  Even in the half-light of what used to be called emphatically the Dark Ages, there pierce gleams which may be reflections from the past evening of paganism, or may intimate the earliest dawn of modern times. One of these is a song, partly popular, partly scholastic, addressed to a beautiful boy. "O admirabile veneris idolum"— and continues in this strain, upon the same rhythm, blending reminiscences of classical mythology and medieval metaphysic, and winding up with a reference to the Horatian Vitas hinnuleo me similis Chloe. This poem was composed in the seventh century, probably at Verona, for mention is made in it of the river Adige. The metre can perhaps be regarded as a barbarous treatment of the long Asclepiad; but each line seems to work out into The oddly archaic phraseology of this love-song rendered it unfit for translation; but I have tried my hand at a kind of hymn in praise of Rome, which is written in the same peculiar rhythm: "O Rome illustrious, of the world emperess! Over all cities thou queen in thy goodliness! Red with the roseate blood of the martyrs, and White with the lilies of virgins at God's right hand! Welcome we sing to thee; ever we bring to thee Blessings, and pay to thee praise for eternity. "Peter, thou praepotent warder of Paradise, Hear thou with mildness the prayer of thy votaries; When thou art seated to judge the twelve tribes, O then Show thyself merciful; be thou benign to men; And when we call to thee now in the world's distress, Take thou our suffrages, master, with gentleness. "Paul, to our litanies lend an indulgent ear, Who the philosophers vanquished with zeal severe: Thou that art steward now in the Lord's heavenly house, Give us to taste of the meat of grace bounteous; So that the wisdom which filled thee and nourished thee May be our sustenance through the truths taught by thee." A curious secular piece of the tenth century deserves more than passing mention. It shows how wine, women, and song, even in an age which is supposed to have "Come therefore now, my gentle fere, Whom as my heart I hold full dear; Enter my little room, which is Adorned with quaintest rarities: There are the seats with cushions spread, The roof with curtains overhead; The house with flowers of sweetest scent And scattered herbs is redolent: A table there is deftly dight With meats and drinks of rare delight; There too the wine flows, sparkling, free; And all, my love, to pleasure thee. There sound enchanting symphonies; The clear high notes of flutes arise; A singing girl and artful boy Are chanting for thee strains of joy; He touches with his quill the wire, She tunes her note unto the lyre: The servants carry to and fro Dishes and cups of ruddy glow; But these delights, I will confess, Than pleasant converse charm me less; Nor is the feast so sweet to me As dear familiarity. "Then come now, sister of my heart, That dearer than all others art, Unto mine eyes thou shining sun, Soul of my soul, thou only one! I dwelt alone in the wild woods, And loved all secret solitudes; Oft would I fly from tumults far, And shunned where crowds of people are. O dearest, do not longer stay! Seek we to live and love to-day! I cannot live without thee, sweet! Time bids us now our love complete. Why should we then defer, my own, What must be done or late or soon? Do quickly what thou canst not shun! I have no hesitation." From Du MÉril's collections further specimens of thoroughly secular poetry might be culled. Such is the panegyric of the nightingale, which contains the following impassioned lines: "Implet silvas atque cuncta modulis arbustula, Gloriosa valde facta veris prae laetitia; Volitando scandit alta arborum cacumina, Ac festiva satis gliscit sibilare carmina." Such are the sapphics on the spring, which, though they date from the seventh century, have a truly modern sentiment of Nature. Such, too, is the medieval legend of the Snow-Child, treated comically in burlesque Latin verse, and meant to be sung to a German tune of love Modus Liebinc. To the same category may be referred the horrible, but singularly striking, series of Latin poems edited from a MS. at Berne, which set forth the miseries of monastic life with realistic passion bordering upon delirium, under titles like the following—Dissuasio ConcubitÛs in in Uno tantum Sexu, or De Monachi Cruciata. FOOTNOTES: |
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