[Jacopone da Todi, O anema mia, “Laude”, XLIV, 13th century.]
O Soul of mine, how noble wert thou made!
Be not afraid,
Nor deem thy nature low:
Thou art not so,
High is thy birth, and lordly thine estate.
If a poor man a gift to thee should bring,
Thy heart would cling
To him, and there abide,
With love and gratitude unfaltering;
—So slight a thing
Would bind thee to his side.
—Thy Lord, thy Guide,
Makes pilgrimage for thee,
Treads painfully
His toilsome path alone:
O heart of stone!
To stand thus obdurate.
The King of France might have a daughter fair,
His only Heir,
His pride and his delight.
The fame of her would travel everywhere,
Gems would she wear,
And robes of spotless white.
But should she plight
Her troth, in marriage base,
Her tender grace
To infamy betray,
—What should men say
Of bonds so profligate?
The thing that thou hast done is worse than this,
—To clasp and kiss
The treacherous world abhorred!
Thy body, that thy humble servant is,
Thou'st used amiss,
Given him the ruler's sword.
Ah, careless lord,
To set a slave to reign!
—So doth he gain
A lordship criminal:
And to this thrall
'Tis thou hast oped the gate.
Thy kingdom of five parts is composite;
—Hearing and Sight,
And Taste, and Touch, and Scent.
This Body, that the world hath ruled outright,
Resents her plight,
Restless in discontent.
Her gaze is bent
To seek the Beautiful;
Naught else can lull
Her ear, nor feed her eye:
Earth's fragments die,
Her makeshifts come too late.
This World sufficeth not thine Eye to feed,
Because her need
Must still be measureless.
She of a thousand Worlds would take no heed,
—So strange her greed,
So deep her thirstiness.
The World's caress
Is turned to torment so:
The mind must go
Defrauded of her gain;
Joy becomes pain,
The heart to penetrate.
This World feeds not thy senses, nor thy mind,
Nor canst thou bind
Thy heart in her control.
Joy for these vassals if thou strive to find,
That task will grind
Thy struggling, suffering soul.
Then seek thy goal
There, where thy heart must be;
Thy kingdoms three
Now He, though once so fair,
All parched and bare,
Famished and desolate.
So high and in such honour wert thou born,
Thy nature's morn
Awaked in gentlehood.
Ponder the grace and beauty thou hast worn,
So shalt thou scorn
All else, with fortitude.
Naught here is good—
No creature fair enough;
No earthly stuff
Deserves thy heart's desire
God is thy Sire,
To Him be consecrate.
Look in thy mirror for a little space,
And thou shalt trace
Thy delicate beauty there.
Thou bear'st thy Father's image on thy face:
O joy! O grace!
His likeness thus to wear!
The Eternal Fair,
Poured in thy little cup,
Floats trembling up,
—There Earth and Heaven meet.
O Vessel sweet!
So spoiled, so desecrate!
Thou art not nourished by created things;
Thy nature's wings
To other realms must fly.
Thou art God's heir,—towards Him thy being
springs, His largess brings
Wealth to thy poverty;
Pause not, nor sigh;
Swift on Love's journey start:
Give Him thy heart,
And let the pact be fair;
—Thou art His Heir,
—Lay hold on thine Estate.
O Love, thou givest all, and for Love's sake
All dost thou take,
To have and hold for aye.
Ah, to thy God great honour dost thou make,
All to forsake,
To find in Him thy Way!
—What should man say?
Even God were sure unwise,
If when He buys
This treasure fathomless,
He should give less,
Bargain or hesitate.
