Chapter XXXVII: Appendix: II

THE CARMINA BURANA.

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.