HILDEBERT AND HIS HYMN.
Those who love the “Golden Legend” of Longfellow will remember how
effectively he has there used the Latin songs and hymns. Friar Paul is
so very like the famous Friar John of Rabelais, that he is probably
copied from that worthy. Indeed his _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_, with
its dog-Latin and its broad satire on the habits of the monks, was a
most effective weapon in the hands of the reformers. There were a great
many learned men who were by no means equally as pious, and who found
their bodily contentment in the cloister. Against these and all like
them came the constant shafts of ridicule or reproach.
But now, when this same Friar Paul “tunes his mellow pipe” to a
bacchanalian solo in the refectory, we can almost forgive him, forasmuch
as he sings in such capital measure. There is a _Gaudiolum_—a regular
merry-making of monks—down in the cellar; in which, by the way, Lucifer,
disguised in the gray habit, takes his appropriate place. And when Friar
Paul begins on the praise of good liquor, he parodies the metre and
rhyme of the current religious sequences. Listen to him:
“Felix venter quem intrabis,
Felix guttur quod rigabis,
Felix os quod tu lavabis,
Et beata labia!”
Or, as we may express it in our own language:
“Blessed stomach which thou warmest,
Blessed throat which thou reformest,
Blessed mouth whose thirst thou stormest,
Blessed lips to taste of thee!”
Here and there Professor Longfellow introduces also into this “Golden
Legend” his own renderings from the Latin, in little transcriptions
which are exquisitely felicitous. But presently, in sharp contrast to
the ribald Paul and the dissolute Cuthbert and the rest of the noisy
crew in the refectory, he allows us to hear the song of the pilgrims.
They are chanting the Hymn of Hildebert of Lavardin, Archbishop of
Tours:
Me receptet Sion illa,
Sion David, urbs tranquilla,
Cujus faber auctor lucis,
Cujus portae lignum crucis,
Cujus claves lingua Petri,
Cujus cives semper laeti,
Cujus muri lapis vivus,
Cujus custos Rex festivus.”
It is the hope of the Holy City of which they are telling:
“Me, that Sion soon shall pity—
David’s Sion, peaceful city!
Whose designer made the morning;
Whose are gates, the cross adorning;
Whose keys are to Peter given;
Whose glad throng are saints in heaven;
Whose are walls of living splendor;
Whose a royal, true Defender!”
These pilgrims, every now and then, break in with some snatch of melody
from this fine old anthem. And yet there are doubtless those who never
have gone back to see for themselves whence all this beauty has been
taken. But the Hymn of Hildebert would well repay them if they did.
It is the composition of a man who was the Admirable Crichton of his
time—Hildebert of Lavardin, a student under Berenger and Hugo of Cluny.
This is the same poet who, with Wichard of Lyons, is mentioned by
Bernard of Cluny in his preface to the _Hora Novissima_. He says there,
that even these eminent versifiers had never dared to attempt the
measure of his own three thousand lines. And we have abundant other
testimony that Hildebert was an accomplished orator, a successful
controversialist, a brilliant rhetorician, a poet of ten thousand lines,
and the author of this majestic and beautiful composition. He was born
in the year 1057 (or 1055) at Lavardin, near Vendôme, in France, was
first head-master of a school, then an archdeacon, then instructor in
theology and Bishop of Le Mans (1097), and finally (1125), Archbishop of
Tours, from which he derives his name of “Turonensis.” He was of humble
origin and not connected with the celebrated family of Lavardia, except
through the accident of his birthplace being in their vicinity.
Perhaps—if we follow one scurrilous old biographer—we may fancy the holy
Hildebert to have been very little of a saint in his early days.
Baronius indeed lends color to the assertion (made originally by
Godfrey, the Dean of Le Mans) that the vices which Hildebert afterward
attacked were matters of personal experience with himself. A certain
coarse assault was undoubtedly made upon him; but envy and malignity
went even to greater lengths then than now—and they are not noticeably
moderate or truthful at present. He was a “wise and gentle prelate,”
says Trench, “although not wanting in courage to dare, and fortitude to
endure, when the cause of truth required it.” Neander’s estimate of his
character (_The Life of St. Bernard_) is also kind. I doubt, therefore,
whether any such statements can be maintained. But we all know too well
what that age was, for us to be over-enthusiastic in the defence of our
favorites. And still it can truly be said that Hildebert established his
innocence there and then. He finally died in 1134, and his works, with
those of Marbod, were collected and published in Paris by the
Benedictines, at the comparatively recent date of 1708. His hymn,
_Oratio devotissima ad tres Personas Sanctissimae Trinitatis_, first
appeared in the Appendix to Archbishop Ussher’s _De Symbolis_ (1660),
and again was published by the Norman Jacques Hommey in 1684.
The poem is, as Chancellor Benedict has well said, almost epic in its
completeness. And I can do no better than to summarize it in his own
words—for he linked his name to it by a translation which he published
in 1867: “Its beginning [is] the knowledge of God—_Fides orthodoxa_—the
true creed, as to the Three Persons of the Holy Trinity, exhibiting
their attributes as the foundation of the Christian character; its
middle, the weakness, the trials, and the temptations of the Christian
life, in its progress to perfect trust and confidence in God and
assurance of His final grace; its end, the joys and glories of the
heavenly home of the blessed.” It has been greatly neglected, as any one
will find who looks for it outside of the most recent collections of
sacred Latin poetry. Why this has been so, except because the praise of
Mary and of the saints was more congenial to collectors than a lofty and
pure spiritual fervor, it is not easy to discern. Hugo of St.
Victor—Hildebert’s contemporary—does actually quote six lines, but calls
the author _quidam_, or, as we would say, “somebody,” in referring to
these half dozen verses extracted to give point to his own discourse.
Yet Hildebert was in his day a most important personage, not below the
persecution of a king of England, and not above a quarrel with a king of
France. But he and the king were reconciled at last, and with honor.
That Professor Longfellow is not indebted to Trench’s text for his
little quotations, is shown by a curious fact. The _Sacred Latin Poetry_
of Archbishop (then Dean) Trench was first published in 1849, and the
“Golden Legend” appeared in Boston in 1851—the time seeming to indicate
that the poet had been reading in the small book of the prelate. But
Professor March has very acutely noticed that the Church of England, in
the person of its editor, did a great deal of expurgation, and that the
lines
“Cujus claves lingua Petri,
Cujus cives semper laeti,”
are not included by Trench at all! It was not proper, the Dean thought,
to encourage Romish superstitions, and so Peter and his keys were
omitted. It is not impossible that Longfellow took his text from a
little volume published at Auburn, N. Y., in 1844, which contains “The
Hymn of Hildebert and the Ode of Xavier, with English Versions,”
probably by Dr. Henry Mills, professor in the Theological Seminary at
Auburn, who also published a volume of translations of German hymns
(1845 and 1856). Dr. Mills reprints the entire hymn from Ussher, but
ignores in his translation the lines
“_Deus pater tantum Dei_
_Virgo mater est, sed Dei._”
The book is memorable as the first American publication in this field.
Besides the American translations by Dr. Mills and Chancellor Benedict,
there are English versions by Crashaw, by John Mason Neale, and, best of
all, by Herbert Kynaston in the _Lyra Mystica_ (London, 1869), copied
from his _Occasional Hymns_.
Further to speak of Hildebert, it can be said that he, like others, took
his share of imprisonments, confiscations, and exiles.
Trench quotes from his poetry two compositions in hexameter and
pentameter—classic in language, but not always classic in prosody; and
two complete poems, one of which is the famous hymn, and which commences
“_A et Ω magne Deus._”
The other is a vision and lament over the Church of Poitiers. Of this
the editor says: “I know of no nobler piece of versification, nor more
skilful management of rhyme in the whole circle of Latin rhymed poetry.”
It begins
“_Nocte quadam, via fessus_”—
an important hint for a person who wishes to find anything in the German
anthologies, where, as a rule, the indexing is hideous and the
arrangement is heartrending, and the poems are designated, hit-or-miss,
by their initial line.
The poem _De Exilio Suo_, beginning
“_Nuper eram locuples, multisque beatus amicis_,”
is an example of the classic measures into which I have tried to shape
my own rendering, although I have copied Hildebert even in his
inaccuracies and repetitions:
UPON HIS EXILE.
Once I was rich and blessed with friends beyond measure,
And, for awhile, Fortune was prosperous too.
You would have said that the gods had heard my petition,
And that success had taught me to conquer anew.
Often I said to myself: “What means this wealthy condition?
What does it claim, this swift great store of my gain?”—
Woe to myself! for faith and confidence perish;
Even my property teaches how I have heaped it in vain!
Lightly the wing sweeps men and the things that they cherish,
And from the highest station ruin pours down to the plain.
What you possess to-day, perchance you will lose by to-morrow,
Or, indeed, as you speak, it ceases perhaps to be yours.
These are the tricks of our fate; and haughtiest kings to their
sorrow,
And humblest slaves shall find that no future endures.
Lo, what is Man! and what has he right to inherit?
What is the thing that his wretchedness claims as its own?
This, this only is man; the years press down on his spirit
Always in saddest condition to utter his final groan.
It is man’s lot to have nothing—in nakedness coming; and going
Back to his mother’s breast to bear her no riches again.
It is man’s lot to decay, his dust on the desert bestowing,
And by sad steps to climb to the pyre of his pain.
Such is his heirship of good, and here upon earth he may gather
Nothing more certain than these, the spoils of a vanishing fate.
Riches and honor may greet him, yea, be his servants the rather;
Wealthy at morn though his station, poor shall at night be his
state.
Nor can a man discern the permanent law of possession
Save as he seeks to discover the nature of mortal affairs.
Yet does God give them their law, conferring them through his
concession
Unto the weak by his grace; and their going and coming he shares.
He by himself alone provides for and manages solely,
Nor does he doubt to provide nor vary in management still.
For what he sees to be done he does, and his ruling is wholly
Laborless, fixing the form and the time and the bounds of his will.
Yea, through his zeal for our growth he places our limits and changes
These by his occult laws, himself remaining the same.
Himself remaining the same, while sickness and health he arranges,
Swaying the world and showing how hope must be set on his name.
If it be right to trust thee, then, all that thou doest or takest
He is behind it, O Fortune, and he is the source of thy strength.
Nay, I affirm, O Fortune, however thou fixest or shakest
Thou canst not grieve me, nor overmuch cheer me at length.
He is almighty and tender, the concord and trust of my treasure;
I shall be his forever, when all his purpose is through!
It may perhaps be well for us to observe the characteristics of
Hildebert as we discover them in his hymn. They will be found to be
those of an oratorical repetition, and indeed of that “fatal
octosyllabic” fluency, demonstrated in later times by Skelton, by
Butler, and by Scott. To a certain degree the verse is incapable of
anything large or exultant. But it is admirable for the purpose to which
he puts it. Indeed, I knew no better way, when Hildebert’s best admirer
passed from this to a nobler world, than to express my own sadness in
similar Latin; and I venture to close this chapter with the closing
lines of that tribute. Mr. E. C. Benedict made it his happiest
recreation to turn the strains of these ancient singers into modern
verse. And it seemed fitting that he should be commemorated in the very
rhythm he loved so well:
“Vir honeste, vir praeclare!
Tibi quidvis possim dare
His versiculis confeci;
Hic, coronam superjeci.
Autem, illic, lux perennis
Proferet floresque pennis
Aves pictis puro die;—
Nihil deest, O tu pie!
Tu qui terra serus abis
Christum unice laudabis.
Vale! quia non moraris;
Ave! quia nunc laetaris!”
“Unto thee sincere and worthy
Here I bring a tribute earthy.
In these verses I have pressed it;
Here upon thy tomb I rest it.
But thyself, in light eternal
Seest flowers; and birds supernal
Brightly flit through sunny portals—
Thou dost lack no joy of mortals!
Thou who late from us dost sever
There shall praise the Lord forever!
Farewell! for thou wilt not linger;
Hail! for thou art there a singer!”
Yes, when once these old monks “soared beyond chains and prison”—when
they dreamed by night and talked by day of the land that is very far
off—they drew to them all loving hearts from the most distant ages.
Doubtless Hildebert knew—and rejoiced in knowing—that his aspirations
had been caught in a modern city and by a weary lawyer, who found rest
and peace in their strain. And doubtless in the perfectness of the
present rejoicing they both see and love what they once sighed to
obtain.