Song and Legend from the Middle Ages

by Unknown

ROMANCES.

As elsewhere in Europe, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Germany produced numberless romances. These may be classed under (1) Romances of Arthur, (2) Romances of the Holy Graal, (3) Romances of Antiquity, and (4) Romances of Love and Chivalry. The chief poets of romances were Hartmann von Aue, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Wolfram von Eschenbach. A good example of the romance of love is "Der Arme Heinrich of Hartmann von Aue". "Poor Henry", to quote Scherer, "is a kind of Job, a man of noble birth; rich, handsome, and beloved, who is suddenly visited by God with the terrible affliction of leprosy, and who can be cured only by the lifeblood of a young maiden who is willing to die for him. The daughter of a peasant, to whose house he has retired in his despair, resolves to sacrifice her life for him. Heinrich accepts her offer, and the knife to kill her is already whetted, when a better feeling arises in his breast, and he refuses to take upon himself the guilt of her death, resolving to resign himself to the will of God. This resignation saves him; he recovers and marries the maiden." Our extracts are from the first and last of the poem.

HENRY THE LEPER.
Ll. 1-131.—

Once on a time, rhymeth the rhyme,
In Swabia land once on a time,
There was a nobleman so journeying,
Unto whose nobleness everything
Of virtue and high-hearted excellence
Worthy his line and his high pretense
With plentiful measure was meted out:
The land rejoiced in him round about.
He was like a prince in his governing—
In his wealth he was like a king;
But most of all by the fame far-flown
Of his great knightliness was he known,
North and south, upon land and sea.
By his name he was Henry of the Lea.
All things whereby the truth grew dim
Were held as hateful foes with him:
By solemn oath was he bounden fast
To shun them while his life should last.
In honour all his days went by:
Therefore his soul might look up high
To honorable authority.

A paragon of all graciousness,
A blossoming branch of youthfulness,
A looking-glass to the world around,
A stainless and priceless diamond,
Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,
A home when the tyrant menaceth,
A buckler to the breast of his friend,
And courteous without measure or end;
Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell;
Of precious wisdom a limpid well,
A singer of ladies every one,
And very lordly to look upon
In feature and hearing and countenance:
Say, failed he in anything, perchance,
The summit of all glory to gain.
And the lasting honour of all men.

Alack! the soul that was up so high
Dropped down into pitiful misery;
The lofty courage was stricken low,
The steady triumph stumbled in woe,
And the world-joy was hidden in the dust,
Even as all such shall be and must.
He whose life in the senses centreth
Is already in the shades of death.
The joys, called great, of this under-state
Burn up the bosom early and late;
And their shining is altogether vain,
For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain,
The torch that flames for men to see
And wasteth to ashes inwardly
Is verily but an imaging
Of man's own life, the piteous thing.
The whole is brittleness and mishap:
We sit and dally in Fortune's lap
Till tears break in our smiles betwixt,
And the shallow honey-draught be mix'd
With sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep.
Oh! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep:
In the blossoming of thy flower-crown
A sword is raised to smite thee down.

It was thus with Earl Henry, upon whom for his pride God sent a leprosy, as He did upon Job. But he did not bear his affliction as did Job.

Its duteousness his heart forgot;
His pride waxed hard, and kept its place,
But the glory departed from his face,
And that which was his strength, grew weak.
The hand that smote him on the cheek
Was all too heavy. It was night,
Now, and his sun withdrew its light.
To the pride of his uplifted thought
Much woe the weary knowledge brought
That the pleasant way his feet did wend
Was all passed o'er and had an end.
The day wherein his years had begun
Went in his mouth with a malison.
As the ill grew stronger and more strong,—
There was but hope bore him along;
Even yet to hope he was full fain
That gold might help him back again
Thither whence God had cast him out.
Ah! weak to strive and little stout
'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possessed.
North and south and east and west,
Far and wide from every side,
Mediciners well proved and tried
Came to him at the voice of his woe;
But, mused and pondered they ever so,
They could but say, for all their care,
That he must be content to bear
The burthen of the anger of God;
For him there was no other road.
Already was his heart nigh down
When yet to him one chance was shown;
For in Salerno dwelt, folk said,
A leach who still might lend him aid,
Albeit unto his body's cure,
All such had been as nought before.

Earl Henry visits the leach in Salerno whom he implores to tell him the means by which he may be healed.

Quoth the leach, "Then know them what they are;
Yet still all hope must stand afar.
Truly if the cure for your care
Might be gotten anyway anywhere,
Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth,
This-wise I had not sent you forth.
But all my knowledge hath none avail;
There is but one thing would not fail:
An innocent virgin for to find,
Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind,
Who to save you from death might choose
Her own young body's life to lose;
The heart's blood of the excellent maid—
That and nought else can be your aid.
But there is none will be won thereby
For the love of another's life to die.

"'T was then poor Henry knew indeed
That from his ill he might not be freed,
Sith that no woman he might win
Of her own will to act herein.
Thus got he but an ill return
For the journey he made unto Salerne,
And the hope he had upon that day
Was snatched from him and rent away.
Homeward he hied him back: fall fain
With limbs in the dust he would have lain.
Of his substance—lands and riches both—
He rid himself; even as one doth
Who the breath of the last life of his hope
Once and forever hath rendered up.
To his friends he gave and to the poor,
Unto God praying evermore
The spirit that was in him to save,
And make his bed soft in the grave.
What still remained aside he set
For Holy Church's benefit.
Of all that heretofore was his
Nought held he for himself, I wis,
Save one small house with byre and field:
There from the world he lived concealed,—
There lived he, and awaited Death,
Who being awaited, lingereth.
Pity and ruth his troubles found
Alway through all the country round.
Who heard him named, had sorrow deep
And for his piteous sake would weep.

The poor man who tilled Earl Henry's field had a daughter, a sweet and tender maiden who, out of love for Henry and a heart of Christ-like pity, at last offers herself to die for him. After a struggle Henry accepts the sacrifice. But when he knows it is about to be made his heart rises against it and he refuses to permit it. At this the maiden is much grieved. She takes it as a token that she is not pure enough to be offered for him. She prays for a sign that she may hope to become wholly cleansed. In answer to this prayer Earl Henry is in one night cleansed of the leprosy. He then joyfully takes the maiden for his bride and leads her before his kinsman and nobles for their consent.

"Then," quoth the Earl, "hearken me this.
The damozel who standeth here,—
And whom I embrace, being most dear,—
She it is unto whom I owe
The grace it hath pleased God to bestow.
He saw the simple spirited
Earnestness of the holy maid,
And even in guerdon of her truth
Gave me back the joys of my youth,
Which seemed to be lost beyond all doubt,
And therefore I have chosen her out
To wed with me knowing her free.
I think that God will let this be.
Lo! I enjoin ye, with God's will
That this my longing ye fulfill.
I pray ye all have but one voice
And let your choice go with my choice."

Then the cries ceased, and the counter-cries,
And all the battle of advice,
And every lord, being content
With Henry's choice, granted assent.

Then the priests came to bind as one
Two lives in bridal unison,
Into his hand they folded hers,
Not to be loosed in coming years,
And uttered between man and wife
God's blessing on the road of this life.
Many a bright and pleasant day
The twain pursued their steadfast way,
Till hand in hand, at length they trod
Upward to the kingdom of God.
Even as it was with them, even thus,
And quickly, it must be with us.
To such reward as theirs was then,
God help us in His hour. Amen.

— Tr. by Rossetti.

THE MINNESINGERS.

In the twelfth century, Germany had a remarkable outburst of lyric poetry, chiefly songs of love. The influence of the crusades, the spread of the romances of Arthur and Charlemagne roused over all Germany the spirit of poetry. The poets of this new movement are called Minnesingers. It is interesting to notice that the same poets who wrote these love lyrics, wrote also long romances of chivalry; the greatest names among them being Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Walther von der Vogelweide. They were of all ranks, but chiefly belonged to the upper classes—knights, squires, princes, and even kings being numbered among them. Their extraordinarily large number may be gathered from the fact that from the twelfth century alone the names of one hundred and sixty Minnesingers have come down to us. Their names and their songs have been handed down largely by tradition, since the mass of them could neither read nor write, and for a century or more their work was preserved orally.

The subject of these songs was almost always love—generally love of a sweetheart; sometimes of the simpler aspects of nature, sometimes the love of the Virgin. Besides this they wrote also many didactic, religious, and patriotic songs. The rhythmical and metrical structure of their verse was very complicated and generally very skillful, sometimes, however, running into eccentricities and barren technicalities. The Minnesinger generally composed the music of his song at the same time with the verse.

The bloom of the Minnesong passed away in the latter half of the thirteenth century. The songs became theological, didactic, political, more and more forced and complicated in form, more and more filled with quaint new figures, far-fetched conceits, and obscure allusions. Then gradually developed the school of the Meistersingers, who formed themselves into a guild of poets to which only those were admitted who passed examination upon the difficult technical rules that had been built up. The poetry of the Meistersinigers was, for the most part, tedious and artificial. The poets were not nobles and soldiers, but burghers and artisans. They reached their highest development in the sixteenth century. The most famous of them was Hans Sachs (1494-1575), who, in the space of fifty-three years, wrote 6181 pieces of verse.

DIETMAR VON AIST. Twelfth Century.

By the heath stood a lady
All lonely and fair;
As she watched for her lover,
A falcon flew near.
"Happy falcon!" she cried
"Who can fly where he list,
And can choose in the forest
The tree he loves best!

"Thus, too, had I chosen
One knight for mine own,
Him my eye had selected,
Him prized I alone:
But other fair ladies
Have envied my joy,
And why? for I sought not
Their bliss to destroy.

"As to thee, lovely summer,
Returns the birds' strain,
As on yonder green linden
The leaves spring again,
So constant doth grief
At my eyes overflow,
And wilt not thou, dearest,
Return to me now?"

"Yes, come, my own hero,
All others desert!
When first my eye saw thee,
How graceful thou wert;
How fair was thy presence,
How graceful, how bright!
Then think of me only,
My own chosen knight!"
. . . . . .
There sat upon the linden-tree
A bird and sang its strain;
So sweet it sang, that, as I heard,
My heart went back again:
It went to one remembered spot,
I saw the rose-trees grow,
And thought again the thoughts of love
There cherished long ago.

A thousand years to me it seems
Since by my fair I sat,
Yet thus to have been a stranger long
Was not my choice, but fate:
Since then I have not seen the flowers,
Nor heard the birds' sweet song;
My joys have all too briefly passed,
My griefs been all too long.

—Tr. by Taylor.

WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. Early nineteenth Century.
UNDER THE LINDEN.

Under the linden
On the meadow
Where our bed arrange'd was,
There now you may find e'en
In the shadow Broken flowers and crushe'd grass.
Near the woods, down in the vale
Tandaradi!
Sweetly sang the nightingale.

I, poor sorrowing one,
Came to the prairie,
Look, my lover had gone before.
There he received me—
Gracious Mary!—
That now with bliss I am brimming o'er.
Kissed he me? Ah, thousand hours!
Tandaradi!
See my mouth, how red it flowers!

Then 'gan he making
Oh! so cheery,
From flowers a couch most rich outspread.
At which outbreaking
In laughter merry
You'll find, whoe'er the path does tread.
By the rose he can see
Tandaradi!
Where my head lay cozily.

How he caressed me
Knew it one ever
God defend! ashamed I'd be.
Whereto he pressed me
No, no, never
Shall any know it but him and me
And a birdlet on the tree
Tandaradi!
Sure we can trust it, cannot we?

—Tr. by Kroeger.

FROM THE CRUSADERS' HYMN.

Sweet love of Holy Spirit
Direct sick mind and steer it,
God, who the first didst rear it,
Protect thou Christendom.
It lies of pleasure barren
No rose blooms more in Sharon;
Comfort of all th' ill-starren,
Oh! help dispel the gloom!
Keep, Savior, from all ill us!
We long for the bounding billows,
Thy Spirit's love must thrill us,
Repentant hearts' true friend.
Thy blood for us thou'st given,
Unlocked the gates of heaven.
Now strive we as we've striven
To gain the blessed land.
Our wealth and blood grows thinner;
God yet will make us winner
Gainst him, who many a sinner
Holds pawne'd in his hand.
. . . . . . . . .
God keep thy help us sending,
With thy right hand aid lending,
Protect us till the ending
When at last our soul us leaves,
From hell-fires, flaming clamor
Lest we fall 'neath the hammer!
Too oft we've heard with tremor,
How pitiably it grieves
The land so pure and holy
All helplessly and fearfully!
Jerusalem, weep lowly,
That thou forgotten art!
The heathen's boastful glory
Put thee in slavery hoary.
Christ, by thy name's proud story
In mercy take her part!
And help those sorely shaken
Who treaties them would maken
That we may not be taken
And conquered at the start.

— Tr. by Kroeger.

When from the sod the flowerets spring,
And smile to meet the sun's bright ray,
When birds their sweetest carols sing,
In all the morning pride of May,
What lovelier than the prospect there?
Can earth boast any thing more fair?
To me it seems an almost heaven,
So beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is given.

But when a lady chaste and fair,
Noble, and clad in rich attire,
Walks through the throng with gracious air,
As sun that bids the stars retire,
Then, where are all thy boastings, May?
What hast thou beautiful and gay,
Compared with that supreme delight?
We leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that lady bright.

Wouldst thou believe me,—come and place
Before thee all this pride of May;
Then look but on my lady's face,
And which is best and brightest say:
For me, how soon (if choice were mine)
This would I take, and that resign,
And say, "Though sweet thy beauties, May,
I'd rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay!"

—Tr. by Taylor.

The Minnesingers wrote many songs in praise of the Virgin. She was the embodiment of pure womanhood, their constant object of devotion. The following extracts are taken from a hymn to the Virgin, formerly attributed to Gottfried von Strassburg. It is one of the greatest of the Minnesongs. It consists of ninety-three stanzas, of which six are given.

Stanza 1.—
Ye who your life would glorify
And float in bliss to God on high,
There to dwell nigh
His peace and love's salvation;
Who fain would learn how to enroll
All evil under your control,
And rid your soul
Of many a sore temptation;
Give heed unto this song of love,
And follow its sweet story.
Then will its passing sweetness prove
Unto your hearts a winge'd dove
And upward move
Your souls to bliss and glory.

Stanza 12.—
Ye fruitful heavens, from your ways
Bend down to hear the tuneful lays
I sing in praise
Of her, the sainted maiden,
Who unto us herself has shown
A modest life, a crown and throne;
Whose love has flown
O'er many a heart grief-laden.
Thou too, O Christ, thine ear incline
To this my adoration,
In honor of that mother thine
Who ever blest must stay and shine,
For she's the shrine
Of God's whole vast creation.

Stanza 19.—
Thou sheen of flowers through clover place,
Thou lignum aloe's blooming face,
Thou sea of grace,
Where man seeks blessed landing.
Thou roof of rapture high and blest,
Through which no rain has ever passed,
Thou goodly rest,
Whose end is without ending.
Thou to help-bearing strength a tower
Against all hostile evils.
Thou parriest many a stormy shower
Which o'er us cast in darkest hour,
The hell worm's power
And other ruthless devils.

Stanza 20.—
Thou art a sun, a moon, a star,
'Tis thou can'st give all good and mar,
Yea, and debar
Our enemies' great cunning.
That power God to thee hath given
That living light, that light of heaven:
Hence see we even
Thy praise from all lips running.
Thou' st won the purest, noblest fame,
In all the earth's long story,
That e'er attached to worldly name;
It shineth brightly like a flame;
All hearts the same
Adore its lasting glory.

Stanza 82.—
To worship, Lady, thee is bliss,
And fruitful hours ne'er pass amiss
To heart that is
So sweet a guest's host-mansion.
He who thee but invited hath
Into his heart's heart love with faith,
Must live and bathe
In endless bliss-expansion.
To worship thee stirs up in man
A love now tame, now passion.
To worship thee doth waken, then
Love e'en in those love ne'er could gain;
Thus now amain
Shines forth thy love's concession.

From praising Mary, the poet passes to praising Christ.

Stanza 59.—
Thou cool, thou cold, thou warmth, thou heat,
Thou rapture's circle's central seat,
Who does not meet
With thee stays dead in sadness;
Each day to him appears a year,
Seldom his thoughts wear green bloom's gear;
He doth appear
Forever without gladness.
Thou art most truly our heart's shine
Our sun wide joy-inspiring;
A sweet heart's love for all that pine,
For all the sad a joyful shrine,
A spring divine
For the thirsty and desiring.

—Tr. by Kroeger.

CHAPTER V. ITALIAN LITERATURE.

There was no folk poetry and no popular literature in Mediaeval Italy. There were two reasons for this: (1) Italian history, political and intellectual, attaches itself very closely to that of Rome. The traditions of classic learning never died out. Hence the Italian nation was always too learned, too literary to develop a folk literature. (2) Italy was for many centuries dominated by ecclesiastical influence, and the people's minds were full of matters of religious and scholastic philosophy, which excluded art.

The Italians translated and adapted some of the epics, romances, and tales of other countries, during the earlier years of the Middle Ages; but they were written in Latin, or in a kind of French. They produced none of their own. There was no literature written in Italian before the thirteenth century.

In the thirteenth century (1250) there came the first outburst of Italian literature—religious songs, love songs, dramas, and tales. In almost every part of Italy men began to write. But it was in Tuscany, in Florence, that the most remarkable literary development of this period appeared. It was of the nature chiefly of lyric and allegoric poetry. The work of this group of Tuscan poets was really the beginning of Italian literary art. Yet it was a finished art product, not at all like the beginnings of poetry in other countries.

The group numbered a dozen poets of considerable power and skill. The greatest of them and the greatest of Italian poets was Dante Alighieri. In Italian mediaeval literature three names stand out far above all others. They are Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. So completely do they overshadow their contemporaries, that in making our selection of Italian literature we shall confine ourselves entirely to these three.

Dante Alighieri was born at Florence, in May, 1266, and died at
Ravenna in September, 1321. He had an eventful and pathetic life.
He was much in public affairs. He was banished from his native
city in 1302, and died in exile. His literary work is represented
chiefly by the following titles: "Vita Nuova, The New Life";
"Convito, The Banquet"; "De Monarchia, A Treatise on Monarchy";
"De Vulgari Eloquio, A Treatise on the Vulgar Tongue"; and
"Divina Commedia", his masterpiece and the master-work of the
Middle Ages.

FROM THE VITA NUOVA.

The "Vita Nuova" is a work of Dante's youth, a record of his early life and love. The title may be translated either Early Life or The New Life. From the nature of the work we may infer that the latter translation conveys the poet's thought. It implies that after his first sight of Beatrice he began a new existence. He saw her first when he was nine years old. Nine years later she greeted him for the first time. Inspired by this greeting he began the "Vita Nuova".[1] It is written in prose interspersed with sonnets and canzoni. We select for reproduction some of the sonnets from Rossetti's translation.

[1] When Dante first saw Beatrice she was eight years old. From that hour he says he loved her. She was the inspiration of his early poem; and afterward, in the Divine Comedy, she became the embodiment of his conception of divine wisdom. She was married quite young to Simon di Bardi, a citizen of Florence. She died in 1290, when only twenty-four years old.

I. Sonnets telling to other ladies the praise of Beatrice.

Ladies that have intelligence in love
Of mine own lady I would speak with you;
Not that I hope to count her praises through,
But telling what I may to ease my mind.
And I declare that when I speak thereof
Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me
That if my courage failed not, certainly
To him my listeners must be all resign'd.
Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind
That mine own speech should foil me, which were base;
But only will discourse of her high grace
In these poor words, the best that I can find,
With you alone dear dames and damozels:
'Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.
. . . . . . . .
My lady is desired in the high Heaven;
WHEREFORE, it now behoveth me to tell, saying:
Let any maid that would be well
Esteemed, keep with her; for as she goes by,
Into foul hearts a deadly chill is driven
By Love, that makes ill thoughts to perish there;
While any who endures to gaze on her
Must either be ennobled, or else die.
When one deserving to be raised so high
Is found, It is then her power attains its proof,
Making his heart strong for his soul's behoof
With the full strength of meek humility.
Also this virtue owns she, by God's will:
Who speaks with her can never come to ill.

II. On the death of Beatrice.

When mine eyes had wept for some while until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit; and I then began:

The eyes that weep for pity of the heart
Have wept so long that their grief languisheth,
And they have no more tears to weep withal:
And now if I would ease me of a part
Of what, little by little, leads to death,
It must be done by speech, or not at all,
And because often, thinking I recall
How it was pleasant ere she went afar,
To talk of her with you, kind damozels,
I talk with no one else,
But only with such hearts as women's are.
And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,—
That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,
And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.

III.

"Dante once prepared to paint an angel."
. . . . . . .
"You and I would rather see that angel
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,—
Would we not?—than read a fresh Inferno."

—Browning's "One Word More".

On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did; also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation and said: "Another was with me."

Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels; in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith "That Lady":

That lady of all gentle memories
Had lighted on my soul; whose new abode
Lies now, as it was well ordained of God,
Among the poor in heart where Mary is.
Love, knowing that dear image to be his,
Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bowed,
Unto the sighs which are its weary load,
Saying, "Go forth." And they went forth, I wis
Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;
With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe
Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.
And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath
Came whispering thus: "O noble intellect!
It is a year to-day that thou art gone."

IV. The Close of the Vita Nuova.

Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space
Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above;
A new perception born of grieving Love
Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.
When it hath reached unto the end and stays,
It sees a lady round whom splendors move
In homage; till, by the great light thereof
Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.
It sees her such, that when it tells me this
Which it hath seen, I understand it not;
It hath a speech so subtile and so fine
And yet I know its voice within my thought
Often remembereth me of Beatrice:
So that I understand it, ladies mine.

After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision,[1] wherein I saw things which determined me that I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as I could discourse more worthily of her. And to this end I labor all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what hath not before been written of any woman. After the which may it seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of its lady: to wit, the blessed Beatrice, who now gazeth continually on His countenance qui est per omnia soecula benedictus. Laus Deo.[2]

[1] This we may believe to be the vision of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, the vision which gave him the argument of the Divine Comedy.

[2] Who is blessed throughout all ages. Praise to God.