CHAPTER VII.

THE CORSICAN DIRGES.

In order to understand the Corsican dirges, we must consider them in their relation to the existent usages in connexion with death—usages which date from a remote antiquity. Among a people with whom death assumes, more than anywhere else, the character of a destroying angel, whose bloody form is almost constantly before their eyes, it is natural to expect that the dead should have a more striking cultus than elsewhere. There is something mysterious and impressive in the circumstance, that the finest poetry of the Corsicans is the poetry of death, and that they hardly ever compose or sing except in the frenzy of grief. Most of these strange flowers of their popular poetry have their root in blood.

When a death has occurred, the relatives standing round the bed repeat the prayers of the rosary; they then raise a loud wail (_grido_). The corpse is now laid upon a table standing by the wall, called the _tola_. The head, on which a cap is placed, rests on a pillow. To preserve the natural appearance of the features, the head is bound with a cloth or fillet, supporting the chin, and fastened beneath the cap. If it is a young girl, she lies in a white shroud, and on her head is a wreath of flowers; if it is a grown-up female, she usually wears a coloured dress; that of aged women is black. A male corpse lies in a shroud and Phrygian cap, resembling thus the Etruscan dead, as they may be seen, surrounded with mourners, in representations contained in the Etrurian Museum of the Vatican.

The friends watch and wail beside the tola often throughout the whole night; and fire is always kept burning. But the principal lament occurs early on the morning of the funeral, when the body is laid in the coffin, and before the Brothers of Death come to lift the bier. The friends and relatives come from the neighbouring villages to the funeral. This assemblage is called the _corteo_, cortege, or procession, or the _scirrata_—a word which looks like the German _schaar_, though the origin cannot be accurately ascertained. A woman, always the poetess of the dirge which she sings, leads a chorus of wailing females. They say, therefore, in Corsica—_andare alla scirrata_, when the women go in procession to the house where the dead body lies; if it is the body of a man who has been killed, they say: _andare alla gridata_—to go to the wailing, or, more strictly, the howling. When the women of the chorus enter the house, they greet the widow, mother, or sister of the dead, as the case may be, keeping head bended towards head for about half a minute. Then a woman of the family invites the assembled females to begin the lament. They form a circle, the _cerchio_ or _caracollo_, about the tola, and move round the dead body howling, breaking the circle, and again closing it, always with loud lamentation and gestures of the wildest grief.

This pantomime is not the same in all parts of the country. In some places it has become altogether obsolete, in others it has a milder form; among the mountains, far in the interior, particularly in Niolo, such usages exist in all their old pagan force, and resemble the death-dances of Sardinia. Their dramatic animation and ecstatic fury shock and horrify the spectator. They are all women who dance, wail, and sing. Like Mænads, the hair dishevelled and flying about the breast, eyes darting fire, their black mantles waving, they sway to and fro and round the tola, shriek, strike their hands together, beat their breasts, tear their hair, weep, sob, throw themselves on the bier, besprinkle themselves with dust; then the lament ceases, and these women sit silent, like a sisterhood of sibyls, on the floor of the chamber of death, breathing deeply, and calming themselves. There is a fearful contrast between this wild death-dance, with its shrieks and howling, and the corpse lying in the midst of it rigid and still, and yet ruling all the while the frantic orgies. Among the mountains, the wailers tear their faces till the blood flows, because, according to ancient heathen belief, blood is acceptable to the dead, and appeases the shade. This is called _raspa_ or _scalfitto_.

There is a demoniac wildness about these wailing women, which reaches a frightful pitch when their dance and lament concern a murdered man. Then they become the very Furies themselves, the snaky-haired avengers of murder, as Æschylus has painted them. Their loose hair, howling, singing revenge, circling in their horrid dance, the effect of their chant on the murderer who hears it is frequently so overpowering, that, seized with shuddering horror and agony of conscience, he betrays himself. I have read of a murderer who, disguised in the cowled capote of the Brothers of Death, had the hardihood to hold one of the tapers by the bier of him whom he had helped to assassinate; and who, when he heard the dirge begin to shriek for vengeance, trembled so violently that the taper fell from his hand. In criminal trials, affirmations on the part of witnesses that the accused has been seen to tremble during the lament, are received as condemnatory proof. Yes! there is many a man in this island like the Orestes of Æschylus, of whom the prophetess might say—

"On the navel-stone behold a man With crime polluted to the altar clinging, And in his bloody hand he held a sword Dripping with recent murder;

* * * * *

And, stretch'd before him, an unearthly host Of strangest women, on the sacred seats Sleeping—not women, but a Gorgon brood, And worse than Gorgons, or the ravenous crew That filched the feast of Phineus (such I've seen In painted terror); but these are wingless, black, Incarnate horrors."[B]

The silence of the grave now reigns in the chamber. Nothing is heard but the deep breathing of those weird women cowering on the floor, wrapped in their mantles, the head sunk upon the breast, expressing the deepest grief in the manner customary among the ancient Greeks, whose artists represent those overwhelmed with sorrow as covering the head and concealing the face. Nature herself has given the human being only two ways of indicating extreme suffering—the irrepressible outburst of feeling in the loud cry in which the whole vital energy seems to concentrate itself, and the profound silence in which the vital energies sink into stupor. Suddenly one of the women springs out of the cowering circle, and, like an inspired seeress, begins the song upon the dead. She chants it _in recitativo_, strophe after strophe, ending each with a wo! wo! wo! which the chorus of wailers repeat, as in the Greek tragedy. The woman who thus sings and leads the chorus, has also composed the dirge, or has improvised it as she sang. In Sardinia, it is usually the youngest girl who leads. As a general rule, these songs of revenge or of eulogy, in which the praise of the dead is mingled with complaint for his loss, or with calls for vengeance on his murderers, are improvised on the spot.

How strangely contradictory to the culture of our time the state of things in a country where we can still witness scenes like these, which seem separated from our present European civilisation by a gulf of three thousand years!

Let the reader imagine, then, the corpse upon the tola, the women crouching round it on the ground; a young girl rises, and, her countenance flaming with enthusiasm, improvises, like a Miriam or a Sappho, verses of the most surpassing grace, and full of the boldest images; exhaustlessly her wrapt soul pours forth the rhythmic stream of dithyrambs, which express melodiously all that is deepest and highest in human sorrow. The chorus wails at the close of each strophe, Deh! deh! deh! I know not whether anywhere in the world a picture could be found, which combines the repulsive with the beautiful in a manner so profoundly poetical and significant as such a scene, where a maiden sings before a bier what her pure young soul has that moment been inspired with, while a chorus of Furies howl the accompaniment; or where a girl, with flaming eye and glowing cheek, rises like an Erinnys over her murdered brother who lies armed upon the tola, and imprecates vengeance in verses whose fierce and bloody language no male lips could utter more relentlessly. In this country, where the position of woman is low and menial, it is nevertheless woman that sits in judgment, and summons the criminal before the tribunal of her plaint. Thus, too, the chorus of the maid-servants, in the Libation-bearers of Æschylus, sings—

——"Son, the strong-jaw'd funeral fire Burns not the mind in the smoky pyre; Sleeps, but not forgets the dead To show betimes his anger dread. For the dead the living moan, That the murderer may be known. They who mourn for parent slain Shall not pour the wail in vain. Bright disclosure shall not lack Who through darkness hunts the track."[C]

Some of these seeresses, who may be compared to the Germanic Velleda, become celebrated for their inspired singing; as Mariola delle Piazzole, a leader of the dirge-choruses, whose improvisations were everywhere in request; and Clorinda Franceschi of Casinca. In Sardinia, the women of the chorus are called _Piagnoni_ or _prefiche_; in Corsica, _vecoratrici_ or _ballatrici_. It is not always a practised leader of choruses who sings; in many cases it is some relative of the deceased—the mother, the wife, very frequently the sister. For the grief-burdened heart relieves itself in plaints that are eloquent without art, and renders the thoughts poetical, and the language elevated, even though the improvisatrice may be gifted with no special poetic talent. Moreover, the dirges have a standing form; and long before a death occurs, the Corsican woman has familiarized herself with the popular laments, which pass from mouth to mouth as other songs do with us. A cast of gloom is thus diffused over the whole life of the people here. When the Corsicans are sitting together, and begin to sing, they choose very frequently a Lamento, as if they wished to practise for that lament which, perhaps, each of them will yet sing in earnest over the tola of a brother, a husband, or a child.

The pantomimic dance that accompanies the lament is called in Corsica the _ballata_ (_ballo funebre_); _ballatare sopra un cadavere_, is to dance over a corpse. The wailing is termed _vocerare_, the dirge _Vocero_, _Compito_, or _Ballata_. In Sardinia these obsequies are called _Titio_ or _Attito_. This word is said to be derived from the cry of grief _ahi! ahi! ahi!_ with which the leader of the chorus concludes each strophe, and which the wailers repeat. The corresponding cry with the Latins was _atat_, and in the Greek tragedies we find _otototoi_; among the Germans the vehement cry of suffering is frequently _ahtatata_, as any one may remark who notices what he ejaculates when he has burnt his fingers, and is dancing a _ballata_ with the pain.[D]

When the Brothers of Death have arrived before the house to take away the bier, a loud wail is again raised, and the funeral procession now accompanies the deceased with laments to the church, where he receives consecration, and from the church again with wail and song to the churchyard. The obsequies are closed with a meal called the _convito_ or _conforto_; a repast called the _veglia_ has previously been given those who watched by the corpse, and each Brother of Death receives a cake. The _conforto_ is given to the relations and friends of the deceased, either in his own house or in that of a kinsman, and it is customary to invite the guests with a pressing vehemency. It honours the departed if the repast be on as munificent a scale as possible; and if he has been respected during his life, it is observable in the number of the guests. Great expense is frequently lavished on this funeral banquet (_banchetto_), and bread and meats are distributed through the houses of the village. Black is the Corsican mourning colour; frequently the beard is allowed to remain for a long time uncut. When the anniversary of the funeral comes round, the banquet is sometimes repeated.

Such is the Corsican cultus of the dead, as it is preserved at the present day in the interior and the southern parts of the island. It is remarkable as a remnant of primitive paganism subsisting in the midst of our modern Christendom, and in combination with Christian usages. How old this _ballata_ may be, and when and how it was brought into the country, are questions difficult to answer, and I shall not here venture upon their discussion.

The expressions of grief over beloved dead are everywhere the same—the weeping and lamenting, the copious and eloquent allusion to what they were in life, and to the affection that was felt for them. Passionate emotion finds vent in lively, forcible, and dramatic indications of grief. But the restraining power of culture, which regulates even the emotional part of our nature, checks those over whom it has established its sway, and refuses to the feelings all expression by extravagant gesture. It is not so in a primitive state of society, or among children. Neither is it so among the common people, so called, who represent, in the midst of our civilisation, the epic period of human development. If we wish to convince ourselves that the epic men, heroes, chiefs, and kings, demeaned themselves as passionately in giving expression to their grief, as the Corsicans of the present time in their _ballata_, we must read the songs of Firdusi, Homer, and the Bible. Esau cries aloud and weeps for the stolen blessing; Jacob rends his clothes for Joseph; Job rends his garments, and tears his hair, and falls to the earth, and his friends do the same, lifting up their voice and weeping, and each rends his garment and sprinkles dust upon his head towards heaven. David rends his garments for Saul and Jonathan, and afflicts himself, and weeps, and laments; he does the same for Absalom: "the king wept, and had his head covered, and he went barefoot."

Still more passionate and unbridled are the outbursts of grief with the men of Homer. Achilles laments for Patroclus, with both hands he strews black dust upon his head—

"Then, stretch'd in ashes, at the vast extent Of his whole length he lay, disordering wild With his own hands, and rending off his hair. The maidens, captured by himself in war And by Patroclus, shrieking from the tent Ran forth, and hemm'd the glorious chief around; All smote their bosoms, and all, fainting, fell."

When Hector falls, Hecuba tears her hair, and Priam piteously mourns and laments; and afterwards he says to Achilles, when he is begging of him a couch whereon to rest himself, that he has constantly sighed and groaned, full of endless sorrow, "rolling myself upon the earth in the court." So, in Firdusi, the hero Rustem tears his hair for his son Sohrab, roars for grief, and weeps blood; Sohrab's mother throws fire upon her head, rends her clothes, swoons continually, fills the hall with dust, weeps day and night, and dies in a year. The expression of the emotion is here in gigantic proportion, as the forms of the heroes themselves are colossal.

In the Nibelungenlied, the greatest tragedy of the Vendetta, the expression of passionate grief is no less colossal. Chrimhild raises her wail of sorrow over the dead Siegfrid,—blood gushes from her throat, she weeps blood above his corpse, and all the women help her with their lamentations.

In almost all the instances alluded to, we find the passion of sorrow pouring itself forth lyrically in the dirge. No loftier utterance of this kind is to be found than the lament of David for Saul and Jonathan. For the sake of the Corsican dirges, let us quote it here—

The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: How are the mighty fallen!

Tell it not in Gath,—publish it not in the streets of Askelon; Lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, Lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.

Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, Neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: For there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, The shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.

From the blood of the slain,—from the fat of the mighty, The bow of Jonathan turned not back, And the sword of Saul returned not empty.

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, And in their death they were not divided: They were swifter than eagles,—they were stronger than lions.

Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, Who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, Who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel.

How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places.

I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: Very pleasant hast thou been unto me: Thy love to me was wonderful,—passing the love of women.

How are the mighty fallen,—and the weapons of war perished!

The lament around the dead body of Hector, in the last canto of the Iliad, is thoroughly dramatic, and completely resembles a _ballata_ over the tola. Let us hear this vocero too.

(_Andromache takes up the lament._)

My hero! thou hast fall'n in prime of life, Me leaving here a widow, and the fruit Of our ill-fated loves—a helpless child, Whom grown to manhood I despair to see. For, ere that season, from her topmost height Precipitated shall this city fall, Since thou hast perish'd, once her sure defence, Faithful protector of her spotless wives And all their little ones. Those wives shall soon In Grecian barks capacious hence be borne, And I among the rest. But thou, my child! Shalt either share my fate, ordain'd to drudge Beneath some tyrant in a distant clime, Or, seizing thy weak hand, some furious Greek Shall headlong hurl thee from the tower of Troy To a sad death—whose brother, it may chance, Whose father or whose son brave Hector slew, For he made many a Grecian bite the ground. Thy father, boy, bore never into fight A milky mind, and for that self-same cause Is now bewail'd in ev'ry house of Troy. Sorrow unutterable thou hast caused Thy parents, Hector! but to me hast left Largest bequest of misery, to whom, Dying, thou neither didst thy arms extend Forth from thy bed, nor gav'st me precious word, To be remember'd day and night with tears. So spake she weeping, whom her maidens all With sighs accompanied.

(_Hecuba takes up the lament._)

Hector! far dearest of my sons to me, Thee living must the gods have also loved, Whose kindness even in the bands of death Attends thee; for what son soe'er of ours Achilles seized besides, to Samos, him, Or Imbrus, or the dreaded Lemnian coast, Far o'er the barren deep, for sale he sent; But thee, poor victim of his ruthless spear, Oft, at his wheels, around Patroclus' tomb He dragg'd as he would waken into life His friend whom thou hadst slain—yet still he slept. But thou, the freshness of a fragrant flower New-gather'd hold'st, and more resemblest far Some youth whom Phœbus with his gentle shafts Hath pierced at home, than one in battle slain. So spake the queen, exciting in all hearts Sorrow immeasurable.

(_Helen takes up the lament._)

Hector! far dearest of my brothers here! Me godlike Paris to the shores of Troy Seduced, and made me partner of his bed, But, O that I had perish'd first at home! For this, since stolen from my native land I wander'd hither, is the twentieth year, Yet never heard I once hard speech from thee, Or taunt morose: but if it ever chanced That male or female of thy father's house Blamed me, and even if herself the queen (For in the king, whate'er befell, I found Always a father)—thou hast interposed Thy gentle temper and thy gentle speech To soothe them; therefore, with a breaking heart Thee and my wretched self at once I mourn, For other friend within the ample bounds Of Ilium have I none, nor hope to hear Kind word again, with horror view'd by all. So spake she weeping, and the countless throng With groans replied.[E]

The Pelasgians, Greeks, Phœnicians, the Egyptians more especially, the ancient tribes of Italy, the Etruscans, the Romans, all lamented their dead with song and loud wailing; this is not less true of the Celts (_e.g._ the Irish) and the ancient Germans. Usages of this kind exist among the uncivilised tribes of America and Africa at the present day; and are to be found in other Italian countries besides Corsica and Sardinia, particularly in the Neapolitan territory.

Peter Cyrnæus finds the Corsican cultus of the dead very similar to that prevalent among the ancient Romans. Those who are acquainted with ancient Roman customs, will agree with the Corsican historian. They had the wailing women, called, as they are at the present day in Sardinia, _præficæ_, and they had the dirges (_næniæ_).[F] In connexion with the funeral obsequies of Germanicus, Tacitus speaks of the ceremonies, the songs in praise of the deceased, the weeping and wailing and exciting to violent grief, as ancient Roman usages. In the laws of the twelve tables, the _ballata_ was called _lessus_, and punished as barbarous. The laws of Solon forbade it in these terms—"The women shall not scratch their cheeks, neither shall the _lessus_ be held at burials; the women shall not tear the face."

The funeral-banquet is also an ancient pagan custom. Three sources may be assigned as its origin: the necessity of refreshment after the exhaustion induced by the ceremonies observed; the honour shown to the deceased by a last festive meal, of which he is in a certain sense the giver; and the religious and mystic symbolism involved in the partaking of food—an act which denotes the return from the sphere of death to that of life, and indicates that the mourners now once more have their share in the common every-day world. Among the Phœnicians, Pelasgians, Egyptians, and Etruscans, this meal consisted chiefly in beans and eggs. These two kinds of food are, according to the ancient Oriental and Pythagorean mysticism, symbols of the active and passive forces of vitality and productivity. At the present time, beans and eggs are eaten in many parts of Sardinia on occasion of the funeral repast; I have not heard, however, that this occurs in Corsica. The Roman name for the funeral feast was Silicernium.[G] The Trojans who have attended as mourners the obsequies of Hector, also return to a stately banquet in the house of Priam.

The Corsican Voceros or dirges, some specimens of which I shall now give, are all composed in the Corsican dialect of the Italian. The Trochaic measure usually prevails in them, though it is frequently transgressed. Triple rhymes are general; but here also departures from the rule occur. This measure, and the monotony of the rhymes, have a profoundly melancholy effect, and it would be difficult to find a rhythm more suitable as an expression of grief. The Voceros themselves are of two classes: the wild, terrific chant of revenge, and the milder lament for the loss of a departed friend. These songs throw much light upon the Corsican character. They show how vengeful and hot-blooded the temperament of the Corsican is, and how strong his passions. It is frightful to think that these ballads are almost all composed by women, since woman is destined to give expression to the gentler emotions of the soul, and to soften the rude vigour of the masculine nature. Throughout the entire range of popular poetry, I know of no instance in which the horrible and frightful pervade the material of the ballad to the same extent, and we observe here the strange power of poetry in general, which can throw around even what is in itself appalling a softening tinge of melancholy beauty. For the Corsican poetry may on the other hand, and does frequently, become the vehicle of tenderest emotion and the most delicate sentiment. In the Voceros is to be found the imagery of Homer, of the Psalms, and of the Song of Solomon. Altogether artless, they bear the stamp of improvisations which admit of being indefinitely lengthened in the same strain; and because they are improvisations, they are alive with the inspiration of the moment of overflowing feeling. The inexpressible innocence and touching simplicity of many Voceros transport us from our every-day life into the world of children, of shepherds, or of the patriarchs. No poetic genius can invent these utterances of nature. Beautiful songs, like tears wept by a noble sorrow, are sometimes called pearls—I call the Voceros blood-red Corsican corals.[H]

THE VOCERO, OR CORSICAN DIRGE.

E come i gru van cantando lor lai.—_Dante._

VOCERO ON CHILINA OF CARCHETO D'OREZZA.

(_The Mother sings._)

Ah! already they sing the Ave, And I still hang weeping here— All the women are come to see thee Dress'd for death upon thy bier; Mother's darling, my Chilina, More than jewels bright and dear!

Whiter wast thou than the hill-snow, Than the rice more pure and fine; Now thy body is on the tola, And thy soul where angels shine; Ah, Chilina! why this cruel Haste to leave me, daughter mine?

O Chilina! thou didst keep me Like a lady of the land; Bringing water, splitting firewood, Still it was my daughter's hand; Now has death her wings unfolded, Lonely and bereaved I stand.

Where are now the nimble fingers, Moving finely, moving fast, As she spun upon the spindle, Or the knots and meshes cast?— Death, the sudden thief, he snatch'd her, As he stole on tiptoe past.

How, Chilina, couldst thou leave us, Go to yonder darksome place, Where no firelight and no sunlight Cheers the cold, the narrow space? Ah, Chili! mine eyes will seek thee, And they will not find thy face!

All so soon to be forsaken— How could I such woe foresee? Ah! thy sister Annadea, She will meet thee joyfully— She will beam with brighter glory When she clasps her own Chili.

Thou wilt go no more to Ave, Thou wilt go to mass no more; My Chilina, mother's darling, This is grief that wounds me sore— That I now must live so lonely, Who so blithely lived before.

(_A girl, one of her playmates, enters, and takes up the dirge._)

Now arise, arise Chilina! We have come to fetch the bride; Hark the bells! thy horse is waiting, To Carcheto thou must ride, There to stand before the altar With the bridegroom by thy side.

—Thou movest not, thou speakest not, She will not ope her eyes; Thy little hands are bound, Chili, Thy little feet are bound, Chili; Sisters, she fain would go with us, Loose her, and let her rise.

(_One of the women takes up the dirge._)

Hush, O hush thee, Magdalena! Something I would ask the child; Sooner, haply, than her mother, She will give me answer mild. At her head the wailing mother Sobs and shrieks in grief so wild.

VOCERO ON THE DEATH OF CÆSARIO AND CAPPATO.[I]

Jesus, Joseph, and Marie, And the holy sacrament, All in blessed companie, Help me now with my lament. It shall ring from hill to shore— The two heroes are no more!

Ye may walk the world all over, Ye may search through every state, But the good Cæsario's mate All your quest will not discover. He could well and wisely speak, Bend the strong, and win the weak.

Like a dog the base Mastini Cowardly revenge did take; Stealthily crept within brake, Hounded on by the Mastini. There he waited for his foe, There he dealt the dastard blow.

Pauses now with carbine ready, Sees approach Chiucchinu; When he has him full in view, Takes a certain aim and steady; And he sees him earthward stagger, As if struck through with a dagger.

Cappato in wrath up-started, Fierce as lion from his lair; At Tangone's throat he darted, Who for life doth make his prayer. Dearly must he rue the day, That he mingled in the fray.

Paolo stayed when these departed;— In the covert of the wood He will tarry, steadfast-hearted, He will bear a name of blood; He will sweep down on the plain, He will cover it with slain.

Patience till the winter's snow Be dissolved from off the land; Then shall sudden vengeance flow From the mountains to the strand! Spreading, catching, far and near, Like the fiery flame's career.

Stab the richest and the noblest, Stab a dozen—'tis too few; That were hardly worthy vengeance For the boots of Chiucchinu. Vengeance too must pity show For the hapless Cappato.

So concludes my lamentation, I have now no more to say. Wo upon you in the day Of your coming desolation! Take good heed, that may avail; But if not, the mourners wail.

VOCERO OF A MAIDEN UPON THE DEATH OF HER TWO BROTHERS WHO WERE SLAIN IN ONE DAY.

(_Mixed dialect of either side of the mountains._)

(_The sister sings._)

Oh! the bearing proud of Piero, Oh! the boasting of Orazio— They had made the land a desert Betwixt here and San Brancazio, Satiated with our heart's blood Are Michele and Orazio.

Death, O death, how black and dreadful— How remorseless is thy sway! From a home once full thou'st taken, Save the nest-egg, all away; Is it fit that I, an orphan, Here as head of house should stay?

I alone, amongst all women, By this hearth my place maintain'd; Over five strong, gallant brothers, I the right to rule obtain'd: Past and gone that sweet dominion, Lost the prize that I had gain'd!

I will put on the faldetta, Black my garment as their pall; For no more one ray of gladness On this lonely heart can fall: Which has lost five noble brothers, Father, mother—seven in all.

I will send at once to Asco, Blackest pine-black I will crave, Black as raven's wing the raiment That from henceforth I will have; While my life ebbs back and forwards Like the rain-flood in their grave.

See ye not the ceaseless fountains From these clouded eyes that well, O'er the two beloved brothers That in one hour bravely fell? Two deaths are at once proclaimed By the tolling of one bell.

Thou my crown of gold so ruddy— Thou my ring of precious stone; O Pierù! my former gladness— O Orà! my present moan! In the Chapel of Tallanu, Like you two there is not one.

And to you, too, Rev'rend Curate, Bitter words I needs must say; For the love my kin still show'd you, Thanklessly you now repay; Three years since we number'd seven— You have borne them all away.

Only to the first street's ending Will I follow in your train— Follow, blinded by my weeping— Weeping, get me home again, This the saddest, last procession Of the five dear brothers slain.

VOCERO OF A HERDSMAN'S WIFE OF TALAVO, ON HER HUSBAND.

On the beach his corpse is lying Where the two old cork-trees spread; O Francesco! faithful herdsman! Fearful 'tis to see thee dead! How shall I, by thee forsaken, Gloomy forest-pathways tread?

I will tear away the branches From yon spreading Palo-tree— Leathern bags and caps shall no more From its boughs suspended be; And the sheep-dog he most valued, With his ears clipp'd, all shall see.

Wo! wo! wo! my heart is breaking, Let your wailing fill the air; O my brothers! O my sisters! Such a stroke is hard to bear. From the house the head is taken, God has doom'd me to despair.

(_After the burial is over, the shepherdess returns to her cabin, and describes the ceremony to her friends and relations._)

On the bier I saw them lay him, Towards Prunelli carry slow; There, in dumb but heartfelt mourning. Flocks and cattle bleat and low— E'en the kids between the hurdles Bah, bah, bah! their loss to show.

In the Church of Blessed Mary, In the holy churchyard ground, Chants and prays the rev'rend Father, With attendant priests around; Loud as at a noble's burial, Peals the sad and solemn sound.

When the funeral was over, Oh, how hastily each rose! Straight an open grave discov'ring, My Francesco to enclose; Borne on by a rush of people. Towards that grave the coffin goes.

Oh! but what their cruel purpose! Oh! the thought is endless wo; I looked down, in hopes the sunlight Through some grave-wall chink might flow; But I saw then my husband lower'd Into darkness—lower'd slow.

VOCERO ON THE DEATH OF ROMANA, THE DAUGHTER OF DARIOLA DANESI OF ZUANI.

(_The Mother sings._)

See, she lies now on the tola, She, my child of sixteen years. Darling daughter! her short life-lease Has been fraught with pain and tears, Now her snowy festal garment— Her transparent veil she wears.

In that snowy festal garment Far away she now must go, For the Lord of all forbids her Longer to remain below. They who wear an angel's semblance, Early to the angels go.

Where, belov'd, are now the roses On thy chisell'd cheeks and lips?— All the blossoms of thy beauty Death with icy fingers strips; Seems the change on which I'm gazing, Like a sudden sun-eclipse.

Oh! amongst the band of maidens Thou wert fairest of the fair; To the rose all flowers are subject, With the moon no stars compare; Other charms with thine contrasted, Show'd thy beauty still more rare.

When the youths from yonder village To thy presence would aspire, Straight they seem'd like pine-wood torches Kindled at a glowing fire. Thou to all wert mild and courteous, But not one might venture nigher.

In the church each eye was straining To espy thee as we pass'd; All, from first to last, kept gazing, But thine eyes were downward cast. Service ended, thou wouldst pray me, "Let us hurry homeward fast."

Oh how highly wert thou valued, Honour'd both by great and small; Taught and train'd by Heavenly teaching, Wise with wisdom best of all! From the world thy spirit screening, Prayer and praise its special call.

Who can ever soothe my anguish? Oh, my glory and my pride! Since the Lord has bid thee leave me, Call'd thee with Him to abide; Wherefore does not His compassion Bid my agony subside!

Yet in heaven thou'rt resting sweetly, From all burdens smiling free; If too bright for earth thy beauty, As all own'd who look'd on thee— How much brighter, thro' its presence, Henceforth Paradise will be!

But for me the earth will only Seem a place of wo and tears, And each day of hopeless longing Lengthen to a thousand years; While I ask of thee, my daughter, From each stranger that appears.

Death, why did'st thou from my bosom Such a loving daughter tear? Wherefore, in a nest now empty, Leave me lonely to despair? When I miss her care and tendance, How shall I life's burden bear?

Lonely 'midst my kindred standing, Helpless with my neighbours by; Who will wipe away the pain-drops When I lay me down to die? Who will give the drink I thirst for When the fever rages high?

Oh! thou fondly cherish'd daughter, Think upon my wretched case, When grown old, by all forsaken; Far from help or friendly face, Never knowing peace or comfort, Even for a moment's space.

If, like thee, I were permitted From this cold world to depart, Having seen thy early fading— Hope and glory of my heart! I should find thee up in heaven, And live with thee where thou art.

Therefore pray our dear Lord Jesus, Till He calls me ceaseless pray! For my only hope I cannot Live on thus from day to day— Cannot end these vain lamentings— Cannot weep my tears away!

VOCERO OF A GIRL FOR HER FATHER.

I came forth from Calanca At the twelfth hour of the night, And everywhere I sought him, I sought him by torchlight,— And when I found my father, 'Twas his corpse that met my sight.

(_Another girl enters, seeking a relative, also slain._)

Ye who would find Matteju, Go farther up the steep; The dead here is my father, And I must stay to weep.

Take apron, trowel, hammer, My father, and come away, For you must work at the chapel Of San Marcello to-day; But they had slain my father, And my brother wounded lay.

Oh, scissors to cut my long locks, Make haste and bring to me! Let me staunch with my hair those gashes Where the blood is running free— For the red drops on my fingers Are a fearful sight to see.

I will dye me a mandilè, In his blood I will dye it red; And when I have time to be merry, I will deck with it my head.[J]

Now I bear him to Calanca— To the Church of the Holy Cross, Still crying, O speak, my father! Still wailing for my loss— For they have crucified him, Like Christ upon the cross.

TEXT OF THE PRECEDING VOCERO.

Eo partu dalle Calanche Circa quattr' ore di notte: Mi ne falgu cu la teda A circà per tutte l'orte, Per truvallu lu mio vabu: Ma li avianu datu morte.

Cullatevene più in su, Chi truvarete a Matteju; Perchè questu è lu mio vabu, E l'aghiu da pienghie eju. Via, pigliatemi u scuzzale La cazzola e lu martellu. Nun ci vulete andà, vabu, A travaglià a San Marcellu? Tombu m'hann lu miò vabu, E feritu u miò fratellu.

Or circatemi e trisore, E qui prestu ne venite: Vogliu toudemi i capelli Per tuppalli le ferite; Chi di lu sangue di vabu N'achiu carcu le miò dite.

Di lu vostru sangue, o vabu, Bogliu tinghiemi un mandile; Lu mi vogliu mette a collu Quandu avrachiu oziu di ride.

Eo collu per le Calanche Falgu per la Santa Croce, Sempre chiamand uvi, vabu: Rispunditemi una voce. Mi l'hanu crucifissatu Cume Ghesù Cristu in croce.

I have added the original text of this vocero, to give the reader some idea of the Corsican dialect, and enable him to compare it, if he is interested in such matters, with the Italian spoken on the Continent. I find a great resemblance between the dialect of Corsica and that used by the lower orders in Rome, particularly in Trastevere.[K] All the Italian popular dialects, however, have a tendency to drop or mutilate the infinitive endings, _are_ and _ire_, and to substitute _r_ for _l_. The Corsican says _soretra_ for _sorella_. Philologists have pronounced the Corsican one of the purest of the Italian dialects, and Tommaseo especially has much to say in its praise in his collection of Tuscan, Corsican, and Greek popular songs—which contains also, though in a defective form, a number of Corsican dirges, with elucidations. In this book he calls the Corsican dialect "a powerful language, and of all the dialects of the Italian tongue, one of the most thoroughly Italian." It seems to me to be genuine gold compared with the _patois_ of the Piedmontese and Lombards, and the dialects of Parma and Bologna. Even from the single specimen communicated, the reader will see that the language of the Corsicans, though no doubt one of the lower forms of Italian, is soft and graceful.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Browning's Ballad of "The Red Piper of Hameln."

[B] Blackie's translation.

[C] Blackie.

[D] An analogous interjection in English is _tut! tut!_ which is an expression of annoyance merely, and not of suffering; in Scotch _hootoot!_—_Tr._

[E] Cowper's translation.

[F] A specimen of the Roman nænia has already been given, with a view to its being remembered in connexion with the present subject. I refer to Seneca's dirge on Claudius, which is, however, strictly speaking, parodistic.

[G] _Siliqua_, in Latin, the pod or husk of any leguminous plant.—_Tr._

[H] Of the numerous dirges given by the author, a few of the more characteristic have been selected as likely to furnish an idea of the Corsican Vocero.—_Tr._

[I] This wild song of vengeance, which is popular in Corsica, is said to have been composed by the mistress of a certain friar (!!)—a friend of Cæsario's. As the ballad predicts, the Paolo therein mentioned—a relative of the fallen men, afterwards avenged them; he then took to the bush, and after living some years as bandit, fell into the hands of justice.

[J] The irony is here so wild as to be at first hardly intelligible. Red is usually a gay and festive colour; when _she_ is disposed to be gay—when her absorbing grief leaves her "leisure for laughing," as she says in the original, it will be when she can wear a mandile dyed in her father's blood—that is, never. By the bold figure in the concluding lines of the vocero, she intimates at once the victim's innocence and the cruel circumstances of his death.—_Tr._

[K] Quarter of the city beyond the Tiber.—_Tr._