  (See above, chapter xiv.) Passages translated from Folengo and Berni, which illustrate |
| "To Thee, and not to any Saint I go; How should their mediation here succeed? The Canaanitish woman, well I know, Prayed not to James or Peter in her need; She had recourse to only Thee; and so, Alone with Thee alone, I hope and plead. Thou know'st my weal and woe; make plain the way Thou, Lord, for to none other dare I pray. "Nor will I wander with the common kind, Who, clogged with falsehood and credulity, Make vows to Gothard or to Roch, and mind I know not what Saint Bovo more than Thee; Because some friar, as cunning as they're blind, Offering to Moloch, his dark deity, Causes Thy Mother, up in heaven, a Queen, To load with spoil his sacrifice obscene. "Beneath the husk of piety these friars Make a huge harvest for themselves to hold; The alms on Mary's altar quench the fires Of impious greed in priests who burn for gold: Another of their odious laws requires That year by year my faults should still be told To a monk's ears:—I who am young and fair!— He hears, and straightway flogs his shoulders bare: "He flogs himself because he feels the sting My words, impregnate with lasciviousness, Send to his heart; so sharp are they, and wring His lust so nearly, that, in sore distress, With wiles and wheedling ways, he seeks to bring Me in his secret will to acquiesce; And here confessors oft are shown to be More learned in pimping than divinity. "Therefore, O Lord, that know'st the heart of man, And seest Thy Church in these same friars' grasp, To Thee with contrite soul, as sinners can, Who hope their faults forgiven, my hands I clasp; And if, my God, from this mad ocean Thou'lt save me, now, as at my latest gasp, I vow that never more will I trust any Who grant indulgences for pound or penny." Such prayers, chock-full of rankest heresy, Prayed Berta; for she was a German wench: In those days, you must know, theology Had changed herself to Roman, Flemish, French; But I've my doubts that in the end she'll be Found squatting À la Moor on some Turk's bench, Because Christ's seamless coat has so been tattered Its rags have long since to the winds been scattered. |
ORLANDINO VIII. 22.
| "I do not marvel much," Rainero cried, "If the lambs suffer scandals and the fold Be ruined by these wolves of lust and pride, Foemen to God beneath God's flag enrolled: But for the present need I'll soon provide— Ho! to my presence drag yon Prior bold!" Sharp were the words; the sheriff in a skurry, He and his serjeants to the convent hurry, Drag forth that monstr'horrendum from his lair, And lead him straight to Rayner on his throne; Folk run together at the brute to stare, You never saw an ox so overgrown; And not a man but stops his nostrils there From the foul stench of wine, sweat, filth unknown; One calls him Bacchus, and Silenus one, Or hog, or bag of beastliness, or tun. "Stand forth before my face," Rainero cries, "Thou man of God, prophet most reverend! I know that thou in all the lore art wise, Of things divine, and what the stars portend; With thee the freedom of S. Peter lies, Great freedom though but little pelf to spend! Stand forth, I say, before me, Father blest; There are some doubts I'd fain have put to rest. "Truly thou know'st e'en better how much tripe Must go to stuff the cupboard of thy prog: 'Tis there are stowed more fish, flesh, onions ripe, Than there be leaves in forest, field, or bog: Thy scores of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, Outnumber the sea sands, thou gorging dog! Therefore I honor thee no more nor less Than a beast filled with filth, a stinking cess. "Bundle of guts, hast thou no shame to show Thy visage to the eyes of living wight? Think'st thou that 'tis for nothing thou dost owe Thy calling to Christ's sheepfold? By this light, Judas the traitor did no worse, I know, Than thou what time he sold his Lord at night; Caiaphas, Annas, Herod, Pilate, all Helped Pluto less than thou man's soul to thrall. "Think'st thou the Benedicts, Pauls, Anthonies, Gave rules like thine unto their neophytes? They fed on lentils, beans, peas, cabbages, Curbing their own rebellious appetites, Not merely preaching how the spirit flees From Satan's fraud and his accursÈd rites; They slept on sand and marble cold, and sang Psalms that through night and day unceasing rang. "Quiet within their cells they stayed, nor dealt On street or square with idle loitering bands; Kindly to wayfarers and meek, they knelt To wash their feet, and not, like you, their hands; And when they left the cloisters where they dwelt, To traverse hills or plains in foreign lands, A staff or crutch upon their pilgrimage Sufficed to prop the faltering steps of age. "That frugal diet of plain herb and root You've changed to-day for quails and partridges; Some miracle has turned to flesh their fruit, Their acorns, brambles, and wild strawberries; The straw they slept on, hath grown dissolute With down and cushions; their lean visages Are swathed in fat, with double, treble chins, Red as the sun's face when the day begins. "Their staves and crutches, O rare miracle Wrought by these living Saints! are steeds of price; Their reed-built cot, refectory or cell, Soar into palaces that flout the skies; In many an Abbey now lewd strumpets dwell, Hounds, hawks, the instruments of pride and vice:— Fools, madmen, idiots, maniacs are ye, Who've left to priests or friars your wealth in fee! "What could be worse impiety than thus To rob your lawful kindred of their own, And squander it on those obstreperous Bell-ringing monks, who let one voice alone Speak in the Church for twenty?—All that fuss In praise of poverty is only shown To bait beneath the shadow of their cowl Some gudgeon, or birdlime some silly fowl!" Such things and others full of angry spite Said Rayner, contrary to sober reason; For if a man should lose his temper quite, Sense leaves him, he can't speak one word in season: But when Church rights and wrongs their wrath excite, I've noticed that your great men often seize on Some crazy fad; they fancy, O how silly! That friars should feed on acorns, willy-nilly. Then spake the Prior: "Noble Lord and Sir! With your forbearance I'll speak with precision. Ecclesia Dei ne'er was known to err; You may have read in Tully this decision: The Stagyrite, our sole interpreter Of Gospel text, confirms this definition— Quod merum Laicus non det judicare Clericam Preti et Fratris scapulare. "There is a gloss which lays down, quod Prelatum Non est subjectus legi Constantina, Affirmans eo quod nullum peccatum Accidit in persona et re divina. Et hoc deinceps fuit roboratum In capite, Ne agro a Clementina. Et princeps, qui de Ecclesia se impazzabit, Scomunicatus cito publicabit. "Saith Thomas in a text on which I've pored, Second distinction of his Chapter quo, Quod unde Spirtus Sanctum hath been stored, Possibile non est for sin to accrue: My life hath naught to hide, illustrious Lord, In visu verbo et opera from you; For Christ himself our Saviour teaches that, Speaking to all, lux vestra luceat. "Behold and see how next my skin I wear A shirt of wool instead of linen fine! By hair-cloth of this texture you may swear I circumspectly walk in duty's line. Look now a little lower!"—Free and fair Laughed Rayner, when the excellent divine Shows all he's got—an illustration purer Than e'er occurred to Saint Bonaventura. |
ORLANDINO VIII. 73.
| I am no heretic, as to my shame Before the common folk you christen me! Perchance your lofty Reverence will claim Me for a cut-throat, come from Saxony, To wreak my violence on Rome's dread name! Yet you are wrong: for, look you, Burgundy Trusts less in German Bishops, or in French, Or Spanish, than the mighty Roman Bench. Far more I trust in the high Trinity, In Father, Son, and eke the Spirit blest; In Mary's undefiled virginity, Since God from her derived his fleshly vest; I trust in that inscrutable potency Granted from God to man, by which behest He dares, if his enormities be great, Call himself, not God, but God's delegate. It is my creed that the good Jesus wrought All that He came to witness here below; I hold that the predicted sword he brought, Came to bring peace on earth and also woe; I hold that a thief's tear, repentance-fraught, Shuts Hell and opens Heaven; and this I know That the firm truth of what the Gospel saith, Is naught but pure and uncorrupted Faith. I hold that He was fair without one flaw, Wore beard and locks around his shoulder sprent; I hold the Lamb's blood abrogates the law And every type of that old Testament; Wherefore I hold there differs not a straw Betwixt the tonsure and the hair unshent; But I believe the clergy still were known For rebels to His work and will alone. I hold that on the motion of a lewd Pope of that year, with certain Pharisees, Pilate did nail Him to the cruel wood Between two thieves with fierce indignities; I hold that thence for men a pledge accrued, And memory so sweet that still it frees Us from God's righteous anger, and discloses The veil that clung before the eyes of Moses. I speak of His dire passion, and the boon Most wondrous of His body and His blood, Eating the which all persons late or soon May quit those quails and grouse, their desert food; I hold that Christ seeks not for eyes that swoon, Wry necks, and faces set to solemn mood; But for the heart alone: this is my creed; If it be wrong, I waste vain breath indeed. I hold that Hell exists, and Purgatory, Beyond this world; and here I prove it too: Wherefore, in concert with S. Paul, I glory In having passed those many trials through, Not by my might but that great adjutory, Who calls aloud with ringing voice and true; Perils mid hills and robbers, storms and fires, Perils at sea, and perils from false friars! My Saviour in the flesh I trust to see, And hope for ever to enjoy His sight:— But here the force of faith abandons me; Help then, thou Bishop, Great Albertus hight! Son of Nichomachus, I turn to thee, Dubbed Doctor of the Church by Thomas wight, Without whose Metaphysic, as I've read, The Verbum Dei were but ill bestead. I hold that a lay sinner can repent; That Churchmen never are what they pretend— I speak of bad ones:—d'you mistake my bent, And in God's house defy me to contend?— Pray softly, softly! It was never meant, Good servants of our Lord, your fame to rend: Nay, you I honor, since you please God duly; Places I'd change with you really and truly: Gainst scapular and cord I've naught to tell, Gainst cowl or tassel, breviary or book; That superstition need not choke you, well I know; you may be pious as you look: I swear to all that no man here should smell Disparagement to monks, from prior to cook; I'm aiming at those wolves and hirelings fairly, Who give large orders and perform them sparely. |
ORLANDO INNAMORATO, CANTO XX.
THE SUPPRESSED INDUCTION.
| A brand-new story now compels my song, To make the twentieth canto bright and clear, Whence all the world shall plainly learn ere long Some saints are not such saints as they appear; For cowls, gray, blue or black, a motley throng, With dangling breviaries and brows severe, And often naming on the lips our Lord, While the heart's cold, no sanctity afford. A cupping-glass upon your skull, a leech, A blister, or a tonsure, are all one; It will not help you though you gird your breech With several braces or with one alone; Or wear straight vestments, long and lank, that reach Like coachmen's great-coats to your heels, or drone Gibberish and Paternosters:—Sainthood needs More than fair words for foul and filthy deeds. The hands are where true charity begins; Not the mouth, face, or clothes: be mild, humane, Reticent, sorry for your neighbor's sins, Pitiful to his suffering and his pain: Christians need wear no masks; who wears them, wins A backway to the fold, and brings it bane, Scaling the wall by craft—a traitor he, A thief and knave, who deals in subtlety. These be that tribe of rogues and rascals whom Our good Lord hates, the race on whom alone In wrath he uttered that tremendous doom, Though every other fault he could condone: Ye whited sepulchers, ye living tomb, Fire on the surface, in the soul a stone! Why will ye wash the outside of the platter? First cleanse your heart—that is the graver matter! 'Tis said by some that by and by the good Pope and his Prelates will reform their ways: I tell you that a turnip has no blood, Nor sick folk health, nor can you hope to raise Syrup from vinegar to sauce your food: The Church will be reformed when summer days Come without gad-flies, when a butcher's store Has neither bones nor dogs about the door. Sanga, this lewd age is an age of lead, Whence Truth is banished both in deed and word: You're called a fool, poor-spirited, ill-bred, If you but name S. Peter and our Lord: Where'er you walk, where'er you turn your head, Some rascal hypocrite, with scowl abhorred, Snarls twixt his teeth "Freethinker! Lutheran!"— And Lutheran means, you know, good Christian. Those grasping priests have thrown a net full wide: With bells and anthems, altar-cloth and cope, They lift their well-decked shrines on every side, Bent upon life eternal—sorry hope! This wooden image is the sailor's pride, That plastered face the soldier's; piss-pots slope In rows to Cosmo and S. Damian; The pox belong to stout Sebastian. Baron S. Anthony hides fire in heart, Thoughts of the donkey and the swine in head; Whence comes it that all monks in every part Stuff paunch and wallet with flesh, wine, and bread: Yon Abbot, like Silenus, fills a cart; Yon Cardinal's a Bacchus overfed; The Pope through Europe sells, a second Mars, Bulls and indulgences to feed his wars. The Word of God, aroused from its long trance, Runs like live fire abroad through Germany; The work continues, as the days advance, Unmasking that close-cloaked iniquity, Which with a false and fraudulent countenance So long imposed on France, Spain, Italy: Now by the grace of God we've learned in sooth What mean the words Church, Charity, Hope, Truth. O the great goodness of our heavenly Sire! Behold, his Son once more appears on high, Treads under foot the proud rebellious ire Of faithless Churchmen, who by threat and lie Strove to conceal the Love that did inspire The mighty Maker of earth, sea, and sky, What time he served, and bore our flesh, and trod With blood the path that leads man back to God. None speaks in this lost land of his pure blood, That sinless blood of Christ, both God and man, Which quelled the serpent's stiff and venomous brood, The powers malign that reigned where Lethe ran! In his fair bleeding limbs he slew the lewd Old Adam from whose sin our woes began, Appeased his Father's wrath, and on the door Of impious Hell set bars for evermore. This is that seed thrice holy and thrice blest, Promised to our first parents, which doth bring Unto the stairs of heaven our hope oppressed! This is that puissant and victorious king, Whose foot treads man's misjudgment on the crest! This is that calm clear light, whose sunbeams fling Shade on the souls and darkness o'er the eyes Of fools in this world's knowledge vainly wise! O Christians, with the hearts of Hebrews! Ye Who make a mortal man your chief and head, Of these new Pharisees first Pharisee! Your soaring and immortal pinions spread For that starred shrine, where, through eternity, The Lamb of God is Pope, whose heart once bled That men, blind men, from yon pure font on high Might seek indulgence full and free for aye! Yet that cooked crayfish hath the face to pray, Kneeling in chapel opposite that crow, That Antichrist, upon some holy day— "Thou art our sail, our rudder!"—when we know The simple truth requires that he should say "Thou art the God of ruin and of woe, Father of infinite hypocrisies, Of evil customs and all heresies!"— O Sanga, for our lord Verona's sake, Put by your Virgil, lay Lucretius down, Ovid, and him in whom such joy you take, Tully, of Latin eloquence the crown! With arms out-spread, our heart's arms, let us make To Him petition, who, without our own Merit or diligence or works, can place Our souls in heaven, made worthy by his grace! And prithee see that Molza is aware, And Navagero, and Flaminio too, That here far other things should be our care Than Janus, Flora, Thetis, and the crew Of Homer's gods, who paint their page so fair! Here we experience the false and true; Here find that Sun, which shows, without, within, That man by nature is compact of sin. O good Fregoso, who hast shut thine ear To all those siren songs of Poesy, Abiding by the mirror keen and clear, In joyance of divine Philosophy Both Testaments, Old, New, to thee are dear! Thou hast outworn that ancient fantasy Which led thee once with Fondulo to call Plato the link twixt Peter and S. Paul!— But now Gradasso calls me; I am bid Back to the follies of my Paladins— etc., etc. |
