  The investigations of Grimm, Schmeller, Edelestand du Meril, Thomas Wright, and H. Hagen, together with the translations of Mr. J. A. Symonds (“Wine, Women, and Song”), are familiarizing us with the fact that Latin verse had other than churchly and edifying uses in the Middle Ages. One of the most important of the mediaeval collections in this department is a manuscript of the thirteenth century, long preserved in the monastery of Brauburen Benedictbeure, in Bavaria, but now in MÜnchen. It was edited by J. Andreas Schmeller, in 1847, at Stuttgardt, and his edition was reprinted at Breslau, in 1883. From it Mr. Symonds draws most of his material for his volume of translations. I find among Mr. Duffield’s papers some specimens of these poems of the Bavarian collection, which I think fitted to illustrate the literary relations of the Latin hymns, and therefore they are inserted here. GAUDE: CUR GAUDEAS VIDE.Iste mundus Furibundus Falsa praestat gaudia, Quae defluunt Et decurrunt Ceu campi lilia. Res mundana, Vita vana Vera tollit praemia, Nam inpellit Et submergit Animas in tartara. Quod videmus Vel tacemus In praesenti patria, Dimittemus Vel perdemus Quasi quercus folia. Res carnalis, Lex mortalis Valde transitoria, Frangit, transit Velut umbra, Quae non est corporea. Conteramus Confringamus Carnis desideria, Ut cum iustis Et electis Celestia nos gaudia Gratulari Mercamur Per aeterna secula. Lo! this our world To wrath is hurled, Its joys are false and silly; Which pass away, And never stay, As on the plain the lily. This mundane strife, This empty life, Yet offers honors truly; It onward drives, And sinks our lives In Hades most unduly. And when we see, Or silent be, Wherever we are stopping, We put it by, Or let it fly, As oaks their leaves are dropping. This carnal fact, This mortal act, Will glide away before us; It breaks and flakes As darkness makes A shadow-region o’er us. We try in vain, We use with pain The pleasures which are carnal; For with the just And blest we must Care more for joys supernal. To song and praise We give our days, Through ages still eternal. Exul ego clericus Ad laborem natus Tibulor multociens Paupertati datus. Literarum studiis Vellem insudare Nisi quod inopia Cogit me cessare. Ille meis tenuis Nimis est amictus, Saepe frigus patior Calore relictus. Interesse laudibus Non possum divinis, Nec missae nec vesperae, Dum cantetur finis. I’m an exile clerical, Born to toil and troubles, And while I am, Poverty redoubles. In a literary line I should wish to travel If a lack of wordly goods Didn’t always cavil. By that cloak—too thin at best— I am scarce defended; And I suffer cold enough When the fire is ended. How can I sing praises, then, Where I may be wanted, Staying mass and vespers out Till the amen’s chanted? Monachi sunt nigri Et in regula sunt pigri Bene cucullati Et male coronati. Quidam sunt cani Et sensibus prophani, Quidam sunt fratres, Et verentur ut patres, Dicuntur “Norpertini” Et non Augustini, In cano vestimento Novo gaudent invento. The monks are all black, In their rules they’re a lazy pack; Mightily well gowned, And wretchedly crowned. Some are dirty whelps, Whose senses are no helps; But some, indeed, are brothers, Like fathers are some others. They are called Norpertines And not Augustines; In raiment of white, In new things they delight. |
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