Song and Legend From the Middle Ages
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William D. McClintock and Porter Lander McClintock >> Song and Legend From the Middle Ages
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And strong my ties,--my grief unspeakable!
Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign;
Yet stronger still the affections that impel
My heart toward Him, the God whose love is mine.
That holy love, how beautiful! how strong!
Even wisdom's favorite sons take refuge there;
'T is the redeeming gem that shines among
Men's darkest thoughts,--for ever bright and fair.
--Tr. by Taylor.
GACE BRULE. Thirteenth Century.
The birds, the birds of mine own land
I heard in Brittany;
And as they sung, they seemed to me
The very same I heard with thee.
And if it were indeed a dream,
Such thoughts they taught my soul to frame
That straight a plaintive number came,
Which still shall be my song,
Till that reward is mine which love hath promised long.
--Tr. by Taylor.
RAOUL DE SOISSONS. Thirteenth Century.
Ah! beauteous maid,
Of form so fair!
Pearl of the world,
Beloved and dear!
How does my spirit eager pine
But once to press those lips of thine!--
Yes, beauteous maid,
Of form so fair!
Pearl of the world,
Beloved and dear!
And if the theft
Thine ire awake,
A hundred fold
I'd give it back,--
Thou beauteous maid,
Of form so fair!
Pearl of the world,
Beloved and dear!
--Tr. by Taylor.
LATER FRENCH LYRICS.
During the latter half of the thirteenth century several new and
highly artificial forms of verse were developed. The chief of
these were the Ballade and Chant Royal, the Rondel, Roudeau,
Triolet, Virelay. These are all alike in being short poems,
generally treating of love, and making special use of a refrain
and the repetition of words and lines. They differ in the number
of verses in a stanza, of stanzas In the poem, and the order and
number of rhymes. Their poetic value is not great because the
poet so easily lost sight of his subject in perfecting his verse
form.
A TRIOLET.
Take time while yet it is in view,
For fortune is a fickle fair:
Days fade, and others spring anew;
Then take the moment still in view.
What boots to toil and cares pursue?
Each month a new moon hangs in air.
Take, then, the moment still in view,
For fortune is a fickle fair.
--Froissart. Tr. Anonymous.
RONDEL.
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
--Charles d'Orleans. Tr. by Longfellow.
THE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.
Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere,--
She whose beauty was more than human? ....
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where's Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? ....
But where are the snows of yester-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden,--
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,--
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there,--
Mother of God, where are they then? ....
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Save with thus much for an overword,--
But where are the snows of yester-year?
--Villon. Tr. by D. G. Rossetti.
LYRIC POETRY--PROVENCAL.
Modern scholars separate the treatment of Provencal literature
from that of French. It was written in a different dialect, was
subject to somewhat different laws of development, and after a
short period of activity died almost completely away.
Provencal literature is that produced in ancient Provence or
Southern France. Its period of life extended from the eleventh to
the fifteenth centuries, its middle and only important period
being that of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This
literature contains examples of all the varieties of French
literature of the Middle Ages, but the only work that is original
and important is its lyric poetry. This was composed by the
troubadours (corresponding to the French trouveres) and sung by
jongleurs or minstrels. The names of 460 Provencal poets and 251
anonymous pieces have come down to us. The one great theme of
troubadour-singing--one, too, upon which he was original and a
master--was that of passionate love. With this as subject, these
poets united an eagerness for form, and were the first to perfect
verse in any modern language.
PIERRE ROGIERS. Twelfth Century.
Who has not looked upon her brow
Has never dreamed of perfect bliss,
But once to see her is to know
What beauty, what perfection, is.
Her charms are of the growth of heaven,
She decks the night with hues of day:
Blest are the eyes to which 't is given
On her to gaze the soul away!
--Tr. by Costello.
GUILLEM DE CABESTANH. Twelfth Century.
No, never since the fatal time
When the world fell for woman's crime,
Has Heaven in tender mercy sent--
All preordaining, all foreseeing--
A breath of purity that lent
Existence to so fair a being!
Whatever earth can boast of rare,
Of precious, and of good,--
Gaze on her form, 't is mingled there,
With added grace endued.
Why, why is she so much above
All others whom I might behold,
Whom I, unblamed, might dare to love,
To whom my sorrows might be told?
O, when I see her, passing fair,
I feel how vain is all my care:
I feel she all transcends my praise,
I feel she must contemn my lays:
I feel, alas! no claim have I
To gain that bright divinity!
Were she less lovely, less divine,
Less passion and despair were mine.
--Tr. by Costello.
THE MONK OF MONTAUDON. Thirteenth Century.
I love the court by wit and worth adorned,
A man whose errors are abjured and mourned,
My gentle mistress by a streamlet clear,
Pleasure, a handsome present, and good cheer.
I love fat salmon, richly dressed, at noon;
I love a faithful friend both late and soon.
I hate small gifts, a man that's poor and proud,
The young who talk incessantly and loud;
I hate in low-bred company to be,
I hate a knight that has not courtesy.
I hate a lord with arms to war unknown,
I hate a priest or monk with beard o'ergrown;
A doting husband, or a tradesman's son,
Who apes a noble, and would pass for one.
I hate much water and too little wine,
A prosperous villain and a false divine;
A niggard lout who sets the dice aside;
A flirting girl all frippery and pride;
A cloth too narrow, and a board too wide;
Him who exalts his handmaid to his wife,
And her who makes her groom her lord for life;
The man who kills his horse with wanton speed,
And him who fails his friend in time of need.
--Tr. by Costello.
PIERRE VIDAL. End Twelfth Century.
Of all sweet birds, I love the most
The lark and nightingale:
For they the first of all awake,
The opening spring with songs to hail.
And I, like them, when silently
Each Troubadour sleeps on,
Will wake me up, and sing of love
And thee, Vierna, fairest one!
. . . .
The rose on thee its bloom bestowed,
The lily gave its white,
And nature, when it planned thy form
A model framed of fair and bright.
For nothing, sure, that could be given,
To thee hath been denied;
That there each thought of love and joy
In bright perfection might reside.
--Tr. by Taylor.
GUIRAUT DE BORNEILH. End Thirteenth Century.
Companion dear! or sleeping or awaking,
Sleep not again! for, lo! the morn is nigh,
And in the east that early star is breaking,
The day's forerunner, known unto mine eye.
The morn, the morn is near.
Companion dear! with carols sweet I'll call thee;
Sleep not again! I hear the birds' blithe song
Loud in the woodlands; evil may befall thee,
And jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long,
Now that the morn is near.
Companion dear! forth from the window looking,
Attentive mark the signs of yonder heaven;
Judge if aright I read what they betoken:
Thine all the loss, if vain the warning given.
The morn, the morn is near.
Companion dear! since thou from hence wert straying,
Nor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited;
My prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying,
That thou in peace thy backward way might tread.
The morn, the morn, is near.
Companion dear! hence to the fields with me!
Me thou forbad'st to slumber through the night,
And I have watched that livelong night for thee;
But thou in song or me hast no delight,
And now the morn is near.
ANSWER.
Companion dear! so happily sojourning,
So blest am I, I care not forth to speed:
Here brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorning
Her dwelling-place,--then wherefore should I heed
The morn or jealous eyes?
--Tr. by Taylor.
FABLES AND TALES.
FABLES.
A large and popular class of writing of the French Middle Ages
was that of FABLIAUX or Fables. A Fable is "a recital, for the
most part comic, of a real or possible event occurring in the
ordinary affairs of human life."[1] We possess some two hundred
of these fables, varying in length from twenty to five hundred
lines. They are generally mocking, jocular, freespoken, half
satirical stories of familiar people, and incidents in ordinary
life. The follies of the clergy are especially exposed, though
the peasants, knights, and even kings furnish frequent subjects.
They are commonly very free and often licentious in language. The
following is an example of the simpler kind of Fables.
[1] Quoted by Saintsbury from M. de Montaiglon, editor of the
latest collection of Fabliaux (Parts 1872-'88).
THE PRIEST WHO ATE MULBERRIES.
Ye lordlings all, come lend an ear;
It boots ye naught to chafe or fleer,
As overgrown with pride:
Ye needs must hear Dan Guerin tell
What once a certain priest befell,
To market bent to ride.
The morn began to shine so bright,
When up this priest did leap full light
And called his folk around:
He bade them straight bring out his mare,
For he would presently repair
Unto the market-ground.
So bent he was on timely speed,
So pressing seemed his worldly need,
He weened 't were little wrong
If pater-nosters he delayed,
And cast for once they should be said
E'en as he rode along.
And now with tower and turret near
Behold the city's walls appear,
When, as he turned aside,
He chanced in evil hour to see
All hard at hand a mulberry-tree
That spread both far and wide.
Its berries shone so glossy black,
The priest his lips began to smack,
Full fain to pluck the fruit;
But, woe the while! the trunk was tall,
And many a brier and thorn did crawl
Around that mulberry's root.
The man, howbe, might not forbear,
But reckless all he pricked his mare
In thickest of the brake;
Then climbed his saddle-bow amain,
And tiptoe 'gan to stretch and strain
Some nether bough to take.
A nether bough he raught at last;
He with his right hand held it fast,
And with his left him fed:
His sturdy mare abode the shock,
And bore, as steadfast as a rock,
The struggling overhead.
So feasted long the merry priest,
Nor much bethought him of his beast
Till hunger's rage was ended:
Then, "Sooth!" quoth he, "whoe'er should cry,
'What ho, fair sir!' in passing by,
Would leave me here suspended."
Alack! for dread of being hanged,
With voice so piercing shrill he twanged
The word of luckless sound,
His beast sprang forward at the cry,
And plumb the priest dropped down from high
Into the brake profound.
There, pricked and pierced with many a thorn,
And girt with brier, and all forlorn,
Naught boots him to complain:
Well may ye ween how ill bested
He rolled him on that restless bed,
But rolled and roared in vain:
For there algates he must abide
The glowing noon, the eventide,
The livelong night and all;
The whiles with saddle swinging round,
And bridle trailing on the ground,
His mare bespoke his fall.
O, then his household shrieked for dread,
And weened at least he must be dead;
His lady leman swooned:
Eftsoons they hie them all to look
If haply in some dell or nook
His body might be found.
Through all the day they sped their quest;
The night fled on, they took no rest;
Returns the morning hour:
When, lo! at peeping of the dawn.
It chanced a varlet boy was drawn
Nigh to the mulberry-bower.
The woful priest the help descried:
"O, save my life! my life!" he cried,
"Enthralled in den profound!
O, pluck me out, for pity's sake,
From this inextricable brake,
Begirt with brambles round!"
"Alas, my lord! my master dear!
What ugly chance hath dropped thee here?"
Exclaimed the varlet youth.
"'T was gluttony"' the priest replied,
With peerless folly by her side:
But help me straight, for ruth!"
By this were come the remnant rout;
With passing toil they plucked him out,
And slowly homeward led:
But, all so tattered in his hide,
Long is he fain in bed to bide,
But little less than dead.
--Tr. by Way.
A special development of the fable is the mock-epic "Reynard the
Fox", one of the most noteworthy developments in literature of
the Middle Ages. It is an elaborate, semi-epic set of stories in
which Reynard is the embodiment of cunning and discreet valor,
while his great enemy, Isegrim, the wolf, represents stupid
strength. From the beginning of this set of fables, there is a
tone of satirical comment on men and their affairs. In the later
developments of the story, elaborate allegories are introduced,
and monotonous moralizings take the place of the earlier, simpler
humor.
The fable reached its greatest development in France, but all
Europe shared in making and delighting in it.
Our extracts are taken from Caxton's translation of the Flemish
form of the legend.
FROM REYNARD THE FOX.
Part II. Chapter 33.
REYNARD AND ERSWYNDE (THE WOLF'S WIFE) AT THE WELL.
Then spoke Erswynde, the wolf's wife, "Ach! Fell Reynard, no man
can keep himself from thee, thou canst so well utter thy words
and thy falseness; but it shall be evil, rewarded in the end. How
broughtest thou me once, into the well, where the two buckets
hung by one cord running through one pulley which went one up and
another down? Thou sattest in one bucket beneath in the pit in
great dread. I came thither and heard thee sigh and make sorrow,
and asked thee how thou camest there. Thou saidst that thou hadst
there so many good fishes eaten out of the water that thy belly
wouldst burst. I said, 'tell me how I shall come to thee.' Then
saidst thou: 'Aunt, spring into that bucket that hangeth there,
and thou shalt come anon to me.' I did so, and I went downward
and ye came upward, and then I was all angry. Thou saidst, 'thus
fareth the world, that one goeth up and another goeth down.' Then
sprang ye forth and went your way, and I abode there alone,
sitting an whole day, sore and hungry and acold. And thereto had
I many a stroke ere I could get thence." "Aunt," said the fox,
"though the strokes did you harm, I had leifer ye had them than
I, for ye may better bear them, for one of us must needs have had
them. I taught you good; will you understand it and think on it,
that ye another time take heed and believe no man over hastily,
is he friend or cousin. For every man seeketh his own profit.
They be now fools that do not so, and especially when they be in
jeopardy of their lives."
Part II. Chapter 35.
HOW ISEGRYM PROFFERED HIS GLOVE TO THE FOX FOR TO FIGHT WITH HIM.
The wolf said, "I may well forbear your mocks and your scorns,
and also your fell, venomous words' strong thief that you are. Ye
said that I was almost dead for hunger when ye helped me in my
need. That is falsely lied; for it was but a bone that ye gave to
me; ye had eaten away all the flesh that was thereon. And ye mock
me and say that I am hungry here where I stand. That touched my
worship too nigh. What many a spighty word have ye brought forth
with false lesings.[1] And that I have conspired the king's
death, for the treasure that you have said to him is in
Hulsterlo. And ye have also my wife shamed and slandered that she
shall never recover it. And I should ever be disworshipped
thereby if I avenged it not. I have forborne you long, but now ye
shall not escape me. I cannot make here of great proof, but I say
here before my lord, and before all them that been here, that
thou art a false traitor and a murderer, and that I shall prove
and make good on thy body within lists in the field, and that,
body against body. And then shall our strife have an end. And
thereto I cast to thee my glove, and take thou it up. I shall
have right of thee or die therefor.
[1] Lyings.
Reynard the Fox thought, "how came I on this company? We been not
both alike.[1] I shall not well con[2] stand against this strong
thief. All my proof is now come to an end."
[1] Of equal strength. [2] Know how to.
Yet, thought the fox, "I have good advantage. The claws of his
fore feet been off and his feet been yet sore thereof, when for
my sake he was unshod. He shall be somewhat the weaker."
Then said the fox, "who that sayeth that I am a traitor or a
murderer? I say he lieth falsely, and that art thou especially
Isegrym. Thou bringest me there as I would be. This have I oft
desired. Lo! there is my pledge that all thy words been false and
that I shall defend me and make good that thou liest.
The king received the pledges and amitted[1] the battle, and
asked borrows[2] of them both, that on the morn they should come
and perform their battle and do as they ought to do. Then the
Bear and the Cat were borrows for the wolf, and for the Fox were
borrows Grymbert,[3] the dasse,[4] and Bytelnys.[5]
[1] Admitted. [2] Pledges. [3] The badger. [4] A small fox. [5]
The elder daughter of the apes.
TALES.
French mediaeval literature includes many tales less elaborate in
form and less "heroic" in subject than the epics and romances and
without the satire and humor of the fables. The best of them are
the love stories, and of these the most beautiful is "Aucassin
and Nicolette", by an unknown trouvere of the thirteenth century.
It is an alternation of prose narrative and dainty narrative
lyrics. The story is that of two lovers parted temporarily by the
pride and cruelty of the youth's father. But, remaining true to
each other, they are, after many vicissitudes, happily united.
Our extracts are from Bourdillon's beautiful translation.
FROM AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE.
Sec. 1.--
Who were fain good verse to hear,
Of the aged captives' cheer,
Of two children fair and feat,
Aucassin and Nicolette,--
What great sorrows suffered he,
And what deeds did valiantly
For his love, so bright of blee?
Sweet the song, and fair the say,
Dainty and of deft array.
So astonied wight is none,
Nor so doleful nor undone,
None that doth so sorely ail,
If he hear, shall not be hale,
And made glad again for bliss,
So sweet it is!
The hero refuses to become a knight and go to war unless his
father will give him Nicolette for wife.
Sec. 8.--
Aucassin was of Beaucaire,
And abode in castle fair.
None can move him to forget
Dainty-fashioned Nicolette
Whom his sire to him denies;
And his mother sternly cries:
"Out on thee! what wilt thou, loon?
Nicolette is blithe and boon?
Castaway from Carthage she!
Bought of Paynim compayne!
If with woman thou wilt mate,
Take thee wife of high estate!"
"Mother, I can else do ne'er!
Nicolette is debonair;
Her lithe form, her face, her bloom,
Do the heart of me illume.
Fairly mine her love may be
So sweet is she!"
This the father refuses to do, and has Nicolette shut up in a
tower. But the son stubbornly persists. At last it is agreed that
if Aucassin returns from fighting he may see and kiss his lover.
Sec. 9.--
Aucassin heard of the kiss
Which on return shall be his.
Had one given him of pure gold
Marks a hundred thousand told,
Not so blithe of hear he were.
Rich array he bade them bear:
They made ready for his wear.
He put on a hauberk lined,
Helmet on his head did bind,
Girt his sword with hilt pure gold,
Mounted on his charger bold;
Spear and buckler then he took;
At his two feet cast a look:
They trod in the stirrups trim.
Wondrous proud he carried him
His dear love he thought upon,
And his good horse spurred anon,
Who right eagerly went on.
Through the gate he rode straightway,
Into the fray.
Aucassin was greatly successful, but on his return his father
would not keep his promise, and shut him up in prison.
Sec. 12.--
Aucassin was put in prison, as you have listened and heard, and
Nicolette on the other hand, was in the chamber. It was in the
summer-time, in the month of May, when the days are warm, long,
and bright, and the nights still and cloudless. Nicolette lay one
night on her bed and saw the moon shine bright through a window,
and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, and then she
bethought her of Aucassin, her friend, whom she loved so much.
She began to consider of the Count Garin of Beaucaire, who hated
her to death; and she thought to herself that she would remain
there no longer; since if she were betrayed, and the Count Garin
knew it, he would make her to die an evil death. She perceived
that the old woman who was with her was asleep. She got up, and
put on a gown which she had, of cloth-of-silk and very good; and
she took bedclothes and towels, and tied one to another, and made
a rope as long as she could, and tied it to the pillar of the
window, and let herself down into the garden; and she took her
dress in one hand before and in the other behind, and tucked it
up, because of the dew which she saw thick on the grass, and she
went away down in the garden.
Her hair was golden and in little curls, and her eyes blue-gray
and laughing, and- her face oval, and her nose high and well set,
and her lips vermeil, so as is no rose nor cherry in summertime,
and her teeth white and small, and her bosom was firm, and heaved
her dress as if it had been two walnuts; and atween the sides she
was so slender that you could have clasped her in your two hands;
and the daisy blossoms which she broke off with the toes of her
feet, which lay fallen over on the bend of her foot, were right
black against her feet and her legs, so very white was the
maiden.
She came to the postern door, and unfastened it, and went out
through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping in the shadow, for the
moon shone very bright; and she went on till she came to the
tower where her lover was. The tower was shored up here and
there, and she crouched down by one of the pillars, and wrapped
herself in her mantle; and she thrust her head into a chink in
the tower, which was old and ruinous, and heard Aucassin within
weeping and making great ado, and lamenting for his sweet friend
whom he loved so much. And when she had listened enough to him
she began to speak.
After telling each their love, Nicolette was obliged to flee. She
went to a great forest and talked with the herd-boys.
Sec. 19.--
Nicolette, bright-favored maid,
To the herds her farewell bade,
And her journey straight addressed
Right amid the green forest,
Down a path of olden day;
Till she reached an open way
Where seven roads fork, that go out
Through the region round about.
Then the thought within her grew,
She will try her lover true,
If he love her as he said:
She took many a lily head,
With the bushy kermes-oak shoot,
And of leafy boughs to boot,
And a bower so fair made she,--
Daintier I did never see!
By the ruth of heaven she sware,
Should Aucassin come by there,
And not rest a little space,
For her love's sake' in that place,
He should ne'er her lover be,
Nor his love she.
Aucassin escapes, comes to the forest, finds his lover, and they
agree to go away together.
Sec. 27--
Aucassin, the fair, the blond,
Gentle knight and lover fond,
Rode from out the thick forest;
In his arms his love was pressed,
On the saddlebow before;
And he kissed her o'er and o'er,
Eyes and brows and lips and chin.
Then to him did she begin;
"Aucassin, fair lover sweet,
To what country shall we fleet?
"Sweet my love, what should I know?
Little care I where we go,
In the greenwood or away,
So I am with thee alway."
Hill and vale they fleeted by,
Town and fortress fenced high,
Till they came at dawn of day
Where the sea before them lay;
There they lighted on the sand,
Beside the strand.
They have many adventures and are again separated. Nicolette is
carried to Carthage. She finally escapes and makes her way in
disguise to Beaucaire where Aucassin was.
Sec. 39.--
Aucassin was at Beaucaire
'Neath the tower a morning fair.
On a stair he sat without,
With his brave lords round about:
Saw the leaves and flowers spring,
Heard the song-birds carolling;
Of his love he thought anew,
Nicolette the maiden true,
Whom he loved so long a day;
Then his tears and sighs had way.
When, behold before the stair,
Nicolette herself stood there,
Lifted viol, lifted bow,
Then she told her story so:
"Listen, lordlings brave, to me,
Ye that low or lofty be!
Liketh you to hear a stave,
All of Aucassin the brave,
And of Nicolette the true?
Long they loved and long did rue,
Till into the deep forest
After her he went in quest.
From the tower of Torelore
Them one day the Paynim bore,
And of him I know no more.
But true-hearted Nicolette
Is in Carthage castle yet;
To her sire so dear is she,
Who is king of that countrie.
Fain they would to her award
Felon king to be her lord.
Nicolette will no Paynim,
For she loves a lording slim,
Aucassin the name of him.
By the holy name she vows
That no lord will she espouse,
Save she have her love once moe
She longs for so!"
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