Les cloîtres anciens sur leurs grandes
Etalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,
Dont l'effet réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,
Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.
En ces temps où du Christ florissaient les semailles,
Plus d'un illustre moine, aujourd'hui peu cité,
Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles,
Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.— Mon âme est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite,
Depuis l'éternité je parcours et j'habite;
Rien n'embellit les murs de ce cloître odieux.Ô moine fainéant! quand saurai-je donc
Du spectacle vivant de ma triste
Le travail de mes mains et l'amour de mes yeux?
The Bad
Cloisters in former times portrayed on their high walls The truths of Holy Writ with fitting pictures Which gladdened pious hearts and lessened the coldness,
The austere appearance, of those monasteries.
In those days the sowing of Christ's Gospel flourished,
And more than one famed monk, seldom quoted today,
Taking his inspiration from the graveyard,
Glorified Death with naive simplicity.— My soul is a tomb where, bad cenobite,
I wander and dwell eternally;
Nothing adorns the walls of that loathsome cloister.
O lazy monk!
When shall I learn to make Of the living spectacle of my bleak misery The labor of my hands and the love of my eyes?— Translated by William
The Evil Monk The walls of cloisters on their frescoed
Displayed, in pictures, sacred truths of old,
Whose sight would warm the entrails of one's
To temper their austerity and cold.
In times when every sowing flowered for Christ Lived famous monks, now out of memory's reach;
The graveyard for their library sufficed,
And Death was glorified in simple speech.
My soul's a grave, where, evil cenobite,
To all eternity I have been banned.
Nothing adorns this cloister fall of spite.
O idle monk!
Say, to what end were planned The living spectacle of my sad plight,
Love of my eye, or labour of my hand?— Translated by Roy
Le Mauvais Moinethe wide cold walls of cloisters, long agoset forth God's Holy Truth for all to see,and gazing friars there, with hearts aglow,rejoiced despite their chill , when the seed of Christ would always grow,illustrious monks, now lost to memory,would choose the burial-plot for studioto chant Death's glory, soul's a tomb, which — wretched friar! — Ihave paced since Time began, and occupy; bare-walled and hateful still my cloister stands.o slothful monk! when shall I learn to findin the stark drama of this living mindjoy for mine eyes and work to fit my hands?— Translated by Lewis Piaget
The Bad
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were
Murals displaying Truth the saint,
Whose effect, reheating the pious
Brought to an austere chill a warming paint.
In the times when Christ was seeded around,
More than one illustrious monk, today
Took for a studio the funeral
And glorified Death as the one way shown.—My soul is a tomb, an empty
Since eternity I scour and I reside;
Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty.
O lazy monk!
When will I
The living spectacle of my misery,
The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Translated by William A.
Sigler
