XIV.
Having been introduced to the worshipful order of vagrants both in their collective and in their personal capacity, we will now follow them to the woods and fields in spring. It was here that they sought love-adventures and took pastime after the restraints of winter.
The spring-songs are all, in the truest sense of the word, _lieder_--lyrics for music. Their affinities of form and rhythm are less with ecclesiastical verse than with the poetry of the Minnesinger and the Troubadour. Sometimes we are reminded of the French _pastourelle_, sometimes of the rustic ditty, with its monotonous refrain.
The exhilaration of the season which they breathe has something of the freshness of a lark's song, something at times of the richness of the nightingale's lament. The defect of the species may be indicated in a single phrase. It is a tedious reiteration of commonplaces in the opening stanzas. Here, however, is a lark-song.
WELCOME TO SPRING.
No. 6.
Spring is coming! longed-for spring Now his joy discloses; On his fair brow in a ring Bloom empurpled roses! Birds are gay; how sweet their lay! Tuneful is the measure; The wild wood grows green again, Songsters change our winter's pain To a mirthful pleasure.
Now let young men gather flowers, On their foreheads bind them, Maidens pluck them from the bowers, Then, when they have twined them, Breathe perfume from bud and bloom, Where young love reposes, And into the meadows so All together laughing go, Crowned with ruddy roses.
Here again the nightingale's song, contending with the young man's heart's lament of love, makes itself heard.
THE LOVER AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
No. 7.
These hours of spring are jolly; Maidens, be gay! Shake off dull melancholy, Ye lads, to-day! Oh! all abloom am I! It is a maiden love that makes me sigh, A new, new love it is wherewith I die!
The nightingale is singing So sweet a lay! Her glad voice heavenward flinging-- No check, no stay.
Flower of girls love-laden Is my sweetheart; Of roses red the maiden For whom I smart.
The promise that she gives me Makes my heart bloom; If she denies, she drives me Forth to the gloom.
My maid, to me relenting, Is fain for play; Her pure heart, unconsenting, Saith, "Lover, stay!"
Hush, Philomel, thy singing, This little rest! Let the soul's song rise ringing Up from the breast!
In desolate Decembers Man bides his time: Spring stirs the slumbering embers; Love-juices climb.
Come, mistress, come, my maiden! Bring joy to me! Come, come, thou beauty-laden! I die for thee! O all abloom am I! It is a maiden love that makes me sigh, A new, new love it is wherewith I die!
There is a very pretty _Invitation to Youth_, the refrain of which, though partly undecipherable, seems to indicate an Italian origin. I have thought it well to omit this refrain; but it might be rendered thus, maintaining the strange and probably corrupt reading of the last line:--
"List, my fair, list, _bela mia_, To the thousand charms of Venus! _Da hizevaleria_."
THE INVITATION TO YOUTH.
No. 8.
Take your pleasure, dance and play, Each with other while ye may: Youth is nimble, full of grace; Age is lame, of tardy pace.
We the wars of love should wage, Who are yet of tender age; 'Neath the tents of Venus dwell All the joys that youth loves well.
Young men kindle heart's desire; You may liken them to fire: Old men frighten love away With cold frost and dry decay.
A roundelay, which might be styled the _Praise of May_ or the exhortation to be liberal in love by _The Example of the Rose_, shall follow.
THE EXAMPLE OF THE ROSE.
No. 9.
Winter's untruth yields at last, Spring renews old mother earth; Angry storms are overpast, Sunbeams fill the air with mirth; Pregnant, ripening unto birth, All the world reposes.
Our delightful month of May, Not by birth, but by degree, Took the first place, poets say; Since the whole year's cycle he, Youngest, loveliest, leads with glee, And the cycle closes.
From the honours of the rose They decline, the rose abuse, Who, when roses red unclose, Seek not their own sweets to use; 'Tis with largess, liberal dues, That the rose discloses.
Taught to wanton, taught to play, By the young year's wanton flower, We will take no heed to-day, Have no thought for thrift this hour; Thrift, whose uncongenial power Laws on youth imposes.
Another song, blending the praises of spring with a little pagan vow to Cupid, has in the original Latin a distinction and purity of outline which might be almost called Horatian.
THE VOW TO CUPID.
No. 10.
Winter, now thy spite is spent, Frost and ice and branches bent! Fogs and furious storms are o'er, Sloth and torpor, sorrow frore, Pallid wrath, lean discontent.
Comes the graceful band of May! Cloudless shines the limpid day, Shine by night the Pleiades; While a grateful summer breeze Makes the season soft and gay.
Golden Love I shine forth to view! Souls of stubborn men subdue! See me bend! what is thy mind? Make the girl thou givest kind, And a leaping ram's thy due!
O the jocund face of earth, Breathing with young grassy birth! Every tree with foliage clad, Singing birds in greenwood glad, Flowering fields for lovers' mirth!
Nor is the next far below it in the same qualities of neatness and artistic brevity.
A-MAYING.
No. 11.
Now the fields are laughing; now the maids Take their pastime; laugh the leafy glades: Now the summer days are blooming, And the flowers their chaliced lamps for love illuming. Fruit-trees blossom; woods grow green again; Winter's rage is past: O ye young men, With the May-bloom shake off sadness! Love is luring you to join the maidens' gladness.
Let us then together sport and play; Cytherea bids the young be gay: Laughter soft and happy voices, Hope and love invite to mirth when May rejoices.
All the spring is in the lyric next upon my list.
THE RETURN OF SPRING:
No. 12.
Spring returns, the glad new-comer, Bringing pleasure, banning pain: Meadows bloom with early summer, And the sun shines out again: All sad thoughts and passions vanish; Plenteous Summer comes to banish Winter with his starveling train.
Hails and snows and frosts together Melt and thaw like dews away; While the spring in cloudless weather Sucks the breast of jocund May; Sad's the man and born for sorrow Who can live not, dares not borrow Gladness from a summer's day.
Full of joy and jubilation, Drunk with honey of delight, Are the lads whose aspiration Is the palm of Cupid's fight! Youths, we'll keep the laws of Venus, And with joy and mirth between us Live and love like Paris wight!
The next has the same accent of gladness, though it is tuned to a somewhat softer and more meditative note of feeling.
THE SWEETNESS OF THE SPRING.
No. 13.
Vernal hours are sweet as clover, With love's honey running over; Every heart on this earth burning Finds new birth with spring's returning.
In the spring-time blossoms flourish, Fields drink moisture, heaven's dews nourish; Now the griefs of maidens, after Dark days, turn to love and laughter.
Whoso love, are loved, together Seek their pastime in spring weather; And, with time and place agreeing, Clasp, kiss, frolic, far from seeing.
Gradually the form of the one girl whom the lyrist loves emerges from this wealth of description.
THE SUIT TO PHYLLIS.
No. 14.
Hail! thou longed-for month of May, Dear to lovers every day! Thou that kindlest hour by hour Life in man and bloom in bower! O ye crowds of flowers and hues That with joy the sense confuse, Hail! and to our bosom bring Bliss and every jocund thing! Sweet the concert of the birds; Lovers listen to their words: For sad winter hath gone by, And a soft wind blows on high.
Earth hath donned her purple vest, Fields with laughing flowers are dressed, Shade upon the wild wood spreads, Trees lift up their leafy heads; Nature in her joy to-day Bids all living things be gay; Glad her face and fair her grace Underneath the sun's embrace! Venus stirs the lover's brain, With life's nectar fills his vein, Pouring through his limbs the heat Which makes pulse and passion beat.
O how happy was the birth When the loveliest soul on earth Took the form and life of thee, Shaped in all felicity! O how yellow is thy hair! There is nothing wrong, I swear, In the whole of thee; thou art Framed to fill a loving heart! Lo, thy forehead queenly crowned, And the eyebrows dark and round, Curved like Iris at the tips, Down the dark heavens when she slips!
Red as rose and white as snow Are thy cheeks that pale and glow; 'Mid a thousand maidens thou Hast no paragon, I vow. Round thy lips and red as be Apples on the apple-tree; Bright thy teeth as any star; Soft and low thy speeches are; Long thy hand, and long thy side, And the throat thy breasts divide; All thy form beyond compare Was of God's own art the care.
Sparks of passion sent from thee Set on fire the heart of me; Thee beyond all whom I know I must love for ever so. Lo, my heart to dust will burn Unless thou this flame return; Still the fire will last, and I, Living now, at length shall die! Therefore, Phyllis, hear me pray, Let us twain together play, Joining lip to lip and breast Unto, breast in perfect rest!
The lover is occasionally bashful, sighing at a distance.
MODEST LOVE.
No. 15.
Summer sweet is coming in; Now the pleasant days begin; Phoebus rules the earth at last; For sad winter's reign is past.
Wounded with the love alone Of one girl, I make my moan: Grief pursues me till she bend Unto me and condescend.
Take thou pity on my plight! With my heart thy heart unite! In my love thy own love blending, Finding thus of life the ending!
Occasionally his passion assumes a romantic tone, as is the case with the following _Serenade_ to a girl called Flos-de-spina in the Latin. Whether that was her real name, or was only used for poetical purposes, does not admit of debate now. Anyhow, Flos-de-spina, Fior-di-spina, Fleur-d'epine, and English Flower-o'-the-thorn are all of them pretty names for a girl.
THE SERENADE TO FLOWER-O'-THE-THORN.
No. 16.
The blithe young year is upward steering. Wild winter dwindles, disappearing; The short, short days are growing longer, Rough weather yields and warmth is stronger. Since January dawned, my mind Waves hither, thither, love-inclined For one whose will can loose or bind.
Prudent and very fair the maiden, Than rose or lily more love-laden; Stately of stature, lithe and slender, There's naught so exquisite and tender. The Queen of France is not so dear; Death to my life comes very near If Flower-o'-the-thorn be not my cheer.
The Queen of Love my heart is killing With her gold arrow pain-distilling; The God of Love with torches burning Lights pyre on pyre of ardent yearning. She is the girl for whom I'd die; I want none dearer, far or nigh, Though grief on grief upon me lie.
I with her love am thralled and taken, Whose flower doth flower, bud, bloom, and waken; Sweet were the labour, light the burden, Could mouth kiss mouth for wage and guerdon. No touch of lips my wound can still, Unless two hearts grow one, one will, One longing! Flower of flowers, farewell!
Once at least we find him writing in absence to his mistress, and imploring her fidelity. This ranks among the most delicate in sentiment of the whole series.
THE LOVE-LETTER IN SPRING.
No. 17.
Now the sun is streaming, Clear and pure his ray; April's glad face beaming On our earth to-day. Unto love returneth Every gentle mind; And the boy-god burneth Jocund hearts to bind.
All this budding beauty, Festival array, Lays on us the duty To be blithe and gay. Trodden ways are known, love! And in this thy youth, To retain thy own love Were but faith and truth.
In faith love me solely, Mark the faith of me, From thy whole heart wholly, From the soul of thee. At this time of bliss, dear, I am far away; Those who love like this, dear, Suffer every day!
At one time he seems upon the point of clasping his felicity.
A SPRING DITTY.
No. 18.
In the spring, ah happy day! Underneath a leafy spray With her sister stands my may. O sweet love! He who now is reft of thee Poor is he!
Ah, the trees, how fair they flower Birds are singing in the bower; Maidens feel of love the power. O sweet love!
See the lilies, how they blow! And the maidens row by row Praise the best of gods below. O sweet love!
If I held my sweetheart now, In the wood beneath the bough, I would kiss her, lip and brow. O sweet love! He who now is reft of thee, Poor is he!
At another time he has clasped it, but he trembles lest it should escape him.
LOVE-DOUBTS.
No. 19.
With so sweet a promise given All my bosom burneth; Hope uplifts my heart to heaven, Yet the doubt returneth, Lest perchance that hope should be Crushed and shattered suddenly.
On one girl my fancy so, On one star, reposes; Her sweet lips with honey flow And the scent of roses: In her smile I laugh, and fire Fills me with her love's desire.
Love in measure over-much Strikes man's soul with anguish; Anxious love's too eager touch Makes man fret and languish: Thus in doubt and grief I pine; Pain more sure was none than mine.
Burning in love's fiery flood, Lo, my life is wasted! Such the fever of my blood That I scarce have tasted Mortal bread and wine, but sup Like a god love's nectar-cup.
The village dance forms an important element in the pleasures of the season. Here is a pretty picture in two stanzas of a linden sheltering some Suabian meadow.
THE VILLAGE DANCE.
No. 20.
Wide the lime-tree to the air Spreads her boughs and foliage fair; Thyme beneath is growing On the verdant meadow-where Dancers' feet are going.
Through the grass a little spring Runs with jocund murmuring; All the place rejoices; Cooling zephyrs breathe and sing With their summer voices.
I have freely translated a second, which presents a more elaborate picture of a similar scene.
LOVE AMONG THE MAIDENS.
No. 21.
Yonder choir of virgins see Through the spring advancing, Where the sun's warmth, fair and free, From the green leaves glancing, Weaves a lattice of light gloom And soft sunbeams o'er us, 'Neath the linden-trees in bloom, For the Cyprian chorus.
In this vale where blossoms blow, Blooming, summer-scented, 'Mid the lilies row by row, Spreads a field flower-painted. Here the blackbirds through the dale Each to each are singing, And the jocund nightingale Her fresh voice is flinging.
See the maidens crowned with rose Sauntering through the grasses! Who could tell the mirth of those Laughing, singing lasses? Or with what a winning grace They their charms discover, Charms of form and blushing face, To the gazing lover?
Down the flowery greenwood glade As I chanced to wander, From bright eyes a serving-maid Shot Love's arrows yonder; I for her, 'mid all the crew Of the girls of Venus, Wait and yearn until I view Love spring up between us.
Another lyric of complicated rhyming structure introduces a not dissimilar motive, with touches that seem, in like manner, to indicate its German origin. It may be remarked that the lover's emotion has here unusual depth, a strain of _sehnsucht_; and the picture of the mother followed by her daughter in the country-dance suggests the domesticity of Northern races.
AT THE VILLAGE DANCE.
No. 22.
Meadows bloom, in Winter's room Reign the Loves and Graces, With their gift of buds that lift Bright and laughing faces; 'Neath the ray of genial May, Shining, glowing, blushing, growing, They the joys of spring are showing In their manifold array.
Song-birds sweet the season greet, Tune their merry voices; Sound the ways with hymns of praise, Every lane rejoices. On the bough in greenwood now Flowers are springing, perfumes flinging, While young men and maids are clinging To the loves they scarce avow.
O'er the grass together pass Bands of lads love-laden: Row by row in bevies go Bride and blushing maiden. See with glee 'neath linden-tree, Where the dancing girls are glancing, How the matron is advancing! At her side her daughter see!
She's my own, for whom alone, If fate wills, I'll tarry; Young May-moon, or late or soon, 'Tis with her I'd marry! Now with sighs I watch her rise, She the purely loved, the surely Chosen, who my heart securely Turns from grief to Paradise.
In her sight with heaven's own light Like the gods I blossom; Care for nought till she be brought Yielding to my bosom. Thirst divine my soul doth pine To behold her and enfold her, With clasped arms alone to hold her In Love's holy hidden shrine.
But the theme of the dance is worked up with even greater elaboration and a more studied ingenuity of rhyme and rhythm in the following characteristic song. This has the true accent of what may be called the _Musa Vagabundula_, and is one of the best lyrics of the series:--
INVITATION TO THE DANCE.
No. 23.
Cast aside dull books and thought; Sweet is folly, sweet is play: Take the pleasure Spring hath brought In youth's opening holiday! Right it is old age should ponder On grave matters fraught with care; Tender youth is free to wander, Free to frolic light as air. Like a dream our prime is flown, Prisoned in a study: Sport and folly are youth's own, Tender youth and ruddy.
Lo, the Spring of life slips by, Frozen Winter comes apace; Strength is 'minished silently, Care writes wrinkles on our face: Blood dries up and courage fails us, Pleasures dwindle, joys decrease, Till old age at length assails us With his troop of illnesses. Like a dream our prime is flown, Prisoned in a study; Sport and folly are youth's own, Tender youth and ruddy.
Live we like the gods above; This is wisdom, this is truth: Chase the joys of tender love In the leisure of our youth! Keep the vows we swore together, Lads, obey that ordinance; Seek the fields in sunny weather, Where the laughing maidens dance. Like a dream our prime is flown, Prisoned in a study; Sport and folly are youth's own, Tender youth and ruddy.
There the lad who lists may see Which among the maids is kind: There young limbs deliciously Flashing through the dances wind: While the girls their arms are raising, Moving, winding o'er the lea, Still I stand and gaze, and gazing They have stolen the soul of me! Like a dream our prime is flown, Prisoned in a study; Sport and folly are youth's own, Tender youth and ruddy.