Part 1 — APPENDIX IV.

Jacopone’s Presepio, Corrotto, and Cantico dell’Amore Superardente, Translated into English Verse.

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

THREE POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO JACOPONE DA TODI.

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

THE PRESEPIO.

By thy great and glorious merit, Mary, Mother, Maid! In thy firstling, new-born child All our life is laid. That sweet smiling infant child, Born for us, I wis; That majestic baby mild, Yield him to our kiss! Clasping and embracing him, We shall drink of bliss. Who could crave a deeper joy?— Purer none was made. For thy beauteous baby boy We a-hungered burn; Yea, with heart and soul of grace Long for him and yearn. Grant us then this prayer; his face Toward our bosom turn: Let him keep us in his care, On his bosom stayed! Mary, in the manger where Thou hast strewn his nest, With thy darling baby we Fain would dwell at rest Those who cannot take him, see, Place him on their breast! Who shall be so rude and wild As to spurn thee, Maid? Come and look upon her child Nestling in the hay! See his fair arms opened wide, On her lap to play! And she tucks him by her side, Cloaks him as she may; Gives her paps unto his mouth, Where his lips are laid. For the little babe had drouth, Sucked the breast she gave; All he sought was that sweet breast, Broth he did not crave; With his tiny mouth he pressed, Tiny mouth that clave: Ah, the tiny baby thing, Mouth to bosom laid! She with left hand cradling Rocked and hushed her boy, And with holy lullabies Quieted her toy. Who so churlish but would rise To behold heaven's joy Sleeping?—In what darkness drowned, Dead and renegade?— Little angels all around Danced, and carols flung; Making verselets sweet and true, Still of love they sung; Calling saints and sinners too With love's tender tongue; Now that heaven's high glory is On this earth displayed. Choose we gentle courtesies, Churlish ways forswear; Let us one and all behold Jesus sleeping there. Earth, air, heaven he will unfold, Flowering, laughing fair; Such a sweetness, such a grace From his eyes hath rayed. O poor humble human race, How uplift art thou! With the divine dignity Re-united now! Even the Virgin Mary, she All amazed doth bow; And to us who sin inherit, Seems as though she prayed. By thy great glorious merit, Mary, Mother, Maid! In thy firstling, new-born child All our life is laid.

THE CORROTTO.

Messenger. Lady of Paradise, woe's me, Thy son is taken, even he, Christ Jesus, that saint blessed! Run, Lady, look amain How the folk him constrain: Methinks they him have slain, Sore scourged, with rods opprest.

Mary. Nay, how could this thing be? To folly ne'er turned he, Jesus, the hope of me: How did they him arrest?

Messenger. Lady, he was betrayed; Judas sold him, and bade Those thirty crowns be paid— Poor gain, where bad is best.

Mary. Ho, succor! Magdalen! The storm is on me: men My own son, Christ, have ta'en! This news hath pierced my breast.

Messenger. Aid, Lady! Up and run! They spit upon thy son, And hale him through the town; To Pilate they him wrest.

Mary. O Pilate, do not let My son to pain be set! That he is guiltless, yet With proofs I can protest.

The Jews. Crucify! Crucify! Who would be King, must die. He spurns the Senate by Our laws, as these attest. We'll see if, stanch of state, He can abide this fate; Die shall he at the gate, And Barab be redressed.

Mary. I pray thee, hear my prayer! Think on my pain and care! Perchance thou then wilt bear New thoughts and change thy quest.

The Jews. Bring forth the thieves, for they Shall walk with him this day: Crown him with thorns, and say He was made king in jest.

Mary. Son, Son, Son, dear Son! O Son, my lovely Son! Son, who shall shed upon My anguished bosom rest? O jocund eyes, sweet Son! Why art Thou silent? Son! Son, wherefore dost Thou shun This thy own mother's breast?

Messenger. Lady, behold the tree! The people bring it, see, Where the true Light must be Lift up at man's behest!

Mary. O cross, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou my Son undo? Him will they fix on you, Him who hath ne'er transgressed?

Messenger. Up, full of grief and bale! They strip thy son, and rail; The folk are fain to nail Him on yon cross they've dressed.

Mary. If ye his raiment strip, I'll see him, breast and hip! Lo, how the cruel whip Hath bloodied back and chest!

Messenger. Lady, his hand outspread Unto the cross is laid: 'Tis pierced; the huge nail's head Down to the wood they've pressed. They seize his other hand, And on the tree expand: His pangs are doubled and Too keen to be expressed! Lady, his feet they take, And pin them to the stake, Rack every joint, and make Each sinew manifest!

Mary. I now the dirge commence. Son, my life's sole defense! Son, who hath torn thee hence? Sweet Son, my Son caressed! Far better done had they My heart to pluck away, Than by thy cross to lay Of thee thus dispossessed!

Christ. Mother, why weep'st thou so? Thou dealest me death's blow. To watch thy tears, thy woe Unstinted, tears my breast.

Mary. Son, who hath twinned us two? Son, father, husband true! Son, who thy body slew? Son, who hath thee suppressed?

Christ. Mother, why wail and chide? I will thou shouldst abide, And serve those comrades tried I saved amid the rest.

Mary. Son, say not this to me! Fain would I hang with thee Pierced on the cross, and be By thy side dying blessed! One grave should hold us twain, Son of thy mother's pain! Mother and Son remain By one same doom oppressed!

Christ. Mother, heart-full of woe, I bid thee rise and go To John, my chosen!—so Is he thy son confessed. John, this my mother see: Take her in charity: Cherish her piteously: The sword hath pierced her breast.

Mary. Son! Ah, thy soul hath flown! Son of the woman lone! Son of the overthrown! Son, poisoned by sin's pest! Son of white ruddy cheer! Son without mate or peer! Son, who shall help me here, Son, left by thee, distressed! Son, white and fair of face! Son of pure jocund grace! Son, why did this wild place, This world, Son, thee detest? Son, sweet and pleasant Son! Son of the sorrowing one! Son, why hath thee undone To death this folk unblessed? John, my new son, behold Thy brother he is cold! I feel the sword foretold, Which prophecies attest. Lo, Son and mother slain! Dour death hath seized the twain: Mother and Son, they strain Upon one cross embraced.

Here the miserable translation ends. But I would that I could summon from the deeps of memory some echo of the voice I heard at Perugia, one dark Good Friday evening, singing Penitential Psalms. This made me feel of what sort was the Corrotto, chanted by the confraternities of Umbria. The psalms were sung on that occasion to a monotonous rhythm of melodiously simple outline by three solo voices in turn—soprano, tenor, and bass. At the ending of each psalm a candle before the high-altar was extinguished, until all light and hope and spiritual life went out for the damned soul. The soprano, who sustained the part of pathos, had the fullness of a powerful man's chest and larynx, with the pitch of a woman's and the timbre of a boy's voice. He seemed able to do what he chose in prolonging and sustaining notes, with wonderful effects of crescendo and diminuendo passing from the wildest and most piercing forte to the tenderest pianissimo. He was hidden in the organ-loft; and as he sang, the organist sustained his cry with long-drawn shuddering chords and deep groans of the diapason. The whole church throbbed with the vibrations of the rising, falling melody; and the emotional thrill was as though Christ's or Mary's soul were speaking through the darkness to our hearts. I never elsewhere heard a soprano of this sort sing in tune so perfect or with so pure an intonation. The dramatic effect produced by the contrast between this soprano and the bass and tenor was simple but exceedingly striking. Englishmen, familiar with cathedral music, may have derived a somewhat similar impression from the more complex Motett of Mendelssohn upon Psalm xxii. I think that when the Umbrian Laud began to be dramatic, the parts in such a hymn as Jacopone's Corrotto must have been distributed after the manner of these Perugian Good Friday services. Mary's was undoubtedly given to the soprano; that of the Jews, possibly, to the bass; Christ's, and perhaps the messenger's also, to the tenor. And it is possible that the rhythm was almost identical with what I heard; for that had every mark of venerable antiquity and popular sincerity.

I now pass to the Hymn of Divine Love, which Tresatti entitles Cantico dell'Amore Superardente (Book vi. 16). It consists of three hundred and seventy lines, all of which I have translated, though I content myself here with some extracts:

O Love of Charity! Why didst thou so wound me? Why breaks my heart through thee, My heart which burns with Love? It burns and glows and finds no place to stay; It cannot fly, for it is bound so tight; It melts like wax before the flame away; Living, it dies; swoons, faints, dissolves outright; Prays for the force to fly some little way; Finds itself in the furnace fiery-white; Ah me, in this sore plight, Who, what consumes my breath? Ah, thus to live is death! So swell the flames of Love. Or ere I tasted Jesus, I besought To love him, dreaming pure delights to prove, And dwell at peace mid sweet things honey-fraught, Far from all pain on those pure heights above: Now find I torment other than I sought; I knew not that my heart would break for love! There is no image of The semblance of my plight! I die, drowned in delight, And live heart-lost in Love! Lost is my heart and all my reason gone, My will, my liking, and all sentiment; Beauty is mere vile mud for eyes to shun; Soft cheer and wealth are naught but detriment; One tree of love, laden with fruit, but one, Fixed in my heart, supplies me nourishment: Hourly therefrom are sent, With force that never tires But varies still, desires, Strength, sense, the gifts of Love.

. . . . . . . . .

Let none rebuke me then, none reprehend, If love so great to madness driveth me! What heart from love her fortress shall defend? So thralled, what heart from love shall hope to flee? Think, how could any heart not break and rend, Or bear this furnace-flame's intensity?— Could I but only be Blest with some soul that knows, Pities and feels the woes Which whelm my heart with Love! Lo, heaven, lo, earth cries out, cries out for aye, And all things cry that I must love even thus! Each calls:—With all thy heart to that Love fly, Loving, who strove to clasp thee, amorous; That Love who for thy love did seek and sigh, To draw thee up to him, He fashioned us!— Such beauty luminous, Such goodness, such delight, Flows from that holy light, Beams on my soul from Love!

. . . . . . . . .

For thee, O Love, I waste, swooning away! I wander calling loud with thee to be! When thou departest, I die day by day; I groan and weep to have thee close to me: When thou returnest, my heart swells; I pray To be transmuted utterly in thee! Delay not then!—Ah me! Love deigns to bring me grace! Binds me in his embrace, Consumes my heart with Love!

. . . . . . . . .

Love, Love, thou hast me smitten, wounded sore! No speech but Love, Love, Love! can I deliver! Love, I am one with thee, to part no more! Love, Love, thee only shall I clasp for ever! Love, Love, strong Love, thou forcest me to soar Heavenward! my heart expands; with love I quiver; For thee I swoon and shiver, Love, pant with thee to dwell! Love, if thou lovest me well, Oh, make me die of Love! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, I have scaped the seas! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, thou has guided me! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, give me rest and peace! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, I'm inflamed by thee! Love, Love, Love, Jesus! From wild waves release! Make me, Love, dwell for ever clasped with thee! And be transformed in thee, In truest charity, In highest verity, Of pure transmuted Love! Love, Love, Love, Love, the world's exclaim and cry! Love, Love, Love, Love, each thing this cry returns! Love, Love, Love, Love, thou art so deep, so high: Whoso clasps thee, for thee more madly yearns! Love, Love, thou art a circle like the sky; Who enters, with thy love for ever burns! Web, woof, art thou; he learns, Who clothes himself with thee, Such sweetness, suavity, That still he shouts, Love, Love! Love, Love, Love, Love, thou giv'st me such strong pain! Love, Love, Love, Love, how shall I bear this ache? Love, Love, Love, Love, thou fill'st my heart amain! Love, Love, Love, Love, I feel my heart must break! Love, Love, Love, Love, thou dost me so constrain! Love, Love, Love, Love, absorb me for Love's sake! Love-languor, sweet to take! Love, my Love amorous! Love, my delicious! Swallow my soul in Love! Love, Love, Love, Love, my heart it is so riven! Love, Love, Love, Love, what wounds I feel, what bliss! Love, Love, Love, Love, I'm drawn and rapt to heaven! Love, Love, I'm ravished by thy beauteousness! Love, Love, life's naught, for less than nothing given! Love, Love, the other life is one with this! Thy love the soul's life is! To leave thee were death's anguish! Thou mak'st her swoon and languish, Clasped, overwhelmed in Love! Love, Love, Love, Love, O Jesus amorous! Love, Love, fain would I die embracing Thee! Love, Love, Love, Love, O Jesus my soul's Spouse! Love, Love, Love, Love, death I demand of thee! Love, Love, Love, Love, Jesus, my lover, thus Resume me, let me be transformed in thee! Where am I? Love! Ah me! Jesus, my hope! in thee Ingulf me, whelm in Love!