No More Learning

I saw why one brisk woman every morn
Paused, pail in hand, my grandame's threshold by:
She brought her - not yet old, though thus forlorn -
The bread of charity.
And ah, that wallet! by two cords uphung,
Wherein my hands for broken bread went straying,–
Grandsire had borne it round the farms among,
A morsel from his ancient comrades praying.
Poor grandsire! When I kept him company,
The softest bit was evermore for me!
All this was shame and sorrow exquisite.
I played no more at leap-frog in the street,
But sat and dreamed about the seasons gone.
And if chance things my sudden laughter won,
Flag, soldier, hoop, or kite, -it died away
Like the pale sunbeam of a weeping day.
One morn my mother came, as one with gladness crazed,
Crying, Come, Jacques, to school! Stupid, I stood and gazed.
“»
« To school! What then? are we grown rich ? » I cried amazed.
“Nay, nay, poor little one! Thou wilt not have to pay!
Thy cousin gives it thee, and I am blessed this day. ”
Behold me then, with fifty others set,
Mumbling my lesson in the alphabet.
I had a goodly memory; or so they used to say.
Thanks to this pious dame, therefore,
'Twixt smiles and tears it came to pass
That I could read in six months more;
In six months more could say the mass;
In six months more I might aspire
To tantum ergo and the choir ;
In six months more, still paying nothing,
I passed the sacred college gate;
In six months more, with wrath and loathing
They thrust me forth. Ah, luckless fate!
'Twas thus: a tempting prize was offered by-and-by
Upon the term's last week, and my theme won the same.


## p. 8193 (#393) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8193
(A cassock 'twas, and verily
As autumn heather old and dry. )
Nathless, when mother dear upon Shrove Monday came,
My cheeks fired when we kissed; along my veins the blood
Racing in little blobs did seem.
More darns were in the cassock, well I understood,
Than errors in my theme;
But glad at heart was I, and the gladder for her glee.
What love was in her touch! What looks she gave her son!
«Thank God, thou learnest well! » said she;
“For this is why, my little one,
Each Tuesday comes a loaf, and so rude the winter blows,
It is welcome, as He knows. "
(
Thereon I gave my word I would very learned be;
And when she turned away, content was in her eyes.
So I pondered on my frock, and my sire, who presently
Should come and take my measure. It happened otherwise.
The marplot de'il himself had sworn
It should not be, so it would seem,
Nor holy gown by me be worn.
Wherefore my steps he guided to a quiet court and dim,
Drove me across, and bade me stop
Under a ladder slight and tall,
Where a pretty peasant maiden, roosted against the wall,
Was dressing pouter pigeons, there atop.
Oft as I saw a woman, in the times whereof I write,
Slid a tremor through my veins, and across my dreary day
There flashed a sudden vision on my sight
Of a life all velvet, so to say:
Thus, when I saw Catrine (rosy she was, and sweet),
I was fain to mount a bit, till I discerned
A pair of comely legs, a pair of snowy feet,
And all my silly heart within me burned.
One tell-tale sigh I gave, and my damsel veered, alas!
Then huddled up with piteous cries;
The ladder snapped before my eyes.
She fell! - escape for me none was!
And there we twain lay sprawling upon the court-yard floor,
I under and she o'er!
But while so dulcet vengeance is wrought me by my stars,
What step is this upon the stair? Who fumbles at the bars?
XIV-513


## p. 8194 (#394) ###########################################

8194
JACQUES JASMIN
(
Alackaday! Who opes the door?
The dread superior himself! And he my pardon re!
Thou knowest the Florence Lion, — the famous picture where
The mother sees, in stark despair,
The onslaught of the monster wild
Who will devour her darling child;
And, fury in her look, nor heeding life the least,
With piercing cry, “My boy! ) leaps on the savage beast;
Who, wondering and withstood,
Seemeth to quench the burning of his cruel thirst for blood,
And the baby is released:
Just so the reverend canon, with madness in his eye,
Sprang on my wretched self, and “My sweetmeats! ” was his
cry;
And the nobler lion's part, alas, was not for me!
For the jar was empty half and the bottom plain to see!
“Out of this house, thou imp of hell:
Thou'rt past forgiveness now! Dream not of such a thing! ”
And the old canon, summoning
His forces, shook my ladder well.
Then with a quaking heart I turned me to descend,
Still by one handle holding tight
The fatal jar, which dropped outright
And shattered, and so came the end!
Behold me now in dire disgrace,
An outcast in the street, in the merry carnival,
As black as any Moor, with all
The sweetmeat stains upon my face!
My woes, meseemed, were just begun.
“Ho for the masque! ) a gamin cried;
Full desperately did I run,
But a mob of howling urchins thronged me on every side,
Raised at my heels a cloud of dust,
And roared, “The masque is full of must! ”
As on the wind's own pinions borne
I fled, and gained our cot forlorn,
And in among my household burst,
Starved, dripping, dead with rage and thirst.
Uprose a cry of wonderment from sisters, mother, sire,
And while we kissed I told them all, whereon a silence fell.
Seeing bean-porridge on the fire,
I said I would my hunger quell.


## p. 8195 (#395) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8195
Wherefore then did they make as though they heard not me,
Standing death-still? At last arose my mother dear,
Most anxiously, most tenderly.
Why are we tarrying ? ” said she,
“No more will come. Our all is here. "
»
But I, “No more of what ? Ah, tell me, for God's sake! ) -
Sorely the mystery made me quake,-
“What wast thou waiting, mother mild ? ”
I trembled, for I guessed. And she, “The loaf, my child! ”
So I had ta'en their bread away! O squalor and distress!
Accursed sweetmeats! Naughty feet!
I am base indeed! O silence full of bitterness!
Gentles, who pitying weep for every woe ye meet,
My anguish ye may guess!
No money and no loaf! A sorry tale, I ween.
Gone was my hunger now, but in my aching heart
I seemed to feel a cruel smart,
A stab as of a brand, fire-new and keen,
Rending the scabbard it is shut within.
Silent I stood awhile, and my mother blankly scanned,
While she, as in a dream, gazed on her own left hand;
Then put her Sunday kerchief by,
And rose and spake right cheerily,
And left us for a while; and when she came once more,
Beneath her arm a little loaf she bore.
Then all anew a-talking fell
And to the table turned. Ah, well!
They laughed, but I was full of thought,
And evermore my wandering eyes my mother sought.
Sorry was I, and mute, for a doubt that me possessed,
And drowned the noisy clamor of the rest.
But what I longed to see perpetually withdrew
And shyly hid from view,
Until at last, soup being done,
My gentle mother made a move
As she would cut the loaf, signing the cross above.
Then stole I one swift look the dear left hand upon,
And ah, it was too true! - the wedding-ring was gone!
One beauteous eve in summer, when the world was all abroad,
Swept onward by the human stream that toward the palace bore,
Unthinkingly the way I trod,
And followed eager hundreds o'er
.


## p. 8196 (#396) ###########################################

8196
JACQUES JASMIN
The threshold of an open door.
Good Heaven! where was 1 ? What might mean
The lifting of that linen screen ?
O lovely, lovely vision! O country strange and fair!
How they sing in yon bright world! and how sweetly talk they too!
Can ears attend the music rare,
Or eyes embrace the dazzling view ?
«Why, yon is Cinderella! ” I shouted in my maze.
« Silence! ” quoth he who sat by me.
«Why, then ? Where are we, sir ? What is this whereon we gaze
« Thou idiot! This is the Comedy ! »
Ah, yes! I knew that magic name,
Full oft at school had heard the same;
And fast the fevered pulses flew
In my low room the dark night through.
“O fatherland of poesy! O paradise of love!
Thou art a dream to me no more! Thy mighty spell I prove.
And thee, sweet Cinderella, my guardian I make,
And to-morrow I turn player for thy sake! ”
But slumber came at dawn, and next the flaming look
Of my master, who awoke me. How like a leaf I shook!
«Where wast thou yesternight? Answer me, ne'er-do-weel!
And wherefore home at midnight steal ? ”
« sir, how glorious was the play!
“The play, indeed! 'Tis very true what people say:
Thou art stark crazy, wretched boy,
To make so vile an uproar through all the livelong night!
To sing and spout, and rest of sober souls destroy.
Thou who hast worn a cassock, nor blushest for thy plight!
Thou'lt come to grief, I warn thee so!
Quit shop, mayhap, and turn thyself a player low! ”
“Ay, master dear, that would I be! »
What, what? Hear I aright? ” said he.
Art blind? and dost not know the gate
That leadeth to the almshouse straight ? )
At this terrific word, the heart in me went down
As though a club had fallen thereon;
And Cinderella fled her throne in my light head.
The pang I straightway did forget;
And yet, meseems, yon awful threat
Made softer evermore my attic bed.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in "Troubadours and Trouvères?
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers


## p. 8197 (#397) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8197
THE SIREN WITH THE HEART OF ICE
From Françonette)
THO
HOU whom the swains environ,
O maid of wayward will,
O icy-hearted siren,
The hour we all desire when
Thou too, thou too shalt feel!
Thy gay wings thou dost futter,
Thy airy nothings utter,
While the crowd can only mutter
In ecstasy complete
At thy feet.
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Sunshine, the heavens adorning,
We welcome with delight;
But thy sweet face returning
With every Sunday morning
Is yet a rarer sight.
We love thy haughty graces,
Thy swallow-like swift paces;
Thy song the soul upraises;
Thy lips, thine eyes, thy hair-
All are fair,
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Thy going from them widows
All places utterly.
The hedge-rows and the meadows
Turn scentless; gloomy shadows
Discolor the blue sky.
Then, when thou comest again,
Farewell fatigue and pain!
Life glows in every vein.
O'er every slender finger
We would linger.


## p. 8198 (#398) ###########################################

8198
JACQUES JASMIN
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Thy pet dove, in his fitting,
Doth warn thee, lady fair!
Thee, in the wood forgetting;
Brighter for his dim setting
He shines, for love is there!
Love is the life of all:
Oh, answer thou his call,
Lest the flower of thy days fall,
And the grace whereof we wot
Be forgot!
For, till great love shall move thee,
Thy victories are vain.
'Tis little men should love thee:
Learn thou to love again.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in (Troubadours and Trouvères. )
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÉ
ONLY the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright:
Let me attempt it with an English quill;
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
I
A"
T The foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castel-Cuillé,
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive
On a Wednesday morn of St. Joseph's Eve:-
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending:


## p. 8199 (#399) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8199
When lo! a merry company
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain,
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending,
And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hillside steep,
They wind aslant
Towards St. Amant,
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies
Singing their chant:-
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
It is Baptiste and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.
When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,-
A rustic bridal, ah, how sweet it is!
To sounds of joyous melodies,
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,
Gayly frolicking,
A band of youngsters,
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,
Caressing,
With fingers pressing,
Till in the veriest
Madness of mirth, as they dance,
They retreat and advance,
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest,


## p. 8200 (#400) ###########################################

8200
JACQUES JASMIN
While the bride, with roguish eyes,
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:
« Those who catch me
Married verily
This year shall be ! »
And all pursue with eager haste,
And all attain what they pursue,
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,
And the linen kirtle round her waist.
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it St. Joseph would say to us all
That love o’erhasty precedeth a fall?
Oh no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers: they give not a single caress!
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress?
It is that half-way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendor,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But alas! the summer's blight -
The pestilence that walks by night -
Took the young bride's sight away.
All at the father's stern command was changed;
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.
Wearied at home, ere long the lover Aled;
Returned but three short days ago,
The golden chain they round him throw;
He is enticed and onward led;


## p. 8201 (#401) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8201
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.
Then suddenly a maiden cried,
"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!
Here comes the cripple Jane! ) And by a fountain's side
A woman, bent and gray with years,
Under the mulberry-trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet.
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain :
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day;
And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers :
She never deceives, she never errs.
But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe;
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue
Who, like a statue, stands in view;
Changing color, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand
Making the sign of the cross, doth say:
« Thoughtless Angela, beware!
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb! »
And she was silent; and the maidens fair
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;
But on a little streamlet silver-clear,
What are two drops of turbid rain ?
Saddened a moment, the bridal train
Resuined the dance and song again;
The bridegroom only was pale with fear.
And down green alley's
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
They sang the refrain:


## p. 8202 (#402) ###########################################

8202
JACQUES JASMIN
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
II
And by suffering worn and weary,
But beautiful as some fair angel yet,
Thus lamented Margaret,
In her cottage lone and dreary :-
“He has arrived! arrived at last!
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
Arrived, yet keeps aloof so far!
And knows that of my night he is the star!
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away!
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!
What joy have I without thee? what delight?
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
Forever night! forever night!
When he is gone 'tis dark! my soul is sad!
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above;
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget — and heaven - and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then -- when one is blind?
“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!
Ah, woe is me! then bear me to my grave!
O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!
He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Savior dear;


## p. 8203 (#403) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8203
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise!
But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!
And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he! »
And the door ajar is set,
And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms but sightless eyes;
'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries :-
“Angela the bride has passed!
I saw the wedding guests go by:
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ?
For all are there but you and I! )
“Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!
Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be? »
“My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend! »
C
A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.
At length the bridal song again
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.
«Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose of homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay:
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said! ”
“I know it! » answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart cruished as in a vise !


## p. 8204 (#404) ###########################################

8204
JACQUES JASMIN
«Paul, be not sad! 'Tis a holiday:
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for awhile alone. ”
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul;
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.
“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!
I am faint and weary, and out of breath!
But thou art cold, - art chill as death:
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet? ”
“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;
And as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come ere long:
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy;
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And poor Baptiste — what sayest thou ?
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see him now! ”
Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press :-
“Thy love I cannot all approve;
We must not trust too much to happiness; –
Go, pray to God that thou mayst love himn less ! »
« The more I pray, the more I love!
It is no sin, for God is on my side! ”
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.
.
Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
But to deceive the beldame old
She takes a sweet, contented air;
Speak of foul weather or of fair,
At every word the maiden smiles !
Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
So that, departing at the evening's close,
She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows! ”
Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress!
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess!
This morning, in the fullness of thy heart,
Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!


## p. 8205 (#405) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8205
III
Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,
And the white daybreak stealing up the sky
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,-
How differently!
Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,
The one puts on her cross and crown,
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,
And flaunting, fluttering up and down,
Looks at herself, and cannot rest.
The other, blind, within her little room,
Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;
But in their stead for something gropes apart,
That in a drawer's recess doth lie,
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
Convulsive clasps it to her heart.
The one, fantastic, light as air,
'Mid kisses ringing
And joyous singing,
Forgets to say her morning prayer!
The other, with cold drops upon her brow,
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,
And whispers as her brother opes the door,
«O God! forgive me now! )
And then the orphan, young and blind,
Conducted by her brother's hand,
Towards the church, through paths unscanned,
With tranquil air, her way doth wind.
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,
Round her at times exhale,
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapors gray.
Near that castle, fair to see,
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,
Marvels of nature and of art,
And proud of its name of high degree,
A little chapel, almost bare,
At the base of the rock is builded there;
All glorious that it lifts aloof
Above each jealous cottage roof


## p. 8206 (#406) ###########################################

8206
JACQUES JASMIN
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,
And its blackened steeple high in air,
Round which the osprey screams and sails.
Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!
Thus Margaret said. « Where are we? we ascend! )
« Yes; seest thou not our journey's end ?
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?
The hideous bird that brings ill luck, we know!
Dost thou remember when our father said,
The night we watched beside his bed,
O daughter, I am weak and low;
Take care of Paul: I feel that I am dying! )
And thou and he and I all fell to crying ?
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;
And here they brought our father in his shroud.
There is his grave; there stands the cross we set:
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?
Come in! The bride will be here soon:
Thou tremblest! ( my God! thou art going to swoon! ”
She could no more, the blind girl, weak and weary!
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
“What wouldst thou do, my daughter? » — and she started,
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore
Her steps towards the open door;
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.
At length the bell
With booming sound
Sends forth, resounding round,
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell.
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;
And yet the guests delay not long,
For soon arrives the bridal train,
And with it brings the village throng.


## p. 8207 (#407) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8207
In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,
For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.
And Angela thinks of her cross, iwis;
To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper
Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper,
“How beautiful! how beautiful she is ! »
But she must calm that giddy head,
For already the mass is said;
At the holy table stands the priest;
The wedding-ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,
He must pronounce one word at least !
'Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman's side
<< 'Tis he! ) a well-known voice has cried.
And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl see!
Baptiste,” she said, "since thou hast wished my death,
As holy water be my blood for thee! »
And calmly in the air a knife suspended!
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,
That ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!
c
At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The 'De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse
To the church-yard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,
No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:-
«The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom,
So fair a corpse shall leave its home!
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away!
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day! ”
Longfellow's Translation. By courtesy of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers,
Boston
1


## p. 8208 (#408) ###########################################

8208
JAYADEVA
(ABOUT THE TWELFTH CENTURY A. D. )
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
was
a
J
(
a
AYADEVA
Sanskrit lyric poet, author of the Gita-
Govinda' or 'Shepherd's Canticle,' an Indian (Song of
Songs. This passionate lyrist, who is presumed to have
lived in the twelfth century of our era, is believed to have been
native of Kinduvilva in the district of Bengal. With all the fervor
of a Theocritus piping in the vales of Sicily, he sang in melting
strains the divine love of the god Vishnu, incarnate as herdsman
and shepherd on the banks of the Indian Jumna. Little is known of
his life. A passing mention in his poem implies that his father's
name was Bhoja-deva, and that his mother's name was Rāma-devī;
but that is all. We know also from the poem that he was a reli-
gious devotee of the Vaishnavite sect, for the praise of Vishnu forms
the burden of the refrains in his song. He is to be distinguished,
acco
cording to general opinion, from a Sanskrit dramatist of the same
name. The article "Indian Literature) should be consulted in order
to give an idea of the age in which Jayadeva flourished.
The poem (Gīta-Govinda! (literally «song of the cowherd”) is
one of the most celebrated compositions in Sanskrit literature.
It
is a lyrical-dramatic piece, a musical pastoral, or a sort of Oriental
opera in narrative. As before remarked, the theme of this religious
canticle is the story of the love of Vishnu, incarnate as Krishna or
Hari, for his devoted Rādhā. The half-human yet divine Krishna,
a very Apollo in beauty, has strayed from the true love of his heart,
the herdsman's daughter Rādhā, and he disports himself with the
gõpis, or shepherd damsels, in all the enchanting ecstasies of transi-
tory passion. The neglected and grieving Rādhā searches for her
erring lover to reclaim him. A handmaiden, her lone companion,
bears the messages to Krishna, whose fleeting frenzied passion for
the shepherdesses is soon spent, and who longs for reunion with his
soul's idol, the perfect maiden Rādhā. All this is rendered with gen-
uine dramatic power, yet there is no dialogue: the poet simply tells
the story, but he tells it in so vivid a way that it is truly dramatic.
The handmaid finally brings about the reconciliation of the lovers,
and accomplishes their reunion in a moonlit bower amid a
flooded with Oriental coloring.
scene
a


## p. 8209 (#409) ###########################################

JAYADEVA
8209
Like the Song of Solomon, which should be read in this con-
nection, the Gīta-Govinda' is frequently interpreted as an allegory,
portraying figuratively a struggle of the soul amid human passions
and the final attainment of supreme spiritual bliss. Such figurative
methods of expression and symbolic imagery in poetry have indeed
prevailed in the East since time immemorial, as is seen in the case
of Hāfiz (the article on whom might be consulted); and it is hardly
to be questioned that a religious element is present in the 'Gīta,' for
Jayadeva's oft repeated refrains of pious devotion stand out in quite
clear tone amid the erotic strains. On the other hand, the sacred
erotism of the poem may show something of the sensuality of the
Vishnu-Krishna cult. In whichever way we criticize the poem, we
inust allow the presence of a devotional element and the consequent
possibilities, as we would in Solomon's Divine Song.
As a poem, the “Gīta-Govinda' is a masterpiece of art. To read
it in the original is the true way to gain an idea of the charm and
artistic finish of the composition. The ever changing rhythms, the
rich rhymes which are often interlaced or concealed, the alliteration,
assonance, fanciful metrical devices, and a dozen subtle graces which
belong to the Sanskrit art poesy, surprise by their variety and their
abundance. The diversity in tone and shade adds to the effect; the
feeling is tender and delicate, but sometimes it is passionate to excess,
and is expressed with a warmth and fervor or a lavishness of Oriental
coloring that is occasionally too exuberant for Occidental taste. The
poem is divided into twelve short cantos, and it contains more than
twenty lyrical gems. The text provides for musical accompaniments
in different measures and modes, suited to the lyrical effusion which
forms its burden or which is expressed in its refrain. It is almost
impossible in translation to convey a true idea of the finish and deli-
cacy of the original. The German poetical rendering by Rückert is
.
believed to have come nearest to success in this. Sir Edwin Arnold's
paraphrase, “The Indian Song of Songs,' may well be read to catch
something of the spirit of the composition. Lassen's Latin version is
one of the classic works on the subject. The prose rendering into
English by Sir William Jones in the fourth volume of his Collected
Works, in spite of abridgment and some alterations, is sufficiently
near to the original to convey a good idea of the merits — and to
our mind, of some of the defects — of this Sanskrit masterpiece.
Selections from that rendering, with slight changes in spelling, are
appended. Rādhā is searching for her erring lover Krishna.
Ar. weel and
Jackan
XIV-514


## p. 8210 (#410) ###########################################

8210
JAYADEVA
RĀDHĀ AND KRISHNA
R
ADHĀ long sought her love Krishna in vain, and her thoughts
were confounded by the fever of desire; she roved in the
1. 7. vernal morning among the twining Väsantis covered with
soft blossoms, when a damsel thus addressed her with youthful
hilarity: «The gale that has wantoned round the beautiful clove-
plants breathes now from the hills of Malaya; the circling arbors
resound with the notes of the Kokila [cuckoo] and the murmurs of
the honey-making swarms. Now the hearts of damsels whose lov-
ers travel at a distance are pierced with anguish; while the blos-
soms of Bakul are conspicuous among the flowerets covered with
bees. The Tamāla, with leaves dark and odorous, claims a tribute
from the musk which it vanquishes; and the clustering flowers
of the Palāça resemble the nails of Kāma [Cupid], with which he
rends the hearts of the young. The full-blown Keçara gleams like
the sceptre of the world's monarch, Love; and the pointed Thyrse
of the Ketaka resembles the darts by which lovers are wounded.
See the bunches of the Pătali-flowers [trumpet flowers] filled
with bees, like the quiver of Smara full of shafts; while the ten-
der blossom of the Karuna smiles to see the whole world laying
shame aside. The far-scented Mādhavi (spring creeper] beautifies
the trees round which it twines; and the fresh Mallikā (jasmine)
seduces with rich perfume even the hearts of hermits; while the
Amra-tree with blooming tresses is embraced by the gay creeper
Atimucta, and the blue streams of Yamunā wind round the
groves of Vrindāvan. In this charming season, which gives pain
to separated lovers, young Krishna sports and dances with young
damsels. ”
[The jealous Rādhā gives no answer, and the maid continues by describing
how the forgetful Krishna disports with the gay shepherdesses. )
I. 12,
“With a garland of wild flowers descending even to the
yellow mantle that girds his azure limbs, distinguished by smiling
cheeks and by earrings that sparkle as he plays, Krishna exults
in the assemblage of amorous damsels. One of them presses him
to her swelling breast, while she warbles with exquisite melody.