Laudator Temporis Acti

Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864), "Aesop and Rhodopè," second conversation, Imaginary Conversations (Aesop speaks):

It may be a defect in my vision, but I cannot see greatness on the earth. What they tell me is great and aspiring, to me seems little and crawling.

Sidney Colvin, Landor (London: Macmillan and Co., 1881), pp. 139-140:

His passionate dealings with his fellow-creatures and his tenderness for the inanimate things of nature were in like manner typified in the local legend which represented him as having once thrown his cook out of window, and instantly afterwards thrust out his head with the exclamation, "Good God, I forgot the violets."

Lucretius, De Rerum Natura 2.20–36 (tr. Ronald Latham):

So we find that the requirements of our bodily nature are few indeed, no more than is necessary to banish pain. To heap pleasure upon pleasure may heighten men's enjoyment at times. But what matter if there are no golden images of youths about the house holding flaming torches in their right hands to illumine banquets prolonged into the night? What matter if the hall does not sparkle with silver and gleam with gold, and no carved and gilded rafters ring to the music of the lute? Nature does not miss these luxuries when men recline in company on the soft grass by a running stream under the branches of a tall tree and refresh their bodies pleasurably at small expense. Better still if the weather smiles upon them and the season of the year stipples the green herbage with flowers. Burning fevers flee no swifter from your body if you toss under figured counterpanes and coverlets of crimson than if you must lie in rude homespun.

The Latin:

ergo corpoream ad naturam pauca videmus        20
esse opus omnino, quae demant cumque dolorem.
delicias quoque uti multas substernere possint,
gratius interdum neque natura ipsa requirit,
si non aurea sunt iuvenum simulacra per aedes
lampadas igniferas manibus retinentia dextris,        25
lumina nocturnis epulis ut suppeditentur,
nec domus argento fulget auroque renidet
nec citharae reboant laqueata aurataque templa,
cum tamen inter se prostrati in gramine molli
propter aquae rivum sub ramis arboris altae
non magnis opibus iucunde corpora curant,        30
praesertim cum tempestas arridet et anni
tempora conspergunt viridantis floribus herbas.
nec calidae citius decedunt corpore febres,
textilibus si in picturis ostroque rubenti        35
iacteris, quam si in plebeia veste cubandum est.

22 possint] possit Kannengiesser, possis Postgate
27 fulget] fulgenti Lachmann
28 aurataque] ornataque Lachmann, arquataque Bernays

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (April 17, 1833):

No man should travel until he has learned the language of the country he visits. Otherwise he voluntarily makes himself a great baby,—so helpless and so ridiculous.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (June 18, 1834):

Everything teaches, even dilettantism. The dilettante does not, to be sure, learn anything of botany by playing with his microscope, and with the terminology of plants, but he learns what dilettantism is; he distinguishes between what he knows and what he affects to know, and through some pain and self-accusation he is attaining to things themselves.

Arthur Coleridge, "Fragmentary Notes of Tennyson's Talk," Tennyson and His Friends (London: Macmillan and Co., Limited, 1911), pp. 255-271 (at 271):

He was fond of telling Lincolnshire stories. T. "An old farmer, at the time when railways were beginning, receiving a visit from the parson, moved uneasily in his bed, crying out, 'What with faäth, and what with real bad harvests, and what with them graät, horrid steäm-kettles, and what with the soön goin' raound the earth, and the earth goin' raound the soön, as soom saäy she do, I am cleän maäzed an' the sooner I gits out of this 'ere world, the better;' and he turned his face to the wall and died."

Hat tip: Karl Maurer.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (January 13, 1835):

[W]e can find ourselves, our private thoughts, our preferences, and aversions, and our moral judgements perhaps more truly matched in an ancient Lombard, or Saxon, or Greek, than in our own family.

Susan Fenimore Cooper (1813-1894), Rural Hours, edd. Rochelle Johnson and Daniel Patterson (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1998), p. 6 (Spring: March 11):

A disappointment awaited us—several noble pines, old friends and favorites, had been felled unknown to us during the winter; unsightly stumps and piles of chips were all that remained where those fine trees had so long waved their evergreen arms. Their fall seemed to have quite changed the character of the neighboring fields; for it often lies within the power of a single group of trees to alter the whole aspect of acres of surrounding lands.

Id., pp. 119-120 (Summer: July 21):

The preservation of those old pines must depend entirely upon the will of their owner; they are private property; we have no right to ask that they may be spared, but it is impossible to behold their hoary trunks and crested heads without feeling a hope that they may long continue unscathed, to look down upon the village which has sprung up at their feet. They are certainly one of the most striking objects in the county, and we owe a debt of gratitude to the hand which has so long preserved them, one of the honors of our neighborhood. It needs but a few short minutes to bring one of these trees to the ground; the rudest boor passing along the highway may easily do the deed; but how many years must pass ere its equal stand on the same spot! Let us pause to count the days, the months, the years; let us number the generations that must come and go, the centuries that must roll onward, ere the seed sown from this year's cones shall produce a wood like that before us. The stout arm so ready to raise the axe to-day, must grow weak with age, it must drop into the grave; its bone and sinew must crumble into dust long before another tree, tall and great as those, shall have grown from the cone in our hand. Nay, more, all the united strength of sinew, added to all the powers of mind, and all the force of will, of millions of men, can do no more toward the work than the poor ability of a single arm; these are of the deeds which time alone can perform. But allowing even that hundreds of years hence other trees were at length to succeed these with the same dignity of height and age, no other younger wood can ever claim the same connection as this, with a state of things now passed away forever; they cannot have that wild, stern character of the aged forest pines. This little town itself must fall to decay and ruin; its streets must become choked with bushes and brambles; the farms of the valley must be anew buried within the shades of a wilderness; the wild deer and the wolf, and the bear, must return from beyond the great lakes; the bones of the savage men buried under our feet must arise and move again in the chase, ere trees like those, with the spirit of the forest in every line, can stand on the same ground in wild dignity of form like those old pines now looking down upon our homes.

Id., p. 132 (Summer: July 28):

In these times, the hewers of wood are an unsparing race. The first colonists looked upon a tree as an enemy, and to judge from appearances, one would think that something of the same spirit prevails among their descendants at the present hour. It is not surprising, perhaps, that a man whose chief object in life is to make money, should turn his timber into bank-notes with all possible speed; but it is remarkable that any one at all aware of the value of wood, should act so wastefully as most men do in this part of the world. Mature trees, young saplings, and last year's seedlings, are all destroyed at one blow by the axe or by fire; the spot where they have stood is left, perhaps, for a lifetime without any attempt at cultivation, or any endeavor to foster new wood.

Id., pp. 133-134 (Summer: July 28):

But independently of their market price in dollars and cents, the trees have other values: they are connected in many ways with the civilization of a country; they have their importance in an intellectual and in a moral sense. After the first rude stage of progress is past in a new country—when shelter and food have been provided—people begin to collect the conveniences and pleasures of a permanent home about their dwellings, and then the farmer generally sets out a few trees before his door. This is very desirable, but it is only the first step in the track; something more is needed; the preservation of fine trees, already standing, marks a farther progress, and this point we have not yet reached. It frequently happens that the same man who yesterday planted some half dozen branchless saplings before his door, will to-day cut down a noble elm, or oak, only a few rods from his house, an object which was in itself a hundred-fold more beautiful than any other in his possession. In very truth, a fine tree near a house is a much greater embellishment than the thickest coat of paint that could be put on its walls, or a whole row of wooden columns to adorn its front; nay, a large shady tree in a door-yard is much more desirable than the most expensive mahogany and velvet sofa in the parlor. Unhappily, our people generally do not yet see things in this light. But time is a very essential element, absolutely indispensable, indeed, in true civilization; and in the course of years we shall, it is to be hoped, learn farther lessons of this kind. Closer observation will reveal to us the beauty and excellence of simplicity, a quality as yet too little valued or understood in this country. And when we have made this farther progress, then we shall take better care of our trees. We shall not be satisfied with setting out a dozen naked saplings before our door, because our neighbor on the left did so last year, nor cut down a whole wood, within a stone's throw of our dwelling, to pay for a Brussels carpet from the same piece as our neighbor's on the right; no, we shall not care a stiver for mere show and parade, in any shape whatever, but we shall look to the general proprieties and fitness of things, whether our neighbors to the right or the left do so or not.

Id., p. 135 (Summer: July 28):

At a particular point in the wilds of Oregon, near the bank of the Columbia River, there stood a single tree of great size, one of the majestic pines of that region, and long known as a landmark to the hunters and emigrants passing over those solitary wastes. One of the expeditions sent out to explore that country by the government, arriving near the point, were on the watch for that pine to guide their course; they looked for it some time, but in vain; at length, reaching the spot where they supposed it ought to have stood—a way-mark in the wilderness—they found the tree lying on the earth. It had been felled, and left there to rot, by some man claiming, no doubt, to be a civilized being. The man who could do such an act would have been worthy to make one of the horde of Attila, barbarians who delighted to level to the ground every object over which their own horses could not leap.

Id., p. 139 (Summer: August 2):

This general fertility, this blending of the fields of man and his tillage with the woods, the great husbandry of Providence, gives a fine character to the country, which it could not claim when the lonely savage roamed through wooded valleys, and which it must lose if ever cupidity, and the haste to grow rich, shall destroy the forest entirely, and leave these hills to posterity, bald and bare, as those of many older lands. No perfection of tillage, no luxuriance of produce can make up to a country for the loss of its forests; you may turn the soil into a very garden crowded with the richest crops, if shorn of wood, like Sampson shorn of his locks, it may wear a florid aspect, but the noblest fruit of the earth, that which is the greatest proof of her strength, will be wanting.

Id., p. 146 (Summer: August 7):

Walked in the Great Meadow. The old trees which bordered this fine field in past years are fast falling before the axe. A few summers back, this was one of the most beautiful meadows in the valley: a broad, grassy lawn of some twenty acres, shut out from the world by a belt of wood sweeping round it in a wide circle; it was favorite ground with some of us, one of those spots where the sweet quiet of the fields, and the deeper calm of the forest, are brought together. On one hand, the trees were of a younger growth, luxuriant and grove-like in aspect, but beyond, the wood rose from the bank of the river in tall, grand columns, of lighter and darker shades of gray. Nothing can be more different than the leafy, bowery border of a common wood, where one scarcely sees the trunks, and the bounds which mark a breach in the ancient forest. The branchless shafts of those aged oaks, pines, chestnuts, hemlocks and ashes, are very impressive objects, forming in such positions a noble forest portal. We have frequently stood upon the highway, perhaps half a mile off, to admire those great trunks lighted up by the sunshine, with which they had so lately made acquaintance; there are few such forest colonnades left in our neighborhood, and this is now falling rapidly before the axeman.

Id., p. 149 (Summer: August 9):

This whole grove was formerly very beautiful, composed chiefly of noble oaks of primeval growth, many of them hung with grape-vines, while a pretty clump of wild roses grew at their feet; some of the vines and many of the rose-bushes are still left, but the trees are falling rapidly. They have been recklessly abused by kindling fires against their trunks, using them as chimney shafts, which of course must destroy them. In this way, oaks that might have stood yet for centuries, with increasing beauty, have been wantonly destroyed. Not a season passes that one does not fall, and within the last few years their number has very sensibly diminished. The spot is but a wreck of what it was.

Labels: arboricide

Horace, Epode 13, tr. Thomas Creech, The Odes, Satyrs, and Epistles of Horace. Done into English (London: Jacob Tonson, 1684), pp. 174-175 (line numbers added):

He adviseth his Friends to pass their time merrily.

Dark Clouds have thickned all the Sky,
    And Jove descends in Rain;
With frightful noise rough Storms do fly
Thro Seas and Woods, and humble Plain.

My noble Friends the Day perswades,        5
    Come, come, let's use the Day;
Whilst we are strong, e're Age invades,
Let Mirth our coming Years delay:

Put briskly round the noble Wine,
    And leave the rest to Fate;        10
Jove, chance, will make the Evening shine,
And bring it to a clearer State:

Now, now your fragrant Odors spread,
    Your merry Harps prepare;
'Tis time to cleanse my aking Head,        15
And purge my drooping thoughts from Care.

Thus Chiron sang in lofty Strain
    And taught Achilles Youth;
Great Thetis Son, the Pride of Man,
Observe, I tell thee fatal Truth:        20

Thee, thee for Troy the Gods design
    Where Simois Streams do play,
Scamander's thro the Vallies twine,
And softly eat their easy way:

And there thy thread of Life must end        25
    Drawn o're the Trojan Plain,
In vain her Waves shall Thetis send
To bear Thee back to Greece again:

Therefore, Great Son, my Precepts hear;
    Let Mirth, and Wine, and Sport,        30
And merry Talk divert thy Care,
And make Life pleasant since 'tis short.

11 chance: perchance

The Latin:

Horrida tempestas caelum contraxit et imbres
    nivesque deducunt Iovem; nunc mare, nunc silvae
Threicio Aquilone sonant: rapiamus, amici,
    occasionem de die, dumque virent genua
et decet, obducta solvatur fronte senectus.        5
    tu vina Torquato move consule pressa meo.
cetera mitte loqui: deus haec fortasse benigna
    reducet in sedem vice. nunc et Achaemenio
perfundi nardo iuvat et fide Cyllenea
    levare diris pectora sollicitudinibus;        10
nobilis ut grandi cecinit Centaurus alumno:
    'invicte, mortalis dea nate puer Thetide,
te manet Assaraci tellus, quam frigida parvi
    findunt Scamandri flumina lubricus et Simois,
unde tibi reditum certo subtemine Parcae        15
    rupere, nec mater domum caerula te revehet.
illic omne malum vino cantuque levato,
    deformis aegrimoniae dulcibus alloquiis.'

Summary in Lindsay C. Watson, A Commentary on Horace's Epodes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), p. 417:

A storm is raging, bringing with it rain, snow, and wind. Let us seize the opportunity offered by the weather to dispel our cares with wine and song—fitting behaviour for young men such as us. Perhaps our fortunes may take a turn for the better. Achilles' teacher Chiron similarly advised him, when he should come to Troyland, there to assuage his misfortune with song and drinking.

Byron, letter to Thomas Moore (Venice, December 5, 1816):

By way of divertissement, I am studying daily, at an Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. I found that my mind wanted something craggy to break upon; and this—as the most difficult thing I could discover here for an amusement—I have chosen, to torture me into attention. It is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it. I try, and shall go on;—but I answer for nothing, least of all for my intentions or my success. There are some very curious MSS. in the monastery, as well as books; translations also from Greek originals, now lost, and from Persian and Syriac, etc.; besides works of their own people. Four years ago the French instituted an Armenian professorship. Twenty pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of noble ardour, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. They persevered, with a courage worthy of the nation and of universal conquest, till Thursday; when fifteen of the twenty succumbed to the six-and-twentieth letter of the alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an Alphabet—that must be said for them.

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), "Fusées," no. XXIII, tr. Christopher Isherwood:

What can be more absurd than Progress, since man, as the event of each day proves, is for ever the double and equal of man—is for ever, that is to say, in the state of primitive nature! What perils have the forest and the prairie to compare with the daily shocks and conflicts of civilization? Whether man ensnares his dupe upon the boulevard or pierces his victim within the trackless forests, is he not everlasting man, the most perfect of the beasts of prey?

The French, from Charles Baudelaire, Oeuvres Posthumes et Correspondances Inédites (Paris: Maison Quantin, 1887), p. 86:

Quoi de plus absurde que le Progrès, puisque l'homme, comme cela est prouvé par le fait journalier, est toujours semblable et égal à l'homme, c'est-à-dire toujours à l'état sauvage! Qu'est-ce que les périls de la forêt et de la prairie auprès des chocs et des conflits quotidiens de la civilisation? Que l'homme enlace sa dupe sur le boulevard, ou perce sa proie dans des forêts inconnues, n'est-il pas l'homme éternel, c'est-à-dire l'animal de proie le plus parfait?

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• Beware

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900), "Dregs," The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson (New York: Boni and Liveright, 1919), p. 116:

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;
And health and hope have gone the way of love
Into the drear oblivion of lost things.
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
This is the end of all the songs man sings.

William Cooke, Memoirs of Samuel Foote, Esq. With a Collection of his Genuine Bon-Mots, Anecdotes, Opinions, &c., Vol. I (New York: Peter A. Mesier, 1806), pp. 14-15:

At another time, when Foote was enjoined to learn certain tasks in consequence of his idleness, he used to come forward with a large folio dictionary under his arm, and present himself before the doctor with great seeming gravity and submission. "Well, Sir, what do you want Sir, I am come to do away the imposition laid upon me."—"What do you mean by imposition? I would have you know, Sir, I impose upon nobody;"—" I am sure then, Sir, if you did not impose this duty upon me, I should never have taken a natural fancy to it."

Here the doctor usually growled, and desired him to go on, which the other generally did with a degree of talent and perspicuity that often confounded his examiner. After this, the doctor would read his pupil a lecture on idleness, and on the great danger of following the ebullitions of fancy in preference to the dictates of sober judgment; describing also the figure he might make in the world, if he took the proper course; and, on the contrary, the contempt and misery which must follow a life of inattention and dissipation.

The doctor, in delivering this lecture to his pupil, did it in a sour, dogmatical, pedantic manner, accompanied with a number of hard words and quaint phrases; the other, being prepared for these, immediately interrupted him, and after begging pardon, with great formality, would take his dictionary from under his arm, and pretending to find the meaning of the word, would say, "Very well, Sir; now please to go on."

Frederic W. Farrar (1831-1903), Julian Home: A Tale of College Life (London: A. & C. Black, 1899), pp. 92-95:

The incentives which lead young men to work are as various as the influences which tend to make them idle. One toils on, however hopelessly, from a sense of duty, from a desire to please his parents, and satisfy the requirements of the place; another because he has been well trained into habits of work, and has a notion of educating the mind; a third because he has set his heart on a fellowship; a fourth, because he is intensely ambitious, and looks on a good degree as the stepping-stone to literary or political honours. The fewest perhaps pursue learning for her own sake, and study out of a simple eagerness to know what may be known, as the best means of cultivating their intellectual powers for the attainment of at least a personal solution of those great problems, the existence of which they have already begun to realise. But of this rare class was Julian Home. He studied with an ardour and a passion before which difficulties vanished, and in consequence of which he seemed to progress not the less surely, because it was with great strides. For the first time in his life, Julian found himself entirely alone in the great wide realm of literature—alone, to wander at his own will, almost without a guide. And joyously did that brave young spirit pursue its way—now resting in some fragrant glen, and by some fountain mirror, where the boughs which bent over him were bright with blossom and rich with fruit—now plunging into some deep thicket, where at every step he had to push aside the heavy branches and tangled weeds—and now climbing with toilful progress some steep and rocky hill, on whose summit, hardly attained, he could rest at last, and gaze back over perils surmounted and precipices passed, and mark the thunder rolling over the valleys, or gaze on kingdoms full of peace and beauty, slumbering in the broad sunshine beneath his feet.

Julian read for the sake of knowledge, and because he intensely enjoyed the great authors whose thoughts he studied. He had read parts of Homer, parts of Thucydides, parts of Tacitus, parts of the tragedians, at school, but now he had it in his power to study a great author entire, and as a whole. Never before did he fully appreciate the "thunderous lilt" of Greek epic, the touching and voluptuous tenderness of Latin elegy, the regal pomp of history, the gorgeous and philosophic mystery of the old dramatic fables. Never before had he learnt to gaze on "the bright countenance of truth, in the mild and dewy air of delightful studies." Those who decry classical education do so from inexperience of its real character and value, and can hardly conceive the sense of strength and freedom which a young and ingenuous intellect acquires in all literature, and in all thought, by the laborious and successful endeavour to enter into that noble heritage which has been left us by the wisdom of bygone generations. Those hours were the happiest of Julian's life; often would he be beguiled by his studies into the "wee small" hours of night; and in the grand company of eloquent men and profound philosophers he would forget everything in the sense of intellectual advance. Then first he began to understand Milton's noble exclamation—

"How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh and rugged as dull fools suppose.
But musical as is Apollo's lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns."

He studied accurately, yet with appreciation; sometimes the two ways of study are not combined, and while one man will be content with a cold and barren estimate of γε and που derived from wading through the unutterable tedium of interminable German notes, of which the last always contradicted all the rest; another will content himself with eviscerating the general meaning of a passage, without any attempt to feel the finer pulses of emotion, or discriminate the nicer shades of thought. Eschewing commentators as much as he could, Julian would first carefully go over a long passage, solely with a view to the clear comprehension of the author's language, and would then re-read the whole for the purpose of enjoying and appreciating the thoughts which the words enshrined; and finally, when he had finished a book or a poem, would run through it again as a whole with all the glow and enthusiasm of a perfect comprehension.

Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Rawlinson G.22, f. 1^v, text as in Theodore Silverstein, ed., English Lyrics Before 1500 (1971; rpt. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1988), p. 39:

Mirie it is while sumer ilast
With fugheles song,
Oc nu necheth windes blast
And weder strong.
Ej! Ej! what this nicht is long,        5
And ich wid wel michel wrong
Soregh and murne and fast.

1 Mirie: Merry
ilast: lasts
2 fugheles: fowls', birds'
3 oc nu necheth: but now nigheth (i.e. neareth)
4 weder: weather
5 nicht: night
6 ich wid wel michel: I with very much
7 soregh and murne: sorrow and mourn

Translation by Brian Stone in Medieval English Verse (1964; rpt. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1986), p. 62:

Merry it is while summer lasts,
      With birds in song;
But now there threaten windy blasts
      And tempests strong.
   Ah, but the night is long,
   And I, being done such wrong,
Sorrow and mourn and fast.

Some (I am not among them) regard this as a religious, penitential lyric, and interpret "wrong" in line 6 not as an injustice done against the poet, but as a sin committed by him.

Donald Richie, The Inland Sea (1971; rpt. Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press, 2002), p. 156:

Travel hopefully broadens those who travel. It usually narrows those who have to deal with the travelers. Maybe they just see too many people—an experience that will always make one dissatisfied and irritable. I read somewhere that we only have tolerance for about fifty new people a day. After that we become snappish.

John Carey, "Vegetable Gardening," Original Copy: Selected Reviews and Journalism 1969-1986 (London: Faber and Faber, 1987), pp. 30-36 (at 36):

Isn't it time we realized that, given our bulging populations, vegetables have now become more desirable inhabitants of the earth than people: less destructive, more peaceful, more serviceable for sustaining life? The day I see a row of houses being pulled down to make a vegetable plot, I shall feel that something sane and healthy has happened.

Robert Southey (1774-1843), "Sonnet XX" (dated 1799), The Minor Poems of Robert Southey, Vol. I (London: Longman, 1815), p. 112:

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,
    Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose;
    Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way,
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
    Old Winter! seated in thy great arm'd chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
    Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,
    Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
    Or taste the old October brown and bright.

In the last line, October is "A kind of strong ale traditionally brewed in October" (Oxford English Dictionary, sense 2).

Hat tip: Ian Jackson.

James Ryman, poem CXVII, in J. Zupitza, "Die Gedichte des Franziskaners Jacob Ryman," Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen and Litteraturen 89 (1892) 167-338 (at 292-293):

Nowe lete us syng and mery be,
For Crist, oure kyng, hath made us fre.

                       1.
Now forto syng I holde it best
And lete alle care and sorowe goo,
For Crist, oure kyng, nowe in þis fest
Was born to bryng us owte of woo.

                       2.
Thatte blessyd chyld tok flesshe and bloode
By vertu of the holigost
Of Mary myld, thatte meyde so goode,
To saue mankynde, the whiche was lost.

                       3.
When he was born of thatte myld meyde,
Thatt blessyd lord and heuen kyng,
As long beforn prophetys hadde seyde,
With on accorde angellis didde syng.

                       4.
The angellis than seide: 'Ioy mot be
To god a-boue in heuen blys
And peas to man, for alle thatte he
Hath offendid and done a mys.'

                       5.
The shepherdis than kepyng there folde
Hurd fulle sweete songe and sawe grete liȝt,
When god and man, as prophetis told,
Was mekely born vppon thatte nyght.

                       6.
Syth man ys take ayen to grace
And brought ayen to ioye and blys,
Lete us alle make myrþe and solace
And lete us thanke oure lorde of thys.

In modern spelling:

Now let us sing and merry be,
For Christ, our king, hath made us free.

                       1.
Now for to sing I hold it best
And let all care and sorrow go,
For Christ, our king, now in this feast
Was born to bring us out of woe.

                       2.
That blessed child took flesh and blood
By virtue of the Holy Ghost
Of Mary mild, that maid so good,
To save mankind, the which was lost.

                       3.
When he was born of that mild maid,
That blessed lord and heaven king,
As long before prophets had said,
With one accord angels did sing.

                       4.
The angels then said: 'Joy must be
To God above in heaven bliss
And peace to man, for all that he
Hath offended and done amiss.'

                       5.
The shepherds then keeping their fold
Heard full sweet song and saw great light,
When God and man, as prophets told,
Was meekly born upon that night.

                       6.
Since man is taken again to grace
And brought again to joy and bliss,
Let us all make mirth and solace
And let us thank our Lord of this.

Esteban Manuel de Villegas (1589-1669), "To Winter" ("Al Hibierno"), tr. Robert Southey:

Enough, enough, old Winter!
Thou workest to annoy us,
With cold, and rain, and tempest,
When snows have hid the country,
And rivers cease to flow.
The flocks and herds accuse thee,
And even the little ermine
Complains of thee, old Winter!
For thou to man art freezing,
And his white fur is warm.
The beasts they crouch in cover,
The birds are cold and hungry,
The birds are cold and silent,
Or with a weak complaining,
They call thee hard and cruel.
But not to me, old Winter!
Thy tyranny extends;
For I have wine and music,
The cheerful hearth and song.

The Spanish, from Parnaso Español, T. I (Madrid: Joachin Ibarra, 1768), pp. 63–64:

Basta, que das, Hibierno,
en ser nuestro enemigo,
ya con nieves y barros,
ya con lluvias y frios,
quando, encaneces campos
quando, detienes rios,
y para que se quiebren
los conviertes en vidrio.
Destruyes los ganados,
agostas los egidos;
y al fin de tus rigores
se quexan los armiños.
Porque ¿ quien al capullo,
o quien al lanificio
cosió sus blancas pieles
sino tus blancos hilos?
Las fieras en sus chozas,
las aves en sus nidos,
te llaman insolente
con quejas, y bramidos.
Solo contra mí solo
no tienes poderío
donde hay citara y canto,
donde hay hogar y vino.

Related posts:

• By the Fire-Side
• Invitations
• Cold Outdoors, Warm Indoors
• A Winter's Afternoon
• Fine Old Christmas
• Snowbound
• The Science of Happiness
• Invitation
• Winter Pursuits
• Cold Outside, Cozy Inside