Wine, Women, and Song Part 13

Redder than rose art thou, Whiter than lily thou!

Hyria hysria nazaza Trillirivos.

Fairer than all, I vow, Ever my pride art thou!

Hyria hysria nazaza Trillirivos.

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

TO LYDIA.

No. 32.

Lydia bright, thou girl more white Than the milk of morning new, Or young lilies in the light!

Matched with thy rose-whiteness, hue Of red rose or white rose pales, And the polished ivory fails, Ivory fails.

Spread, O spread, my girl, thy hair, Amber-hued and heavenly bright, As fine gold or golden air!

Show, O show thy throat so white, Throat and neck that marble fine Over thy white b.r.e.a.s.t.s incline, b.r.e.a.s.t.s incline.

Lift, O lift thine eyes that are Underneath those eyelids dark, l.u.s.trous as the evening star 'Neath the dark heaven's purple arc!

Bare, O bare thy cheeks of rose, Dyed with Tyrian red that glows, Red that glows.

Give, O give those lips of love That the coral boughs eclipse; Give sweet kisses, dove by dove, Soft descending on my lips.

See my soul how forth she flies!

'Neath each kiss my pierced heart dies, Pierced heart dies.

Wherefore dost thou draw my life, Drain my heart's blood with thy kiss?

Scarce can I endure the strife Of this ecstasy of bliss!

Set, O set my poor heart free, Bound in icy chains by thee, Chains by thee.

Hide, O hide those hills of snow, Twinned upon thy breast that rise, Where the virgin fountains flow With fresh milk of Paradise!

Thy bare bosom breathes of myrrh, From thy whole self pleasures stir, Pleasures stir.

Hide, O hide those paps that tire Sense and spirit with excess Of snow-whiteness and desire Of thy breast's deliciousness!

See'st thou, cruel, how I swoon?

Leav'st thou me half lost so soon?

Lost so soon?

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

"Quid mihi sugis vivum sanguinem,"

remains in the original. This I did because it seemed necessary to effect the transition from the stanzas beginning _Pande, puella, pande_, to those beginning _Conde papillas, conde_.

Among these more direct outpourings of personal pa.s.sion, place may be found for a delicate little _Poem of Privacy_, which forms part of the _Carmina Burana_. Unfortunately, the text of this slight piece is very defective in the MS., and has had to be conjecturally restored in several places.

A POEM OF PRIVACY.

No. 33.

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

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

FLORA.

No. 34.

Rudely blows the winter blast, Withered leaves are falling fast, Cold hath hushed the birds at last.

While the heavens were warm and glowing, Nature's offspring loved in May; But man's heart no debt is owing To such change of month or day As the dumb brute-beasts obey.

Oh, the joys of this possessing!

How unspeakable the blessing That my Flora yields to-day!

Labour long I did not rue, Ere I won my wages due, And the prize I played for drew.

Flora with her brows of laughter, Gazing on me, breathing bliss, Draws my yearning spirit after, Sucks my soul forth in a kiss: Where's the pastime matched with this?

Oh, the joys of this possessing!

How unspeakable the blessing Of my Flora's loveliness!

Truly mine is no harsh doom, While in this secluded room Venus lights for me the gloom!

Flora faultless as a blossom Bares her smooth limbs for mine eyes; Softly s.h.i.+nes her virgin bosom, And the b.r.e.a.s.t.s that gently rise Like the hills of Paradise.

Oh, the joys of this possessing!

How unspeakable the blessing When my Flora is the prize!

From her tender b.r.e.a.s.t.s decline, In a gradual curving line, Flanks like swansdown white and fine.

On her skin the touch discerneth Naught of rough; 'tis soft as snow: 'Neath the waist her belly turneth Unto fulness, where below In Love's garden lilies blow.

Oh, the joys of this possessing!

How unspeakable the blessing!

Sweetest sweets from Flora flow!

Ah! should Jove but find my fair, He would fall in love, I swear, And to his old tricks repair: In a cloud of gold descending As on Danae's brazen tower, Or the st.u.r.dy bull's back bending, Or would veil his G.o.dhood's power In a swan's form for one hour.

Oh, the joys of this possessing!

How unspeakable the blessing!

How divine my Flora's flower!

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