Deborah Kayser & Nick Tsiavos @ The Hellenic Museum, Melbourne 22/06/11, Part 7/7

Abelard (1079-1142) - Dolorum Solatium
Part 2 of 2

A comfort for sorrows, a cure for troubles
My harp, as my sorrow is greater and my grief more just, is the more necessary to me.
The great slaughter of a nation, the death of a king and his son, is the triumph of the enemy.
The desolation of the leaders, the despair of the crowd, fill everything with sadness.
Amalek has grown strong while Israel crumbles: infidal Philistea rejoices, while Judah tears itself apart with lamentations.
An infidel people mocks the faithful. A hostile people gain the highest honour, a godly people meet the derision of all.
The mockers say: see about whom they babble, how their god has betrayed them, while he fails, laid low by many gods.
The first king he granted them has fallen in defeat. Such is election by their god! Such is consecration by the great prophet!
Saul, strongest of kings, invincible strength of Jonathan, one who could not defeat you was allowed to slay you.
As is he had not been consecrated with divine oil, he is slain in battle by a wicked hand's sword.
Jonathan, more a brother to me, of one soul with me, what sins, what crimes have sundered our flesh!
Mountains of Gilboa, may you thirst for dew or rain, and no fruits of the fields nourish those who dwell on you.
Woe, woe to you earth soaked with royal blood, disappear, on which a wicked hand felled you too, my Jonathan!
Where the annointed of the Lord, and the famous of Israel perished with their followers in a miserable death.
Daughters of Sion, take up the lament over Saul, by whose wide gift you were adorned with purple robes.
My Jonathan, it is for you I have to weep above all else: amidst all joys, you will always be a tear.
Alas, why did I assent to that bad counsel, so that I could not protect you in battle? Or else, struck down equally I could have died happy, since love has nothing to do greater than this.
I give rest to my harp strings: would that I could do so to my laments and tears. With hands weary with striking, my voice hoarse with mourning, my breath fails me.

(translation: Constant Mews)

uploaded with permission of Nick Tsiavos & Deborah Kayser, copyright 2008

see www.nicktsiavos.net

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