APPENDIX IV.

Jacopone’s Presepio, Corrotto, and Cantico dell’Amore
Superardente, Translated into English Verse.

(See [Chapter V.] [pp. 291] et seq.)

THREE POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO JACOPONE DA TODI.

Though judging it impossible to preserve the least part of Jacopone's charm in a translation, I have made versions of the Christmas Carol, the Passion Poem, and the Hymn of Divine Love, alluded to in [chapter v.], [pp. 291-298]. The metrical structure of the first is confused in the original; but I have adopted a stanza which follows the scheme pretty closely, and reproduces the exact number of the lines. In the second I have forced myself to repeat the same rhyme at the close of each of the thirty-four strophes, which in the Italian has a very fine effect—the sound being ato. No English equivalent can do it justice. The third poem I admit to be really untranslatable. The recurrences of strong voweled endings in ore, are, ezza, ate cannot be imitated.

THE PRESEPIO.

By thy great and glorious merit,
Mary, Mother, Maid!
In thy firstling, new-born child
All our life is laid.
That sweet smiling infant child,
Born for us, I wis;
That majestic baby mild,
Yield him to our kiss!
Clasping and embracing him,
We shall drink of bliss.
Who could crave a deeper joy?—
Purer none was made.
For thy beauteous baby boy
We a-hungered burn;
Yea, with heart and soul of grace
Long for him and yearn.
Grant us then this prayer; his face
Toward our bosom turn:
Let him keep us in his care,
On his bosom stayed!
Mary, in the manger where
Thou hast strewn his nest,
With thy darling baby we
Fain would dwell at rest
Those who cannot take him, see,
Place him on their breast!
Who shall be so rude and wild
As to spurn thee, Maid?
Come and look upon her child
Nestling in the hay!
See his fair arms opened wide,
On her lap to play!
And she tucks him by her side,
Cloaks him as she may;
Gives her paps unto his mouth,
Where his lips are laid.
For the little babe had drouth,
Sucked the breast she gave;
All he sought was that sweet breast,
Broth he did not crave;
With his tiny mouth he pressed,
Tiny mouth that clave:
Ah, the tiny baby thing,
Mouth to bosom laid!
She with left hand cradling
Rocked and hushed her boy,
And with holy lullabies
Quieted her toy.
Who so churlish but would rise
To behold heaven's joy
Sleeping?—In what darkness drowned,
Dead and renegade?—
Little angels all around
Danced, and carols flung;
Making verselets sweet and true,
Still of love they sung;
Calling saints and sinners too
With love's tender tongue;
Now that heaven's high glory is
On this earth displayed.
Choose we gentle courtesies,
Churlish ways forswear;
Let us one and all behold
Jesus sleeping there.
Earth, air, heaven he will unfold,
Flowering, laughing fair;
Such a sweetness, such a grace
From his eyes hath rayed.
O poor humble human race,
How uplift art thou!
With the divine dignity
Re-united now!
Even the Virgin Mary, she
All amazed doth bow;
And to us who sin inherit,
Seems as though she prayed.
By thy great glorious merit,
Mary, Mother, Maid!
In thy firstling, new-born child
All our life is laid.