art thou sleeping? Here I will rest with thee and weep till
daybreak.' It is rare to find in literature so crude and intense
an expression of fiery hatred as these untranslatable _voceri_
present. The emotion is so simple and so strong that it becomes
sublime by mere force, and affects us with a strange pathos when
contrasted with the tender affection conveyed in such terms of
endearment as 'my dove,' 'my flower,' 'my pheasant,' 'my bright
painted orange,' addressed to the dead. In the _voceri_ it often
happens that there are several interlocutors: one friend questions and
another answers; or a kinswoman of the murderer attempts to justify
the deed, and is overwhelmed with deadly imprecations. Passionate
appeals are made to the corpse: 'Arise! Do you not hear the women cry?
Stand up. Show your wounds, and let the fountains of your blood flow!
Alas! he is dead; he sleeps; he cannot hear!' Then they turn again to
tears and curses, feeling that no help or comfort can come from the
clay-cold form. The intensity of grief finds strange language for its
utterance. A girl, mourning over her father, cries:--

'Mi l'hannu crucifissatu
Cume Ghiesu Cristu in croce.'

Once only, in Viale's collection, does any friend of the dead remember
mercy. It is an old woman, who points to the crucifix above the bier.

But all the _voceri_ are not so murderous. Several are composed
for girls who died unwedded and before their time, by their mothers
or companions. The language of these laments is far more tender and
ornate. They praise the gentle virtues and beauty of the girl, her
piety and helpful household ways. The most affecting of these dirges
is that which celebrates the death of Romana, daughter of Dariola
Danesi. Here is a pretty picture of the girl: 'Among the best and
fairest maidens you were like a rose among flowers, like the moon
among stars; so far more lovely were you than the loveliest. The
youths in your presence were like lighted torches, but full of
reverence; you were courteous to all, but with none familiar. In
church they gazed at you, but you looked at none of them; and after
mass you said, "Mother, let us go." Oh! who will console me for your
loss? Why did the Lord so much desire you? But now you rest in heaven,
all joy and smiles; for the world was not worthy of so fair a face.
Oh, how far more beautiful will Paradise be now!' Then follows a
piteous picture of the old bereaved mother, to whom a year will seem
a