[Jacopone da Todi, Plange la Eclesia plange e dolora, “Laude”, XXXV, 13th century.]
The Church is weeping, weeping bitterly,
Feeling the torments of her evil state.
O Mother, noble Mother, wherefore weep?
Surely the sorrow of thy heart is deep;
Tell me the griefs that call thee from thy sleep,
To anguish measureless and desolate?
The Church speaks:
My son, good cause have I these tears to shed,
I see my Spouse, my Father, lying dead:
Sons, brothers, kinsmen, all alike are fled;
My friends are prisoned and disconsolate.
Now none but bastard sons around me press,
False cowards, who desert me in my stress;
My true sons, in their fervent tenderness,
Feared neither sword nor dart nor foeman's hate.
My true sons dwelt in peace and amity;
These bastard sons in wrath and discord be;
The faithless name me vile, because they see
These evil growths I cannot extirpate.
Now holy Poverty they scorn and slay;
For pomp and place alone they strive and pray;
My true sons lived austerely, in their day,
And trampled on the world, and world's estate.
Silver and gold with ardour they have sought,
By pride and state, fierce enmity have bought;
Have driven away all pious use and thought;
And therefore must I mourn my wretched fate.
Where are the Fathers, once so filled with faith?
Not one to-day is steadfast unto death:
Lukewarm I grow, and faintly draw my breath,
How can my sorrow soften or abate F
Where are the Prophets, filled with hope and praise?
Not one is left to cheer my widowed days 5
Now Impudence takes courage, and displays
The whole world at his back, importunate.
And where are the Apostles, filled with zeal?
Not one is left to hear my sad appeal;
Self-love draws near, to ravage and to steal,
And none steps forth, his fury to frustrate.
Where are the Martyrs, filled with fortitude?
Not one is left to cheer my widowhood:
Softness and ease upon my strength intrude,
And all my fervour is annihilate.
Where are the Prelates, just and vehement i
To feed their flocks their ardent lives were spent:
False pomp and ostentation now are bent
This noble order to attenuate.
Where are the Doctors, filled with wisdom's grace?
Many I see, whose science grows apace,
Yet from their evil lives I veil my face;
They strike and pierce my heart unfortunate.
O ye Religious, whose austerities
In days gone by gave pleasure to mine eyes,
Vainly I seek a cloister whence arise
The virtues that I love to contemplate.
O bitter peace, despair's ambassador!
1 stood upright, the while I was at war:
Now ease destroys me, through my conqueror,
—The flattering serpent's poisoned opiate!
Not one comes near to raise my drooping head;
In each condition, Christ our Lord is dead;
Thou, O my Life, my Joy, my Hope, art fled!
In every heart I see Thee suffocate.
