B U R E A U O F P U B L I C S E C R E T S

Carmina Burana

(Eight Translations of Dum Diana vitrea . . .)



The original Latin:



Dum Diana vitrea

sero lampas oritur,

et a fratris rosea

luce dum succenditur,

dulcis aura Zephiri

spirans omnes etheri

nubes tollit,

sic emollit

vi[s] chordarum pectora,

et immutat

cor, quod nutat

ad amoris pignora. Letum iubar Hesperi

gratiorem

dat humorem

roris soporiferi

mortalium generi. O quam felix est

antidotum soporis,

quot curarum tempestates

sedat et doloris!

Dum surrepit clausis

oculorum poris,

ipsum gaudio equiperat

dulcedini amoris. Orpheus [Morpheus] in mentem

trahit impellentem

ventum lenem,

segetes maturas,

murmura rivorum

per harenas puras,

circulares ambitus molendinorum,

qui furantur somno lumen oculorum. Post blanda Veneris conmercia

lassatur cerebri substantia;

hinc caligant

mira novitate

oculi nantes

in palpebrarum rate.

Hei quam felix transitus

amoris ad soporem,

sed suavior

regressus ad amorem! Ex alvo leta

fumus evaporat,

qui capitis tres

cellulas irrorat;

hic infumat oculos

ad soporem pendulos,

et palpabras

sua fumositate

replet, ne visus

exspacietur late;

unde ligant oculos

virtutes animales,

que sunt magis

vise ministeriales. Fronde sub arboris amena,

dum querens canit Philomena,

suave est quiescere,

suavius ludere

in gramine

cum virgine

spetiosa.

Si variarum

odor herbarum

spiraverit,

si dederit

thorum rosa,

dulciter soporis alimonia

post Veneris defessa commercia

captatur,

dum lassis instillatur. O in quantis

animus amantis

variatur

vacillantis!

Ut vaga

ratis per equora,

dum caret anchora,

fluctuat inter spem

metumque dubia,

sic Veneris milicia. (Carmina Burana manuscript, ca. 12th century)



When the lamp of Cynthia late

Rises in her silver state,

Through her brothers roseate light,

Blushing on the brows of night;

Then the pure ethereal air

Breathes with zephyr blowing fair;

Clouds and vapours disappear.

As with chords of lute and lyre,

Soothed the spirits now respire,

And the heart revives again

Which once more for love is fain.

But the orient evening star

Sheds with influence kindlier far

Dews of sweet sleep on the eye

Of oer-tired mortality. Oh, how blessed to take and keep

Is the antidote of sleep!

Sleep that lulls the storms of care

And of sorrow unaware,

Creeping through the closèd doors

Of the eyes, and through the pores

Breathing bliss so pure and rare

That with love it may compare. Then the god of dreams doth bring

To the mind some restful thing,

Breezes soft that rippling blow

Oer ripe cornfields row by row,

Murmuring rivers round whose brim

Silvery sands the swallows skim,

Or the drowsy circling sound

Of old mill-wheels going round,

Which with music steal the mind

And the eyes in slumber bind. When the deeds of love are done

Which bland Venus had begun,

Languor steals with pleasant strain

Through the chambers of the brain,

Eyes neath eyelids gently tired

Swim and seek the rest desired.

How deliciously at last

Into slumber love hath passed!

But how sweeter yet the way

Which leads love again to play! From the soothed limbs upward spread

Glides a mist divinely shed,

Which invades the heart and head:

Drowsily it veils the eyes,

Bending toward sleeps paradise,

And with curling vapour round

Fills the lids, the senses swound,

Till the visual ray is bound

By those ministers which make

Life renewed in man awake. Underneath the leafy shade

Of a tree in quiet laid,

While the nightingale complains

Singing of her ancient pains,

Sweet it is still hours to pass,

But far sweeter on the grass

With a buxom maid to play

All a summers holiday.

When the scent of herb and flower

Breathes upon the silent hour,

When the rose with leaf and bloom

Spreads a couch of pure perfume,

Then the grateful boon of sleep

Falls with satisfaction deep,

Showering dews our eyes above,

Tired with honeyed strife of love. In how many moods the mind

Of poor lovers, weak and blind,

Wavers like the wavering wind!

As a ship in darkness lost,

Without anchor tempest-tossed,

So with hope and fear imbued

It roams in great incertitude

Loves tempestuous ocean-flood. Translated by John Addington Symonds

(Wine, Women and Song, 1884)



When Diana lighteth

Late her crystal lamp,

Her pale glory kindleth

From her brothers fire,

Little straying west winds

Wander over heaven,

Moonlight falleth,

And recalleth

With a sound of lute-strings shaken,

Hearts that have denied his reign

To love again.

Hesperus, the evening star,

To all things that mortal are,

Grants the dew of sleep. Thrice happy sleep!

The antidote to care,

Thou dost allay the storm

Of grief and sore despair;

Through the fast-closed gates

Thou stealest light;

Thy coming gracious is

As Loves delight. Sleep through the wearied brain

Breathes a soft wind

From fields of ripening grain,

The sound

Of running water over clearest sand,

A millwheel turning, turning slowly round,

These steal the light

From eyes weary of sight. Loves sweet exchange and barter, then the brain

Sinks to repose;

Swimming in strangeness of a new delight

The eyelids close;

Oh sweet the passing oer from love to sleep.

But sweeter the awakening to love. Under the kind branching trees

Where Philomel complains and sings

Most sweet to lie at ease,

Sweeter to take delight

Of beauty and the night

On the fresh springing grass,

With smell of mint and thyme,

And for Loves bed, the rose.

Sleeps dew doth ever bless,

But most distilled on lovers weariness. Translated by Helen Waddell

(Medieval Latin Lyrics, 1929)



When Dianas gleaming lamp

Upward gliding, rises late,

Kindled while her brothers light,

Fading, still is roseate,

Sweet airs blowing from the west

Lift the mists that congregate

Far aloft:

Like music soft

Twilight soothes the breast,

And after long repelling

The heart gives love a dwelling.

Welcome then

To mortal men,

Hesperus, shining bright,

Brings cool and damp

The sleep-compelling dews of night. O what bliss it is!

Sleep, the antidote,

From storms of care and grief

How sheltered, how remote:

Sleep that slyly enters

The portals of the eyes,

Bringing joys that equal

Sweet loves paradise. When Morpheus has passed

To drowsy fancy sending

A light wind blowing,

Ripe corn bending,

Rippling waters flowing

Over pure sands,

Millwheels turning

While still the mill stands, 

Then robbed of all discerning

The eyes close at last. After the subtle interchange of love

The nerves, late overtaxed,

Are now relaxed;

A wondrous newness we are conscious of,

While eyes afloat

With darkness brimming

Glide like a boat

On eyelids skimming.

Height, tis joy to disencumber

Thought from coils of love in slumber,

But sweeter far the reawaking

Out of sleep to new love-making. From glad satiety such fumes arise

As cloud the three-celled brain;

These vapors then incline the heavy eyes

To sleep again,

Filling the eyelids with a drowsy smoke

That holds in check the power of sight;

The animal spirits, ministering, wrap tight

The eyes as with a cloak. Then under pleasant boughs,

While grieving Philomel descants,

Sweet it is to drowse,

Or still more sweet perchance

To woo some pretty creature on the lawn:

Spicy garden odors breathing,

Roses round our couch enwreathing,

To snatch delight in slumbers sustenance,

Loves fainting joys a while forgone

In languor deep withdrawn. But O, how many are the changes

Through which a lovers spirit ranges!

No ship that drifts

With anchor lost

Can match the shifts

Of hope and fear

Wherewith hes crossed:

The folk of Venus buy her service dear. Translated by George F. Whicher

(The Goliard Poets, 1949)



When Diana, late at night,

for her crystal lamp reclaims

pink and paler light

kindled from her brothers flames,

western winds soft and fair

fill the air,

clear the sky,

and as by

music falling from above

cast their spell

and compel

hearts once hard to yield to love,

as the evening star again

bright and new,

fresh with dew,

charms to sleep mortal men. O felicity

of sleep careless

that comes to set us free

from all distress,

and through the eyes entry

making sweet ingress

prepares us for sorcery

of loves progress. Morpheus, shaper in the mind,

brings us for dreams

soft blowing wind,

murmuring of streams

over clear sand running,

mill wheel sound

all night long turning

slowly round and round

softly to mesmerize

day-weary eyes. After loves blandishing

and soft exchanges,

sleep comes languishing;

new strength outranges

all past sweet experience

and swims in new ecstasies of sense.

Lovely to sleep after loves strain,

but lovelier to wake from sleep to love again. Under green trellises

where Philomela sings the lay

of her sad jealousies,

sweet to sleep the night away,

but sweeter still to play

with a girl in the grass,

and with such beauty pass

all the time away. Smell of thyme and roses

and all things growing

gently disposes

of all our hearts undoing,

and the heart in weariness

after loves commerces

softly reposes. Translated by Richmond Lattimore

(1966; reprinted in Poems from Three Decades, 1972)



As Zephyrs sweet breath takes every cloud from the sky when Dianas crystal lamp rises at dusk, kindled by her brothers rose light, so the power of music lightens the minds of men, and transforms the heart, that it inclines to the vows of love. Hesperos joyful beam sheds a sweet rain of slumbrous dew upon mankind. Oh how happy is the remedy of sleep, calming the storms of cares and grief! When it steals under the closed eyelids, it is equal in joy to the sweetness of love. Orpheus draws into the beating mind a gentle wind, ripe cornfields, murmurs of streams across pure sands, mill-wheels turning, which steal away the light of the eyes in sleep. After the tender interchanges of love, the matter of the brain is languorous. Thus in a new and wondrous wise the eyes grow dark, swimming on a float of eyelids with its smokiness, lest sight should range afar. So the animal spirits, which specially in this show themselves our servants, bind the eyes. Under the gracious boughs of a tree, while Philomena sings lamenting, it is sweet to rest, sweeter still to play in the grass with a lovely girl. If the scent of many herbs perfumes the air, if the rose offers a bed, the nourishment of sleep is sweetly won, showered upon the languorous after loves play has faded. Oh in how many ways a lovers spirit is filled with uncertainties! Like an anchorless raft drifting across the ocean, those in Loves company fluctuate, wavering between hope and fear. Translated by Peter Dronke

(Medieval Latin and the Rise of the European Love-Lyric, 1966)



When Dianas crystalline

lantern rises late at night,

shimmering with undershine

from her brothers rosy light:

when the gentle Zephyrs breeze

whiffles little clouds with ease

up and away . . .

so then the lay

of lutenists and ligatures

lures returning

hearts from yearning

after lovers overtures. Hesperus with starlight beams

drawing dewdrops,

soothing dewdrops,

dulls with soporific dreams

mortal creatures and regimes. O how welcome, slumber!  sleep, the antidote

to all our inmost storms of hurt and doubt

instills between the lids of eyes half shut

such ecstasy as ever love gave out. Morpheus unminds us:

weaving dreams, unwinds us

gentle winds from fields of ripening corn:

trickling steamlets over sandbeds borne:

an endless round and round of millwheels turning

robs our sleep-dimmed eyes of all discerning. After exquisite toil at loves behest

the wearied brain seeks welcomely to rest:

eyes rediscover peace in growing dim,

yield in their raft of lids to sink or swim.

To pass from love to languor  yes, this is a sweet remove! 

but sweeter still the swift return to love. From flesh fulfilled, contented perfumes spread

through all three layers of the lovers head,

enveloping those selfsame eyes

sleep strives to mesmerize:

over the eyelids draw their swirling shield

to hold the gaze from wandering far afield . . .

so do Natures ministers soothe eyes into submission,

serving as the faithful guardians of our power of vision. Under the shady greenwood tree

where the nightingale sings plaintively

sweet to be lying there . . .

sweeter, be trying there

the playful whirl

of a lovely girl

in the grass:

and where the vagrant

scents of fragrant

herbs have strayed

and roses made

a couching place . . .

there then the soft sustenance of sleep,

when lovers toils are done, is happily relinquished

to those by labour vanquished. Oh what commotions

and variable devotions

agitate the hearts emotions!

how like an unanchored boat

on seas we float, we

fluctuate between hope and misgiving 

who champion Venus for a living. Translated by David Parlett

(Selections from the Carmina Burana, 1986)



When the glistening torch of Diana rises late in the day and is ignited by the rosy light of her brother, the sweet breath of the West Wind with its exhalation removes all clouds from the sky. In the same way that wind by the power of his strings relieves mens breasts and transforms the heart that is wilting in the face of loves pledges. The joyful radiance of the evening star brings to the race of mortals the more welcome moisture of sleep-inducing dew. How blessed is the antidote of sleep! What storms of cares and griefs it assuages! As it creeps along the closed passages of the eyes, it equals with its joy the sweetness of love. Morpheus draws into the mind a gentle wind inclining the ripe harvest, the murmur of rills along glistening courses of sand, the circling movement of the beasts of the mill, which in sleep steal the sight from our eyes. After the pleasurable interchange of love, the brain matter is fatigued. By reason of this the eyes, swimming in the barque of the lids, darken in a strange and novel way. Oh, how blessed is the passage from love to sleep, but sweeter the return to love! Steam wells forth from the exultant belly and bedews the three cells of the brain. Here it wreathes the eyes as they droop in sleep and fills the lids with its fumes, so that the sight may not journey far. So the physical powers, which appear stronger in their service, bind the eyes. It is sweet to relax under the lovely foliage of a tree to the plaintive song of the nightingale. But it is sweeter to sport on the grass with a beautiful maiden. If the scent of mingled plants breathes forth, if rose petals provide a couch, once the wearying intercourse of love is over it is sweet to win the nurture of sleep as it seeps into our languid bodies. In what depths does the mind of the unstable lover shift! Loves army is like a ship without an anchor, wandering over the sea, wavering hesitant between hope and fear. Translated by P.G. Walsh

(Love Poems from the Carmina Burana, 1993)



When Diane rises and lights

Her crystalline lamp,

She is kindled

By the shine of her rosy brothers.

A delightful Western breeze lifts

Away the gray clouds from all couples 

Loosening the chords of the heart;

Inclining it

Toward the vow of love. Once the star of the night

Loses its radiance,

Joy is transformed

Into passions sleepy dew. Oh! How sleep is the fertile

Antidote to storms and cares!

When sleep opens itself

To the gates of the eyes,

It brings ecstasy equal to love. Morpheus draws the dreams of the mind

Into the winds lightness 

From fields of ripe corn,

The river murmurs

With its sand,

While the mill wheel turns.

Then he steals

The sleep from

The light in our eyes. After the seductive interlude of love,

Fatigue sweeps the minds essence.

In this place

Our eyes swim and grow dark.

Oh! How good is the passage

From love to slumber,

But sweeter still is loves return. Beneath the foliage of trees,

Resting to the song

Of the nightingale is sweet.

Even sweeter is

Playing in the grass

With your love.

If the diverse scents

Of plants and herbs

Drift in the air,

And there is a bed of roses

To nourish a delightful sleep,

It is grasped

By the weary

When the interchange

Of love is exhausted. Oh! How the great diversity

Of loves spirit

Sways to and fro.

As we journey

On a raft

Without an anchor,

We fluctuate

Between the vacillating

Hopes and fears

Of love. Translated by Anthony Leskov

(Communicating Vessels #27, 2015)



Eight translations of an anonymous Latin song from the Carmina Burana. The quality of this poem (in the original Latin) is such that some scholars have speculated that it, along with a few others in the Carmina Burana manuscript, may have been written by Peter Abelard (who was reputed to have written superlative love poems in his youth, though none are known to have survived).

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