A separate section should be a.s.signed to poems of exile. They are not very numerous, but are interesting in connection with the wandering life of their vagrant authors. The first has all the dreamy pathos felt by a young German leaving his beloved home in some valley of the Suabian or Thuringian hills.
ADIEU TO THE VALLEY.
No. 42.
Oh, of love twin-brother anguish!
In thy pangs I faint and languish, Cannot find relief from thee!
Nay, no marvel! I must grieve her, Wander forth in exile, leave her, Who hath gained the heart of me; Who of loveliness so rare is That for her sake Trojan Paris Would have left his Helene.
Smile, thou valley, sweetest, fairest, Wreathed with roses of the rarest, Flower of all the vales that be!
Vale of vales, all vales excelling, Sun and moon thy praise are telling, With the song-birds" melody; Nightingales thy praise are singing, O thou soothing solace-bringing To the soul"s despondency!
The second was probably intended to be sung at a drinking-party by a student taking leave of his companions. It is love that forces him to quit their society and to break with his studies. The long rhyming lines, followed by a sharp drop at the close of each stanza upon a short disjointed phrase, seem to indicate discouragement and melancholy.
THE LOVER"S PARTING.
No. 43.
Sweet native soil, farewell! dear country of my birth!
Fair chamber of the loves! glad home of joy and mirth!
To-morrow or to-day I leave you, o"er the earth To wander struck with love, to pine with rage and dearth In exile!
Farewell, sweet land, and ye, my comrades dear, adieu!
To whom with kindly heart I have been ever true; The studies that we loved I may no more pursue; Weep then for me, who part as though I died to you, Love-laden!
As many as the flowers that Hybla"s valley cover, As many as the leaves that on Dodona hover, As many as the fish that sail the wide seas over, So many are the pangs that pain a faithful lover, For ever!
With the new fire of love my wounded bosom burns; Love knows not any ruth, all tender pity spurns; How true the proverb speaks that saith to him that yearns, "Where love is there is pain; thy pleasure love returns With anguish!"
Ah, sorrow! ah, how sad the wages of our bliss!
In lovers" hearts the flame"s too hot for happiness; For Venus still doth send new sighs and new distress When once the enamoured soul is taken with excess Of sweetness!
The third introduces us to a little episode of medieval private life which must have been frequent enough. It consists of a debate between a father and his son upon the question whether the young man should enter into a monastic brotherhood. The youth is lying on a sickbed, and thinks that he is already at the point of death. It will be noticed that he is only diverted from his project by the mention of a student friend (indicated, as usual, by an N), whom he would never be able to see again if he a.s.sumed the cowl. I suspect, however, that the poem has not been transmitted to us entire.
IN ARTICULO MORTIS.
No. 44.
_Son_.
Oh, my father! help, I pray!
Death is near my soul to-day; With your blessing let me be Made a monk right speedily!
See the foe my life invade!
Haste, oh haste, to give me aid!
Bring me comfort and heart"s ease, Strengthen me in this disease!
_Father_.
Oh, my best-beloved son, What is this thou wouldst have done?
Weigh it well in heart and brain: Do not leave me here in pain.
_Son_.
Father, this thy loving care Makes me weep full sore, I swear; For you will be childless when I have joined those holy men.
_Father_.
Therefore make a little stay, Put it off till the third day; It may be your danger is Not unto the death, I wis.
_Son_.
Such the anguish that I feel Through my inmost entrails steal, That I bide in doubt lest death Ere to-morrow end my breath.
_Father_.
Those strict rules that monks observe, Well I know them! They must serve Heaven by fasting every day, And by keeping watch alway.
_Son_.
Who for G.o.d watch through the night Shall receive a crown of light; Who for heaven"s sake hungers, he Shall be fed abundantly.
_Father_.
Hard and coa.r.s.e the food they eat, Beans and pottage-herbs their meat; After such a banquet, think, Water is their only drink!
_Son_.
What"s the good of feasts, or bright Cups of Bacchus, when, in spite Of all comforts, at the last This poor flesh to worms is cast?
_Father_.
Well, then, let thy parent"s moan Move thee in thy soul, my son!
Mourning for thee made a monk, Dead-alive in darkness sunk.
_Son_.
They who father, mother love, And their G.o.d neglect, will prove That they are in error found When the judgment trump shall sound.
_Father_.
Logic! would thou ne"er hadst been Known on earth for mortal teen!
Many a clerk thou mak"st to roam Wretched, exiled from his home.--
Never more thine eyes, my son, Shall behold thy darling one, Him, that little clerk so fair, N., thy friend beyond compare!
_Son_.