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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.
_THE CORROTTO._
_Messenger._ Lady of Paradise, woe's me, Thy son is taken, even he, Christ Jesus, that saint blessed!
Run, Lady, look amain How the folk him constrain: Methinks they him have slain, Sore scourged, with rods opprest.
_Mary._ Nay, how could this thing be?
To folly ne'er turned he, Jesus, the hope of me: How did they him arrest?
_Messenger._ Lady, he was betrayed; Judas sold him, and bade Those thirty crowns be paid-- Poor gain, where bad is best.
_Mary._ Ho, succor! Magdalen!
The storm is on me: men My own son, Christ, have ta'en!
This news hath pierced my breast.
_Messenger._ Aid, Lady! Up and run!
They spit upon thy son, And hale him through the town; To Pilate they him wrest.
_Mary._ O Pilate, do not let My son to pain be set!
That he is guiltless, yet With proofs I can protest.
_The Jews._ Crucify! Crucify!
Who would be King, must die.
He spurns the Senate by Our laws, as these attest.
We'll see if, stanch of state, He can abide this fate; Die shall he at the gate, And Barab be redressed.
_Mary._ I pray thee, hear my prayer!
Think on my pain and care!
Perchance thou then wilt bear New thoughts and change thy quest.
_The Jews._ Bring forth the thieves, for they Shall walk with him this day: Crown him with thorns, and say He was made king in jest.
_Mary._ Son, Son, Son, dear Son!
O Son, my lovely Son!
Son, who shall shed upon My anguished bosom rest?
O jocund eyes, sweet Son!
Why art Thou silent? Son!
Son, wherefore dost Thou shun This thy own mother's breast?
_Messenger._ Lady, behold the tree!
The people bring it, see, Where the true Light must be Lift up at man's behest!
_Mary._ O cross, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou my Son undo?
Him will they fix on you, Him who hath ne'er transgressed?
_Messenger._ Up, full of grief and bale!
They strip thy son, and rail; The folk are fain to nail Him on yon cross they've dressed.
_Mary._ If ye his raiment strip, I'll see him, breast and hip!
Lo, how the cruel whip Hath bloodied back and chest!
_Messenger._ Lady, his hand outspread Unto the cross is laid: 'Tis pierced; the huge nail's head Down to the wood they've pressed.
They seize his other hand, And on the tree expand: His pangs are doubled and Too keen to be expressed!
Lady, his feet they take, And pin them to the stake, Rack every joint, and make Each sinew manifest!
_Mary._ I now the dirge commence.
Son, my life's sole defense!
Son, who hath torn thee hence?
Sweet Son, my Son caressed!
Far better done had they My heart to pluck away, Than by thy cross to lay Of thee thus dispossessed!
_Christ._ Mother, why weep'st thou so?
Thou dealest me death's blow.
To watch thy tears, thy woe Unstinted, tears my breast.
_Mary._ Son, who hath twinned us two?
Son, father, husband true!
Son, who thy body slew?
Son, who hath thee suppressed?
_Christ._ Mother, why wail and chide?
I will thou shouldst abide, And serve those comrades tried I saved amid the rest.
_Mary._ Son, say not this to me!
Fain would I hang with thee Pierced on the cross, and be By thy side dying blessed!
One grave should hold us twain, Son of thy mother's pain!
Mother and Son remain By one same doom oppressed!
_Christ._ Mother, heart-full of woe, I bid thee rise and go To John, my chosen!--so Is he thy son confessed.
John, this my mother see: Take her in charity: Cherish her piteously: The sword hath pierced her breast.
_Mary._ Son! Ah, thy soul hath flown!
Son of the woman lone!
Son of the overthrown!
Son, poisoned by sin's pest!
Son of white ruddy cheer!
Son without mate or peer!
Son, who shall help me here, Son, left by thee, distressed!
Son, white and fair of face!
Son of pure jocund grace!
Son, why did this wild place, This world, Son, thee detest?
Son, sweet and pleasant Son!
Son of the sorrowing one!
Son, why hath thee undone To death this folk unblessed?
John, my new son, behold Thy brother he is cold!
I feel the sword foretold, Which prophecies attest.
Lo, Son and mother slain!
Dour death hath seized the twain: Mother and Son, they strain Upon one cross embraced.
Here the miserable translation ends. But I would that I could summon from the deeps of memory some echo of the voice I heard at Perugia, one dark Good Friday evening, singing Penitential Psalms. This made me feel of what sort was the _Corrotto_, chanted by the confraternities of Umbria. The psalms were sung on that occasion to a monotonous rhythm of melodiously simple outline by three solo voices in turn--soprano, tenor, and ba.s.s. At the ending of each psalm a candle before the high-altar was extinguished, until all light and hope and spiritual life went out for the d.a.m.ned soul. The soprano, who sustained the part of pathos, had the fullness of a powerful man's chest and larynx, with the pitch of a woman's and the timbre of a boy's voice. He seemed able to do what he chose in prolonging and sustaining notes, with wonderful effects of _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ pa.s.sing from the wildest and most piercing _forte_ to the tenderest _pianissimo_. He was hidden in the organ-loft; and as he sang, the organist sustained his cry with long-drawn shuddering chords and deep groans of the diapason. The whole church throbbed with the vibrations of the rising, falling melody; and the emotional thrill was as though Christ's or Mary's soul were speaking through the darkness to our hearts. I never elsewhere heard a soprano of this sort sing in tune so perfect or with so pure an intonation. The dramatic effect produced by the contrast between this soprano and the ba.s.s and tenor was simple but exceedingly striking. Englishmen, familiar with cathedral music, may have derived a somewhat similar impression from the more complex Motett of Mendelssohn upon Psalm xxii. I think that when the Umbrian Laud began to be dramatic, the parts in such a hymn as Jacopone's _Corrotto_ must have been distributed after the manner of these Perugian Good Friday services. Mary's was undoubtedly given to the soprano; that of the Jews, possibly, to the ba.s.s; Christ's, and perhaps the messenger's also, to the tenor. And it is possible that the rhythm was almost identical with what I heard; for that had every mark of venerable antiquity and popular sincerity.
I now pa.s.s to the Hymn of Divine Love, which Tresatti ent.i.tles _Cantico dell'Amore Superardente_ (Book vi. 16). It consists of three hundred and seventy lines, all of which I have translated, though I content myself here with some extracts:
O Love of Charity!
