Yuletide Traditions from Italy

Dear Members, Alumni, and Friends of the JSMT:

This weekend, we are spotlighting Yuletide traditions that began in Italy!

First up is a Classical Latin poem by the Roman epic poet Virgil (70-19 BCE). In this amazing piece of verse, Virgil predicts a new Golden Age for the human race to follow the birth of a long-awaited child; the poem’s resonances with visionary themes and motifs in the Abrahamic faith traditions (cf. esp. Isaiah 11:6, “a little child shall lead them”) ensured Virgil’s continued popularity throughout the Middle Ages and onward into the present day.

Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue (Composed 37 BCE)

Muses of Sicily, essay we now
A somewhat loftier task! Not all men love
Coppice or lowly tamarisk: sing we woods,
Woods worthy of a Consul let them be.
Now the last age by Cumae's Sibyl sung
Has come and gone, and the majestic roll
Of circling centuries begins anew:
Justice returns, returns old Saturn's reign,
With a new breed of men sent down from heaven.
Only do thou, at the boy's birth in whom
The iron shall cease, the golden race arise,
Befriend him, chaste Lucina; 'tis thine own
Apollo reigns. And in thy consulate,
This glorious age, O Pollio, shall begin,
And the months enter on their mighty march.
Under thy guidance, whatso tracks remain
Of our old wickedness, once done away,
Shall free the earth from never-ceasing fear.
He shall receive the life of gods, and see
Heroes with gods commingling, and himself
Be seen of them, and with his father's worth
Reign o'er a world at peace. For thee, O boy,
First shall the earth, untilled, pour freely forth
Her childish gifts, the gadding ivy-spray
With foxglove and Egyptian bean-flower mixed,
And laughing-eyed acanthus. Of themselves,
Untended, will the she-goats then bring home
Their udders swollen with milk, while flocks afield
Shall of the monstrous lion have no fear.
Thy very cradle shall pour forth for thee
Caressing flowers. The serpent too shall die,
Die shall the treacherous poison-plant, and far
And wide Assyrian spices spring. But soon
As thou hast skill to read of heroes' fame,
And of thy father's deeds, and inly learn
What virtue is, the plain by slow degrees
With waving corn-crops shall to golden grow,
From the wild briar shall hang the blushing grape,
And stubborn oaks sweat honey-dew. Nathless
Yet shall there lurk within of ancient wrong
Some traces, bidding tempt the deep with ships,
Gird towns with walls, with furrows cleave the earth.
Therewith a second Tiphys shall there be,
Her hero-freight a second Argo bear;
New wars too shall arise, and once again
Some great Achilles to some Troy be sent.
Then, when the mellowing years have made thee man,
No more shall mariner sail, nor pine-tree bark
Ply traffic on the sea, but every land
Shall all things bear alike: the glebe no more
Shall feel the harrow's grip, nor vine the hook;
The sturdy ploughman shall loose yoke from steer,
Nor wool with varying colors learn to lie;
But in the meadows shall the ram himself,
Now with soft flush of purple, now with tint
Of yellow saffron, teach his fleece to shine.
While clothed in natural scarlet graze the lambs.
"Such still, such ages weave ye, as ye run,"
Sang to their spindles the consenting Fates
By Destiny's unalterable decree.
Assume thy greatness, for the time draws nigh,
Dear child of gods, great progeny of Jove!
See how it totters- the world's orbed might,
Earth, and wide ocean, and the vault profound,
All, see, enraptured of the coming time!
Ah! might such length of days to me be given,
And breath suffice me to rehearse thy deeds,
Nor Thracian Orpheus should out-sing me then,
Nor Linus, though his mother this, and that
His sire should aid- Orpheus Calliope,
And Linus fair Apollo. Nay, though Pan,
With Arcady for judge, my claim contest,
With Arcady for judge great Pan himself
Should own him foiled, and from the field retire.
Begin to greet thy mother with a smile,
O baby-boy! ten months of weariness
For thee she bore: O baby-boy, begin!
For him, on whom his parents have not smiled,
Gods deem not worthy of their board or bed.

Our second selection is the “Ballad of Befana,” which is based on a legend about the Yuletide gift-giver in Italy, Befana (who in recent decades, due to the infiltration of North American Yuletide customs into Europe, has sometimes been identified as Mrs. Santa Claus). Befana bring gifts to children on the night of January 5-6 (Epiphany Eve); she rides a broomstick and comes down the chimney to fill the children’s stockings. J

“The Ballad of Befana” by Phyllis McGinley (1905-1978)

Befana the housewife, scrubbing her pane,

Saw three old sages ride down the lane,

Saw three gray travelers pass her door --

Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior.

"Where journey you, sirs?" she asked of them.

Balthazar answered, "To Bethlehem,

For we have news of a marvelous thing.

Born in a stable is Christ the King."

"Give him my welcome!" Then Gaspar smiled,

"Come with us, mistress, to greet the child."

"Oh, happily, happily would I fare,

Were my dusting through and I'd polished the stair."

Old Melchior leaned on his saddle horn.

"Then send but a gift to the small newborn."

"Oh, gladly, gladly I'd send him one,

Were the hearthstone swept and my weaving done.

As soon as ever I've baked my bread,

I'll fetch him a pillow for his head,

And a coverlet too," Befana said.

"When the rooms are aired and the linen dry,

I'll look at the babe." But the three rode by.

She worked for a day and a night and a day,

Then, gifts in her hands, took up her way.

But she never could find where the Christ Child lay.

And still she wanders at Christmastide,

Houseless, whose house was all her pride,

Whose heart was tardy, whose gifts were late;

Wanders, and knocks at every gate,

Crying, "Good people, the bells begin!

Put off your toiling and let love in."

In our next episode: poems and tales about the Midwinter Solstice on December 21^st! :)