The Portable Medieval Reader

by James Bruce Ross

  From Chronicle of the Discovery and Conquest of Guinea, trans. C. R. Beazley and E. Prestage (London: Hakluyt Society, vol. 95, 1896).

  V.

  THE NOBLE CASTLE

  The Makers

  POETS AND STORY-TELLERS

  TheVision of Viands

  ANIAR MACCONGLINNE

  Irish; twelfth century

  In a slumber visional,

  Wonders apparitional

  Sudden shone on me:

  Was it not a miracle?

  Built of lard, a coracle

  Swam a sweet milk sea.

  With high hearts heroical,

  We stepped in it, stoical,

  Braving billow-bounds;

  Then we rode so dashingly,

  Smote the sea so splashingly,

  That the surge sent, washingly,

  Honey up for grounds.

  Ramparts rose of custard all

  Where a castle muster’d all

  Forces o’er the lake;

  Butter was the bridge of it,

  Wheaten meal the ridge of it,

  Bacon every stake.

  Strong it stood, and pleasantly

  There I entered presently

  Hying to the hosts;

  Dry beef was the door of it,

  Bare bread was the floor of it,

  Whey-curds were the posts.

  Old cheese-columns happily,

  Pork that pillared sappily,

  Raised their heads aloof;

  While curd-rafters mellowly

  Crossing cream-beams yellowly,

  Held aloft the roof.

  Wine in well rose sparklingly,

  Beer was rolling darklingly,

  Bragget brimmed the pond.

  Lard was oozing heavily,

  Merry malt moved wavily,

  Through the floor beyond.

  Lake of broth lay spicily,

  Fat froze o‘er it icily,

  ’Tween the wall and shore;

  Butter rose in hedges high,

  Cloaking all its edges high

  White lard blossomed o’er.

  Apple alleys bowering,

  Pink-topped orchards flowering,

  Fenced off hill and wind;

  Leek-tree forests loftily,

  Carrots branching tuftily,

  Guarded it behind.

  Ruddy warders rosily

  Welcomed us right cosily

  To the fire and rest;

  Seven coils of sausages,

  Twined in twisted passages,

  Round each brawny breast.

  Their chief I discover him,

  Suet mantle over him,

  By his lady bland;

  Where the cauldron boiled away,

  The Dispenser toiled away,

  With his fork in hand.

  Good King Cathal, royally,

  Surely will enjoy a lay,

  Fair and fine as silk;

  From his heart his woe I call,

  When I sing, heroical,

  How we rode, so stoical,

  O’er the Sea of Milk.

  Trans. G. Sigerson, in Bards of the Gael and Gall (London: Unwin, 1897).

  Hymn for Good Friday

  PETER ABELARD

  Latin; twelfth century

  Alone to sacrifice Thou goest, Lord,

  Giving Thyself to death whom Thou hast slain.

  For us Thy wretched folk is any word,

  Who know that for our sins this is Thy pain?

  For they are ours, O Lord, our deeds, our deeds,

  Why must Thou suffer torture for our sin?

  Let our hearts suffer for Thy passion, Lord,

  That sheer compassion may Thy mercy win.

  This is that night of tears, the three days’ space,

  Sorrow abiding of the eventide,

  Until the day break with the risen Christ,

  And hearts that sorrowed shall be satisfied.

  So may our hearts have pity on Thee, Lord,

  That they may sharers of Thy glory be:

  Heavy with weeping may the three days pass,

  To win the laughter of Thine Easter Day.

  Trans. Helen Waddell, in Mediaeval Latin Lyrics (New York: Holt, 1938).

  David’s Lament for Jonathan

  PETER ABELARD

  Latin; twelfth century

  Low in thy grave with thee

  Happy to lie,

  Since there’s no greater thing left Love to do;

  And to live after thee

  Is but to die,

  For with but half a soul what can Life do?

  So share thy victory,

  Or else thy grave,

  Either to rescue thee, or with thee lie:

  Ending that life for thee,

  That thou didst save,

  So Death that sundereth might bring more nigh.

  Peace, O my stricken lute!

  Thy strings are sleeping.

  Would that my heart could still

  Its bitter weeping!

  Trans. Helen Waddell, in Mediaeval Latin Lyrics.

  Let’s Away with Study

  Latin; twelfth century

  Let’s away with study,

  Folly’s sweet.

  Treasure all the pleasure

  Of our youth:

  Time enough for age

  To think on Truth.

  So short a day,

  And life so quickly hasting,

  And in study wasting

  Youth that would be gay!

  ’Tis our spring that’s slipping,

  Winter draweth near,

  Life itself we’re losing,

  And this sorry cheer

  Dries the blood and chills the heart,

  Shrivels all delight.

  Age and all its crowd of ills

  Terrifies our sight.

  So short a day,

  And life so quickly hasting,

  And in study wasting

  Youth that would be gay!

  Let us as the gods do,

  ’Tis the wiser part:

  Leisure and love’s pleasure

  Seek the young in heart

  Follow the old fashion,

  Down into the street!

  Down among the maidens,

  And the dancing feet!

  So short a day,

  And life so quickly hasting,

  And in study wasting

  Youth that would be gay!

  ,There for the seeing

  Is all loveliness,

  White limbs moving

  Light in wantonness.

  Gay go the dancers,

  I stand and see,

  Gaze, till their glances

  Steal myself from me.

  So short a day,

  And life so quickly hasting,

  And in study wasting

  Youth that would be gay!

  Trans. Helen Waddell, in Mediaeval Latin Lyrics.

  When Diana Lighteth

  Latin; twelfth century

  When Diana lighteth

  Late her crystal lamp,

  Her pale glory kindleth

  From her brother’s fire,

  Little straying west winds

  Wander over heaven,

  Moonlight falleth,

  And recalleth

  With a sound of lute-strings shaken,

  Hearts that have denied his reign

  To love again.

  Hesperus, the evening star,

  To all things that mortal are

  Grants the dew of sleep.

  Thrice happy Sleep!

  The antidote to care,

  Thou dost allay the storm

  Of grief and sore despair;

  Through the fast-closed gates

  Thou stealest light;

  Thy coming gracious is

  As Love’s delight.

  Sleep through the wearied brain

  Breathes a soft wind

  From fields of ripening grain,

  The sound
<
br />   Of running water over clearest sand,

  A millwheel turning, turning slowly round,

  These steal the light

  From eyes weary of sight.

  Love’s sweet exchange and barter, then the brain

  Sinks to repose;

  Swimming in strangeness of a new delight

  The eyelids close;

  Oh sweet the passing o’er from love to sleep.

  But sweeter the awakening to love.

  Under the kind branching trees

  Where Philomel complains and sings

  Most sweet to lie at ease,

  Sweeter to take delight

  Of beauty and the night

  On the fresh springing grass,

  With smell of mint and thyme,

  And for Love’s bed, the rose.

  Sleep’s dew doth ever bless,

  But most distilled on lovers’ weariness.

  Trans. Helen Waddell, in Mediaeval Latin Lyrics.

  To Bel Vezer on Her Dismissal of the Poet

  BERNART DE VENTADORN

  Provençal; twelfth century

  In vain at Ventadorn full many a friend

  Will seek me, for my lady doth refuse me,

  And thither small my wish my way to wend,

  If ever thus despitefully she use me.

  On me she frowningly her brow doth bend,

  For why? My love to her hath ne’er an end,

  But of no other crime can she accuse me.

  The fish full heedless falleth on the prey,

  And by the hook is caught; e‘en so I found me

  Falling full heedless upon love one day,

  Nor knew my plight till flames raged high around me,

  That fiercer burn than furnace by my fay;

  Yet ne’er an inch from them can I away,

  So fast the fetters of her love have bound me.

  I marvel not her love should fetter me,

  Unto such beauty none hath e’er attained;

  So courteous, gay, and fair, and good, is she,

  That for her worth all other worth hath waned;

  I cannot blame her, she of blame is free,

  Yet I would gladly speak if blame there be,

  But finding none, from speaking have refrained.

  I send unto Provence great love and joy,

  And greater joy than ever tongue expresseth,

  Great wonders work thereby, strange arts employ,

  Since that I give my heart no whit possesseth.

  Trans. Ida Famell, in The Lives of the Troubadours (London: Nutt, 1896).

  Dawn Song

  French; twelfth century

  In orchard where the leaves of hawthorn hide,

  The lady holds a lover to her side,

  Until the watcher in the dawning cried.

  Ah God, ah God, the dawn!it comes how soon.

  Ah, would to God that never night must end,

  Nor this my lover far from me should wend,

  Nor watcher day nor dawning ever send!

  Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes how soon.

  Come let us kiss, dear lover, you and I,

  Within the meads where pretty song-birds fly;

  We will do all despite the jealous eye:

  Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes how soon.

  Sweet lover come, renew our lovemaking

  Within the garden where the light birds sing,

  Until the watcher sound the severing.

  Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes how soon.

  Through the soft breezes that are blown from there,

  From my own lover, courteous, noble and fair,

  From his breath have I drunk a draught most rare.

  Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes how soon.

  Gracious the lady is, and debonaire,

  For her beauty a many look at her,

  And in her heart is loyal love astir.

  Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes how soon.

  Trans. C. C. Abbott, in Early Medieval French Lyrics (London: Oxford University Press, 1932).

  The Pretty Fruits of Love

  French; twelfth century

  I rose up early yestermorn

  Before the sun was shining bright,

  And stepped within a garden fair

  Letting my sleeves trail in the light,

  And heard a pretty maid dark-eyed

  Singing in a meadow near

  And delight it was to hear

  Her sweet confiding:

  “The pretty fruits of love

  There’s no more hiding.”

  And her lament of full intent

  I heard as she spoke sighing there:

  “God, I have lost my lover, he

  Who loved me so, handsome and fair.

  That I should ever be his dear

  ’Twas such an oath I had from him:

  And I have done a foolish thing

  None should be chiding.

  The pretty fruits of love

  There’s no more hiding.

  “And where is now the young squire gone

  Who begged me ever, night and day,

  Lady, take me, body and heart,

  And keep me for your love, I pray,

  I am your loyal knight alway.

  And now I’m all alone; what’s done

  No longer lets my girdle run

  With clasp confining.

  The pretty fruits of love

  There’s no more hiding.

  “Now it behooves me loosen out

  My girdle span a little mite;

  Already is my belly big,

  A bigger still I must requite.

  Then while I carry this in sight—

  No more a maiden stand confessed—

  I’ll sing this song, within my breast

  For ever hiding:

  ‘The pretty fruits of love

  There’s no more hiding.”’

  And I who heard with full intent

  Adventured then a shade more near;

  No sooner had she looked on me

  Than she began to blush with fear

  And I to her said, laughing clear,

  “To many a maid it happens so.”

  For shame her blushes paler grown

  No more confiding.

  “The pretty fruits of love

  There’s no more hiding.”

  Trans. C. C. Abbott in Early Medieval French Lyrics.

  This Song Wants Drink

  French; twelfth century

  Who has good wine should flagon it out

  And thrust the bad where the fungus sprout;

  Then must merry companions shout:

  This song wants drink!

  When I see wine into the clear glass slip

  How I long to be matched with it;

  My heart sings gay at the thought of it:

  This song wants drink!

  I thirst for a sup; come circle the cup:

  This song wants drink!

  Trans. C. C. Abbott, in Early Medieval French Lyrics.

  The Love of Tristan and Iseult

  GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG

  German; thirteenth century

  Now, when the man and the maid, Tristan and Iseult, had drunk of the potion, Love, who never resteth but besetteth all hearts, crept softly into the hearts of the twain, and ere they were ware of it had she planted her banner of conquest therein, and brought them under her rule. They were one and undivided who but now were twain and at enmity. Gone was Iseult’s hatred, no longer might there be strife between them, for Love, the great reconciler, had purified their hearts from all ill will, and so united them that each was clear as a mirror to the other. But one heart had they—her grief was his sadness, his sadness her grief. Both were one in love and sorrow, and yet both would hide it in shame and doubt. She felt shame of her love, and the like did he. She doubted of his love, and he of hers. For though both their hearts were blindly bent to one will, yet was the chance and the beginning heavy to them, an
d both alike would hide their desire.

  When Tristan felt the pangs of love, then he bethought him straightway of his faith and honour, and would fain have set himself free. “Nay,” he said to himself, “let such things be, Tristan; guard thee well, lest others perceive thy thoughts.” So would he turn his heart, fighting against his own will, and desiring against his own desire. He would and would not, and, a prisoner, struggled in his fetters. There was a strife within him, for ever as he looked on Iseult, and love stirred his heart and soul, then did honour draw him back. Yet he must needs follow Love, for his liege lady was she, and in sooth she wounded him more sorely than did his honour and faith to his uncle, though they strove hard for the mastery. For Love looked smiling upon his heart, and led heart and eyes captive; and yet if he saw her not, then was he even more sorrowful. Much he vexed himself, marvelling how he might escape, and saying to his heart: “Turn thee here or there, let thy desire be other, love and long elsewhere.” Yet ever the more he looked into his heart the more he found that therein was nought but Love—and Iseult.