nTHE BURNING OF THE HALL.\nStanza, 2186-2194.\n\nWith that, the wife of Etzel had set the hall on fire.\nHow sore then were they tortur'd in burning anguish dire!\nAt once, as the wind freshen'd, the house was in a glow.\nNever, I ween, were mortals in such extremes of woe.\n\n\"We all are lost together,\" each to his neighbour cried,\n\"It had been far better we had in battle died.\nNow God have mercy on us! woe for this fiery pain!\nAh! what a monstrous vengeance the bloody queen has ta'en!\"\n\nThen faintly said another, \"needs must we here fall dead;\nWhat boots us now the greeting, to us by Etzel sped?\nAh me! I'm so tormented by thirst from burning heat,\nThat in this horrid anguish my life must quickly fleet.\"\n\nThereat outspake Sir Hagan, the noble knight and good,\n\"Let each, by thirst tormented, take here a draught of blood.\nIn such a heat, believe me, 't is better far than wine.\nNought's for the time so fitting; such counsel, friends, is\nmine.\"\n\nWith that straight went a warrior, where a warm corpse he found.\nOn the dead down knelt he; his helmet he unbound;\nThen greedily began he to drink the flowing blood.\nHowever unaccustom'd, it seem'd him passing good.\n\n\"Now God requite thee, Hagan,\" the weary warrior cried,\n\"For such refreshing beverage by your advice supplied.\nIt has been my lot but seldom to drink of better wine.\nFor life am I thy servant for this fair hint of thine.\"\n\nWhen th' others heard and witness'd with that delight he quaff'd,\nYet many more among them drank too the bloody draught.\nIt strung again their sinews, and failing strength renew'd.\nThis in her lover's person many a fair lady rued.\n\nInto the hall upon them the fire-flakes thickly fell;\nThese with their shields they warded warily and well.\nWith smoke and heat together they were tormented sore.\nNever, I ween, good warriors such burning anguish bore.\n\nThrough smoke and flame cried Hagan, \"stand close against the\nwall;\nLet not the burning ashes on your helm-laces fall.\nInto the blood yet deeper tread every fiery flake.\nIn sooth, this feast of Kriemhild's is ghastly merry-make.\"\n\nOne by one the champions fall, until only Hagen and Gunther,\nexhausted with fighting, are left to contend with Dietrich, the\nmost Valisntof Etzel's vassals. The conclusion of the poem tells\nof the fate of Hagen, Gunther, and Kriemhild.\n\n\nTHE FALL OF THE NIEBELUNGEN.\nStanza 2428-2459.\n\nWell knew the noble Dietrich how fierce and fell a knight\nWas standing now against him; so warily the fight\n'Gainst those tempestuous swordstrokes wag'd the good lord of\nBern.\nThe strength and skill of Hagan he had not now to learn.\n\nHe fear'd too, mighty Balmung as down it swept amain;\nYet at times Sir Dietrich with craft would strike again,\nTill that to sink before him he brought his foeman strong;\nA fearful wound, he gave him that was both deep and long.\n\nSir Dietrich then bethought him, \"thou'rt faint and ill bestead\nI should win little worship, were I to strike thee dead.\nI'll make a different trial, if thou can'st now be won\nBy main force for a pris'ner.\" With wary heed 't was done.\n\nDown he threw his buckler; wondrous was his might;\nHe his arms resistless threw round Trony's knight.\nSo was by his stronger the main of strength subdued.\nThereat the noble Gunther remain'd in mournful mood.\n\nHis vanquish'd foe Sir Dietrich bound in a mighty band,\nAnd led him thence to Kriemhild, and gave into her hand\nThe best and boldest champion that broadsword ever bore.\nShe after all her anguish felt comfort all the more.\n\nFor joy the queen inclin'd her before the welcome guest;\n\"Sir knight I in mind and body heaven keep thee ever blest!\nBy thee all my long sorrows are shut up in delight.\nEven if death prevent not, thy service I'll requite.\"\n\n\"Fair and noble Kriemhild,\" thus Sir Dietrich spake,\n\"Spare this captive warrior, who full amends will make\nFor all his past transgressions; him here in bonds you see;\nRevenge not on the fetter'd th' offences of the free.\"\n\nWith that she had Sir Hagan to durance led away,\nWhere no one could behold him, where under lock he lay.\nMeanwhile the fierce king Gunther shouted loud and strong,\n\"Whither is gone the Berner? he hath done me grievous wrong.\"\n\nStraight, at the call, to meet him Sir Dietrich swiftly went.\nHuge was the strength of Gunther, and deadly his intent.\nThere he no longer dallied; from th' hall he forward ran;\nSword clash'd with sword together, as man confronted man.\n\nHowe'er renown'd was Dietrich, and train'd in combat well,\nYet Gunther fought against him so furious and so fell,\nAnd bore him hate so deadly, now friendless left and lone,\nIt seemed past all conceiving, how Dietrich held his own.\n\nBoth were of mighty puissance, and neither yielded ground;\nPalace and airy turret rung with their strokes around,\nAs their swift swords descending their temper'd helmets hew'd\nWell there the proud king Gunther display'd his manly mood.\n\nYet him subdued the Berner, as Hagan erst befell;\nSeen was the blood of the warrior forth through his mail to well\nBeneath the fatal weapon that Dietrich bore in fright.\nTir'd as he was, still Gunther had kept him like a knight.\n\nSo now at length the champion was bound by Dietrich there,\nHow ill soe'er it fitteth a king such bonds to bear.\nGunther and his fierce liegeman if he had left unbound,\nHe ween'd they'd deal destruction on all, whome'er they found.\n\nThen by the hand Sir Dietrich took the champion good.\nAnd in his bonds thence led him to where fair Kriemhild stood.\nShe cried, \"thou'rt welcome, Gunther, hero of Burgundy.\"\n\"Now God requite you, Kriemhild, if you speak lovingly.\"\n\nSaid he, \"I much should thank you, and justly, sister dear,\nIf true affection prompted the greeting which I hear;\nBut, knowing your fierce temper, proud queen, too well I see,\nSuch greeting is a mocking of Hagan and of me.\"\n\nThen said the noble Berner, \"high-descended dame,\nNe'er have been brought to bondage knights of such peerless fame,\nAs those, whom you, fair lady, now from your servant take.\nGrant these forlorn and friendless fair treatment for my sake.\"\n\nShe said she fain would do so; then from the captive pair\nWith weeping eyes Sir Dietrich retir'd and left them there.\nStraight a bloody vengeance wreak'd Etzell's furious wife\nOn those redoubted champions, and both bereft of life.\n\nIn dark and dismal durance them kept apart the queen,\nSo that from that hour neither was by the other seen,\nTill that at last to Hagan her brother's head she bore.\nOn both she took with vengeance as tongue ne'er told before.\n\nTo the cell of Hagan eagerly she went;\nThus the knight bespake she, ah! with what fell intent!\n\"Wilt thou but return me what thou from me hast ta'en,\nBack thou may'st go living to Burgundy again.\"\n\nThen spake grim-visag'd Hagan, \"you throw away your prayer,\nHigh-descended lady; I took an oath whilere,\nThat, while my lords were living, or of them only one,\nI'd ne'er point out the treasure; thus 't will be given to none.\"\n\nWell knew the subtle Hagan, she ne'er would let him 'scape.\nAh! when did ever falsehood assume so foul a shape?\nHe fear'd, that, soon as ever the queen his life had ta'en,\nShe then would send her brother to Rhineland back again.\n\n\"I'll make an end, and quickly,\" Kriemhild fiercely spake.\nHer brother's life straight had she in his dungeon take.\nOff his head was smitten; she bore it by the hair\nTo the lord of Trony; such sight he well could spare.\n\nA while in gloomy sorrow he view'd his master's head;\nThen to remorseless Kriemhild thus the warrior said;\n\"E'en to thy wish this business thou to an end hast brought,\nTo such an end, moreover, as Hagan ever thought.\n\nNow the brave king Gunther of Burgundy is dead\nYoung Giselher and eke Gernot alike with him are sped;\nSo now, where lies the treasure, none knows save God and me,\nAnd told shall it be never, be sure, she-fiend! to thee.\"\n\nSaid she, \"ill hast thou quitted a debt so deadly scor'd;\nAt least in my possession I'll keep my Siegfried's sword.\nMy lord and lover bore it, when last I saw him go.\nFor him woe wring my bosom, that pass'd all other woe.\"\n\nForth from the sheath she drew it; that could not be prevent;\nAt once to slay the champion was Kriemhild's stern intent.\nHigh with both hands she heav'd it, and off his head did smite.\nThat was seen of king Etzel; he shudder'd at the sight.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried the prince impassion'd, \"harrow and welaway!\nThat the hand of a woman the noblest knight should slay,\nThat e'er struck stroke in battle, or ever buckler bore!\nAlbeit I was his foeman, needs must I sorrow sore.\"\n\nThen said the aged Hildebrand, \"let not her boast of gain,\nIn that by her contrivance this noble chief was slain.\nThough to sore strait he brought me, let ruin on me light,\nBut I will take full vengeance for Trony's murdered knight.\"\n\nHildebrand the aged fierce on Kriemhild sprung:\nTo the death he smote her as his sword he swung.\nSudden and remorseless he his wrath did wreak.\nWhat could then avail her her fearful thrilling shriek?\n\nThere now the dreary corpses stretch'd all around were seen;\nThere lay, hewn in pieces, the fair and noble queen.\nSir Dietrich and king Etzel, their tears began to start;\nFor kinsmen and for vassals each sorrow'd in his heart.\n\nThe mighty and the noble there lay together dead;\nFor this had all the people dole and drearihead.\nThe feast of royal Etzel was thus shut up in woe.\nPain in the steps of Pleasure treads ever here below.\n\n'Tis more than I can tell you what afterwards befell,\nSave that there was weeping for friends belov'd so well;\nKnights and squires, dames and damsels, were seen lamenting all,\nSo here I end my story. This is THE NIBELUNGERS' FALL.\n\n--Tr. by Littsom.\n\n\nROMANCES.\n\nAs elsewhere in Europe, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in\nGermany produced numberless romances. These may be classed under\n(1) Romances of Arthur, (2) Romances of the Holy Graal, (3)\nRomances of Antiquity, and (4) Romances of Love and Chivalry. The\nchief poets of romances were Hartmann von Aue, Gottfried von\nStrassburg, and Wolfram von Eschenbach.  A good example of the\nromance of love is \"Der Arme Heinrich of Hartmann von Aue\". \"Poor\nHenry\", to quote Scherer, \"is a kind of Job, a man of noble\nbirth; rich, handsome, and beloved, who is suddenly visited by\nGod with the terrible affliction of leprosy, and who can be cured\nonly by the lifeblood of a young maiden who is willing to die for\nhim. The daughter of a peasant, to whose house he has retired in\nhis despair, resolves to sacrifice her life for him. Heinrich\naccepts her offer, and the knife to kill her is already whetted,\nwhen a better feeling arises in his breast, and he refuses to\ntake upon himself the guilt of her death, resolving to resign\nhimself to the will of God. This resignation saves him; he\nrecovers and marries the maiden.\" Our extracts are from the first\nand last of the poem.\n\n\nHENRY THE LEPER.\nLl. 1-131.--\n\nOnce on a time, rhymeth the rhyme,\nIn Swabia land once on a time,\nThere was a nobleman so journeying,\nUnto whose nobleness everything\nOf virtue and high-hearted excellence\nWorthy his line and his high pretense\nWith plentiful measure was meted out:\nThe land rejoiced in him round about.\nHe was like a prince in his governing--\nIn his wealth he was like a king;\nBut most of all by the fame far-flown\nOf his great knightliness was he known,\nNorth and south, upon land and sea.\nBy his name he was Henry of the Lea.\nAll things whereby the truth grew dim\nWere held as hateful foes with him:\nBy solemn oath was he bounden fast\nTo shun them while his life should last.\nIn honour all his days went by:\nTherefore his soul might look up high\nTo honorable authority.\n\nA paragon of all graciousness,\nA blossoming branch of youthfulness,\nA looking-glass to the world around,\nA stainless and priceless diamond,\nOf gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,\nA home when the tyrant menaceth,\nA buckler to the breast of his friend,\nAnd courteous without measure or end;\nWhose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell;\nOf precious wisdom a limpid well,\nA singer of ladies every one,\nAnd very lordly to look upon\nIn feature and hearing and countenance:\nSay, failed he in anything, perchance,\nThe summit of all glory to gain.\nAnd the lasting honour of all men.\n\nAlack! the soul that was up so high\nDropped down into pitiful misery;\nThe lofty courage was stricken low,\nThe steady triumph stumbled in woe,\nAnd the world-joy was hidden in the dust,\nEven as all such shall be and must.\nHe whose life in the senses centreth\nIs already in the shades of death.\nThe joys, called great, of this under-state\nBurn up the bosom early and late;\nAnd their shining is altogether vain,\nFor it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain,\nThe torch that flames for men to see\nAnd wasteth to ashes inwardly\nIs verily but an imaging\nOf man's own life, the piteous thing.\nThe whole is brittleness and mishap:\nWe sit and dally in Fortune's lap\nTill tears break in our smiles betwixt,\nAnd the shallow honey-draught be mix'd\nWith sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep.\nOh! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep:\nIn the blossoming of thy flower-crown\nA sword is raised to smite thee down.\n\nIt was thus with Earl Henry, upon whom for his pride God sent a\nleprosy, as He did upon Job. But he did not bear his affliction\nas did Job.\n\nIts duteousness his heart forgot;\nHis pride waxed hard, and kept its place,\nBut the glory departed from his face,\nAnd that which was his strength, grew weak.\nThe hand that smote him on the cheek\nWas all too heavy. It was night,\nNow, and his sun withdrew its light.\nTo the pride of his uplifted thought\nMuch woe the weary knowledge brought\nThat the pleasant way his feet did wend\nWas all passed o'er and had an end.\nThe day wherein his years had begun\nWent in his mouth with a malison.\nAs the ill grew stronger and more strong,--\nThere was but hope bore him along;\nEven yet to hope he was full fain\nThat gold might help him back again\nThither whence God had cast him out.\nAh! weak to strive and little stout\n'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possessed.\nNorth and south and east and west,\nFar and wide from every side,\nMediciners well proved and tried\nCame to him at the voice of his woe;\nBut, mused and pondered they ever so,\nThey could but say, for all their care,\nThat he must be content to bear\nThe burthen of the anger of God;\nFor him there was no other road.\nAlready was his heart nigh down\nWhen yet to him one chance was shown;\nFor in Salerno dwelt, folk said,\nA leach who still might lend him aid,\nAlbeit unto his body's cure,\nAll such had been as nought before.\n\nEarl Henry visits the leach in Salerno whom he implores to tell\nhim the means by which he may be healed.\n\nQuoth the leach, \"Then know them what they are;\nYet still all hope must stand afar.\nTruly if the cure for your care\nMight be gotten anyway anywhere,\nDid it hide in the furthest parts of earth,\nThis-wise I had not sent you forth.\nBut all my knowledge hath none avail;\nThere is but one thing would not fail:\nAn innocent virgin for to find,\nChaste, and modest, and pure in mind,\nWho to save you from death might choose\nHer own young body's life to lose;\nThe heart's blood of the excellent maid--\nThat and nought else can be your aid.\nBut there is none will be won thereby\nFor the love of another's life to die.\n\n\"'T was then poor Henry knew indeed\nThat from his ill he might not be freed,\nSith that no woman he might win\nOf her own will to act herein.\nThus got he but an ill return\nFor the journey he made unto Salerne,\nAnd the hope he had upon that day\nWas snatched from him and rent away.\nHomeward he hied him back: fall fain\nWith limbs in the dust he would have lain.\nOf his substance--lands and riches both--\nHe rid himself; even as one doth\nWho the breath of the last life of his hope\nOnce and forever hath rendered up.\nTo his friends he gave and to the poor,\nUnto God praying evermore\nThe spirit that was in him to save,\nAnd make his bed soft in the grave.\nWhat still remained aside he set\nFor Holy Church's benefit.\nOf all that heretofore was his\nNought held he for himself, I wis,\nSave one small house with byre and field:\nThere from the world he lived concealed,--\nThere lived he, and awaited Death,\nWho being awaited, lingereth.\nPity and ruth his troubles found\nAlway through all the country round.\nWho heard him named, had sorrow deep\nAnd for his piteous sake would weep.\n\nThe poor man who tilled Earl Henry's field had a daughter, a\nsweet and tender maiden who, out of love for Henry and a heart of\nChrist-like pity, at last offers herself to die for him. After a\nstruggle Henry accepts the sacrifice. But when he knows it is\nabout to be made his heart rises against it and he refuses to\npermit it. At this the maiden is much grieved. She takes it as a\ntoken that she is not pure enough to be offered for him. She\nprays for a sign that she may hope to become wholly cleansed. In\nanswer to this prayer Earl Henry is in one night cleansed of the\nleprosy. He then joyfully takes the maiden for his bride and\nleads her before his kinsman and nobles for their consent.\n\n\"Then,\" quoth the Earl, \"hearken me this.\nThe damozel who standeth here,--\nAnd whom I embrace, being most dear,--\nShe it is unto whom I owe\nThe grace it hath pleased God to bestow.\nHe saw the simple spirited\nEarnestness of the holy maid,\nAnd even in guerdon of her truth\nGave me back the joys of my youth,\nWhich seemed to be lost beyond all doubt,\nAnd therefore I have chosen her out\nTo wed with me knowing her free.\nI think that God will let this be.\nLo! I enjoin ye, with God's will\nThat this my longing ye fulfill.\nI pray ye all have but one voice\nAnd let your choice go with my choice.\"\n\nThen the cries ceased, and the counter-cries,\nAnd all the battle of advice,\nAnd every lord, being content\nWith Henry's choice, granted assent.\n\nThen the priests came to bind as one\nTwo lives in bridal unison,\nInto his hand they folded hers,\nNot to be loosed in coming years,\nAnd uttered between man and wife\nGod's blessing on the road of this life.\nMany a bright and pleasant day\nThe twain pursued their steadfast way,\nTill hand in hand, at length they trod\nUpward to the kingdom of God.\nEven as it was with them, even thus,\nAnd quickly, it must be with us.\nTo such reward as theirs was then,\nGod help us in His hour. Amen.\n\n-- Tr. by Rossetti.\n\n\nTHE MINNESINGERS.\n\nIn the twelfth century, Germany had a remarkable outburst of\nlyric poetry, chiefly songs of love. The influence of the\ncrusades, the spread of the romances of Arthur and Charlemagne\nroused over all Germany the spirit of poetry. The poets of this\nnew movement are called Minnesingers. It is interesting to notice\nthat the same poets who wrote these love lyrics, wrote also long\nromances of chivalry; the greatest names among them being\nHartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Heinrich von\nOfterdingen, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Walther von der\nVogelweide. They were of all ranks, but chiefly belonged to the\nupper classes--knights, squires, princes, and even kings being\nnumbered among them. Their extraordinarily large number may be\ngathered from the fact that from the twelfth century alone the\nnames of one hundred and sixty Minnesingers have come down to us.\nTheir names and their songs have been handed down largely by\ntradition, since the mass of them could neither read nor write,\nand for a century or more their work was preserved orally.\n\nThe subject of these songs was almost always love--generally love\nof a sweetheart; sometimes of the simpler aspects of nature,\nsometimes the love of the Virgin. Besides this they wrote also\nmany didactic, religious, and patriotic songs. The rhythmical and\nmetrical structure of their verse was very complicated and\ngenerally very skillful, sometimes, however, running into\neccentricities and barren technicalities. The Minnesinger\ngenerally composed the music of his song at the same time with\nthe verse.\n\nThe bloom of the Minnesong passed away in the latter half of the\nthirteenth century. The songs became theological, didactic,\npolitical, more and more forced and complicated in form, more and\nmore filled with quaint new figures, far-fetched conceits, and\nobscure allusions. Then gradually developed the school of the\nMeistersingers, who formed themselves into a guild of poets to\nwhich only those were admitted who passed examination upon the\ndifficult technical rules that had been built up. The poetry of\nthe Meistersinigers was, for the most part, tedious and\nartificial. The poets were not nobles and soldiers, but burghers\nand artisans. They reached their highest development in the\nsixteenth century. The most famous of them was Hans Sachs\n(1494-1575), who, in the space of fifty-three years, wrote 6181\npieces of verse.\n\n\nDIETMAR VON AIST.  Twelfth Century.\n\nBy the heath stood a lady\n  All lonely and fair;\nAs she watched for her lover,\n  A falcon flew near.\n\"Happy falcon!\" she cried\n  \"Who can fly where he list,\nAnd can choose in the forest\n  The tree he loves best!\n\n\"Thus, too, had I chosen\n  One knight for mine own,\nHim my eye had selected,\n  Him prized I alone:\nBut other fair ladies\n  Have envied my joy,\nAnd why? for I sought not\n  Their bliss to destroy.\n\n\"As to thee, lovely summer,\n  Returns the birds' strain,\nAs on yonder green linden\n  The leaves spring again,\nSo constant doth grief\n  At my eyes overflow,\nAnd wilt not thou, dearest,\n  Return to me now?\"\n\n\n  \"Yes, come, my own hero,\n  All others desert!\nWhen first my eye saw thee,\n  How graceful thou wert;\nHow fair was thy presence,\n  How graceful, how bright!\nThen think of me only,\n  My own chosen knight!\"\n   . . . . . .\nThere sat upon the linden-tree\n  A bird and sang its strain;\nSo sweet it sang, that, as I heard,\n  My heart went back again:\nIt went to one remembered spot,\n  I saw the rose-trees grow,\nAnd thought again the thoughts of love\n  There cherished long ago.\n\nA thousand years to me it seems\n  Since by my fair I sat,\nYet thus to have been a stranger long\n  Was not my choice, but fate:\nSince then I have not seen the flowers,\n  Nor heard the birds' sweet song;\nMy joys have all too briefly passed,\n  My griefs been all too long.\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nWALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE.  Early nineteenth Century.\nUNDER THE LINDEN.\n\n  Under the linden\n  On the meadow\nWhere our bed arrange'd was,\n  There now you may find e'en\n  In the shadow Broken flowers and crushe'd grass.\nNear the woods, down in the vale\n  Tandaradi!\nSweetly sang the nightingale.\n\n  I, poor sorrowing one,\n  Came to the prairie,\nLook, my lover had gone before.\n  There he received me--\n  Gracious Mary!--\nThat now with bliss I am brimming o'er.\nKissed he me? Ah, thousand hours!\n  Tandaradi!\nSee my mouth, how red it flowers!\n\n  Then 'gan he making\n  Oh! so cheery,\nFrom flowers a couch most rich outspread.\n  At which outbreaking\n  In laughter merry\nYou'll find, whoe'er the path does tread.\n  By the rose he can see\n  Tandaradi!\nWhere my head lay cozily.\n\n  How he caressed me\n  Knew it one ever\nGod defend! ashamed I'd be.\n  Whereto he pressed me\n  No, no, never\nShall any know it but him and me\nAnd a birdlet on the tree\n  Tandaradi!\nSure we can trust it, cannot we?\n\n--Tr. by Kroeger.\n\n\nFROM THE CRUSADERS' HYMN.\n\nSweet love of Holy Spirit\nDirect sick mind and steer it,\nGod, who the first didst rear it,\n  Protect thou Christendom.\n  It lies of pleasure barren\nNo rose blooms more in Sharon;\nComfort of all th' ill-starren,\n  Oh! help dispel the gloom!\nKeep, Savior, from all ill us!\nWe long for the bounding billows,\nThy Spirit's love must thrill us,\n  Repentant hearts' true friend.\nThy blood for us thou'st given,\nUnlocked the gates of heaven.\nNow strive we as we've striven\n  To gain the blessed land.\nOur wealth and blood grows thinner;\nGod yet will make us winner\nGainst him, who many a sinner\n  Holds pawne'd in his hand.\n. . . . . . . . .\nGod keep thy help us sending,\nWith thy right hand aid lending,\nProtect us till the ending\n  When at last our soul us leaves,\nFrom hell-fires, flaming clamor\nLest we fall 'neath the hammer!\nToo oft we've heard with tremor,\nHow pitiably it grieves\nThe land so pure and holy\nAll helplessly and fearfully!\n  Jerusalem, weep lowly,\nThat thou forgotten art!\nThe heathen's boastful glory\nPut thee in slavery hoary.\nChrist, by thy name's proud story\n  In mercy take her part!\nAnd help those sorely shaken\nWho treaties them would maken\nThat we may not be taken\n  And conquered at the start.\n\n-- Tr. by Kroeger.\n\n\nWhen from the sod the flowerets spring,\n  And smile to meet the sun's bright ray,\n When birds their sweetest carols sing,\n  In all the morning pride of May,\n What lovelier than the prospect there?\n Can earth boast any thing more fair?\n To me it seems an almost heaven,\nSo beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is given.\n\nBut when a lady chaste and fair,\n  Noble, and clad in rich attire,\n Walks through the throng with gracious air,\n  As sun that bids the stars retire,\n Then, where are all thy boastings, May?\n What hast thou beautiful and gay,\n Compared with that supreme delight?\nWe leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that lady bright.\n\nWouldst thou believe me,--come and place\n  Before thee all this pride of May;\nThen look but on my lady's face,\n And which is best and brightest say:\n  For me, how soon (if choice were mine)\n  This would I take, and that resign,\n  And say, \"Though sweet thy beauties, May,\nI'd rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay!\"\n\n--Tr. by Taylor.\n\n\nThe Minnesingers wrote many songs in praise of the Virgin. She\nwas the embodiment of pure womanhood, their constant object of\ndevotion. The following extracts are taken from a hymn to the\nVirgin, formerly attributed to Gottfried von Strassburg. It is\none of the greatest of the Minnesongs. It consists of\nninety-three stanzas, of which six are given.\n\nStanza 1.--\nYe who your life would glorify\nAnd float in bliss to God on high,\n  There to dwell nigh\nHis peace and love's salvation;\nWho fain would learn how to enroll\nAll evil under your control,\n  And rid your soul\nOf many a sore temptation;\nGive heed unto this song of love,\nAnd follow its sweet story.\nThen will its passing sweetness prove\nUnto your hearts a winge'd dove\n  And upward move\nYour souls to bliss and glory.\n\nStanza 12.--\nYe fruitful heavens, from your ways\nBend down to hear the tuneful lays\n  I sing in praise\nOf her, the sainted maiden,\n  Who unto us herself has shown\nA modest life, a crown and throne;\n  Whose love has flown\nO'er many a heart grief-laden.\nThou too, O Christ, thine ear incline\n  To this my adoration,\nIn honor of that mother thine\nWho ever blest must stay and shine,\n  For she's the shrine\nOf God's whole vast creation.\n\nStanza 19.--\nThou sheen of flowers through clover place,\nThou lignum aloe's blooming face,\n  Thou sea of grace,\nWhere man seeks blessed landing.\nThou roof of rapture high and blest,\nThrough which no rain has ever passed,\n  Thou goodly rest,\nWhose end is without ending.\nThou to help-bearing strength a tower\n  Against all hostile evils.\nThou parriest many a stormy shower\nWhich o'er us cast in darkest hour,\n  The hell worm's power\nAnd other ruthless devils.\n\nStanza 20.--\nThou art a sun, a moon, a star,\n'Tis thou can'st give all good and mar,\n  Yea, and debar\nOur enemies' great cunning.\nThat power God to thee hath given\nThat living light, that light of heaven:\n  Hence see we even\nThy praise from all lips running.\nThou' st won the purest, noblest fame,\nIn all the earth's long story,\nThat e'er attached to worldly name;\nIt shineth brightly like a flame;\n  All hearts the same\nAdore its lasting glory.\n\nStanza 82.--\nTo worship, Lady, thee is bliss,\nAnd fruitful hours ne'er pass amiss\n  To heart that is\nSo sweet a guest's host-mansion.\nHe who thee but invited hath\nInto his heart's heart love with faith,\n  Must live and bathe\nIn endless bliss-expansion.\nTo worship thee stirs up in man\nA love now tame, now passion.\nTo worship thee doth waken, then\nLove e'en in those love ne'er could gain;\n  Thus now amain\nShines forth thy love's concession.\n\nFrom praising Mary, the poet passes to praising Christ.\n\nStanza 59.--\nThou cool, thou cold, thou warmth, thou heat,\nThou rapture's circle's central seat,\n  Who does not meet\nWith thee stays dead in sadness;\nEach day to him appears a year,\nSeldom his thoughts wear green bloom's gear;\n  He doth appear\nForever without gladness.\nThou art most truly our heart's shine\nOur sun wide joy-inspiring;\nA sweet heart's love for all that pine,\nFor all the sad a joyful shrine,\n  A spring divine\nFor the thirsty and desiring.\n\n--Tr. by Kroeger.\n\n\nCHAPTER V.  ITALIAN LITERATURE.\n\nThere was no folk poetry and no popular literature in Mediaeval\nItaly. There were two reasons for this: (1) Italian history,\npolitical and intellectual, attaches itself very closely to that\nof Rome. The traditions of classic learning never died out. Hence\nthe Italian nation was always too learned, too literary to\ndevelop a folk literature. (2) Italy was for many centuries\ndominated by ecclesiastical influence, and the people's minds\nwere full of matters of religious and scholastic philosophy,\nwhich excluded art.\n\nThe Italians translated and adapted some of the epics, romances,\nand tales of other countries, during the earlier years of the\nMiddle Ages; but they were written in Latin, or in a kind of\nFrench. They produced none of their own. There was no literature\nwritten in Italian before the thirteenth century.\n\nIn the thirteenth century (1250) there came the first outburst of\nItalian literature--religious songs, love songs, dramas, and\ntales. In almost every part of Italy men began to write. But it\nwas in Tuscany, in Florence, that the most remarkable literary\ndevelopment of this period appeared. It was of the nature chiefly\nof lyric and allegoric poetry. The work of this group of Tuscan\npoets was really the beginning of Italian literary art. Yet it\nwas a finished art product, not at all like the beginnings of\npoetry in other countries.\n\nThe group numbered a dozen poets of considerable power and skill.\nThe greatest of them and the greatest of Italian poets was Dante\nAlighieri. In Italian mediaeval literature three names stand out\nfar above all others. They are Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. So\ncompletely do they overshadow their contemporaries, that in\nmaking our selection of Italian literature we shall confine\nourselves entirely to these three.\n\nDante Alighieri was born at Florence, in May, 1266, and died at\nRavenna in September, 1321. He had an eventful and pathetic life.\nHe was much in public affairs. He was banished from his native\ncity in 1302, and died in exile. His literary work is represented\nchiefly by the following titles: \"Vita Nuova, The New Life\";\n\"Convito, The Banquet\"; \"De Monarchia, A Treatise on Monarchy\";\n\"De Vulgari Eloquio, A Treatise on the Vulgar Tongue\"; and\n\"Divina Commedia\", his masterpiece and the master-work of the\nMiddle Ages.\n\n\nFROM THE VITA NUOVA.\n\nThe \"Vita Nuova\" is a work of Dante's youth, a record of his\nearly life and love. The title may be translated either Early\nLife or The New Life. From the nature of the work we may infer\nthat the latter translation conveys the poet's thought. It\nimplies that after his first sight of Beatrice he began a new\nexistence. He saw her first when he was nine years old. Nine\nyears later she greeted him for the first time. Inspired by this\ngreeting he began the \"Vita Nuova\".[1] It is written in prose\ninterspersed with sonnets and canzoni. We select for reproduction\nsome of the sonnets from Rossetti's translation.\n\n[1] When Dante first saw Beatrice she was eight years old. From\nthat hour he says he loved her. She was the inspiration of his\nearly poem; and afterward, in the Divine Comedy, she became the\nembodiment of his conception of divine wisdom. She was married\nquite young to Simon di Bardi, a citizen of Florence. She died in\n1290, when only twenty-four years old.\n\n\nI. Sonnets telling to other ladies the praise of Beatrice.\n\n   Ladies that have intelligence in love\n   Of mine own lady I would speak with you;\n   Not that I hope to count her praises through,\n   But telling what I may to ease my mind.\nAnd I declare that when I speak thereof\nLove sheds such perfect sweetness over me\nThat if my courage failed not, certainly\n   To him my listeners must be all resign'd.\n   Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind\nThat mine own speech should foil me, which were base;\nBut only will discourse of her high grace\n  In these poor words, the best that I can find,\nWith you alone dear dames and damozels:\n'Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.\n. . . . . . . .\n   My lady is desired in the high Heaven;\n   WHEREFORE, it now behoveth me to tell, saying:\n   Let any maid that would be well\n   Esteemed, keep with her; for as she goes by,\nInto foul hearts a deadly chill is driven\nBy Love, that makes ill thoughts to perish there;\nWhile any who endures to gaze on her\n   Must either be ennobled, or else die.\n   When one deserving to be raised so high\nIs found, It is then her power attains its proof,\nMaking his heart strong for his soul's behoof\n   With the full strength of meek humility.\nAlso this virtue owns she, by God's will:\nWho speaks with her can never come to ill.\n\nII. On the death of Beatrice.\n\nWhen mine eyes had wept for some while until they were so weary\nwith weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my\nsorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me\ninstead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that\nweeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had\ndestroyed my spirit; and I then began:\n\nThe eyes that weep for pity of the heart\nHave wept so long that their grief languisheth,\nAnd they have no more tears to weep withal:\n   And now if I would ease me of a part\nOf what, little by little, leads to death,\nIt must be done by speech, or not at all,\nAnd because often, thinking I recall\n   How it was pleasant ere she went afar,\n   To talk of her with you, kind damozels,\nI talk with no one else,\nBut only with such hearts as women's are.\n   And I will say,--still sobbing as speech fails,--\nThat she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,\nAnd hath left Love below, to mourn with me.\n\n\nIII.\n\n\"Dante once prepared to paint an angel.\"\n. . . . . . .\n\"You and I would rather see that angel\nPainted by the tenderness of Dante,--\nWould we not?--than read a fresh Inferno.\"\n\n--Browning's \"One Word More\".\n\nOn that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made\nof the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat\nalone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon\ncertain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head,\nI perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should\nhave given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I\ndid; also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while\nbefore I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation\nand said: \"Another was with me.\"\n\nAfterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine\noccupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels; in doing\nwhich, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her\nanniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just\nleft me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith \"That\nLady\":\n\nThat lady of all gentle memories\n   Had lighted on my soul; whose new abode\n   Lies now, as it was well ordained of God,\nAmong the poor in heart where Mary is.\nLove, knowing that dear image to be his,\n   Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bowed,\n    Unto the sighs which are its weary load,\nSaying, \"Go forth.\" And they went forth, I wis\nForth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;\n   With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe\n   Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.\nAnd still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath\nCame whispering thus: \"O noble intellect!\n    It is a year to-day that thou art gone.\"\n\n\nIV. The Close of the Vita Nuova.\n\nBeyond the sphere which spreads to widest space\n   Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above;\n   A new perception born of grieving Love\nGuideth it upward the untrodden ways.\nWhen it hath reached unto the end and stays,\n   It sees a lady round whom splendors move\n   In homage; till, by the great light thereof\nAbashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.\nIt sees her such, that when it tells me this\n  Which it hath seen, I understand it not;\n   It hath a speech so subtile and so fine\nAnd yet I know its voice within my thought\nOften remembereth me of Beatrice:\n   So that I understand it, ladies mine.\n\n\nAfter writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very\nwonderful vision,[1] wherein I saw things which determined me\nthat I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until\nsuch time as I could discourse more worthily of her. And to this\nend I labor all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be\nHis pleasure through whom is the life of all things, that my life\ncontinue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet\nwrite concerning her what hath not before been written of any\nwoman. After the which may it seem good unto Him who is the\nMaster of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the\nglory of its lady: to wit, the blessed Beatrice, who now gazeth\ncontinually on His countenance qui est per omnia soecula\nbenedictus. Laus Deo.[2]\n\n[1] This we may believe to be the vision of Hell, Purgatory, and\nParadise, the vision which gave him the argument of the Divine\nComedy.\n\n[2] Who is blessed throughout all ages. Praise to God.\n\n\n\nFROM THE DIVINE COMEDY.[1]\n\n[1] Dante called his poem a comedy, he says, for two reasons:\nbecause it has a sad beginning and a cheerful ending, and because\nit is written in a \"middle\" style, treating alike of lowly and\nlofty things. Midway in life the poet finds himself lost in the\nforest of worldly cares, beset by the three beasts, Pride,\nAvarice, and Worldly Pleasure. Virgil, who is the embodiment of\nmoral philosophy, appears and leads him through the Hell of\nworldly sin and suffering, through the Purgatory of repentance,\nto the calm of the earthly Paradise. Mere philosophy can go no\nfurther. The  poet is here taken under the guidance of Beatrice,\nthe embodiment of  divine wisdom, who leads him through Paradise\nto the throne of God. Such, in the briefest form, is the argument\nof the Divine Comedy; this statement carries the actual story and\nthe allegory side by side.  The first division of the triple\nvision is the Inferno. Dante's Inferno is an inverted cone,\nhaving its mouth in a deep rugged valley, its sides sloping down\nto the center of the earth. When Lucifer fell from heaven the\nearth retired before him, making this hollow cone. This is\ndivided into nine circles, in which the lost souls suffer. These\nsouls are grouped into three main classes: the incontinent, the\nviolent, and the fraudulent.  The first circle of the Inferno is\nLimbo, where are the souls of children and the unbaptized; of the\nheathen philosophers and poets. They are neither in pain nor\nglory, they do not shriek nor groan but only sigh.\n\n\nI. The Poets in Limbo.--From the Inferno.\n\nBroke the deep slumber in my brain a crash\nOf heavy thunder, that I shook myself,\nAs one by main force roused. Risen upright,\nMy rested eyes I moved around, and search'd,\nWith fixed ken, to know what place it was\nWherein I stood. For certain, on the brink\nI found me of the lamentable vale,\nThe dread abyss, that joins a thundrous sound\nOf plaints innumerable. Dark and deep,\nAnd thick with clouds o'erspread, mine eye in vain\nExplored its bottom, nor could aught discern.\n   \"Now let us to the blind world there beneath\nDescend;\" the bard began, all pale of look:\n  \"I go the first, and thou shalt follow next.\"\n   Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus:\n   \"How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread,\nWho still art wont to comfort me in doubt?\"\n   He then: \"The anguish of that race below\nWith pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear\nMistakest. Let us on. Our length of way\nUrges to haste.\" Onward, this said, he moved;\nAnd entering led me with him, on the bounds\nOf the first circle that surrounds the abyss.\n. . . . . . . . . .\n     We were not far\nOn this side from the summit, when I kenn'd\nA flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere\nPrevailing shined. Yet we a little space\nWere distant, not so far but I in part\nDiscover'd that a tribe in honour high\nThat place possess'd. \"O thou, who every art\nAnd science valuest I who are these that boast\nSuch honour, separate from all the rest?\"\n  He answer'd: \"The renown of their great names,\nThat echoes through your world above, acquires\nFavour in heaven, which holds them thus advanced.\"\nMeantime a voice I heard: \"Honour the bard\nSublime![1] his shade returns, that left us late!\n\nNo sooner ceased the sound, than I beheld\nFour mighty spirits toward us bend their steps,\nOf semblance neither sorrowful nor glad.\n  When thus my master kind began: \"Mark him,\nWho in his right hand bears that falchion keen,\nThe other three preceding, as their lord.\nThis is that Homer, of all bards supreme:\nFlaccus the next, in satire's vein excelling;\nThe third is Naso; Lucan is the last.\nBecause they all that appellation own,\nWith which the voice singly accosted me,\nHonouring they greet me thus, and well they judge.\"\n  So I beheld united the bright school\nOf him the monarch of sublimest song,[2]\n\nThat o'er the others like an eagle soars.\n  When they together short discourse had held,\nThey turned to me, with salutation kind\nBeckoning me; at the which my master smiled\nNor was this all; but greater honour still\nThey gave me, for they made me of their tribe;\nAnd I was sixth amid so learn'd a band.\n\n[1] The bard sublime--Virgil.\n\n[2] The monarch of sublimest song--Homer.\n\n\nII. Francesca da Rimini.[1]\n\n[1] Francesca da Polenta was given in marriage by her father to\nLanclotto da Rimini, a man brave, but of deformed person. His\nbrother Paolo, who was exceedingly handsome, won her affections.\nThey were both put to death by Lagnciotto.\n\n\nFrom the Inferno.\nFrom Limbo the poet descends into the second circle, where the\nsin of lust is punished. The souls in this circle are driven\nforever round in a tyrannous gust of wind. They see Cleopatra and\nHelen and Paris and Tristan and many others whom Virgil names to\nthe poet. Finally he sees two spirits approaching, whom he asks\npermission to address. To these he spoke:\n\n\"O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse\nWith us, if by none else restrain'd.\" As doves\nBy fond desire invited, on wide wings\nAnd firm, to their sweet nest returning home,\nCleave the air, wafted by their will along;\nThus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks,\nThey, through the ill air speeding--with such force\nMy cry prevail'd, by strong affection urged.\n  \"O gracious creature and benign! who go'st\nVisiting, through this element obscure,\nUs, who the world with bloody stain imbrued;\nIf, for a friend, the King of all, we own'd,\nOur prayer to him should for thy peace arise,\nSince thou hast pity on our evil plight.\nOf whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse\nIt pleases thee, that will we hear, of that\nFreely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind,\nAs now, is mute. The land[1] that gave me birth,\nIs situate on the coast, where Po descends\nTo rest in ocean with his sequent streams.\n  \"Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,\nEntangled him by that fair form, from me\nTa'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still!\nLove, that denial takes from none beloved,\nCaught me with pleasing him so passing well,\nThat, as thou seest' he yet deserts me not.\nLove brought us to one death: Caina[2] waits\nThe soul, who split our life.\"\nSuch were their words;\nAt hearing which, downward I bent my looks,\nAnd held them there so long, that the bard cried:\n\"What art thou pondering?\" I in answer thus:\n\"Alas I by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire\nMust they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!\"\nThen turning, I to them my speech addressed,\nAnd thus began: \"Francesca! your sad fate\nEven to tears my grief and pity moves.\nBut tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,\nBy what, and how Love granted, that ye knew\nYour yet uncertain wishes?\" She replied:\n\"No greater grief than to remember days\nOf joy, when misery is at hand. That kens\nThy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly\nIf thou art bent to know the primal root,\nFrom whence our love gat being, I will do\nAs one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day,\nFor our delight we read of Lancelot,[3]\nHow him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no\nSuspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading\nOur eyes were drawn together, and the hue\nFled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point\nAlone we fell. When of that smile we read,\nThe wished smile so rapturously kiss'd\nBy one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er\nFrom me shall separate, at once my lips\nAll trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both\nWere love's purveyors. In its leaves that day\nWe read no more.\" While thus one spirit spake,\nThe other wailed so sorely, that heart-struck\nI, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far\nFrom death, and like a corse fell to the ground.\n\n[1] The land that gave me birth--Ravenna.\n\n[2] Caina, the place to which murderers are doomed.\n\n[3] Lancelot, one of the knights of the Round Table, the lover of\nQueen Guinevere.\n\n\nIII. Farinata.--From the Inferno.\n\nThe poet and his guide descend through the third circle where the\nsin of gluttony is punished; through the fourth, where they find\nthe prodigal and avaricious; through the fifth where immersed in\na filthy pool are the souls of the irascible. The sixth circle is\nthe city of Dis, with walls of heated iron, filled within with\nopen fiery tombs from which issue the groans of the heretics who\nare punished here. With two of these, Farinata degli Uberti[1]\nand Cavaleante Cavaleanti,[2] Dante holds converse.\n\n[1] Farinata degli Uberti, a Florentine of great military\nability, a leader of the Ghibelline, or imperial, party.\n\n[2] Cavaleante Cavaleanti, a Florentine, of the Guelph, or Papal,\nparty.\n\n\nNow by a secret pathway we proceed,\nBetween the walls that hem the region round,\nAnd the tormented souls: my master first,\nI close behind his steps. \"Virtue supreme!\"\nI thus began: \"who through these ample orbs\nIn circuit lead'st me, even as thou will'st;\nSpeak thou, and satisfy my wish. May those,\nWho lie within these sepulchres, be seen?\nAlready all the lids are raised, and none\nO'er them keeps watch.\" He thus in answer spake:\n\"They shall be closed all, what-time they here\nFrom Josaphat[1] return'd shall come, and bring\nTheir bodies, which above they now have left.\nThe cemetery on this part obtain,\nWith Epicurus, all his followers,\nWho with the body make the spirit die.\nHere therefore satisfaction shall be soon,\nBoth to the question ask'd, and to the wish [2]\nWhich thou conceal'st in silence.\" I replied:\n\"I keep not, guide beloved I from thee my heart\nSecreted, but to shun vain length of words;\nA lesson erewhile taught me by thyself.\"\n  \"O Tuscan! thou, who through the city of fire\nAlive art passing, so discreet of speech:\nHere, please thee, stay awhile. Thy utterance\nDeclares the place of thy nativity\nTo be that noble land, with which perchance\nI too severely dealt.\" Sudden that sound\nForth issued from a vault, whereat, in fear,\nI somewhat closer to my leader's side\nApproaching, he thus spake: \"What dost thou? Turn: Lo!\nFarinata, there, who hath himself\nUplifted: from his girdle upwards, all\nExposed, behold him.\" On his face was mine\nAlready fix'd: his breast and forehead there\nErecting, seem'd as in high scorn he held\nE'en hell. Between the sepulchres, to him\nMy guide thrust me, with fearless hands and prompt;\nThis warning added: \"See thy words be clear.\"\n  He, soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot,\nEyed me a space; then in disdainful mood\nAddress'd me: \"Say what ancestors were thine.\"\n  I, willing to obey him, straight reveal'd\nThe whole, nor kept back aught: whence he, his brow\nSomewhat uplifting, cried: \"Fiercely were they\nAdverse to me, my party, and the blood\nFrom whence I sprang: twice, therefore, I abroad\nScatter'd them.\" \"Though driven out, yet they each time\nFrom all parts,\" answer'd I, \"return'd; an art\nWhich yours have shown they are not skill'd to learn.\"\n  Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw,\nRose from his side a shade,[3] high as the chin,\nLeaning, methought, upon its knees upraised.\nIt look'd around, as eager to explore\nIf there were other with me; but perceiving\nThat fond imagination quench'd, with tears\nThus spake: \"If thou through this blind prison go'st,\nLed by thy lofty genius and profound,\nWhere is my son? and wherefore not with thee?\n  I straight replied: \"Not of myself I come;\nBy him, who there expects me, through this clime\nConducted, whom perchance Guido thy son\nHad in contempt.\"[4] Already had his words\nAnd mode of punishment read me his name,\nWhence I so fully answer'd. He at once\nExclaim'd' up starting, \"How! said'st thou' he HAD?\nNo longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye\nThe blessed daylight?\" Then, of some delay\nI made ere my reply, aware, down fell\nSupine, nor after forth appear'd he more.\n\n[1] It was a common opinion that the general judgment would be\nheld in the valley of Josaphat, or Jehoshaphat. Joel iii., 2.\n\n[2] The wish-Dante's wish was to speak with the followers of\nEpicurus, of whom were Farinata and Cavalcante.\n\n[3] A shade--Cavalcante.\n\n[4] Guido, thy son had in contempt--Guido the son of Cavalcante\nCavalcanti, a Tuscan poet, the friend of Dante. But being fonder\nof philosophy than of poetry was perhaps not an admirer of\nVirgil.\n\n\nV. The Hypocrites.  From the Inferno.\n\nIn the seventh circle, which is divided into three rounds, or\ngironi, the violent are tormented. The eighth circle is divided\ninto ten concentric fosses, or gulfs, in each of which some\nvariety of fraudulent sinners is punished. In the sixth gulf are\nthe hypocrites.\n\nThere in the depth we saw a painted tribe,\nWho paced with tardy steps around, and wept,\nFaint in appearance and o'ercome with toil.\nCaps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down\nBefore their eyes, in fashion like to those\nWorn by the monks in Cologne.[1]\nTheir outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,\nBut leaden all within, and of such weight,\nThat Frederick's [2] compared to these were straw.\nOh, everlasting wearisome attire!\nWe yet once more with them together turn'd\nTo leftward, on their dismal moan intent.\nBut by the weight opprest, so slowly came\nThe fainting people, that our company\nWas changed, at every movement of the step.\n  I staid, and saw two spirits in whose look\nImpatient eagerness of mind was mark'd\nTo overtake me; but the load they bare\nAnd narrow path retarded their approach.\n  Soon as arrived, they with an eye askance\nPerused me, but spake not: then turning, each\nTo other thus conferring said: \"This one\nSeems, by the action of his throat, alive;\nAnd, be they dead, what privilege allows\nThey walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?\"\n  Then thus to me: \"Tuscan, who visitest\nThe college of the mourning hypocrites,\nDisdain not to instruct us who thou art.\"\n\"By Arno's pleasant stream,\" I thus replied,\nIn the great city I was bred and grew,\nAnd wear the body I have ever worn.\nBut who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,\nAs now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?\nWhat torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?\"\n\"Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,\"\nOne of them answer'd' \"are so leaden gross,\nThat with their weight they make the balances\nTo crack beneath them. Joyous friars[3] we were,\nBologna's natives; Catalano I,\nHe Loderingo named; and by thy land\nTogether taken, as men use to take\nA single and indifferent arbiter,\nTo reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,\nGardingo's vicinage [4] can best declare.\"\n\"O friars!\" I began, \"your miseries--\"\nBut there brake off, for one had caught mine eye,\nFix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground:\nHe, when he saw me, writhed himself, throughout\nDistorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.\nAnd Catalano, who thereof was 'ware,\nThus spake: \"That pierced spirit,[5] whom intent\nThou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees\nCounsel, that it were fitting for one man\nTo suffer for the people. He doth lie\nTransverse; nor any passes, but him first\nBehoves make feeling trial how each weighs.\nIn straits like this along the foss are placed\nThe father of his consort,[6] and the rest\nPartakers in that council, seed of ill\nAnd sorrow to the Jews.\"\n\n[1] The monks in Cologne. These monks wore their cowls unusually\nlarge.\n\n[2] Frederick's. Frederick II. punished those guilty of high\ntreason by wrapping them up in lead, and casting them into a\nfurnace.\n\n[3] Joyous friars. An order of knights (Frail Godenti) on two of\nwhom the Ghibelline party at one time conferred the chief power\nof Florence. One was Catalano de' Malavolti, the other Loderingo\ndi Liandolo. Their administration was unjust.\n\n[4] Gardingo's vicinage. That part of the city inhabited by the\nGhibelline family of the Uberti, and destroyed, under the\niniquitous administration of Catalano and Loderingo.\n\n[5] That pierced spirit. Caiaphas.\n\n[6] The father of his consort. Annas.\n\n\nWhen the poets reach the ninth and last circle they see the souls\nof traitors lying in a frozen lake and in the midst Lucifer, the\nfallen archangel, in the very center of the earth. They slide\ndown his icy sides, and begin to ascend to the earth's surface\nthrough a cavern \"and thence come forth to see the stars again.\"\n\nThe second part of the Divine Comedy is the vision of Purgatory.\nWhen the solid earth retired before the falling Lucifer, making\nthe hollow cone of hell, it was pushed out on the other side of\nthe globe, forming the mountain of Purgatory. This is also\ndivided into nine circles. In the first two are the souls of\nthose who delayed repentance until death. In the other seven, the\nseven deadly sins are purged away. On the summit is the earthly\nparadise.\n\n\nI. The Celestial Pilot.--From the Pargatorio.\n\nThe mountain of Purgatory is situated upon an island. While\nVirgil and Dante are standing looking across the water, they\nbehold a boat laden with spirits for Purgatory under the guidance\nof an angel.\n\n  Meanwhile we linger'd by the water's brink,\nLike men' who' musing on their road, in thought\nJourney, while motionless the body rests.\nWhen lo! as, near upon the hour of dawn,\nThrough the thick vapours\nMars with fiery beam\nGlares down in west, over the ocean floor;\nSo seem'd, what once again I hope to view,\nA light, so swiftly coming through the sea,\nNo winged course night equal its career.\nFrom which when for a space I had withdrawn\nMine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide,\nAgain I look'd, and saw it grown in size\nAnd brightness: then on either side appear'd\nSomething but what I knew not, of bright hue,\nAnd by degrees from underneath it came\nAnother. My preceptor silent yet\nStood, while the brightness, that we first discern'd,\nOpen'd the form of wings: then when he knew\nThe pilot, cried aloud, \"Down, down; bend low\nThy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands:\nNow shalt thou see true ministers indeed.\nLo! how all human means he sets at nought;\nSo that nor oar he needs, nor other sail\nExcept his wings, between such distant shores.\nLo! how straight up to heaven he holds them rear'd,\nWinnowing the air with those eternal plumes,\nThat not like mortal hairs fall off or change.\"\n  As more and more toward us came, more bright\nAppear'd the bird of God, nor could the eye\nEndure his splendour near: I mine bent down.\nHe drove ashore in a small bark so swift\nAnd light, that in its course no wave it drank.\nThe heavenly steersman at the prow was seen,\nVisibly written Blessed in his looks.\nWithin, a hundred spirits and more there sat.\n  \"In Exitu [1] Israel de Egypto,\"\nAll with one voice together sang, with what\nIn the remainder of that hymn is writ.\nThen soon as with the sign of holy cross\nHe bless'd them, they at once leap'd out on land:\nHe, swiftly as he came, return'd.\n\n[1] In Exitu Israel de Egypto--When Israel came out of Egypt.--Ps\ncxiv.\n\n\nII. The Meeting with Sordello.--From the Purgatorio.\n\nIn the second circle of the mountain of Purgatory, Virgil and\nDante encounter the spirit of Sordello,[1] detained among those\nwho delayed repentance until death.\n\n[1] Sordello. A Provencal soldier and poet, whose life is wrapt\nin romantic mystery. See Browning's poem \"Sardello\".\n\n\n  \"But lo! a spirit there\nStands solitary' and toward us looks:\nIt will instruct us in the speediest way.\"\n  We soon approach'd it.\n     When my courteous guide began,\n\"Mantua,\" the shadow, in itself absorb'd,\nRose towards us from the place in which it stood,\nAnd cried, \"Mantuan! I am thy countryman, Sordello.\"\nEach the other then embraced.\n. . . . . . . . .\nAfter their courteous greetings joyfully\nSeven times exchanged, Sordello backward drew\nExclaiming, \"Who are ye?\"--\"Before this mount\nBy spirits worthy of ascent to God\nWas sought, my bones had by Octavius care\nBeen buried. I am Virgil; for no sin\nDeprived of heaven, except for lack of faith.\"\nSo answer'd him in few my gentle guide.\n. . . . . . . . . . .\n\"Glory of Latium!\" he exclaim'd,\n\"In whom our tongue its utmost power display'd;\nBoast of my honour'd birth-place I what desert\nOf mine, what favour, rather, undeserved,\nShows thee to me? If I to hear that voice\nAm worthy, say if from below thou comest,\nAnd from what cloister's pale.\"--\"Through every orb\nOf that sad region,\" he replied, \"thus far\nAm I arrived, by heavenly influence led:\nAnd with such aid I come. Not for my doing,\nBut for not doing, have I lost the sight\nOf that high Sun, whom thou desirest, and who\nBy me too late was known. There is a place[1]\nThere underneath, not made by torments sad,\nBut by dun shades alone; where mourning's voice\nSounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs.\nThere I with little innocents abide,\nWho by death's fangs were bitten, ere exempt\nFrom human taint. There I with those abide,\nWho the three holy virtues put not on,\nBut understood the rest, and without blame\nFollow'd them all. But if thou know'st and canst,\nDirect us how we soonest may arrive,\nWhere Purgatory its true beginning takes.\"\n  He answer'd thus: \"We have no certain place\nAssign'd us: upwards I may go, or round.\nFar as I can, I join thee for thy guide.\nBut thou beholdest now how day declines;\nAnd upwards to proceed by night, our power\nExcels: therefore it may be well to choose\nA place of pleasant sojourn. To the right\nSome spirits sit apart retired. If thou\nConsentest, I to these will lead thy steps:\nAnd thou wilt know them, not without delight.\"\n\n[1] A place there underneath. Limbo. See first selection from the\nDivine Comedy.\n\n\nIII. The Angel of the Gate.--From the Purgatorio.\n\nThe poets spend the night in this valley with Sordello and other\nspirits. In the morning they ascend to the gates of the real\nPurgatory. These are kept by an angel deputed by St. Peter.\n\nAshes, or earth taken dry out of the ground,\nWere of one colour with the robe he wore.\nFrom underneath that vestment forth he drew\nTwo keys, of metal twain: the one was gold,\nIts fellow silver. With the pallid first,\nAnd next the burnish'd, he so ply'd the gate,\nAs to content me well. \"Whenever one\nFaileth of these, that in the key-hole straight\nIt turn not, to this alley then expect\nAccess in vain.\" Such were the words he spake.\n\"One is more precious[1]: but the other needs,\nSkill and sagacity, large share of each,\nEre its good task to disengage the knot\nBe worthily perform'd.\nFrom Peter these I hold, of him instructed that I err\nRather in opening, than in keeping fast;\nSo but the suppliant at my feet implore.\"\nThen of that hallow'd gate he thrust the door,\nExclaiming, \"Enter, but this warning hear:\nHe forth again departs who looks behind.\"\nAs in the hinges of that sacred ward\nThe swivels turn'd sonorous metal strong,\nHarsh was the grating, nor so surlily\nRoar'd the Tarpeian, when by force bereft Of good\nMetellus, thenceforth from his loss\nTo leanness doom'd. Attentively I turn'd,\nListening the thunder that first issued forth;\nAnd \"We praise thee, O God,\" methought I heard,\nIn accents blended with sweet melody,\nThe strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound\nOf choral voices, that in solemn chant\nWith organ mingle, and, now high and clear\nCome swelling, now float indistinct away.\n\n[1] One is more precious. The golden key is the divine authority\nby which the priest gives absolution. The silver stands for the\nlearning and wisdom necessary for the priest.\n\n\nIV. Beatrice Appears to Dante and Rebukes Him.  From the\nPurgatorio.\n\nInside the gates of Purgatory rise seven successive circles, in\nwhich the seven deadly sins are purged; in the first, the sin of\npride; in the second, that of envy; in the third, anger; in the\nfourth, lukewarmness; in the fifth, avarice; in the sixth,\ngluttony; in the seventh, incontinence is purged by fire. Having\npassed through all these, Dante and his guide ascend to the\nsummit of the mountain, the earthly Paradise. Here Virgil ceases\nto guide the poet, but leaves him to choose for a while his own\nway. To him here descends Beatrice who, before assuming his\nfurther guidance, rebukes him for his manner of life on earth.\n\nAt the last audit, so\nThe blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each\nUplifting lightly his new-vested flesh;\nAs, on the sacred litter, at the voice\nAuthoritative of that elder, sprang\nA hundred ministers and messengers\nOf life eternal. \"Blessed thou, who comest!\"\nAnd, \"Oh!\" they cried, \"from full hands scatter ye\nUnwithering lilies\": and, so saying, cast\nFlowers over head and round them on all sides.\nI have beheld, ere now, at break of day,\nThe eastern clime all roseate; and the sky\nOpposed, one deep and beautiful serene;\nAnd the sun's face so shaded, and with mists\nAttemper'd, at his rising, that the eye\nLong while endured the sight: thus, in a cloud\nOf flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,\nAnd down within and outside of the car\nFell showering, in white veil with olive wreathed,\nA virgin in my view appear'd, beneath\nGreen mantle, robed in hue of living flame:\nAnd o'er my spirit, that so long a time\nHad from her presence felt no shuddering dread,\nAlbeit mine eyes discern'd her not, there moved\nA hidden virtue from her, at whose touch\nThe power of ancient love was strong within me.\n. . . . . . . . . . . . .\nUpon the chariot's same edge still she stood,\nImmovable; and thus address'd her words:\n\"I shape mine answer, for his ear intended,\nWho there stands weeping;[1] that the sorrow now\nMay equal the transgression. Not alone\nThrough operation of the mighty orbs,\nThat mark each seed to some predestined aim,\nAs with aspect or fortunate or ill\nThe constellations meet; but through benign\nLargess of heavenly graces, which rain down\nFrom such a height as mocks our vision, this man\nWas, in the freshness of his being, such,\nSo gifted virtually, that in him\nAll better habits wonderously had thrived\nHe more of kindly strength is in the soil,\nSo much doth evil seed and lack of culture\nMar it the more, and make it run to wildness.\nThese looks sometime upheld him; for I showed\nMy youthful eyes, and led him by their light\nIn upright walking. Soon as I had reach'd\nThe threshold of my second age, and changed\nMy mortal for immortal; then he left me,\nAnd gave himself to others. When from flesh\nTo spirit I had risen, and increase\nOf beauty and of virtue circled me,\nI was less dear to him, and valued less.\nHis steps were turn'd into deceitful ways,\nFollowing false images of good, that make\nNo promise perfect. Nor availed me aught\nTo sue for inspirations, with the which,\nI, both in dreams of night, and otherwise,\nDid call him back; of them, so little reck'd him.\nSuch depth he fell, that all device was short\nOf his preserving, save that he should view\nThe children of perdition. To this end\nI visited the purlieus of the dead:\nAnd one, who hath conducted him thus high,\nReceived my supplications urged with weeping.\nIt were a breaking of God's high decree,\nIf Lethe should be past, and such food[3] tasted,\nWithout the cost of some repentant tear.\"\n\n[1] Who there stands weeping. Dante.\n\n[2] Such food. The oblivion of sins.\n\n\nThe third part of the Divine Comedy is the vision of Paradise.\nDante's Paradise is divided into ten heavens, or spheres. Through\nthese in succession the poet is conducted by Beatrice, until in\nthe tenth heaven, or the Empyrean, he comes into the visible\npresence of God.\n\n\nI. The Visible Presence.  From the Paradiso.\n\nO eternal beam!\n(Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?)\nYield me again some little particle\nOf what thou then appearedst; give my tongue\nPower' but to leave one sparkle of thy glory,\nUnto the race to come' that shall not lose\nThy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught\nOf memory in me, and endure to hear\nThe record sound in this unequal strain.\n. . . . . . . . . . . . .\nO grace, unenvying of thy boon! that gavest\nBoldness to fix so earnestly my ken\nOn the everlasting splendour, that I look'd,\nWhile sight was unconsumed; and, in that depth,\nSaw in one volume clasp'd of love, whate'er\nThe universe unfolds; all properties\nOf substance and of accident, beheld,\nCompounded, yet one individual light\nThe whole.\n. . . . . . . . . . . . .\nIn that abyss\nOf radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd, methought,\nThree orbs of triple hue,[1] clipt in one bound:\nAnd, from another, one reflected seem'd,\nAs rainbow is from rainbow: and the third\nSeem'd fire, breathed equally from both.\nO speech! How feeble and how faint art thou, to give\nConception birth. Yet this to what I saw\nIs less than little.\nO eternal light!\nSole in thyself that dwell'st; and of thyself\nSole understood' past' present, or to come;\nThou smile'st, on that circling, which in thee\nSeem'd as reflected splendour, while I mused;\nFor I therein, methought, in its own hue\nBeheld our image painted: stedfastly\nI therefore pored upon the view. As one,\nWho versed in geometric lore, would fain\nMeasure the circle; and, though pondering long\nAnd deeply, that beginning, which he needs,\nFinds not: e'en such was I, intent to scan\nThe novel wonder, and trace out the form,\nHow to the circle fitted, and therein\nHow placed: but the flight was not for my wing:\nHad not a flash darted athwart my mind,\nAnd, in the spleen, unfolded what is sought.\nHere vigour fail'd the towering fantasy:\nBut yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel\nIn even motion' by the love impell'd,\nThat moves the sun in heaven and all the stars.\n\n[1] Three orbs of triple hue. The Trinity.\n\n\nNext after Dante, the first name of importance in Italian\nliterature is that of Francesca Petrarca, called Petrarch in\nEnglish. He was the son of a Florentine exile, was born at Aruzzo\nin 1304, and died at Padua in 1374. He was a scholar and a\ndiplomat, and was entrusted with many public services. Most of\nhis active life he spent at Avignon, at the papal court, or in\nVaucluse near by. When he was twenty-three, he met Laura, the\nbeautiful woman with whom he was always after in love, and who\nwas the inspiration of all his lyric poetry. She was the daughter\nof a citizen of Avignon, and was married, probably to Ugo de Sade\nof Avignon. She was a good woman whose character was ever above\nreproach. Petrarch was a very industrious writer. He produced\nmany letters and treatises in Latin, besides a long Latin epic\nAfrica. But his great and deserved fame rests upon his Italian\nlyric poetry--the Canzoniere. The Canzoniere is divided into\nthree parts: the poems to Laura in life; to Laura in death; and\nthe Triumphs. The Triumphs are inferior in merit to the other two\nparts. He had studied closely the Provencall poets, and had\nsomething of their spirit.\n\n\nI. To Laura in Life.\n\nSONNET III. HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD\nFRIDAY).\n\n'Twas on the morn' when heaven its blessed ray\nIn pity to its suffering master veil'd,\nFirst did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,\nOf your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.\nAh! little reck'd I that, on such a day,\nNeeded against Love's arrows any shield;\nAnd trod' securely trod, the fatal field:\nWhence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.\nOn every side Love found his victim bare,\nAnd through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;\nThose eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:\nBut poor the triumph of his boasted art,\nWho thus could pierce a naked youth nor dare\nTo you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!\n\n--Wrangham.\n\n\nSONNET XIV. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIM.\n\nThe palmer bent, with locks of silver gray,\nQuits the sweet spot where he has pass'd his years,\nQuits his poor family, whose anxious fears\nPaint the loved father fainting on his way;\nAnd trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne,\nIn these last days that close his earthly course,\nHe, in his soul's strong purpose, finds new force,\nThough weak with age, though by long travel worn:\nThus reaching Rome, led on by pious love,\nHe seeks the image of that Saviour Lord\nWhom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above:\nSo, oft in other forms I seek to trace\nSome charm, that to my heart may yet afford\nA faint resemblance of thy matchless grace.\n\n--Dacre\n\n\nSONNET XCVIII.  LEAVE-TAKING.\n\nThere was a touching paleness on her face,\nWhich chased her smiles, but such sweet union made\nOf pensive majesty and heavenly grace,\nAs if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade;\nThen knew I how the blessed ones above\nGaze on each other in their perfect bliss,\nFor never yet was look of mortal love\nSo pure, so tender, so serene as this.\nThe softest glance fond woman ever sent\nTo him she loved, would cold and rayless be\nCompared to this, which she divinely bent\nEarthward, with angel sympathy, on me,\nThat seem'd with speechless tenderness to say,\n\"Who takes from me my faithful friend away?\"\n\n-E.(New Monthly Magazine.)\n\n\nSESTINA VII. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPING FROM HIS TORMENTS.\n\nCount the ocean's finny droves;\nCount the twinkling host of stars,\nRound the night's pale orb that moves;\nCount the groves' wing'd choristers;\nCount each verdant blade that grows;\nCounted then will be my woes.\n. . . . . . . .\nSad my nights; from morn till eve,\nTenanting the woods, I sigh:\nBut, ere I shall cease to grieve,\nOcean's vast bed shall be dry,\nSuns their light from moons shall gain,\nAnd spring wither on each plain.\n\nPensive, weeping, night and day,\nFrom this shore to that I fly,\nChangeful as the lunar ray;\nAnd, when evening veils the sky,\nThen my tears might swell the floods,\nThen my sighs might bow the woods!\n\nTowns I hate, the shades I love;\nFor relief to yon green height,\nWhere the rill resounds, I rove\nAt the grateful calm of night;\nThere I wait the day's decline,\nFor the welcome moon to shine.\n\nSong, that on the wood-hung stream\nIn the silent hour wert born,\nWitness'd but by Cynthia's beam,\nSoon as breaks to-morrow's morn,\nThou shalt seek a glorious plain,\nThere with Laura to remain!\n\n--Nott.\n\n\nII. To Laura in Death.\n\nSONNET 1.  ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.\n\nWoe for the 'witching look of that fair face!\nThe port where ease with dignity combined!\nWoe for those accents' that each savage mind\nTo softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base!\nAnd the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,\nWhich now leaves death my only hope behind!\nExalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined,\nBut that too late she came this earth to grace!\nFor you I still must burn, and breathe in you;\nFor I was ever yours; of you bereft,\nFull little now I reck all other care.\nWith hope and with desire you thrill'd me through,\nWhen last my only joy on earth I left--\nBut caught by winds each word was lost in air.\n\n--Anon, Ox., 1795.\n\n\nSONNET XLII.  THE SPRING ONLY RENEWS HIS GRIEF.\n\nThe soft west wind, returning, brings again\nIts lovely family of herbs and flowers;\nProgne's gay notes and Philomela's strain\nVary the dance of springtide's rosy hours;\nAnd joyously o'er every field and plain\nGlows the bright smile that greets them from above,\nAnd the warm spirit of reviving love\nBreathes in the air and murmurs from the main.\nBut tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly\nPour from the secret chambers of my heart,\nAre all that spring returning brings to me;\nAnd in the modest smile, or glance of art,\nThe song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,\nA desert's rugged tract and savage forms I see.\n\n--Greene.\n\n\nSONNET LII. HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.\n\nI feel the well-known breeze, and the sweet hill\nAgain appears, where rose that beauteous light,\nWhich, while Heaven willed it, met my eyes, then bright\nWith gladness, but now dimmed with many an ill.\nVain hopes! weak thoughts! Now, turbid is the rill;\nThe flowers have drooped; and she hath ta'en her flight\nFrom the cold nest, which once, in proud delight,\nLiving and dying, I had hoped to fill:\nI hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze\nOf her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart,\nTo taste the sweet reward of troubled days.\nThou, whom I serve, how hard and proud thou art!\nErewhile, thy flame consumed me; now, I mourn\nOver the ashes which have ceased to burn.\n\n--Roscoe.\n\n\nCANZONE III. UNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE,\nBEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURA.\n\nWhile at my window late I stood alone,\nSo new and many things there cross'd my sight,\nTo view them I had almost weary grown.\nA dappled mind appear'd upon the right,\nIn aspect gentle, yet of stately stride,\nBy two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white,\nWho tore in the poor side\nOf that fair creature wounds so deep and wide,\nThat soon they forced her where ravine and rock\nThe onward passage block: Then triumph'd\nDeath her matchless beauties o'er,\nAnd left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.\n . . . . . . .\nIn a fair grove a bright young laurel made--\nSurely to Paradise the plant belongs!--\nOf sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade,\nFrom whose green depths there issued so sweet songs\nOf various birds, and many a rare delight\nOf eye and ear, what marvel from the world\nThey stole my senses quite!\nWhile still I gazed, the heavens grew black around,\nThe fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd,\nUprooted to the ground, That blessied birth.\nAlas! for it laid low,\nAnd its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.\n. . . . . . . . . . . . . .\nA lovely and rare bird within the wood,\nWhose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd,\nAlone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd,\nOf heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd,\nFlitting now here, now there, until it stood\nWhere buried fount and broken laurel lay,\nAnd sadly seeing there\nThe fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare,\nThe channel dried--for all things to decay\nSo tend-it turn'd away\nAs if in angry scorn, and instant fled,\nWhile through me for her loss new love and pity spread.\n\nAt length along the flowery award I saw\nSo sweet and fair a lady pensive move\nThat her mere thought inspires a tender awe;\nMeek in herself, but haughty against Love,\nFlow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fine\nSeem'd gold and snow together there to join:\nBut, ah! each charm above\nWas veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud:\nStung by a lurking shake, as flowers that pine\nHer head she gently bow'd,\nAnd joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure:\nAlas I that in the world grief only should endure.\n\n\nSONNET LXXXV. HE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO\nSAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATH.\n\nLove held me one and twenty years enchain'd,\nHis flame was joy--for hope was in my grief!\nFor ten more years I wept without relief,\nWhen Laura with my heart, to heaven attain'd.\nNow weary grown, my life I had arraign'd\nThat in its error, check'd (to my belief)\nBlest virtue's seeds-now, in my yellow leaf,\nI grieve the mispent years, existence stain'd.\nAlas! it might have sought a brighter goal,\nIn flying troublous thoughts, and winning peace;\nO Father! I repentant seek thy throne:\nThou, in this temple hast enshrined my soul,\nOh, bless me yet, and grant its safe release!\nUnjustified--my sin I humbly own.\n\n--Wollaston.\n\n\nSONNET XC.  THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS HIS KEENER\nSORROW.\n\nPoor, solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay,\nOr haply mournest the sweet season gone,\nAs chilly night and winter hurry on,\nAnd daylight fades, and summer flies away!\nIf, as the cares that swell thy little throat,\nThou knew'st alike the woes that wound my rest.\nO, thou wouldst house thee\nIn this kindred breast,\nAnd mix with mine thy melancholy note!\nYet little know I ours are kindred ills:\nShe still may live the object of thy song:\nNot so for me stern Death or Heaven wills!\nBut the sad reason, and less grateful hour,\nAnd of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng,\nPrompt my full heart this idle lay to pour.\n\n\nFROM THE DECAMERON.\n\nThe third great name in Italian mediaeval literature is that of\nGiovanni Boccaccio. He was born in Paris in 1313, and died at\nCertaldo in 1345. Like Dante and Petrarch he was a scholar and an\nindustrious writer. He wrote some important historical treatises,\nand many poems, some of which attained some fame. But it is as a\nwriter of prose that he deserves the name he has. In Italy, as in\nall other lands, there was in the Middle Ages a large body of\ntales and fables in circulation. In Italy, during the thirteenth\nand fourteenth centuries, these tales came into literature as\nNovellas or novels. The Decamerone of Boccaccio is a collection\nof a hundred such novels or tales. They are derived from many\nsources, probably not more than three or four of them being\ninvented by Boccaccio. The tale we select is interesting as\nfurnishing the basis for one of Keats' beautiful romantic\nballads.\n\n\nTHE POT OF BASIL.\n\nThere lived, then at Messina, three young merchants, who were\nbrothers, and left very rich by their father; they had an only\nsister, a lady of worth and beauty, who was unmarried. Now, they\nkept a youth, by way of factor, to manage their affairs, called\nLorenzo, one of a very agreeable person, who, being often in\nIsabella's company, and finding himself no way disagreeable to\nher, confined all his wishes to her only, which in some little\ntime had their full effect. This affair was carried on between\nthem for a considerable time, without the least suspicion; till\none night it happened, as she was going to his chamber, that the\neldest brother saw her, without her knowing it. This afflicted\nhim greatly; yet, being a prudent man, he made no discovery, but\nlay considering with himself till morning, what course was best\nfor them to take. He then related to his brothers what he had\nseen, with regard to their sister and Lorenzo, and, after a long\ndebate, it was resolved to seem to take no notice of it for the\npresent, but to make away with him privately, the first\nopportunity, that they might remove all cause of reproach both to\ntheir sister and themselves. Continuing in this resolution, they\nbehaved with the same freedom and civility to Lorenzo as ever,\ntill at length, under a pretense of going out of the city, upon a\nparty of pleasure, they carried him along with them, and arriving\nat a lonesome place, fit for their purpose, they slew him,\nunprepared to make any defence, and buried him there; then,\nreturning to Messina, they gave it out that they had sent him on\na journey of business, which was easily believed,  because they\nfrequently did so. In some time, she, thinking that he made a\nlong stay, began to inquire earnestly of her brothers concerning\nhim, and this she did so often, that at last one of them said to\nher, \"What have you to do with Lorenzo, that you are continually\nteasing us about him? If you inquire any more, you shall receive\nsuch an answer as you will by no means approve of.\" This grieved\nher exceedingly; and, fearing she knew not why, she remained\nwithout asking any more questions; yet all the night would she\nlament and complain of his long stay; and thus she spent her life\nin a tedious and anxious waiting for his return; till one night\nit happened, that having wept herself asleep, he appeared to her\nin a dream, all pale and ghastly, with his clothes rent in\npieces; and she thought he spoke to her thus: \"My dear Isabel,\nthou grievest incessantly for my absence, and art continually\ncalling upon me: but know that I can return no more to thee, for\nthe last day that thou sawest me, thy brothers put me to death.\"\nAnd, describing the place where they had buried him, he bid her\ncall no more upon him, nor ever expect to see him again, and\ndisappeared. She, waking, and giving credit to the vision,\nlamented exceedingly; and, not daring to say anything to her\nbrethren, resolved to go to the place mentioned in the dream, to\nbe convinced of the reality of it. Accordingly, having leave to\ngo a little way into the country, along with a companion of hers,\nwho was acquainted with all her affairs, she went thither, and\nclearing the ground of the dry leaves with which it was covered,\nshe observed where the earth seemed to be lightest, and dug\nthere. She had not searched far before she came to her lover's\nbody, which she found in no degree wasted; this confirmed her of\nthe truth of her vision, and she was in the utmost concern on\nthat account; but, as that was not a fit place for lamentation,\nshe would willingly have taken the corpse away with her, to have\ngiven it a more decent interment; but, finding herself unable to\ndo that, she cut off his head, which she put into a handkerchief,\nand, covering the trunk again with the mould, she gave it to her\nmaid to carry, and returned home without being perceived. She\nthen shut herself up in her chamber, and lamented over it till it\nwas bathed in her tears, which being done, she put it into a\nflower pot, having folded it in a fine napkin, and covering it\nwith earth, she planted sweet herbs therein, which she watered\nwith nothing but rose or orange water, or else with her tears;\naccustoming herself to sit always before it, and devoting her\nwhole heart unto it, as containing her dear Lorenzo. The sweet\nherbs, what with her continual bathing, and the moisture arising\nfrom the putrified head, flourished exceedingly, and sent forth a\nmost agreeable odour. Continuing this manner of life, she was\nobserved by some of the neighbours, and they related her conduct\nto her brothers, who had before remarked with surprise the decay\nof her beauty. Accordingly, they reprimanded her for it, and,\nfinding that ineffectual, stole the pot from her. She, perceiving\nthat it was taken away, begged earnestly of them to restore it,\nwhich they refusing, she fell sick. The young men wondered much\nwhy she should have so great a fancy for it, and were resolved to\nsee what it contained: turning out the earth, therefore, they saw\nthe napkin, and in it the head, not so much  consumed, but that,\nby the curled locks, they knew it to be Lorenzo's, which threw\nthem into the utmost astonishment, and fearing lest it should be\nknown, they buried it privately, and withdrew themselves from\nthence to Naples. The young lady never ceased weeping, and\ncalling for her pot of flowers, till she died; and thus\nterminated her unfortunate love. But, in some time afterwards,\nthe thing became public, which gave rise to this song:\n\nMost cruel and unkind was he,\nThat of my flowers deprived me, &c.","title":"Song and Legend from the Middle Ages","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":42744}