No More Learning

You repair for us the folly

That saw Adam overcome;

You, the star, guiding gently

Pilgrims passing through our land;

You then are the Dawn of day

To which the son of God is Sun,

Shining warmly, shining brightly,

Of true righteousness the sum.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

You were born in Syria,

Gentle, poor in worldly goods;

Ever humble, pious, purer,

In all done, said, understood,

Fashioned by such a Master,

Without all evil, with all good,

Of such sweet company there

That in you was harboured God.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

He, who in you puts his trust,

Needs no other for defence,

Such that if the world were lost

He will not be carried hence;

Before your worth, the mightiest

Is humbled, if the man has sense,

And your son will not protest

At your wish, takes no offence.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

David in his prophecies

Says, in a psalm of old,

That at God's right hand will be,

Near the King that law foretold,

A Queen who in finery

Will be dressed, in vair and gold.

Without fail you are she,

No plea to you can be too bold.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

Sordello (fl. 1220-1265)

Sordello da Goito or Sordel de Goit, sometimes Sordell, was born in the municipality of Goito in the province of Mantua. Praised by Dante in the De vulgari eloquentia, he is, in the Purgatorio of The Divine Comedy, made the type of patriotic pride, bemoaning the state of Italy, as partially substantiated by the planh below. In 1226, while at the court of Richard of Bonifazio in Verona, he abducted his master's wife, Cunizza, at the instigation of her brother, Ezzelino da Romano. The scandal resulted in his flight (1229) to Provence. He entered the service of Charles of Anjou, and probably accompanied him (1265) on his Naples expedition; in 1266 he was a prisoner in Naples.
The last documentary mention of him is in 1269, and he is supposed to have died in Provence.

'. . . . and the spirit all pre-occupied with self,

surged towards him from the place where it first was,

saying: 'O Mantuan, I am Sordello, of your city. '

Dante - Purgatorio VI:72-75
Planher vuelh En Blacatz en aquest leugier so

I wish to mourn Blacatz, now, in skilful song,

With dark, grieving heart, and mortal reason,

Since I lose in him so noble, fair a companion,

And all his worthiness swift to death is gone;

Now I've no hope at all, so mortal the harm,

Of any remedy, no ounce of hope, not one;

Rend his heart: let these barons eat it to a man,

Those without heart since from it heart is won.

Let the Emperor of Rome, who has most need,

Eat first of the heart, if he'd take the Milanese

By force of conquest, they checked him indeed,

He's disinherited, despite his German breed;

Then let the King of France be the next to eat:

And win that Castile he did so rashly cede;

Yet let him not, if his mother be displeased,

For he'll do nothing now, if she's not agreed.

The King of England too, who lacks all valour,

I'd wish to see him eat, gain courage, power,

So that land he dishonoured, he may recover,

Taken by France's King, who knows his blather.

Let Castile's King eat for himself, and another,

Of two kingdoms, king, and yet worth neither;

If he eats, let him do so beneath the cover,

If he's found out, he'll be beaten, by his mother.

Aragon's King, I would that he'd do the same,

Since by so doing he'd free himself from shame,

Who suffers Marseille, Millau; his mortal fame

Wins him no honour, for all he may do or claim.

I'd have the King of Navarre eat then, in name

A king though more a count, so dull his game.

What grief when God seeks to glorify the lame,

Those that lack heart and prove but weak and tame.

The Count of Toulouse, as well, must eat and how,

Knowing what he had, knowing what he has now,

If a second heart can't help his cause somehow,

His own won't help him win what's lost, I trow.

The Count of Provence must eat the last, allow

That, disinherited, he's not worth a sow,

Despite how he yet defends himself, I vow

He'll eat the heart, to bear what makes him bow.

For my song, the barons wish me ill, truly,

Yet know I'll value them as they value me.