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Notker Psalm

Âncora 1

I. Jardim de Guerra

Oitava Carta: Eu não Existo

 

Dictes moy où, n’en quel pays,
Est Flora, la belle Romaine,
Archipiadès ne Thaÿs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sur estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q’umaine.
Mais où sont les neiges d’anten?

 

Où est la tressaige Esloÿs,
Pour qui chastré [fut] et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart à Saint Denys?
Pour son amour eust ceste essoyne!
Semblablement, où est la royne
Qui commanda que Buriden
Fut gecté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’anten?

 

La Royne blanche comme liz,
Qui chantoit à voix de seraine,
Berte au plat pié, Bietrix, Aliz,
Haranburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine,
Qu’Engloys brulerent à Rouen,
Où sont ilz, où, Vierge souv(e)raine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’anten?

 

Prince, n’enquerrez de sepmaine
Où elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu’à ce reffraing ne vous remaine:
Mais où sont les neiges d’anten?

 

Villon, Poésies complètes, Claude Thiry

Ballade des Dames du temps jadis

Ora, dizei-me em que país

Flora estará, bela romana,

Arquipiades ou Tais,

que sua prima foi germana,

Eco a falar, quando um som plana

por rio ou lago, e que já tem o

dom de formosa mais que humana?

Mas onde estão neves de antanho?

 

Onde é a mui sábia Heloís

Por quem castrado e monge pena

Pedro Abelardo em S. Dinis?

Amor lhe deu provação plena.

E assim também onde é que reina

Essa que a Buridan por banho

Mandou deitar num saco ao Sena?

Mas onde estão neves de antanho?

 

Rainha Branca como lis

voz que a sereia em canto irmana,

Berta pé-grande, Alis, Biatriz,

Aremburgis que foi menana,

E de Lorena a boa Joana

Au’ingrês em Ruão queimou no lenho

Onde estão, Virgem soberana?

Mas onde estão neves de antanho?

 

Senhor, cuidar de ano ou semana

onde elas são, não vos traz ganho,

nem meu refrão a vos engana:

Mas onde estão neves de antanho?

Tradução: Vasco Graça Moura, Os Testamentos de François Villon e Algumas Baladas Mais.

Balada das damas do tempo antigo.

Âncora 2

II. O Lavrador-Maltês

Primeira Carta: O Encontro

Ire d’amour qui en mon cuer repaire

Ne me lest tant que de chanter me tiengne,

Grant merveille est se chançon en puis traire,

Ne je ne sai dont l’ocheson me viengne ;

Car li désirs et la grant volentez,

Dont je sui si pensis et esgarez,

M’ont si mené, ce vous puis je bien dire,

Qu’a paines sai conoistre joie d’ire.

 

Et nonporquant, touz li cuers m’en esclaire

D’un dous espoir, Dieus doint que il aviengne !

Mout par devroit a ma dame desplaire

Se ceste amour m’ocist ; bien l’en coviengne !

Mort m’a ses cors, li genz, li acesmez,

Et ses douz vis freschement colorez,

Et sa biautez dont il n’est riens a dire ;

Dieus, pour qu’en ot tant a moi desconfire?

[…]

Quarta Carta: A Florescência

 

Er vei vermeills, vertz, blaus, blancs, gruocs,

vergiers, plais, plans, tertres e vaus;

e·il votz dels auzels son’e tint

ab doutz acort maitin e tart:

so·m met en cor q’ieu colore mon chan

d’un’aital flor don lo fruitz si’amors

e jois lo grans e l’olors d’enuo gandres

Arnauy Daniel, Poesías, Martín de Riquer.

Ahora  veo bermejos, verdes, azules, blancos y amarillos

vergeles; sotos, llanuras, colinas e vales,

y la voz de los pájaros siena

y tintinea con dulce acuerdo mañana y tarde.

Esto me induce a colorear mi canto

con tal flor cuyo fruto sea amor,

cuyo grano y gozo y cuyo olor sea salvaguarda de tristeza.

Tradução Martín de Riquer.

Quinta Carta: A Mudança
 

Rop tú mo baile, 
a Choimdiu cride: 
ní ní nech aile 
acht Rí secht nime.

 

Rop tú mo scrútain 
i lló ’s i n-aidche; 
rop tú ad-chëar 
im chotlud caidche.

 

Rop tú mo labra,
rop tú mo thuicsiu; 
rop tussu damsa, 
rob misse duitsiu.

 

Rop tussu m’athair,

rob mé do macsu;

rop tussu lemsa,

rob misse latsu.

 

Rop tú mo chathscíath,

rop tú mo chlaideb;

rop tussu m’ordan,

rop tussu m’airer.

 

Rop tú mo dítiu,

rop tú mo daingen;

rop tú nom-thocba

i n-áentaid n-aingel.

 

Rop tú cech maithius

dom churp, dom anmain;

rop tú mo ḟlaithius 

I nnim s’ i talmain.

 

Rop tussu t’áenur 

sainṡerc mo chride; 
ní rop nech aile 
acht Airdrí nime.

 

Co talla forum,
ré ndul it láma, 
mo chuit, mo chotlud, 
ar méit do gráda.

 

Rop tussu t’áenur 
m’urrann úais amra: 
ní chuinngim daíne 
ná maíne marba.

 

Rop amlaid dínsiur

cech sel, cech sáegul,

mar marb oc brénad,

ar t’ḟégad t’áenur.

 

Do ṡerc im anmain,

do grád im chride,

tabair dam amlaid,

a Rí secht nime.

 

Tabair dam amlaid,

a Rí secht nime,

do ṡerc im anmain,

do grád im chride.

 

Go Ríg na n-uile

rís íar mbúaid léire;

ro béo i flaith nime

i ngile gréine

 

A Athair inmain,

cluinte mo núallsa:

mithig (mo-núarán!)

lasin trúagán trúagsa.

 

A Chríst mo chride,

cip ed dom-aire,

a Ḟlaith na n-uile,

rop tú mo baile.

Early Irish lyrics, eighth to twelfth century, Gerard Murphy.

Be thou my vision, beloved Lord: none other is aught but the King of the seven heavens.

 

Be thou my meditation by day and night; may it be thou that I behold for ever in my sleep.

 

Be thou my speech, be thou my understanding; be thou for me; may I be for thee.

 

Be thou my father; may I be thy son; mayest thou be mine; may I be thine.

 

Be thou my battle-shield, be thou my sword; be thou my honour, be thou my delight.

 

Be thou my shelter, be thou my stronghold; mayest thou raise me up to the company of the angels.

 

Be thou every good to my body and soul; be thou my kingdom in heaven and earth.

 

Be thou alone my heart’s special love; let there be none other save the High-King of heaven.

 

… before going into thy hands, my sustenance, my sleep, through greatness of love for thee.

 

Be thou alone my noble and wonderful portion: I seek not men nor lifeless wealth.

 

To see thee alone may I despise all time, all life, as a stinking corpse.

 

Thy love in my soul and in my heart - grant this to me, O King of the seven heavens.

 

Grant this to me, O King of the seven heavens, thy love in my soul and in my heart.

 

To the King of all may I come after prized practice of devotion; may I be in the kingdom of heaven in the brightness of the sun.

 

Beloved Father, hear my lamentations: this miserable wretch (alas!) thinks it time.

 

Beloved Christ, whate’er befall me, O Ruler of all, be thou my vision.

Tradução: Gerard Murphy

Oitava Carta: O Cão que Deus Viu

 

Da oben wird das Bild von einer Welt

aus Blicken immerfort erneut und gilt.

Nur manchmal, heimlich, kommt ein Ding und stellt

sich neben ihn, wenn er durch dieses Bild

 

sich drängt, ganz unten, anders, wie er ist;

nicht ausgestoßen und nicht eingereiht,

und wie im Zweifel seine Wirklichkeit

weggebend an das Bild, das er vergißt,

 

um dennoch immer wieder sein Gesicht

hineinzuhalten, fast mit einem Flehen,

beinah begreifend, nah am Einverstehen

und doch verzichtend: denn er wäre nicht.

Rilke - Der Hund

Nona Carta: A Pulseira do Tornozelo

Sol daz sîn dîn huote

daz dîn ouge mich sô selten siht?

tuost dû daz ze guote,

sône wîze ich dir dar umbe niht.

Sô mît mir daz houbet,

daz sî dir erloubet,

und sich nider na mînen fuoz,

sô dû baz enmügest: daz sî dîn gruoz.

Walther von der Vogelweide, Leich, Lieder, Sangsprüche, Walter de Gruyter.

The moon of her eyelash – that Valkyrie

of herb-surf, adorned with linen -

serves the ale

shone hawk-sharp upon me

beneath her brows’ bright sky;

but that beam from the eyelid-moon

of the goddess of the golden torque

will later bring trouble to me

and to the ring-goddess herself

Kormáks saga, Einar Ól. Sveinsson.

Rory McTurk, Kormak’s Saga.

Por cima, a imagem dum mundo feito de olhares

afirma-se como verdade, a cada instante.

Por vezes, embora secretamente, algo

pousa diante dele, quando por essa imagem

 

se insinua, pronto a assumir um ser

distinto, não excluído nem incluído.

E assim, levado pela dúvida, troca

a sua realidade pela imagem que esquece.

 

Sem que, no entanto, cesse de lhe oferecer

o rosto, como numa prece,

perto de compreender e consentir,

e renunciado: porque deixaria de existir.

Tradução: Jorge Sousa Braga, Animal animal: um bestiário poético.

Ha de consistir tu afecto

en que tu ojos me miren tan poco?

Si lo hicieras por mi bien,

no te lo reprocharía

Tienes permiso si quieres

evitar mi cabeza,

Pero mira abajo a mis pies,

si a más no te atreves: salúdame así.

Tradução: Bernd Dietz, Antología del Minnesang.

moon of her eyelash: her eye

herb-surf: ale; its valkyrie (Hrist): woman who

brows’ sky: forehead

beam: gaze

goddess (Frid) of the golden torque: woman

ring-goddess (Hlin): woman

Kormáks saga, Einar Ól. Sveinsson.

Rory McTurk, Kormak’s Saga.

Décima Carta: O Sombra Morreu

 

Ist Schmerz, sobald an eine neue Schicht
die Pflugschar reicht, die sicher eingesetzte,
ist Schmerz nicht gut? Und welches ist der letzte,
der uns in allen Schmerzen unterbricht?

Wieviel ist aufzuleiden. Wann war Zeit,

das andre, leichtere Gefühl zu leisten?
Und doch erkenn ich, besser als die meisten
einst Auferstehenden, die Seligkeit.

 

Rilke - Ist Schmerz

El dolor, en cuanto la reja del arado,

bien colocada, alcanza con certeza un nuevo estrato,

no es bueno el dolor? Y cuál es el último

en interrumpirnos entre los dolores todos?

 

Cuánto hay que sufrir. Cuándo fue la hora

De alcanzar el otro sentimiento, el más ligero?

Y sin embargo, mejor que grande parte de los que resucitarán un día,

Reconozco yo la bienaventuranza.

Tradução: Alfonsina Janés e Clara Janés, Poemas a la noche.

 

Mor múich i túsa in-nocht;

ro thregd mo chorp in gáeth glan;

toll mo thraigte; glas mo grúad;

a Dé móir, a-tá a dúal dam.

 

I mBeinn Boirche dam a-rraír;

rom-thúairg braín i nEchtga úair;

in-nocht ro brétait mo boill

i nglaic croinn i nGáille glúair.

 

Ro ḟuilnges mór tres gan tlás

ó ro ás clúm ar mo chorp;

ar gach aidche is ar gach ló

is mó sa mó ḟuilgim d’olc.

 

Rom-chráid sic (sín nách súairc);

rom-thúairg snechta ar Sléib Meic Ṡín;

in-nocht rom-geguin in gáeth

gan ḟráech Glenna Bolcáin bil.

 

Utmall m’ imirce in gach íath;

dom-ríacht beith gan chéill gan chonn;

do Muig Line for Muig Lí,

do Muig Lí for Life lonn.

 

Saigim dar Segais Sléibe Fúait;

ricim im rúaic co Ráith Móir;

dar Mag nAí, dar Mag Luirg luinn,

ricim co cuirr Crúachain chóir.

 

Ó Shléib Chúa (ní turas tais)

ricim go Glais Gáille grinn;

ó Glais Gáille (gid céim cían)

ricim sair go Slíab mBreg mbinn.

 

Dúairc in betha beith gan tech;

is trúag in betha, a Chríst cain:

sásad birair barrglais búain;

deog uisce úair a glais glain;

 

Tuisled do barraib cráeb crín;

imthecht aitin (gním gan gaí);

sechna daíne; cummann cúan;

coimrith re dam rúad dar raí .

 

Feis aidche gan chlúin I coil

i mullach croinn dosaig dlúith,

gan choistecht re guth ná glór,

a Meic Dé, is mór in múich.

 

Reithim rúaic re beinn co báeth;

úathad rom-thráeth a los lúith;

ro scarus rem chruth gan chlód;

a Meic Dé, is mór in múich.

Suibne in the Snow:

Early Irish lyrics, eighth to twelfth century, Gerard Murphy.

I am in great grief tonight; the pure wind has pierced my body; my feet are wounded; my cheek is pale; great God, I have good cause to be so.

Last night I was in the Mourne mountains; rain beat upon me in cold Aughty; tonight all parts of my body have been shattered in a tree-fork in bright Gáille.

I have endured many stout assaults since feathers grew on my body; as each night and each day pass by, more and more of hardship do I endure.

I have been tormented by frost (weather which is not pleasant); snow has beaten on me in the Kerry Stacks; tonight, far from the heather of pleasant Glenn Bolcáin, the wind has wounded me.

Restless my wandering from region to region; it has befallen me to be without reason or wits; from Moylinny I wander over Mag Lí, from Mag Lí over the rough Liffey valley.

I traverse Segas on the Fews mountains; in my rush I reach Rathmor; passing trough Mag nAí and the Plains of Boyle, I reach the hill of goodly Crúachán.

From the Knockmealdown mountains (it is no easy expedition) I come to the river in pleasant Gáille. From the Gáille river (though it is a long journey) I make my way east to music-haunted Slieve Brey.

Gloomy in the life of one who has no house; it is a wretched life, good Christ: everlasting green-topped cress for food; cold water from a clear stream for drink;

Falling from the tops of withered branches; going trough furze (a deed truly done); shunning mankind; keeping company with wolves; racing a red stag across a moor.

To pass the night without feathers in a wood in the top of a dense bushy tree, hearing neither voice nor speech, Son of God, is a great cause of grief.

 

I rush wildly to a mountain-peak; few have vanquished me in activity; I have parted from my unexcelled good looks; Son of God, it is a great cause of grief.

Suibne in the Snow:

Gerard Murphy, Early Irish lyrics, eighth to twelfth century.

Âncora 3

Terceiro Capítulo: A Festa ou o Funeral da Memória

Segunda Carta: O Auto da Festa

 

Je congnois bien mousches en laict,

Je congnois a la robe l’homme;

Je congnois le beau temps du lait,

Je congnois au pommier la pomme,

Je congnois l’arbre a veoir la gomme,

Je congnois quant tout est de mesmes,

Je congnois qui besoigne ou chomme,

Je congnois tout, fors que moy mesmes.                

 

Je congnois pourpoint au colet,

Je congnois le moyne a la gonne,

Je congnois le maistre au varlet,

Je congnois au voile la nonne,

Je congnois quant parleur gergonne,

Je congnois fols nourris de cresmes,

Je congnois le vin a la tonne,

Je congnois tout fors que moy mesmes.

 

Je congnois cheval et mulet,

Je congnois leur charge et leur somme,

Je congnois Bietrix et Belet,

Je congnois gect qui nombre assomme,

Je congnois visïon en somme,

Je congnois la faulte des Boesmes,

Je congnois le pouoir de Romme,

Je congnois tout fors que moy mesmes.

 

Prince, je congnois tout en somme,

Je congnois colorez et blesmes,

Je congnois Mort qui tout consomme,

Je congnois tout fors que moy mesmes.

Villon, Poésies complètes, Claude Thiry

Ballade des Dames du temps jadis

Conheço bem moscas no mel,

conheço homem por roupa inteira,

conheço o bom tempo e o que gele,

conheço a maçã por macieira,

conheço árvore se a goma cheira,

conheço tudo igual assim,

conheço lazer e canseira,

conheço tudo, salvo a mim.

 

Conheço gibão por cairel,

conheço amo por servo à beira,

conheço frade por burel,

conheço pelo véu a freira,

conheço o ladro à fala arteira,

conheço tolos no alfenim,

conheço vinho por frasqueira,

conheço tudo, salvo a mim.

 

Conheço a mula e o corcel,

conheço tal carga albardeira,

conheço Brites e Isabel,

conheço tento que emparceira,

conheço visão e soneira,

conheço em Boémia erro ruim,

conheço Roma sobranceira,

conheço tudo, salvo a mim.

 

Senhor, conheço o que se queira,

conheço cores e palores, sim,

conheço morte que escaveira,

conheço tudo, salvo a mim.

Tradução: Vasco Graça Moura, Os Testamentos de François Villon e Algumas Baladas Mais.

Balada dos ditos miúdos

Terceira Carta: O Convite: A Dança dos Ursos

Et pariles ursi, qui fratres sunt uterini,

Omnino nivei gambis pedibusque nigelli,
Qui vas tollebant, ut homo, bipedesque gerebant;
Mimi quando fides digitis tangunt modulantes,
Illi saltabant neumas pedibus variabant;
Interdum saliunt seseque superiaciebant,

Alterutrum dorso se portabant residendo,
Amplexando se luctando deiciunt se;
Cum plebs altisonam fecit girando choream,
Accurrunt et se mulieribus applicuere,
Que gracili voce cecinerunt deliciose,

Inse]rtisque suis harum manibus speciosis
Erecti calcant pedetemptim, murmure trinsant,
Ut mirarentur, ibi circum qui graderentur,
Non irascantur, quodcunque mali paterentur.

Ruodlieb: Kritischer Text, Benedikt Konrad Vollmann.

Yo otros tantos osos, que son hermanos uterinos,

del todo blancos pero, en patas e zarpas, negros

que, como personas, levantaban un jarro y a dos patas lo llevaban.

Cuando los juglares con sus dedos arrancaban de la lira sones

Éstos danzaban y el ritmo con sus zarpas alternaban.

Entre tanto, saltaban y volteretas daban:

El uno llevaba al  otro en la espalda y, sentándose,

Abrazándose y peleando, rodaban por el suelo.

Cuando el Pueblo, girando en círculo, formó ruidoso coro,

Se abalanzaron y  a las mujeres se unieron,

Que deliciosamente cantaban con su voz tenue;

Unidas a éstos las hermosas manos de aquéllas,

Erguidos, con tanto cuidado pisan y tal delicadeza aúllan

Que se admiraban los que en círculo danzaban

De que éstos no se enojasen por cualquier daño que recibiese.

Tradução: Alfredo Encuentra Ortega, Ruodlieb y Huida de un Cautivo.

Quinta Carta: O Brinde da Festa

 

Ave! Felix creatura,

quam produxit vitis pura;

omnis mensa fit secura

in tua praesentia.

Ave! Color vini clari;

Ave! Sapor sine pari;

Tu a nos inebriari,

digneris potentia.

Ave! Placens in colore;

Ave! Fragrans in odore;

Ave! Sapidum in ore,

dulcis linguae vinculum!

Poesies populaires latines du moyen age, Edélestand Du-Méril.

Et meure Paris ou Elayne,

Quicunques meurt, meurt à douleur.

Cellui qui pert vent et alaine,

Son fiel se criefve sur son cueur,

Puis sue Dieu scet quelle sueur…

Et qui de ses maulx si l’alege?

Car enffant n’a, frere ne seur,

Qui lors voulsist estre son pleige.

Villon, Poésies complètes, Claude Thiry.

E morra Páris ou Helena,

quemquer que morre, morre em dor

e perde vento e sopro em plena

bílis a dar-lhe um estertor

no peito, e meu Deus!, que suor!

Ninguém seu mal a aliviar:

nem filho, ou mano, ou mana a pôr

sua pessoa em seu lugar

Tradução: Vasco Graça Moura, Os Testamentos de François Villon e Algumas Baladas Mais.

MORT, j’appelle de ta rigueur,

Qui m’as ma maistresse ravie,

Et n’es pas encores assouvye,

Se tu ne me tiens en langueur.

 

Oncques puis n’eust force, vigueur.

Mais que te nuysoit elle en vie?

Mort ?

 

Deux estions et n’avions qu’un cueur:

S’il est mort, force est que desvye,

Voirë, ou que vive sans vie,

Comme les ymaiges, par cueur!

Mort!

Villon, Poésies complètes, Claude Thiry.

Morte, apelo do teu rigor,

que me roubaste amada querida,

e não te fazes comedida

se me não trazes em langor:

 

Nunca houve eu força nem vigor,

nem mal te fez ela na vida,

Morte, apelo do teu rigor,

que me roubaste amada querida.

 

Um coração dos dois, se for

morrer, a morte é-me a saída,

ou sempre então viva eu sem vida,

como as imagens, só de cor. […]

Tradução: Vasco Graça Moura, Os Testamentos de François Villon e Algumas Baladas Mais.

Sexta Carta: A Comemoração da Festa

 

 

Hunc dominella rogat, quo secum tessere ludat,
Annulus ut victi donetur ter superanti.
Tunc is: “qui ludum, quem ludamus modo primum,

Acquirat” dixit “digitalis uterque suus sit.”
Hec ea laudavit ludens et eum superavit,
Gratis perdente iuvene, gratis sibi dante.
Quae nimium leta, se sic habuisse trop (hea),
Ludendo proprium cito perdebat digitalem.

Quem trahit a digito iaciebat eique rotando,
In cuius medio nodus fuerat cavus intro;
Hunc nisi laxaret, digito non inposuiss
et.

Ruodlieb: Kritischer Text, Benedikt Konrad Vollmann.

La doncella a aquél ruega que a los dados juegue con ella,

para que el anillo del vencido se entregue a quien tres veces venza.

Entonces él: «Quien el juego, que ahora juguemos, primero

Consiga» - dijo - «ambos anillos serán suyos».

Ella aprobó la propuesta y en el juego lo venció,

Perdiendo gustoso el joven y gustoso entregándolo.

Ella, muy contenta de haber logrado así el trofeo,

En el juego perdía pronto su propio anillo;

Lo deslizó de su dedo y se lo lanzó rodando.

En su mitad había un cierre abombado hacia adentro:

A menos que lo abriera, ponerlo en su dedo no lograría.

Tradução: Alfredo Encuentra Ortega, Ruodlieb y Huida de un Cautivo.

Sétima Carta: The Grave

Ðe wes bold ʒebyld er þe iboren were,

Ðe wes molde imynt er ðu of moder come;     

Ac hit nes no idiht ne þeo deopnes imeten,

Nes ʒyt iloced hu long hit þe were.

Nu me þe bringæð þer ðu beon scealt,

Nu me scæl þe meten & þa molde seoðða.

Ne bið no þin hus healice itinbred,

Hit bið unheh and lah þonne þu list þerinne;

Ðe helewaʒes beoð laʒe, sidwaʒes unheʒe,      

Þe rof bið ibyld þire broste ful neh.

Swa ðu scealt on molde wunien ful calde,

Dimme & deorcæ þet den fulæt on honed,

Dureleas is þæt hus & dearc hit is wiðinnen

Ðær þu bist feste bidytt, & dæð hefd þa cæʒe.

Laðlic is þæt eorð hus & grim inne to wunien,

Ðer ðu scealt wunine & wurmes þet to deleð.

Ðus ðu bist ileʒed & ladæst þine fronden;

Nefst ðu nenne freond þe þe wylle faren to.

Ðæt efre wule lokien hu þe þæt hus þe likie

Ðæt æfre undon ðe wule ða dure

…………. & þe æfter lihten,

For sone þu bist ladlic & lad to iseonne.

[For sone bid þin hæfet faxes bireued

Al bid des faxes            feirnes forsceden

Næle hit nan mit fingres feire stracien.]

N. E.

Middle English Debat Poetry, A Critical Anthology, John W. Conlee.

For you a house was built ere you were born, for you the earth was marked out ere you came from your mother. But it was not prepared, nor its depth measured, nor was it yet certain how long it should be. Now men bring you where you shall be, now men measure you and the earth thereafter. This house (for you) is not constructed upward, it is flat and low when you lie within it; the endwalls are low, the sidewalls not tall, the roof is built quiet near your breast. Thus you shall dwell, quite cold in the earth, in dimness and darkness; that den soon decays. Doorless is that house and dark within where you shall dwell, and worms (shall) devour you. Thus are you laid away, and (thus) you leave your friends; never will a friend seek you out, who will journey to you, who will ever inquire how you like that house, who will ever undo the door for you… and afterward join you, for soon you are loathsome and hateful to see. [For soon your head is deprived of hair/ All the fairness of your locks destroyed,/ No more attached by fair fingers.]

Tradução: John W. Conlee, Middle English Debat Poetry, A Critical Anthology

Oitava Carta: A Encenação da Festa

Ballade des pendus.

 

Freres humains qui aprés nous vivez,
N’ayez les cueurs contre nous endurcis,
Car se pitié de nous povres avez,
Dieu en aura plus tost de vous mercis.
Vous nous voiez cy attachez, cinq, six:
Quant de la chair que trop avons nourrie,
El est pieça devoree et pourrie,
Et nous, les os, devenons cendre et pouldre.
De nostre mal personne ne s’en rie,
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

Se freres vous clamons, pas n’en devez
Avoir desdaing, quoy que fusmes occis
Par justice… touteffois vous sçavez
Que tous hommes n’ont pas le sens rassis;
Excusez nous, puisque sommes transis,
Envers le filz de la Vierge Marie,
Que sa grace ne soit pour nous tarie,
Nous preservant de l’infernale fouldre.
Nous sommes mors, ame ne nous harie;
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

La pluye nous a esbuez et lavez
Et le soleil deseichez et noircis:
Pies, corbeaulx nous ont les yeulx cavez
Et arraché la barbe et les sourcilz.
Jamais nul temps nous ne sommes assis:
Puis ça, puis la, comme le vent varie,
A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie,
Plus becquetez d’oyseaulx que dez a coudre.
Ne soiez donc de nostre confrairie,
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

Prince Jesus qui sur tous a maistrie,
Garde qu’Enfer n’ait de nous seigneurie:
A luy n’ayons que faire ne que souldre!
Humains, icy n’a point de mocquerie,
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

Le Lais Villon et les Poèmes Variés, Jean Rychner e Albert Henry.

Balada dos enforcados.

 

Irmãos humanos que depois vireis,

não tenhais coração empedernido,

se dos pobres de nós vos condoeis

mercê de Deus mais cedo heis merecido.

Pendemos cinco ou seis em nó corrido:

A carne, de nutrida em demasia,

já podre e devorada se desfia,

somos osso que em cinza e pó se esvai.

Do nosso mal ninguém ora se ria.

Mas que Deus nos absolva lhe regai.

 

Se, irmãos, avós clamamos, não deveis

desdenho ter, conquanto hemos morrido

por justiça. No entanto vós sabeis

que nem todos têm sizo bem cumprido;

perdoai, por finados termos ido

pedir junto do filho de Maria,

que a graça não lhe seque e dê valia

contra esse raio que no inferno cai.

Somos mortos, ninguém nos injuria;

mas que Deus nos absolva lhe rogai.

 

A chuva nos descrosta e lava, e eis

nos curte o sol o corpo enegrecido;

corvo e pega desolham-nos cruéis,

e barba e sobrancelha hão comido.

Sentar não nos é nunca consentido;

e cá e lá, ao vento que varia,

e assim em baloiçar-nos só porfia,

mais que dedais bicados nos olhai.

Não sejais pois de nossa confraria;

mas que Deus nos absolva lhe rogai.  

 

Senhor Jesus, que em todos tens mestria,

ao Demo não dês nossa senhoria:

nada a dar-lhe ou solver-lhe em nós recai.

Homens, nem sombra aqui de zombaria;

mas que Deus nos absolva lhe rogai.

Tradução : Vasco Graça Moura, Os Testamentos de François Villon e Algumas Baladas Mais.

Farai un vers de dreit nien:
non er de mi ni d’autra gen,
non er d’amor ni de joven,
ni de ren au,
qu’enans fo trobatz en durmen
sus un chivau.

No sai en qual hora·m fui natz,
no soi alegres ni iratz,
no soi estranhs ni soi privatz,
ni no·n puesc au,
qu’enaisi fui de nueitz fadatz
Sobr’un pueg au.

No sai cora·m fui endormitz,
ni cora·m veill s’om no m’o ditz;
per pauc no m’es lo cor partitz
d’un dol corau;
e no m’o pretz una fromitz,
per saint Marsau !

Malautz soi e cre mi morir;
e re no sai mas quan n’aug dir.
Metge querrai al mieu albir,
e no·m sai tau;
bos metges er si·m pot guerir,
mor non, si amau.

Amigu’ai ieu, non sai qui s’es:
c’anc no la vi, si m’aiut fes;
ni·m fes que·m plassa ni que·m pes,
ni no m’en cau:
c’anc non ac Norman ni Franses
dins mon ostau.

Anc non la vi et am la fort;
anc no n’aic dreit ni no·m fes tort;
quan no la vei, be m’en deport;
no·m prez un jau :
qu’ie·n sai gensor e belazor,
e que mais vau.

No sai lo luec on s’esta,
si es en pueg ho [es] en pla;
non aus dire lo tort que m’a,
abans m’en cau;
o peza·m be quar sai rema,
[per] aitan vau.

Fait ai lo vers no sai de cui
et trametrai lo a celui
que lo·m trametra per autrui
enves Peitau,
que·m tramezes del sieu estui
la contraclau.

Poesía completa, Guillermo de Aquitania, Luis Alberto de Cuenca.

Haré un poema de la pura nada.

No tratará de mí ni de otra gente.

No celebrará amor ni juventud

ni cosa alguna,

sino que fue compuesto durmiendo

sobre un caballo.

 

No sé en qué hora nací, 

no estoy alegre ni estoy triste,

no soy huraño ni agradable,

y no tengo la culpa, 

que de este modo fui de noche hadado

en una alta montaña.

 

No sé cuándo estoy dormido

ni cuándo velo, si no me lo dicen.

Por poco se me parte el corazón

de un punzante dolor: 

pero no doy a cambio el precio de una hormiga, 

¡por San Marcial!

 

Enfermo estoy y temo morir, 

y de ello no sé más que lo que oigo decir;

médico buscaré a mi voluntad, 

y no sé de uno así.

Buen médico será si consigue curarme,

pero no, si empeoro.

 

Amiga tengo, no sé quién es,

pues nunca la vi, por mi fe.

Nada ha hecho que me agrade o me disguste,

y no me importa en absoluto,

que nunca hubo normando ni francés

en mi casa.

 

Nunca la vi y mucho la amo, 

jamás obtuve de ella favor ni disfavor; 

cuando no la veo, hago caso omiso:

no doy a cambio un gallo.

Que sé una más gentil y más hermosa, 

y que más vale.

 

No sé en qué lugar habita,

si es en montaña o si es en llano; 

no me atrevo a decir la sinrazón que me hace, 

prefiero callar; 

y pésame mucho que ella se quede aquí:

por eso me voy.

 

Mi poema está hecho, no sé sobre qué.

Me propongo enviarlo a aquél

que, por medio de otro, lo enviará

a Poitou, de mi parte; 

y le ruego que de su estuche me haga llegar

la contraclave.

Poesía completa, Guillermo de Aquitania, Luis Alberto de Cuenca.

Âncora 4

Quarto Capítulo: Preparação do Banquete

Segunda Carta: Beatriz, o Sorriso da Manhã

 

 

Iesu, dulcis memoria,

Dans vera cordis gaudia:

Sed super mel et omnia

Ejus dulcis praesentia.

 

Nil canitur suavius,

Nil auditur iucundius,

Nil cogitatur dulcius,

Quam Iesus Dei Filius.

 

Iesu, spes penitentibus,

Quam pius es petentibus!

Quam bonus Te quaerentibus!

Sed quid invenientibus!

 

Iesus dulcedo cordium,

Fons veri, lumen mentium,

Excedit omne gaudium

Et omne desiderium.

 

Nec lingua potest dicere,

Nec littera exprimere;

Expertus novit tenere,

Quid sit Iesum diligere.

Lirica Latina Medieval, Poesía religiosa, Manuel-A. Marcos Casquero e Jose Oroz Reta.

El Dulce recuerdo de Jesús

colma el corazón de verdadero gozo;

pero más Dulce que la miel y más que todo,

es dulce su presencia misma

 

Ninguna canción es más suave,

ninguna palabra más grata se escucha,

ningún pensamiento resulta más dulce

que Jesús, el Hijo de Dios.

 

Jesús, de los penitentes esperanza,

cuán benigno con quienes te invocan!,

cuán amable con quienes te buscan!,

qué no serás con quienes te encuentran!

 

Jesús, dulzura de los corazones,

fuente de la verdad, luz de las almas,

supera todo gozo

y todo anhelo.

 

No puede la lengua describirlo,

ni expresarlo la escritura:

sólo quien lo probó comprende puede

qué supone amar a Jesucristo.

Tradução: Manuel-A. Marcos Casquero e Jose Oroz Reta.

Terceira Carta: A Noite do Banquete

 

Si · m  fos grazitz mos chanz, ieu m’esforzera

e dera · m gaug e deportz e solatz,

mas aissi · m sui a non-chaler gitatz

que ma dompna, que a totz jornz esmera

so qu’ieu li dic non deign’ en grat tener,

qu’apenas sai entre · ls pros remaner,

ni no · m sui ges cel que era antan:

aissi me toi mos covinenz e · ls fran.

 

Ailas! cum muor, quan mi membra, cum era

gais e joves, alegres, envesatz!

e quan m’albir qu’ieu sui de joi loignatz,

per pauc mos cors del tot no · s desespera;

e donc mei oill cum la poiran vezer,

quar n’ai perdut d’els e de mi poder!  

So m’an ill fag, don mos cors vai ploran,

que no ’n posc far conort ni bel semblan.

 

Ai! bella dompna, res cum be· m semblera

que, on que fos, degues umilitatz

venser en vos que tan umils semblatz

vers mi que ja a mos jornz no · s camjera

amors en tort, que · us fai dur cor aver,

e vos sabetz quar l’en donatz poder;

quar si amors e vos es a mon dan,

las! ges longuas non posc soffrir l’affan.

 

Bels douz amics, ja de mi no · s clamera

vostre bels cors cortes et enseignatz,

si saubessetz, cals es ma voluntatz:

vos es de cui sui mielz hoi que non era;

e non creatz que · us met’ en non-chaler,

quar gaug entier non posc ses  vos aver

a cui m’autrei lejalmen ses enjan,

e · us lais mon cor en gatge, on qu’ieu m’an.

 

Mas una gens enojosa e fera,

cui gautz ni bes ni alegrers non platz,

nos guerrejan, dan mos cors es iratz,

quar per ren als senes vos non estera.

Per so en mi avetz tan de poder

qu’ab vos venrai, quan  mi · l faretz saber,

mal grat de cels qu’enqueron nostre dan,

e pesa · m fort quar ses vos estauc tan.

Die Probenzalischen Dichterinne, Oscar Schultz.

Si mi canto me complaciera, me esforzaría

y me daría alegría, gozo y placer,

pero he llegado a descorazonarme hasta tal punto,

porque mi dama, que cada día desaprueba

lo que le digo, no se digna tenerlo en cuenta;

a duras penas sé permanecer entre los valientes

y no soy en absoluto el hombre que era antes:

así me priva ella de mi cortesía y la destruye.

 

Ay de mí, como muero cuando recuerdo

Como era dichoso y joven, alegre y risueño!

Y cuando recuerdo que me he alejado de la alegría,

por poco mi corazón no desespera del todo;

así pues como podrán verla mis ojos,

cuando he perdido poder sobre ella y sobre mí?

Esto me ha hecho, por lo que mi corazón va lamentándose,

ya que no puedo mostrar gentileza ni cortesía.

 

Ah, bella dama! Cuánto me gustaría que,

cuando fuera, dejarais que la humildad venciera en vos

que tanta misericordia mostrasteis hacia mí,

que nunca en mi vida cambiase

el amor por el error que os endurece el corazón;

y vos sabéis, porque hacéis que sea así,

que si el amor e vos estáis contra mí

ay! No podré soportar por mucho tiempo la pena

 

Amigo Dulce y bello, no se lamentaría más de mí

vuestro noble corazón, cortés y sabio

si supiera cual es mi intención:

vos sois aquel por quien hoy soy mejor que ayer;

y no creáis que yo os considere poco

pues no puedo tener dicha perfecta sin vos,

a quien me he dado sinceramente sin engaños

y os dejo mi corazón en prenda dondequiera que voy.

 

Pero la gente envidiosa y cruel,

a quien no le place la dicha ni la alegría ni el bien,

nos hace guerra, por lo que está airado mí corazón,

porque por nada del mundo viviré sin vos;

pues tenéis sobre mí un poder tal

que iré donde estéis apenas me lo hagáis saber,

a pesar de quienes buscan nuestro daño;

y me pesa mucho haber estado tanto tiempo alejada de vos.

Traducción: María Milagros Rivera Garretas y Ana Mañeru Méndez, Las Trovadoras.

Quinta Carta: Dois Dedos de Conversa

 

 

Ecce Beatricem noster stilus aggrediatur;

Me uidisse tamen uix reminiscor eam.

Vix reminiscor ego me conspexisse puellam,

Quae nil respondit sepe rogata michi.

Carmina proferret sua uel mea sepe rogaui

– Carmina nec deerant ista uel illa sibi –, 

Sed taciturna nimis digitum superaddidit ori

Et uelo oppanso se uelut occuluit;

Tanquam per cribrum poterat tamen ipsa uideri,

I nuelo siquidem multa fenestra fuit.

Displicuit quia nil retulit michi multa roganti

Et me cum uideo nunc asinum ante liram.

Aut nimis effertur, aut callet rústica uirgo,

Forsitan aut sibi sunt haec duo iuncta simul,

Aut magis officio linguae priuata manebat,

Quam praesens illi forsitan abstuleram.

Sed neque Medee neque Circes carmina noui ;

Imno puellaris repperit haec nouitas.

Coram uirginibus homines satis obstupuere,

Obstupuit nulla femina coram homine.

Nunc igitur tempto si linguam forte recepit,

Si somnus ualuit uel medicina sibi.

Versibus irrito mutam si forte loquatur,

Inuit precibus, excito carminibus.

Carminibus laudet uel damnet carmina nostra,

Sin autem mutum sit pecus et mutilum.

Baudri de Bourgueil, Poèmes, Jean-Yves Tilliette.

Voici que ma plume doit partir à l’attaque de Béatrice ; à peine pourtant ai-je souvenance de l’avoir vue. A peine ai-je souvenance qu’elle m’ait jeté un regard, cette jeune fille qui n’a rien répondu à mes demandes insistantes.

Je lui ai demandé avec insistance de réciter ses poèmes ou les miens (il ne manquait ni des uns des autres), mais, taciturne à l’excès, elle a posé un doigt sur ses lèvres et, déployant son voile, a feint de s’y dissimuler. On pouvait cependant la voir comme à travers un crible car, dans le voile, il est plus d’un pertuis. Il m’a déplu qu’elle ne rétorquât rien à mes nombreuses demandes, et de faire alors à mes propres yeux la figure de l’âne devant une lyre. La jeune sauvageonne est ou trop orgueilleuse, ou sournoise, ou encore, peut-être, l’une et l’autre à la fois – à moins, c’est plus probable, qu’elle ne fût privée de sa langue, dont ma présence, peut-être, lui avait ôté l’usage. Pourtant, je ne connais ni les enchantements de Médée, ni ceux de Circé, qui sont bien plutôt des inventions d’innocentes jeune filles… Si, en présence des jeunes filles, les hommes sont tout ébaubis, jamais femme n’est restée ébaubie en présence d’un homme. Je fais donc, à présent, une tentative pour voir si, d’aventure, elle a retrouvé sa langue, si le sommeil ou quelque médicine ont eu un effet bénéfique sur elle. Je suscite par mes vers l’hypothétique éloquence de la muette, je l’y invite par mes prières, je l’y excite par mes poèmes. Qu’elle loue, qu’elle blâme, par un poème, mon poème. Dans le cas contraire, elle serait bétail muet et infirme!

Tradução de Jean-Yves Tilliette

Sexta Carta: Teatro da Memória Feminina

 

Beatus ille, qui procul negotiis,

ut prisca gens mortalium,
paterna rura bobus exercet suis,

solutus omni faenore,
neque excitatur classico miles truci,

neque horret iratum mare,
forumque vitat et superba civium

potentiorum limina.
ergo aut adulta vitium propagine

altas maritat populos,
aut in reducta valle mugientium

prospectat errantis greges,
inutilisque falce ramos amputans

feliciores inserit,
aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris,

aut tondet infirmas ovis;
vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput

Autumnus agris extulit,
ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pira

certantem et uvam purpurae,
qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater

Silvane, tutor finium!
libet iacere modo sub antiqua ilice,

modo in tenaci gramine:
labuntur altis interim ripis aquae,

queruntur in silvis aves,
fontesque lymphis obstrepunt manantibus,

somnos quod invitet levis.
at cum tonantis annus hibernus Iovis

imbris nivisque comparat,
aut trudit acris hinc et hinc multa cane

apros in obstantis plagas,
aut amite levi rara tendit retia,

turdis edacibus dolos,
pavidumque leporem et advenam laqueo gruem

iucunda captat praemia.
quis non malarum, quas amor curas habet,

haec inter obliviscitur?
quodsi pudica mulier in partem iuvet

domum atque dulcis liberos,
Sabina qualis aut perusta solibus

pernicis uxor Apuli,
sacrum vetustis exstruat lignis focum

lassi Sub adventum viri,
claudensque textis cratibus laetum pecus

distenta siccet ubera,
et horna dulci vina promens dolio

dapes inemptas apparet;
non me Lucrina iuverint conchylia

magisve rhombus aut scari,
si quos Eois intonata fluctibus

hiems ad hoc vertat mare,
non Afra avis descendat in ventrem meum,

non attagen Ionicus
iucundior, quam lecta de pinguissimis

oliva ramis arborum
aut herba lapathi prata amantis et gravi

malvae salubres corpori,
vel agna festis caesa Terminalibus

vel haedus ereptus lupo.
has inter epulas ut iuvat pastas ovis

videre properantis domum,
videre fessos vomerem inversum boves

collo trahentis languido,
positosque vernas, ditis examen domus,

circum renidentis Lares!
haec ubi locutus faenerator Alfius,

iam iam futurus rusticus,
omnem redegit Idibus pecuniam,

quaerit kalendis ponere.

Odes and Epodes, Niall Rudd.

Happy the man who, far from business concerns, works his ancestral acres with his oxen like the men of gold, free from every kind of debt; he is not wakened, like a soldier, by the harsh bray of the bugle, and has no fear of the angry sea; he avoids both the city centre and the lofty doorways of powerful citizens. And so he marries the fully grown layers of the vine to tall poplars, or in a secluded valley he watches his lowing herd as they wander about; he prunes dead branches with his sickle and grafts on more fruitful ones, or he squeezes out honey, storing it in clean jars, or he shears the unresisting sheep; when in the countryside Autumn raises his head arrayed with ripe fruit, how he enjoys picking the pears he grafted and he clusters that rival the dyer’s purple, to reward you, Priapus, and you, Father Silvanus, for watching over his land!

It is a delight to lie under an old holm oak, or in the clinging grass; meanwhile the streams glide between their steep banks, birds twitter in the trees, springs burble as their water gushes – sounds that induce a pleasant nap. But in wintertime, when thundering Jove brings masses of rain and snow, he hunts fierce boars from here and there with packs of hounds into the nets that are spread in their path, or with smooth rods he stretches baggy nets to catch greedy thrushes, and with a snare he takes a timid hare and a migrant crane – choice prizes. When occupied in these ways, who does not forget the wretched worries that accompany love?

But if a respectable wife played her part in looking after the home and the dear children (like a Sabine women or the sun-tanned wife of an energetic Apulian), piled seasoned wood onto the sacred hearth to welcome her husband when he came home tired, shut up the teeming animals in wattle pens, drained their bulging udders, ladled this year’s wine from a fragrant jar, and served a home-grown supper – then Lucrine oysters would not give me greater pleasure, not turbot nor wrasse (if winter, thundering over the eastern sea, should drive any to these waters); no African guinea fowl, no Ionian partridge would pass down to my stomach with greater relish than olives picked from the richest branches of the trees or leaves of sorrel that loves the meadow, and mallows that ease an overloaded body, or than a lamb sacrificed at the festival of Terminus or a kid snatched from the jaws of a wolf. When enjoying such a feast, what a delight it is to see the sheep  hurrying home from pasture, to see the weary oxen dragging the up-turned plough with their drooping necks, and the homebred slaves (the swarm of a rich house), ready for their meal with the sparkling household gods in the middle!

After these remarks, the money-lender Alfius, just on the very point of becoming a countryman, called in all his money on the Ides, intending to put it out again on the Kalends. 

Tradução: Niall Rudd.

Âncora 5

Quinto Capítulo: De Conviviis Barbaris

Décimo Terceiro Discurso: Theatrum Fati

 

 fingebam uultus, habitus ac uerba loquentum,                ut plures uno credibile ore loqui.  

ipse etiam, quem nostra oculis geminabat imago,     

  horruit in uultu se magis esse meo.

o quotiens imitata meo se femina gestu       

  uidit et erubuit totaque muta fuit! 

ergo quot in nostro uiuebant corpore formae         

  tot mecum raptas abstulit atra dies.

The Oxford Book Of Latin Verse, by H.W. Garrod

I used to mimic the face, manner, and words of those talking,

So that you would think many people spoke from one mouth.

The subject, presented with a twin image of himself before his eyes,

Would tremble to see a more real self existing in my faces.

Oh, how often a lady saw herself in my performance,

And blushed for shame, horribly embarrassed.

Thus, as many human forms as were seen in my body

Were snatched away with me by the dismal day of death.

Tradução de Richard Axton, European drama of the early Middle Ages

Conclusão da Carta: Alea Jacta Est

 

 

Ballade du concours de Blois.

 

Je meurs de seuf auprès de la fontaine,

Chault comme feu, et tremble dent à dent;

En mon pays suis en terre loingtaine;

Lez ung brasier frissonne tout ardent,

Nu comme ung ver, vestu en president;

Je riz en pleurs et attens sans espoir;

Confort reprens en triste desespoir:

Je m’esjouÿs et n’ay plaisir aucun;

Puissant je suis sans force et sans pouoir,

Bien recueully, debouté de chascun.

 

Riens ne m’est seur que la chose incertaine,

Obscur fors ce qui est tout evident;

Doubte ne fais fors en chose certaine;

Scïence tiens à soudain accident;

Je gaigne tout et demeure perdent;

Au point du jour diz: «Dieu vous doint bon soir!»

Gisant envers, j’ay grant paeur de chëoir;

J’ay bien de quoy, et si n’en ay pas ung;

Echoicte actens et d’omme ne suis hoir,

Bien recueully, debouté de chascun.

 

De rien n’ay soing, si mectz toute m’atayne

D’acquerir biens, et n’y suis pretendent;

Qui mieulx me dit, c’est cil qui plus m’actaine,

Et qui plus vray, lors plus me va bourdent;

Mon ami est qui me faict entendent

D’ung cigne blanc que c’est ung corbeau noir,

Et qui me nuyst, croy qu’i m’ayde à pourvoir;

Bourde, ver(i)té, au jour d’uy m’est tout ung;

Je retiens tout, rien ne sçay concepvoir,

Bien recueully, debouté de chascun.

 

Prince clement, or vous plaise sçavoir

Que j’entens moult et n’ay sens ne sçavoir;

Parcïal suis, à toutes loys commun.

Que fais je plus? Quoy! les gaiges ravoir,

Bien recueully, debouté de chascun.

Villon, Poésies complètes, Claude Thiry.

A Balada do Concurso de Blois.

 

Na fonte morro à sede que me aperta,

quente qual fogo, bato dente a dente,

no meu país, sou longe em terra incerta,

junto a braseiro, tremo todo ardente,

qual verme nu, me visto presidente,

em choros rio, esperança sem esperar,

conforto o desespero me vem dar,

alegro-me sem ter prazer algum,

sem força e sem poder, sei dominar,

bem acolhido e mal por cada um.

 

Nada me é certo como a cousa incerta,

obscuro como o que é mais evidente,

não duvido senão de cousa certa,

ciência hei por súbito acidente,

ganhar tudo a perder se me consente,

dou “por Deus, boa noite” ao dealbar,

deitado, tenho medo de tombar,

tenho de quê, sem nada nem nenhum,

não sou herdeiro, mas espero herdar,

bem acolhido e mal por cada um.

 

De nada cuido, e fico sempre alerta

por ganhar bens sem ser-lhes pretendente,

que mais me diz é quem me desconcerta,

mais verdadeiro é quem a mim mais mente,

é meu amigo quem me represente

qual cisne branco um corvo negro no ar,

de quem me lesa, ajuda creio dar,

falso e verdade são-me apenas um,

retenho tudo e nada hei-de engendrar,

bem acolhido e mal por cada um.

 

Senhor clemente, haveis de registar

quem sem senso ou saber sou luminar:

sou parcial e a todas leis comum.

Que sei melhor? Penhores resgatar,

bem acolhido e mal por cada um.

Tradução: Vasco Graça Moura, Os Testamentos de François Villon e Algumas Baladas Mais.

Âncora 6

Sexto Capítulo: Peregrinação

Primeira Carta: Onde a Terra Acaba e o Mar Começa

 

Las! si j’avois pouvoir d’oublier

Sa beauté et ses beaux dits,

Et son très-doux regarder;

Pourrois bien être gueris.

Mais, las! n’en puis

Mon coeur ôter;

Et grand affolage

M’est d’esperer;

Mais en tel servage,

Amors encourage

A tout endurer:

Et puis coxnment oublier

Sa beauté ses beaux dits ;

Et son très-doux regarder;

Non, ne veux être guéris.

Les Chansons de Thibaut de Champagne, A. Wallensköld.

Segunda Carta: Le Riche Roi Pescheur

 

Amours, Amours, que voles de moi faire?

En vous ne puis veoir riens de seür,

Je ne congnois ne vous ne vostre afaire.

Amours, Amours, [que volés de moi faire] ?

Le quel vault mieulz: priier, parler ou taire ?

Dites le moi, qui avés bon eür.

Amours, Amours, [que volés de moi faire?

En vous ne puis veoir riens de seür]

Ballades et rondeaux, Rae S. Baudouin

LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?     

  Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!     

I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:          

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?       

  Naught see I fixed or sure in thee! 

 Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?

  Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:          

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?       

  Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Complete Poetical Works.

Terceira Carta: As pedras do Mar

Ecce tuos lapides! nihil est pretiosus illis;
Seu pretium capiti dent, capiantuae tuo.
Scilicet haec ratio vestri diadematis: hoc est,
Unde coronatis vos decet ire comis.
Quisque lapis quanto magis in se vilis habetur,
Ditior hoc capiti est gemma futura tuo.

Anthologie de la poésie lyrique latine de la Renaissance. Richard Crashaw

Tes pierres, les voici ! rien n’est si précieux qu’elles.

Ton front enrichissant, à leur tour enrichies,

Ce sont les vrais joyaux dont est fait ton diadème,

Les seuls dignes vraiment de ceindre tes cheveux.

Plus chaque pierre en soi est grossière et sordide,

Plus elle est pour ta tête un diamant splendide.

Tradução: Pierre Laurens, Anthologie de la poésie lyrique latine de la Renaissance.

Sexta Carta: Os Desenhos na Areia

 

Messe ocus Pangur bán,
cechtar nathar fri ṡaindán:
bíth a menmasam fri seilgg,
mu menma céin im ṡaincheirdd.

 

Caraimse fos, ferr cach clú,
oc mu lebrān, lēir ingnu;
nī foirmtech frimm Pangur bán:
caraid cesin a maccdán.

 

Ō ru biam, scél cen scís,
innar tegdais, ar n-ōendís,
tāithiunn, dīchrīchide clius,
nī fris tarddam ar n-áthius.

 

Gnáth, hūaraib, ar gressaib gal
glenaid luch inna línsam;
os mé, du-fuit im lín chéin
dliged ndoraid cu ndronchéill.

 

Fūaichaid-sem fri frega fál
a rosc, a n-glése comlán;
fūachimm chēin fri fēgi fis
mu rosc rēil, cesu imdis.

 

Fāelidsem cu ndēne dul
hi nglen luch inna gērchrub;
hi tucu cheist ndoraid ndil
os mē chene am fāelid.

 

Cia beimmi a-min nach ré
nī derban cách a chēle:
maith la cechtar nár a dán;
subaigthius a óenurán.

 

Hē fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du-ngní cach ōenláu;
du thabairt doraid du glé
for mu mud cēin am messe.

Early Irish lyrics, eighth to twelfth century, Gerard Murphy.

I and white Pangur practise each of us his special art:  his mind is set on hunting, my mind on my special craft.

 

I love (it is better than all fame) to be quiet beside my book, diligently pursuing knowledge. White Pangur does not envy me: he loves his childish craft.

 

When the two of us (this tale never wearies us) are alone together in our house, we have something to which we may apply our skill, an endless sport.

 

It is usual, at times, for a mouse to stick in his net, as a result of warlike battlings. For my part, into my net falls some difficult rule of hard meaning.

 

He directs his bright perfect eye against an enclosing wall. Though my clear eye is very weak I direct it against keenness of knowledge.

 

He is joyful with swift movement when a mouse sticks in his sharp paw. I too am joyful when I understand

a dearly loved difficult problem.

 

Though we be thus at any time, neither of us hinders the other: each of us likes his craft, severally rejoicing in them.

 

He it is who is master for himself of the work which he does every day. I can perform my own work directed at understanding clearly what is difficult.

Tradução: Gerard Murphy.

Sétima Carta: o Noctural. Le Vent de Merencolie

 

Yeulx rougis plains de piteux pleurs,

Fourcelle d’espoir reffroidie,

Teste enrumee de douleurs

Et troublee de frenesie,

Corps percus, sans plaisance lie,

Cueur du tout pausmé en rigueurs

Voy souvent avoir a plusieurs

Par le vent de merencolie.

 

Migraine de plaingnans ardeurs,

Transe de sommeil mipartie,

Fievre frissonnans de maleurs,

Chault ardant fort en reverie,

Soif que confort ne rassasie,

Dueil baigné en froides sueurs,

Begayant et changeant couleurs

Par le vent de merencolie.

 

Goute tourmentant en langueurs,

Colique de forcenerie,

Gravelle de soings assailleurs,

Rage de desirant folie,

Anuys enflans d’ydropisie,

Maulx ethiques aussi ailleurs

Assourdissent les escouteurs

Par le vent de merencolie.

 

L’envoy.

 

Guerir ne se peut maladie

Par phisique ne cireurgie,

Astronomïans n’enchanteurs,

Des maulx que souffrent povres cueurs

Par le vent de merencolie.

Charles d’Orléans, Ballades et rondeaux, Jean-Claude Mühlethaler.

Yeux rougis, remplis de pleurs amers,

poitrine où l’espoir s’est refroidi,

tête enrhumée de douleurs,

et troublée par le délire,

corps percé de part en part, sans joyeux plaisir,

cœur complètement pâmé à cause des rigueurs (d’amour),

voilà ce dont souffrent beaucoup, à ce que je vois,

à cause du vent de mélancolie.

 

plaingnans ardeurs: brûlures qui font pousser des plaintes,

délire composé pour moitié de sommeil,

fièvres aux frissons de malheur,

soif qu’aucun réconfort n’étanche,

tristesse baignée de sueurs froides,

bégayant et changeant de couleur

 

Goutte qui tourmente et fait souffrir,

colique de folie furieuse,

gravelle de peines qui vous assaillent souvent,

rage provoquée par un désir fou,

douleurs qui enflent pour cause d’hydropisie,

ailleurs aussi la fièvre amaigrissante,

rendent sourds les auditeurs

 

L’envoi

 

Ni la médecine ni la chirurgie,

ni les astrologues ni les magiciens,

ne peuvent guérir la maladie, cause

des maux dont souffrent les pauvres cœurs

Tradução Jean-Claude Mühlethaler.

Oitava Carta: Catedral Negra

 

 

Débat de Villon et de son cœur.

 

Qu’est ce que j’oy? – Ce suis je. – Qui? – Ton cueur,

Qui ne tient mais qu’a ung petit filet,

Force n’ay plus, substance ne liqueur,

Quant je te voy retrait ainsi seulet,

Com povre chien tapi en reculet.

– Pour quoy est ce? – Par ta folle plaisance.

– Que t’en chault il? – J’en ay la desplaisance.

– Laisse m’en paix! – Pour quoy? – G’y penseray.

– Quand sera ce? – Quant seray hors d’enfance.

– Plus ne t’en dis. – Et je m’en passeray.

 

– Que penses tu? – Estre homme de valeur.

– Tu as trente ans ! – C’est l’aage d’ung mulet.

– Est ce enfance? – Nennil. – C’est donc foleur

Qui te saisist. – Par ou? – Par le collet?

Rien ne congnois. – Si faiz. – Quoy? – Mousche en lait:

L’ung est blanc, l’autre noire, c’est distance.

– Est ce donc tout? – Que veux tu que je tence?

Se n’est assez, je recommenceray.

– Tu es perdu! – G’y mectray resistence.

– Plus ne t’en dis. – Et je m’en passeray.

 

– J’en ay le dueil, toy le mal et douleur.

Si feusses ung povre ydiot et folet,

Encore eusses de t’excuser couleur;

Si n’as-tu soing, tout t’est ung, bel ou lait.

Ou la teste as plus dure q’ung jalet,

Ou mieulx te plaist qu’onneur ceste meschance :

Que respondras a ceste consequence?

– J’en seray hors quant je trespasseray.

– Dieux! Quel confort! Quelle sage eloquence!

Plus ne t’en dis. – Et je m’en passeray.

 

– Dont vient ce mal? – Il vient de mon mal eur:

Quant Saturne me fist mon fardelet,

Ses motz y mist, je le croy. – C’est foleur:

Son seigneur es et te tiens son varlet!

Voy que Salmon escript en son rolet:

«Homme sage, ce dit il, a puissance

Sur planetes et sur leur influence.»

– Je n’en croy riens: tel qu’il m’ont fait seray.

– Que dis tu dea? – Certes, c’est ma creance.

Plus ne t’en dis. – Et je m’en passeray.

 

– Veux tu vivre? – Dieu m’en doint la puissance!

– Il te fault... – Quoy? – Remors de conscïence,

Lire sans fin. – Et en quoy? – Lire en scïence,

Laisser les folz. – Bien, j’y adviseray.

– Or le retiens! – J’en ay bien souvenance.

– N’attens pas trop, qu’il ne tiengne a plaisance!

Plus ne t’en dis. – Et je m’en passeray.

Le Lais Villon et les Poèmes Variés, Jean Rychner e Albert Henry

Âncora 7

Sétimo Capítulo: Terre Gaste, Waste Land

Terceira Carta: O Fim da Terra-média

 

Niemand knetet uns wieder aus Erde und Lehm,
niemand bespricht unsern Staub.
Niemand.

 

Gelobt seist du, Niemand.
Dir zulieb wollen
wir blühn.
Dir
entgegen.

 

Ein Nichts
waren wir, sind wir, werden
wir bleiben, blühend:
die Nichts-, die
Niemandsrose.

 

Mit
dem Griffel seelenhell,
dem Staubfaden himmelswüst,
der Krone rot
vom Purpurwort, das wir sangen
über, o über
dem Dorn.

Paul Celan – Salmo

Sexta Carta: A Destruição da Casa

 

 

Martyrin ist sie. Und als harten Falls

mit einem Ruck
das Beil durch ihre kurze Jugend ging,
da legte sich der feine rothe Ring

um ihren Hals, und war der erste Schmuck,

den sie mit einem fremden Lächeln nahm;
aber auch den erträgt sie nur mit Scham.
Und wenn sie schläft, muß ihre junge Schwester
(die, kindisch noch, sich mit der Wunde schmückt

von jenem Stein, der ihr die Stirn erdrückt,)

die harten Arme um den Hals ihr halten,
und oft im Traume fleht die andre: Fester, fester.
Und da fällt es dem Kinde manchmal ein,
die Stirne mit dem Bild von jenem Stein

zu bergen in des sanften Nachtgewandes Falten,

das von der Schwester Atmen hell sich hebt,
voll wie ein Segel, das vom Winde lebt.

Das ist die Stunde, da sie heilig sind,
die stille Jungfrau und das blasse Kind.

 

Da sind sie wieder wie vor allem Leide

und schlafen arm und haben keinen Ruhm,
und ihre Seelen sind wie weiße Seide,
und von derselben Sehnsucht beben beide
und fürchten sich vor ihrem Heldentum.

 

Und du kannst meinen: Wenn sie aus den Betten

aufstünden bei dem nächsten Morgenlichte
und, mit demselben träumenden Gesichte,
die Gassen kämen in den kleinen Städten, –
es bliebe keiner hinter ihnen staunen,

kein Fenster klirrte an den Häuserreihn,

und nirgends bei den Frauen ging ein Raunen,
und keines von den Kindern würde schrein.
Sie schritten durch die Stille in den Hemden
(die flachen Falten geben keinen Glanz)

so fremd und dennoch keinem zum Befremden,

so wie zu Festen, aber ohne Kranz.

Rilke – Martyrinnen

Ninguém nos moldará de novo em terra e barro,

ninguém animará pela palavra o nosso pó.

Ninguém.

 

Louvado sejas, Ninguém.

Por amor de ti queremos

florir.

Em direcção

a ti.

 

Um Nada

fomos, somos, continuaremos

a ser, florescendo:

a rosa do Nada, a

de Ninguém.

 

Com

o estilete claro-de-alma,

o estame ermo-de-céu,

a corola vermelha

da purpúrea palavra que cantámos

sobre,

oh sobre

o espinho.

Tradução de Yvette K. Centeno e João Barrento, Sete Rosas Mais Tarde

É uma mártir. E quando, de um só golpe,

o machado trespassou

a sua breve juventude,

o fino anel vermelho circundou

o seu pescoço, e foi a primeira jóia

que ela, com um estranho sorriso, aceitou;

mas mesmo essa usa-a envergonhada.

E quando ela dorme, a sua irmãzinha

(que, criança ainda, com a ferida se enfeita

daquela pedra que lhe oprimiu a fronte)

tem de apertar os braços fortes à volta do seu pescoço

e muitas vezes a outra pede em sonhos: com mais força, com mais força.

E por vezes a menina lembra-se

de esconder a fronte com a imagem daquela pedra

nas suaves pregas do manto da noite,

que, claro, se ergue do respirar da irmã,

cheio, como uma vela que do vento vive.

 

Esta é a hora em que são sagradas,

a silenciosa donzela e a pálida menina.

 

Então voltam a ser como antes de toda a dor

e dormem profundamente e não têm glória,

e as suas almas são como seda branca,

e com a mesma nostalgia tremem ambas

e têm medo do seu heroísmo.

 

E tu podes pensar: quando das camas se

levantarão na próxima luz da alvorada

e, com os mesmos rostos sonhadores,

entrarão pelas ruas das vilas, –

ninguém ficaria intrigado à sua passagem,

nenhuma janela rangeria nas fileiras de casas,

nem nenhuma criança gritaria.

Avançariam no silêncio em camisa

(as pregas lisas não têm qualquer brilho)

tão estranhas, e porém sem que ninguém estranhasse,

como na Páscoa, mas sem grinalda.

Tradução de Maria João Costa Pereira, O Livro das Imagens.

The Ruin
 

Wrætlic is þes wealstan, wyrde gebræcon;
burgstede burston, brosnað enta geweorc.
Hrofas sind gehrorene, hreorge torras,
hrungeat berofen, hrim on lime,
scearde scurbeorge scorene, gedrorene,
ældo undereotone. Eorðgrap hafað
waldend wyrhtan forweorone, geleorene,
heardgripe hrusan, oþ hund cnea
werþeoda gewitan. Oft þæs wag gebad
ræghar ond readfah rice æfter oþrum,
ofstonden under stormum; steap geap gedreas.
Wonað giet se ...num geheapen,
fel on
grimme gegrunden
scan heo...
...g orþonc ærsceaft
...g lamrindum beag
mod mo... ...yne swiftne gebrægd
hwætred in hringas, hygerof gebond
weallwalan wirum wundrum togædre.
Beorht wæron burgræced, burnsele monige,
heah horngestreon, heresweg micel,
meodoheall monig mondreama full,

oþþæt þæt onwende wyrd seo swiþe.
Crungon walo wide, cwoman woldagas,
swylt eall fornom secgrofra wera;

wurdon hyra wigsteal westen staþolas,
brosnade burgsteall. Betend crungon
hergas to hrusan. Forþon þas hofu dreorgiað,
ond þæs teaforgeapa tigelum sceadeð
hrostbeages hrof. Hryre wong gecrong
gebrocen to beorgum, þær iu beorn monig
glædmod ond goldbeorht gleoma gefrætwed,
wlonc ond wingal wighyrstum scan;
seah on sinc, on sylfor, on searogimmas,
on ead, on æht, on eorcanstan,
on þas beorhtan burg bradan rices.
Stanhofu stodan, stream hate wearp
widan wylme; weal eall befeng
beorhtan bosme, þær þa baþu wæron,
hat on hreþre. þæt wæs hyðelic.
Leton þonne geotan
ofer harne stan hate streamas
un...
...þþæt hringmere hate
þær þa baþu wæron.

The Earliest English Poems, Michael Alexander.

Well-wrought this wall: Wierds broke it.

The stronghold burst…

 

Snapped rooftrees, towers fallen,

The work of the Giants, the stonesmiths,

Mouldereth.

                        Rime scoureth gatetowers

                        rime on mortar.

 

Shattered the showershields, roofs ruined,

age under-ate them.

                                   And the wielders & wrights?

Earthgrip holds them – gone, long gone,

fast in gravesgrasp wile fifty fathers

and sons have passed.

                                   Wall stood,

grey lichen, red stone, kings fell often,

stood under storms, high arch crashed –

stands yet the wallstone, hacked by weapons,

by files grim-ground…

…shone the old skilled work

…sank to loam-crust.

 

Mood quickened mind, and a man of wit,

cunning in rings, bound bravely the wallbase

with iron, a wonder.

 

Bright were the buildings, halls where springs ran,

high, horngabled, much throng-noise;

these many meadhalls men filled

with loud cheerfulness: Weird changed that.

 

Came days of pestilence, on all sides men fell dead,

death fetched off the flower of the people;

where they stood to fight, waste places

and on the acropolis, ruins.

 

                                   Host who would build again

shrank to the earth. Therefore are these courts dreary

and that red arch twisteth tiles,

wryeth from roof-ridge, reacheth groundwards…

Broken blocks…

 

                                   There once many a man

mood-glad, goldbright, of gleams garnished,

flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear,

gazed on wrought gemstones, on gold, on silver,

on wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber,

on this bright burg of broad dominion.

 

Stood stone houses; wide streams welled

hot from source, and a wall all caught

in its bright bosom, that the baths were

hot at hall’s hearth; that was fitting…

 

Thence hot streams, loosed, ran over hoar stone

unto the ring-tank….

….. It is a kingly thing

…..city……   

The Earliest English Poems, Tradução Michael Alexander.

Nona Carta: Ecce Deus

 

Salve, lacteolo decoratum sanguine festum,
Salvete, innocua corpora fusa neci.
Concinit, ecce, Deus, tibimet grex iste pusillus
Festivum laude praeveniendo diem,
In qua morte pia puerorum maxima turba
Occidit et victrix regna superna capit.
Nam quia terrenum metuit disperdere regnum,
Impius immani rex feritate furit.
Audierat Regem, quem cuncta oracula dudum
Spondebat vatum, Virgine matre satum,
Iudaicae gentis cui debita regna manerent,
Hocque magos stella testificare nova.
Nec mora, pestifera succenditur efferus ira,
Dum sibi praeripier regia iura timet.
Mox iubet innocuum ferro prosternare plebem
Destinat atque neci corpora lacteola.
Perderet ut Christum, dum nemo evaderet ipsum,
Inter et innumeros sterneret hunc pueros.

Lirica Latina Medieval, Poesía religiosa, Manuel-A. Marcos Casquero e Jose Oroz Reta.

Te saludo, fiesta engalanada com sangre de lactantes;

os saludo, cuerpos inocentes por la muerte abatidos.

Mira, Señor, ese grupito entonando su canto,

y con sus alabanzas, acudiendo ante Ti en este festivo día

en que a piadosa muerte sucumbió una multitud

de niños que, victoriosos, ganaran los reinos celestiales.

Por temor a perder su reino terrenal, un rey impío

enloquecido llegó a una espantosa fiereza.

Sabía que aquel Rey, que los oráculos de los profetas todos

venían anunciando, nacido había de una Madre Virgen;

que a sus manos vendría el legítimo reino del pueblo judío

y los magos, por una nueva estrella, ratificaban tal cosa.

Feroz, resulta al punto invadido por una funesta cólera,

temeroso de verse privado de sus derechos al trono;

ordena, pues, que a hierro abatan a una multitud de niños

inocentes y muerte den a aquellos cuerpos de lactantes,

para perder al Cristo, a fin de que ninguno se escapara

y sucumbiera El también entre los innumerables pequeñuelos.

Tradução Manuel-A. Marcos Casquero e Jose Oroz Reta.

 

Tair cucum, a Maire boíd
do choíniuth frit do rochoím;
dirsan dul fri croich dot mac
ba mind már, ba masgérat.

[…]

Rom-bet mo théor aicdi lat,
a Maire mass muingelnat;
at-ethae, a grian na mban,
ót mac conid-midethar.

[…]

Dot-guar co foclaib fíraib,
a Maire, a maisrígain,
con roirem cobrai ma tú
do airchisecht do cridi-siu.

 

Conro-choíner Críst as glé
frit-su tucht bas n-incride,
a lie lógmar laindrech,
a máthair in mórchoimdeth.

 

Ce chon-messinn co cach rían
doíni betho fo móenmíad
do-regtis lim ocus lat
conro-choíntis do rígmac.

[…]

Nacha cumgaim; ciche féin
do mac frit-su co daigléir
acht do-dichis-siu nach ré
do chélidiu cucum-sae.

 

Do airchisecht chridi cen on
con roirem ar ndiabor,
a chond na creitme glaine,
tair cucum, a boídMaire

Medieval Irish Lyrics, James Carney.

Come to me, loving Mary,

that I may keen with you your very dear one;

Alas! The going to the cross of your son,

that great jewel, that beautiful champion.

 

X

May I have from you my three petitions,

beautiful Mary, little white-necked one;

get them, sun amongst women,

from your son who has them in his power.

 

XVI

I call you with true words,

Mary, beautiful queen,

that we may have talk together

to pity your heart’s darling.

 

XVII

So that I may keen the bright Christ

with you in the most heartfelt way,

shining precious jewel,

mother of the great Lord.

 

XVIII

Were I rich and honoured,

ruling the people of the world to every sea,

they would all come with you and me

to keen your royal son.

 

XX

I cannot do this. With heartfelt feeling

I will bewail your son with you

if only you come at some time

on a visit to me.

 

XXI

Come to me, loving Mary,

you head of unsullied faith,

that we may have talk together

with the compassion of unblemished heart.

Tradução: James Carney.

Âncora 8

Oitavo Capítulo: Portas de Ródão e a Eira dos Enfins

Terceira Carta: The Wanderer

 

 

Oft him anhaga     are gebideð,

metudes miltse,     þeah þe he modcearig

geond lagulade     longe sceolde

hreran mid hondum     hrimcealde sæ

wadan wræclastas.     Wyrd bið ful aræd!

Swa cwæð eardstapa,     earfeþa gemyndig,

wraþra wælsleahta,     winemæga hryre:

Oft ic sceolde ana     uhtna gehwylce

mine ceare cwiþan.     Nis nu cwicra nan

þe ic him modsefan     minne durre

sweotule asecgan.     Ic to soþe wat

þæt biþ in eorle     indryhten þeaw,

þæt he his ferðlocan     fæste binde,

healde his hordcofan,     hycge swa he wille.

Ne mæg werig mod     wyrde wiðstondan,

ne se hreo hyge     helpe gefremman.

Forðon domgeorne     dreorigne oft

in hyra breostcofan     bindað fæste;

swa ic modsefan     minne sceolde,

oft earmcearig,     eðle bidæled,

freomægum feor     feterum sælan,

siþþan geara iu     goldwine minne

hrusan heolstre biwrah,     ond ic hean þonan

wod wintercearig     ofer waþema gebind,

sohte seledreorig     sinces bryttan,

hwær ic feor oþþe neah     findan meahte

þone þe in meoduhealle     mine wisse,

oþþe mec freondleasne     frefran wolde,

wenian mid wynnum.     Wat se þe cunnað

hu sliþen bið     sorg to geferan

þam þe him lyt hafað     leofra geholena:

warað hine wræclast,     nales wunden gold,

ferðloca freorig,     nalæs foldan blæd.

Gemon he selesecgas     ond sincþege,

hu hine on geoguðe     his goldwine

wenede to wiste.     Wyn eal gedreas!

Forþon wat se þe sceal     his winedryhtnes

leofes larcwidum     longe forþolian:

ðonne sorg ond slæð     somod ætgædre

earmne anhogan     oft gebindað.

þinceð him on mode     þæt he his mondryhten

clyppe ond cysse,     ond on cneo lecge

honda ond heafod,     swa he hwilum ær

in geardagum     giefstolas breac.

Ðonne onwæcneð eft     wineleas guma,

gesihð him biforan     fealwe wegas,

baþian brimfuglas,     brædan feþra,

hreosan hrim ond snaw     hagle gemenged.

Þonne beoð þy hefigran     heortan benne,

sare æfter swæsne.     Sorg bið geniwad

þonne maga gemynd     mod geondhweorfeð;

greteð gliwstafum,     georne geondsceawað

secga geseldan;     swimmað oft on weg

fleotendra ferð     no þær fela bringeð

cuðra cwidegiedda.     Cearo bið geniwad

þam þe sendan sceal     swiþe geneahhe

ofer waþema gebind     werigne sefan.

Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg     geond þas woruld

for hwan modsefa     min ne gesweorce

þonne ic eorla lif     eal geondþence,

hu hi færlice     flet ofgeafon,

modge maguþegnas.     Swa þes middangeard

ealra dogra gehwam     dreoseð ond fealleð;

forþon ne mæg weorþan wis     wer, ær he age

wintra dæl in woruldrice.     Wita sceal geþyldig,

ne sceal no to hatheort     ne to hrædwyrde,

ne to wac wiga     ne to wanhydig,

ne to forht ne to fægen,     ne to feohgifre

ne næfre gielpes to georn,     ær he geare cunne.

Beorn sceal gebidan,     þonne he beot spriceð,

oþþæt collenferð     cunne gearwe

hwider hreþra gehygd     hweorfan wille.

Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle     hu gæstlic bið,

þonne ealre þisse worulde wela     weste stondeð,

swa nu missenlice     geond þisne middangeard

winde biwaune     weallas stondaþ,

hrime bihrorene,     hryðge þa ederas.

Woriað þa winsalo,     waldend licgað

dreame bidrorene,     duguþ eal gecrong,

wlonc bi wealle.     Sume wig fornom,

ferede in forðwege,     sumne fugel oþbær

ofer heanne holm,     sumne se hara wulf

deaðe gedælde,     sumne dreorighleor

in eorðscræfe     eorl gehydde.

Yþde swa þisne eardgeard     ælda scyppend

oþþæt burgwara     breahtma lease

eald enta geweorc     idlu stodon.

Se þonne þisne wealsteal     wise geþohte

ond þis deorce lif     deope geondþenceð,

frod in ferðe,     feor oft gemon

wælsleahta worn,     ond þas word acwið:

Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?      Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?

Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?   Hwær sindon seledreamas?

Eala beorht bune!     Eala byrnwiga!

Eala þeodnes þrym!     Hu seo þrag gewat,

genap under nihthelm,     swa heo no wære.

Stondeð nu on laste     leofre duguþe

weal wundrum heah,     wyrmlicum fah.

Eorlas fornoman     asca þryþe,

wæpen wælgifru,     wyrd seo mære,

ond þas stanhleoþu     stormas cnyssað,

hrið hreosende     hrusan bindeð,

wintres woma,     þonne won cymeð,

nipeð nihtscua,     norþan onsendeð

hreo hæglfare     hæleþum on andan.

Eall is earfoðlic     eorþan rice,

onwendeð wyrda gesceaft     weoruld under heofonum.

Her bið feoh læne,     her bið freond læne,

her bið mon læne,     her bið mæg læne,

eal þis eorþan gesteal     idel weorþeð!

Swa cwæð snottor on mode,     gesæt him sundor æt rune.

Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ,     ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene

beorn of his breostum acyþan,     nemþe he ær þa bote cunne,

eorl mid elne gefremman.     Wel bið þam þe him are seceð,

frofre to Fæder on heofonum,     þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð.

The Earliest English Poems, de Michael Alexander

The Wanderer.

Who liveth alone longeth for mercy,

Maker’s mercy. Though he must traverse

Tracts of sea, sick at heart,

– trouble with oars ice-cold waters,

the ways of exile – Weird is set fast.

 

Thus spoke such a “grasshopper”, old griefs in his mind,

cold slaughters, the death of dear kinsmen:

 

“Alone am I driven each day before daybreak

to give my cares utterance.

None are there now among the living

to whom I dare declare me thoroughly,

tell my heart’s thought. Too truly I know

it is in a man no mean virtue

that he keep close his heart’s chest,

hold his thought-hoard, think as he may.

 

No weary mind may stand against Weird

nor may a wrecked will work new hope;

wherefore, most often, those eager for fame

bind the dark mood fast in their breasts.

 

So must I also curb my mind,

cut off from country, from kind far distant,

by cares overworn, bind it in fetters;

this since, long ago, the ground’s shroud

enwrapped my gold-friend. Wretched I went thence,

winter-wearied, over the waves’ bound;

dreary I sought hall of a gold-giver,

where far or near I might find

him who in meadhall might take heed of me,

furnish comfort to a man friendless,

win me with cheer.

                        He knows makes trial

how harsh and bitter is care for companion

to him who hath few friends to shield him.

Track ever taketh him, never the torqued gold,

not earthly glory, but cold heart’s cave.

He minds him of hall-men, of treasure-giving,

how in his youth his gold-friend  

gave him to feast. Fallen all this joy.

 

He knows this who is forced to forgo his lord’s,

his friend’s counsels, to lack them for long:

oft sorrow and sleep, banded together,

come to bind the lone outcast;

he thinks in his heart then that he his lord

claspeth and kisseth, and on knee layeth

hand and head, as he had at otherwhiles

in days now gone, when he enjoyed the gift-stool.

 

Awakeneth after this friendless man,

seeth before him fallow waves,

seabirds bathing, broading out feathers,

snow and hail swirl, hoar-frost falling.

Then all the heavier his heart’s wounds,

Sore for his loved lord. Sorrow freshens.

 

Remembered kinsmen press through his mind;

he singeth out gladly, scanneth eagerly

men from the same hearth. They swim away.

Sailors’ ghosts bring not many

known songs there. Care grows fresh

in him who shall send forth too often

over locked waves his weary spirit.

 

Therefore I may not think, throughout this world,

why cloud cometh not on my mind

when I think over all the life of earls,

how at a stroke they have given up hall,

mood-proud thanes. So this middle earth

each of all days ageth and falleth”

 

Wherefore no man grows wise without he have

his share of winters. A wise man holds out;

he is not too hot-hearted, nor too hasty in speech,

nor too weak a warrior, not wanting in fore-thought,

nor too greedy of goods, nor too glad, nor too mild,

nor ever too eager to boast, ere he knows all.

 

A man should forbear boastmaking

until his fierce mind fully knows

which way his spleen shall expend itself.

 

A wise man may grasp how ghastly it shall be

when all this world’s wealth standeth waste,

even as now, in many places, over the earth

walls stand, wind-beaten,

hung with hoar-frost; ruined habitations.

The wine-halls crumble; their wielders lie

bereft of bliss, the band all fallen

proud by the wall. War took off some,

carried them on their course hence; one a bird bore

over the high sea; one the hoar wolf

dealt to death; one his drear-cheeked

earl stretched in an earthen trench.

 

The Maker of men hath so marred this dwelling

That human laughter is not heard about it

And idle stand these old giant-works.

 

 

A man who on these walls wisely looked

who sounded deeply this dark life

would think back to the blood spilt here,

weigh it in his wit. His word would be this:

“Where is that horse now? Where are those men? Where is the hoard-sharer?

Where is the house of the feast? Where is the hall’s uproar?

 

  Alas, bright cup! Alas, burnished fighter!

  Alas, proud prince! How that time has passed,

  Dark under night’s helm, as though it never had been!

 

There stands in the stead of staunch thanes

A towering wall wrought with worm-shapes;

The earls are off-taken by the ash-spear’s point,

– that thirsty weapon. Their Weird is glorious.

 

Storms break on the stone hillside,

the ground bound by driving sleet,

winter’s wrath. Then wanness cometh,

night’s shade spreadeth, sendeth from north

the rough hail to harry mankind.    

 

In the earth-realm all is crossed;

Wierd’s will changeth the word.

Wealth is lent us, friends are lent us,

man is lent, kin is lent;

all this earth’s frame shall stand empty.”

 

So spoke the sage in his heart; he sat apart in thought.

Good is he who keeps faith: nor should care too fast

be out of man’s breast before he first know the cure:

a warrior fights on bravely. Well is it for him who seeks forgiveness,

the Heavenly Father’s solace, in whom all our fastness stands.

Tradução Michael Alexander, The Wanderer.

Sétima Carta: O Caminho do Vento

 

 

Be·l saubra plus cubert far;

Mas non a chans pretz entier

Qan tuich no·n sunt parsonier.

Que qei·s n’azir, mi sap bo

Qand auch dire per contens

Mon sonet rauqet e clar,

E l’auch a la fon portar.

Girautz de Borneill: The cansos and Sirventes of the troubadour Giraut de Borneil: a critical edition. Sharman, Ruth Verity.

I could certainly make it less explicit, but a song does not have perfect merit unless everyone can enjoy it.  Whoever else this may annoy, I am glad when I hear hoarse and clear voices vying with one another to sing my song and when I hear it being taken to the well.

Girautz de Borneill

Tradução Sharman, Ruth Verity.

Oitava Carta: Constantia

 

   Suscipe, uirgo decens, nostrum, Constantia, carmen;

Fac speciale tibi Burguliensis aue.