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THE COLLECTED WORKS

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

EDITED

WITH PREFACE AND NOTES

BY

WILLIAM M ROSSETTI

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOLUME II

TRANSLATIONS

PROSE-NOTICES OF FINE ART

ELLIS AND ELVEY

LONDON

1901

All rights rescrvtd

114S010

Printed by Uozell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury

CONTENTS.

TRA NSLA TIONS.

PAGE

DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE, WITH THE ITALIAN POETS PRECEDING

HIM.

Advertisement to the Edition of 1874 . . . xi

Preface to the First Edition (1861) . . . xii

Contents xvii

Index of First Lines (English and Italian) . . . xxvii

Introduction to Part I I

Part /. — Dante and his Circle, Dante Alighieri.

The New Life (La Vita Nuova) .... 30

Poems (see Contents to Dante and his Circle) . . 96

Gitido Cavalcanti and other Poets (see Contents as above) 1 16

Appendix to Part I. (see Contents as above) . . . 220 Part II. — Poets chiefly before Dante.

Table of Poets in Part II 233

Ciullo d'Alcamo and other Poets (see Contents to Dante

and his Circle) 245

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN, GERMAN, AND FRENCH.

Francesca da Rimini — Dante ...... 405

La Pia — Dante . . 406

Capitolo— A. M. Salvini to Francesco Redi, 16 — . . 407

The Leaf— Leopardi 409

Two Lyrics from Niccold Tommaseo (The Young Girl —

A Farewell) 410

Poems by Francesco and Gaetano Polidori . . . 413

vi CONTENTS.

PAGE

Henry the Leper, by Hartmann von Aufi . . . 420

The Ballad of Dead Ladies— Francois Villon, 1450 . 461

To Death, of his Lady— Villon 462

His Mother's Service to our Lady — Villon . . . 463

John of Tours — Old French 465

My Father's Close— Old French 467

Two Songs from Victor Hugo's "Burgravcs" . . 468

Lilith— from Gethc 469

Beauty — a Combination from Sappho .... 469

PROSE. IV. — NOTICES OF FINE ART.

Exhibition of Modern British Art at the Old Water- colour Gallery, 1850 473

The Modern Pictures of all Countries, at Lichfield House,

1851 476

Exhibition of Sketches and Drawings in Pall Mall East,

1851 485

Notices of Painters, etc.

Frank Stone : Sympathy, 1850 490

J. C. Hook : The Departure of the Chevalier Bayard

from Brescia, 1850 490

Anthony : The Rival's Wedding, 1850 .... 491

Branwhite 492

Lucy, 1850 493

F. R. Pickersgill, 1850 494

C. H. Lear 495

Kennedy 495

Cope, 1850 ......... 496

Landseer, 1850 497

Marochetti, 1850 498

Madox Brown, 1851 499

Poole, 1851 501

Holman Hunt, 1851 ....... 503

Samuel Palmer, 1875-81 504

The Return of Tibullus to Delia ...... 505

Maclise's Character-Portraits ...... 506

Subjects for Pictures 512

NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI 517

TRANSLATIONS.

DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE

WITH THE ITALIAN POETS PRECEDING HIM. (i 100—1200—1300.)

A COLLECTION OF LYRICS.

TRANSLATED IN THE ORIGINAL METRES.

PART I.

DANTE'S VITA NUOVA, etc. POETS OF DANTE'S CIRCLE.

PART II.

POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE.

VOL. II.

TO MY MOTHER

I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION

OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE.

Advertisement to the Edition of 1874,

In re-entitling and re-arranging this book (originally published in 1861 as The Early Italian Poets,) my object has been to make more evident at a first glance its important relation to Dante. The Vita Nuova, together with the many among Dante's lyrics and those of his contemporaries which elucidate their personal intercourse, are here assembled, and brought to my best ability into clear connection, in a manner not elsewhere attempted even by Italian or German editors.

Preface to the First Edition (1861).

1NEED not dilate here on the characteristics of the first epoch of Italian Poetry ; since the extent of my translated selections is sufficient to afford a complete view of it. Its great beauties may often remain un- approached in the versions here attempted ; but, at the same time, its imperfections are not all to be charged to the translator. Among these I may refer to its limited range of subject and continual obscurity, as well as to its monotony in the use of rhymes or frequent substitution of assonances. But to compensate for much that is incomplete and inexperienced, these poems possess, in their degree, beauties of a kind which can never again exist in art ; and offer, besides, a treasure of grace and variety in the formation of their metres. Nothing but a strong impression, first of their poetic value, and next of the biographical interest of some of them (chiefly of those in my first division), would have inclined me to bestow the time and trouble which have resulted in this collection.

Much has been said, and in many respects justly, against the value of metrical translation. But I think it would be admitted that the tributary art might find

PREFACE riii

a not illegitimate use in the case of poems which come down to us in such a form as do these early Italian ones. Struggling originally with corrupt dialect and imperfect expression, and hardly kept alive through centuries of neglect, they have reached that last and worst state in which the coup-de-grdce has almost been dealt them by clumsy transcription and pedantic super- structure. At this stage the task of talking much more about them in any language is hardly to be entered upon ; and a translation (involving as it does the necessity of settling many points without discussion,) remains perhaps the most direct form of commentary.

The life-blood of rhythmical translation is this com- mandment,— that a good poem shall not be turned into a bad one. The only true motive for putting poetry into a fresh language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far as possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry not being an exact science, liter- ality of rendering is altogether secondary to this chief law. I say literality, — not fidelity, which is by no means the same thing. When literality can be com- bined with what is thus the primary condition of success, the translator is fortunate, and must strive his utmost to unite them ; when such object can only be attained by paraphrase, that is his only path.

Any merit possessed by these translations is derived from an effort to follow this principle; and, in some degree, from the fact that such painstaking in arrange- ment and descriptive heading as is often indispensable to old and especially to " occasional " poetry, has here been bestowed on these poets for the first time.

xi» PREFACE.

That there are many defects in this collection, or that the above merit is its defect, or that it has no merits but only defects, are discoveries so sure to be made if necessary (or perhaps here and there in any case), that I may safely leave them in other hands. The series has probably a wider scope than some readers might look for, and includes now and then (though I believe in rare instances) matter which may not meet with universal approval ; and whose introduction, needed as it is by the literary aim of my work, is I know inconsistent with the principles of pretty bookmaking. My wish has been to give a full and truthful view of early Italian poetry ; not to make it appear to consist only of certain elements to the exclusion of others equally belonging to it.

Of the difficulties I have had to encounter, — the causes of .imperfections for which I have no other excuse, — it is the reader's best privilege to remain ignorant ; but I may perhaps be pardoned for briefly referring to such among these as concern the exigencies of translation. The task of the translator (and with all humility be it spoken) is one of some self-denial. Often would he avail himself of any special grace of his own idiom and epoch, if only his will belonged to him : often would some cadence serve him but for his author's structure — some structure but for his author's cadence : often the beautiful turn of a stanza must be weakened to adopt some rhyme which will tally, and he sees the poet revelling in abundance of language where himself is scantily supplied. Now he would slight the matter for the music, and now the music for

PREFACE. **

the matter ; but no, — he must deal to each alike. Some- times too a flaw in the work galls him, and he would fain remove it, doing for the poet that which his age denied him ; but no, — it is not in the bond. His path is like that of Aladdin through the enchanted vaults : many are the precious fruits and flowers which he must pass by unheeded in search for the lamp alone ; happy if at last, when brought to light, it does not prove that his old lamp has been exchanged for a new one, — glittering indeed to the eye, but scarcely of the same virtue nor with the same genius at its summons.

In relinquishing this work (which, small as it is, is the only contribution I expect to make to our English knowledge of old Italy), I feel, as it were, divided from my youth. The first associations I have are connected with my father's devoted studies, which, from his own point of view, have done so much towards the general investigation of Dante's writings. Thus, in those early days, all around me partook of the influence of the great Florentine; till, from viewing it as a natural element, I also, growing older, was drawn within the circle. I trust that from this the reader may place more confidence in a work not carelessly undertaken, though produced in the spare-time of other pursuits more closely followed. He should perhaps be told that it has occupied the leisure moments of not a few years ; thus affording, often at long intervals, every opportunity for consideration and revision ; and that on the score of care, at least, he has no need to mistrust it. Nevertheless, I know there is no great stir to be made by launching afresh, on high-seas busy with new

xri PREFACE.

traffic, the ships which have been long outstripped and the ensigns which are grown strange.

It may be well to conclude this short preface with a list of the works which have chiefly contributed to the materials of the present volume. An array of modern editions hardly looks so imposing as might a reference to Allacci, Crescimbeni, etc. ; but these older collections would be found less accessible, and all they contain has been reprinted.

I. Poeti del primo secolo della Lingua Italiana. 2 vol. (Firenze. 1816.)

II. Raccolta di Rime antiche Toscane. 4 vol. (Palermo. 1817.)

III. Manuale della Letteratura del primo Secolo, del Prof. V. Nannucci. 3 vol. (Firenze. 1843.)

IV. Poesie Italiane inedite di Dugento Autori : raccolte da Francesco Trucchi. 4 vol. (Prato. 1846.)

V. Opere Minori di Dante. Edizione di P. I. Fra- ticelli. (Firenze. 1843, etc.)

VI. Rime di Guido Cavalcanti ; raccolte da A. Cic- ciaporci. (Firenze. 1813.)

VII. Vita e Poesie di Messer Cino da Pistoia. Edi- zione di S. Ciampi. (Pisa. 1813.)

VIII. Documenti d'Amore ; di Francesco da Barbe- rino. Annotati da F. Ubaldini. (Roma. 1640.)

IX. Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle Donne; di Francesco da Barberino. (Roma. 1815.)

X. II Dittamondo di Fazio degli Uberti. (Milano. 1826.)

CONTENTS.

PART I. DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

PAGE

INTRODUCTION TO PART I. . i DANTE ALIGHIERI.

THE NEW LIFE. (Za Vita Ntiova.) .... 30 SONNET (TO BRUNETTO LATINI). Sent with the Vita

Nuova 96

SONNET. Of Beatrice dej Portinari, on All Saints' Day 97 SONNET. To certain Ladies ; when Beatrice was lament- ing her Father's Death 98

SONNET. To the same Ladies ; with their Answer . 99 BALLATA. He will gaze upon Beatrice . . . .100

CANZONE. A Complaint of his Lady's Scorn . . 101

CANZONE. He beseeches Death for the Life of Beatrice . 104 SONNET. On the gtA ofjum 1290 . . . .107

SONNET (TO CINO DA PISTOIA). He rebukes Cinofor

Fickleness ... .... 108

SONNET (CiNO TO DANTE). He answers Dante, con- fessing his unsteadfast Heart 109

SONNET (TO CINO DA PISTOIA). Written in Exile . no SONNET (CiNO TO DANTE). He answers the foregoing Sonnet (by Dante'), and prays him, in the name

of Beatrice, to continue his great Poem . , . 1 1 1

SONNET. Of Beauty and Duty 112

SESTINA. Of the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigni . . 113

SONNET. A Curse for a fruitless Love. . . . 115

CONTENTS.

GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He interprets Dante's

Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova 116 SONNET. To his Lady Joan, of Florence . . . 117 SONNET. He compares all things with his Lady, and

finds them wanting . . . . . . 1 1 8

SONNET. A Rapture concerning his Lady . . .119 BALLATA. Of his Lady among other Ladies . . .120 SONNET (TO GUIDO ORLANDI). Of a consecrated Image

resembling his Lady . . . . . .121

>MADRIGAL (GUIDO ORLANDI TO CAVALCANTI). In

answer to the foregoing Sonnet (by Cavaleanti ) . 122 SONNET. Of the Eyes of a certain Mandetta, of Thou-

louse, which resemble those of his Lady Joan, of

Florence ......... 123

BALLATA. He reveals, in a Dialogue, his increasing Love

for Mandflta ........ 124

SONNET (DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI).

He imagines a pleasant voyage for Guido, Lapo

Gianni, and himself, with their three Ladies . . 126 SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He answers the fore-

going Sonnet (by Dante), speaking with shame of his

changed Love . . . . . . . .127

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He reports, in a

feigned Vision, the successful jssue of Lapo Gianni's

Love ......... 128

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He mistrusts the

Love of Lapo Gianni ...... 129

SONNET. On the Detection of a false Friend . . 130 SONNET. He speaks of a third Love of his . . . 131 BALLATA. Of a continual Death in Love . . . 132 SONNET. -To a Friend who does not pity his Love . . 133 BALLATA. He perceives that his highest Love is gone

from him ........ 134

SONNET. Of his Fain from a new Love . . . 136 PROLONGED SONNET (Guioo ORLANDI TO GUIDO

CAVALCANTI). He finds fault with the Conceits of

the foregoing Sonnet (by Cavalcanti) . . . 137 SONNET (GIANNI ALFANI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI).

On the part of a Lady of Pisa ..... 138

CONTENTS. xlx

SONNET (BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA TO GUIDO CAVAL- PACK CANTI). fie writes to Giiido, telling him of the Love which a certain Pinella showed on seeing him . . 139 SONNET (TO BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA). Guido answers, commending Pinella, and saying that the Love he can offer her is already shared by many noble Ladies . 140 SONNET (Dmo COMPAGNI TO Guiuo OAVALCANTI).

He reproves Guido for his Arrogance in Love . . 141 SONNET (TO GUIDO ORLANDI). In Praise of Guido

Orlandi's Lady 142

SONNET (Gumo ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI). He answers the foregoing Sonnet (by Cavalcanti), declaring himself 'his Lady 'j Champion . . . 143 SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He rebukes Dante

for his way of Life after the Death of Beatrice , . 144 BALLATA. Concerning a Shepherd-maid . . . 145 SONNET. Of an ill-favoured Lady .... 147 SONNET (TO POPE BONIFACE VIII.). After the Pope's Interdict^ when the Great Houses were leaving Flo~

rence . . 148

BALLATA. /// Exile Satarzana , , . 149

CANZONE. A Song of Fortune 151

CANZONE. A Song against Poverty . . . .154

CANZONE. He laments the Presumption and Inconti- nence of his Youth ....... 156

CANZONE. A Dispute with Death . . . -159

ClNO DA PlSTOIA.

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He interprets Dante's

Dream related in the first Sonnet of the Vila Nuova 163 CANZONE (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). On the Death of

Beatrice Portinari 164

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He conceives of some

Compensation in Death 167

MADRIGAL. To his Lady Selvaggia I ergiolesi ; likening

his Love to a Search for Gold . . . . .168 SONNET. To Lovet in gnat Bitterness . . . .169 SONNET. Death is not without but within him . . 170 SONNET. A Trance of Love 171

xx CONTENTS.

SONNET. Of the Grave of Selvaggia, on the Monte della PAGE

Sambuca 172

CANZONE. His Lament for Selvaggia . . . .173 SONNET (TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI). He owes nothing

to Gtiido as a Poet 175

SONNET. He impugns the verdicts of Dante's Commedia 176 SONNET. He condemns Dante for not naming, in the Commedia, his friend Ones to di Boncima, and his

Lady Selvaggia 177

DANTE DA MAIANO.

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGIIIERI). He interprets Dante AlighierVs Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the

Vita Nuova 178

SONNET. He craves interpreting of a Dream of his . 179 SONNET (Guioo ORLANDI TO DANTE DA MAIANO). He interprets the Dream related in the foregoing

Sonnet (by Dante da Maiano~) 1 80

SONNET. To his Lady Nina, of Sicily . . . .181 SONNET. He thanks his Lady for the Joy he has had

from her 182

CECCO ANGIOLIERI, DA SIENA.

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). On the last Sonnet

of the Vita Nuova 183

SONNET. He will not be too deeply in Love . . . 184 SONNET. Of Love in Men and Devils .... 185 SONNET. Of Love, in honour of his Mistress Becchina . 186 SONNET. Of Becchina, the Shoemaker's Daughter . 187 SONNET. To Messer Angiolieri, his Father . . .188

SONNET. Of the zoth June 1291 189

SONNET. In absence from Becchina . . . .190

SONNET. Of Becchina in a Rage 191

SONNET. He rails against Dante, who had censured his

homage to Becchina . . . . . . .192

SONNET. Of his Four Tormentors . . . 193

SONNET. Concerning his Father . .... 194

SONNET. Of all he would do . ... 195

SONNET. He is past all Help . . . . .196

SONNET. Of why he is unhanged. .... 197

SONNET. Of why he would be a Scullion , .198

CONTENTS. xxi

PAGE

PROLONGED SONNET. When h;s Clothes were gone . 199

SONNET. He argues his case -with Death . • . 200

SONNET. Of Becchina, and of her Husband . . 201

SONNET. To Becchinds rich Husband . . . 202

SONNET. On the Death of his Father .... 203

SONNET. He would slay all who hate their Fathers , 204 SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGHIERI). He writes to Dante, then in exile at Verona, defying him as no better than

himself 205

GUIDO ORLANDI.

SONNET. Against the " White " Ghibettines . . 206

LAPO GIANNI.

MADRIGAL. What Love shall provide for him . . 207 BALLATA. A Message in charge for his Lady Lagia . 208

DINO FRESCOBALDI.

SONNET. Of what his Lady is ..... 210 SONNET. Of the Star of his Love . . . .211

GIOTTO DI BONDONE.

CANZONE. Of the Doctrine of Voluntary Poverty , 212

SIMONE DALL" ANTELLA.

PROLONGED SONNET. In the last Days of the Emperor

Henry VII. ........ 215

GIOVANNI QUIRINO,

SONNET (TO DANTE ALIGIIIERI). He commends the work of Dante's life, then drawing to its close ; and deplores his own deficiencies , . . . .216

SONNET (DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GIOVANNI QUIRING). He answers the foregoing Sonnet (by Quirino) ; say- ing what he feels at the approach of Death • < 217

CONTENTS.

APPENDIX TO PART I.

PACK I. FORESB DONATI.

SONNET (DANTE TO FORESE). He taunts Forest, by the

nickname of Bicci 220

SONNET (FoRESE TO DANTE). He taunts Dante ironi- cally for not avenging Geri Alighieri . . . 220

SONNET (DANTE TO FORESE). He taunts him concern-

ing his Wife 221

SONNET (FORESE TO DANTE). He taunts him concern- ing the unavenged Spirit of Geri Alighieri , 222

II. CECCO D'ASCOLI 225

III. GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO.

SONNET. To one -who had censured his public Expo- sition of Dante 227

ONNET. Inscription for a Portrait of Dante . . 227

SONNET. To Dante in Paradise, after Fiammcttd s death 228

SONNET. Of Fiammet a singing ..... 229

SONNET. Of his last sight of Fiammetta . . , 229 SONNET. Of three Girls and of their 7^alk . . .230

PART II. POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE.

PACE

TABLE OF POETS IN TART II 233

CIULI.O D' ALCAMO.

DIALOGUE. Lover and Lady ..... 245

FOLCACHIERO DE* FOLCACHIERI.

CANZONE. He speaks of his Condition through Love • 255

LODOVICO DELLA VERNACCIA.

SONNET, He exhorts the State to vigilance . . . 257

SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI. \ CANTICA. Our Lord Christ : efOrJtr . . .258

CONTENTS. xxiii .

FREDERICK II. EMPEROR.

CANZONE. Of his Lady in Bondage . . . . 259 ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA.

SONNET, On the fitness of Seasons • . . . 262

GUIDO GUINICELLI.

SONNET. Concerning Lucy ...... 263

CANZONE. Of the gentle Heart ..... 264

SONNKT. He -will praise his Lady .... 266

CANZONE. He perceives his Rashness in Love, but has

no choice ......... 267

SONNET. Of Moderation and Tolerance . . . 269

SONNET. Of Human Presumption .... 270

GUERZO DI MONTECANTI.

SONNET. He is out of heart -with his Time . . , 27 r INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO.

CANZONE. He rebukes the Evil of that Time . . 272 RINALDO D'AQUINO.

CANZONE. He is resolved to be joyful in Love

CANZONE. A Lady, in Spring, repents of her Coldness JACOPO DA LENTINO.

SONNET. Of his Lady in Heaven ....

CANZONETTA. Of his Lady, and of her Portrait . .

SONNET. No Jeiuel is -worth his Lady ....

CANZONETTA. He will neither boast nor lament to his

Lady ......... 284

CANZONETTA. Of his Lady, and of his making her Likeness ..... ...

SONNET. Of his Lady's face ..... sTSS

CANZONE. At the end of his Hope ... 289

MAZZEO DI Ricco, DA MESSINA.

CANZONE. He solicits his Lady s Pity . . . .291

CANZONE. After Six Years' Service he renounces his

Lady ......... 293

SONNET. Of Self-seeing ...... 295

ANNUCCIO DAL BAGNO, PlSANO.

CANZONE. Of his Change through Love ... 296 GlACOMINO PUGLIESI.

CANZONETTA, Of his Lady in Absence • • • 299

xziv CONTENTS.

PACK

CANZONETTA. To his Lady, in Spring ; , . 301 CANZONE. Of his dead Lady ..... 303

FRA GUITTONE D'AREZZO.

SONNET. To the Blessed Virgin Mary . . . . 306

BARTOLOMEO DI SANT' ANGELO.

SONNET. He jests concerning his Poverty . . , 307

.. SAI.ADINO DA PAVIA.

DIALOGUE. Lover and Lady . . . . . 308

BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI, DA LUCCA.

CANZONE. Of the true end of Love ; with a Prayer to

-'•- his Lady 310

CANZONETTA. How he dreams of 'his Lady . . . 312 SONNET. Of Wisdom and Foresight . . . .314 SONNET. Of Continence in Speech .... 315

MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA, DA PISTOIA.

CANZONE. He -will be silent and -watchful in his Love . 316 BALLATA. His Life is by Contraries . . . 319

UBALDO DI MARCO.

SONNET. Of a Lady's Love for him » , . 320

SlMBUONO GlUDICE.

CANZONE. He finds that Love has beguiled him, but will

trust in his Lady . . . . . . ,321

MASOLINO DA TODI.

SONNET. Of Work and Wealth ..... 324

ONESTO DI BONCIMA, BOLOGNESE.

SONNET. Of the Last Judgment ..... 325 SONNET. He wishes that he could meet his Lady alone . 326

TERINO DA CASTEL FIORENTINO.

SONNET. To Onesto di Boncima, in answer to the fore- going . 327

MAESTRO MIGLIORE, DA FIORENZA.

SONNET. He declares all Love to be Grief , . . 328

DELLO DA SIGNA.

BALLATA. His Creed of Ideal Love » . , .329

CONTENTS.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.

SONNET. To the Guelph Faction . 33°

SONNET. To the Same . .... 33 f

SONNET. Of Virtue 332

TWELVE SONNETS. Of the Months .... 333

SEVEN SONNETS. Of the Week ..... 342

GUIDO DELLE COLONNE.

CANZONE. To Love and to his Lady .... 347

PlER MORONELLI, DI FlORENZA.

CANZONETTA. A bitter Song to his Lady . . . 349

ClUNCIO FlORENTINO.

CANZONE. Of his Love ; -with the Figures of a Stag, of

Water, and of an Eagle [3S2

RUGGIERI DI AMICI, SlCILIANO.

CANZONETTA. For a Renewal of Favours . . 354

CARNINO GHIBERTI, DA FIORENZA.

CANZONE. Being absent from his Lady, he fears Death , 356

I'RINZIVALLE DORIA.

CANZONE. Of his Love, with the. Figure of a sudden

Storm 358

RUSTICO DI FILIPPO.

SONNET. Of the making of Afastet Messerin. . . 360 SONNET. Of 'the safety of ' Messer Fazio . . . . 361 SONNET. Of Messer Ugolino 362

PUCCIARELLO DI FlORENZA.

SONNET. Of Expediency 363

ALBERTUCCIO DELLA VIOLA.

CANZONE. Of his Lady dancing 364

TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA.

SONNET. He is in awe of his Lady .... 366 NOFFO EONAGUIDA.

SONNET. He is enjoined to pure Love .... 367 LIPPO PASCHI DE' BARDI.

SONNET. He solicits a Lady's Favours .... 368

SER PACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA.

SONNET. A Return to Love 369

VOL, II. c

xxvi CONTENTS.

NlCCOLO DEGLI ALBIZZI.

PROLONGED SONNET. Wlien the Troops were returning

from Milan . 370

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO.

BLANK VERSE. A Virgin declares her Beauties . . 371

SENTENZE. Of Sloth against Sin 373

SENTENZE. Of Sins in Speech 375

SENTENZE. Of Importunities and Troublesome Persons . 377

SENTENZE. Of Caution 380

FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI.

CANZONE. His Portrait of his Lady, Angiola of Verona EXTRACT FROM THE " DITTAMONDO." Of England, ami

of its Marvels 384

EXTRACT FROM THE "DITTAMONDO." Of tlie Dukes of Normandy, and thence of the Kings of England, from William /. to Edward III. .... 388

FRANCO SACCHETTI.

BAI.LATA. His Talk with certain Peasant-girls . . 392

CATCH. On a Fine Day 394

CATCH. On a Wet Day .... . 396

ANONYMOUS POEMS.

SONNF.T. A Lady laments for her lost Lover, by siinili-

tudt of a Falcon 398

BALLATA. One speaks of tlie Beginning of his Love . 399

BAI.LATA. One speaks of his false Lady . . . 399

BALLATA. One speaks of his feigned and real Love > . 400 BALLATA. Of true and false Singing . . . .401

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

{ENGLISH AND ITALIAN.)

A CERTAIN youthful lady in Thoulouse

/~Y Una giovine donna di T'olosa . . , , 123

A day agone as I rode sullenly

Cavalcando I1 al trier per tin cammiiio , . • 40

A fresh content of fresh enamouring

Novella gioia e nova innamoranza • , , 369

A gentle thought there is will often start

Gentil pensicro che parla di vni . . . ,90

A lady in whom love is manifest

La bella donna dove Amor si nioslra • . f 142

Alas for me who loved a falcon well

Tapina me che amava uno sparviero . • « 398

Albeit my prayers have not so long delay'd

Awcgna ched io irfaggio piii per tempo , , t 164

A little wild bird sometimes at my ear

Augclletto sdvaggio per stagione . . , ,401

All my thoughts always speak to me of Love

Ttitti li miei pcnsier parlan d' A mo re . , ,46

All the whole woild is living without war

Tut to lo mondo vive senza guerra . , . 255

All ye that pass along Love's trodden way

0 voi che per la via d'amor passalc , , ,36

Along the road all shapes must travel by

Per quella via che tall re forme vanno . « .215

xxviii INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE

A man should hold in very dear esteem

Ogni uomo deve assai caro tenere . , . 324

Among my thoughts I count it wonderful

Pure a fensar mi far gran meraviglia . , , 270

Among the dancers I beheld her dance

Alia danza la vidi danzare . , • 364

Among the faults we in that book descry

Infra gli altri difetti del libello . . , .177

And every Wednesday as the swift days move

Ogni Mercolcdl corredo grande . . . 344

And in September O what keen delight

Di Scttcmbre vi do diletti tanti .... 339 And now take thought my Sonnet who is he

Sonet to mio, anda o" lo divisi . . . ,341

And on the morrow at first peep o' the day

Alia domane al fa re re del giorno , , , 346

As I walked thinking through a little grove

Fassando con pensier per un base hello • , 396

As thou wert loth to see before thy feet

Se non ti caggia la tua Santalena . , , 202

A spirit of Love with Love's intelligence

hpirito a* Amor con intelletto . . . . 367

A thing is in my mind

Venuto fft1 e in talento • • < ,274

At whiles yea oftentimes I muse over

Spessefiate venemi alia mente • . . .51

A very pitiful lady very young

Donna pielosa < di novella elate * , • .65

Ay me alas the beautiful bright hair

Ohime lasso quelle treccie bionde . . . • 173

Ballad since Love himself hath fashioned thee

Ballata poi che ti compose Amort , • • 208

Beauty in woman the high will's decree

Bella di donna e di saccente core . • • , 1 18

Because I find not whom to speak withal

PoicK io non trovo chi meco ragioni . . • no

INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxiic

PAGE

Because I think not ever to return

PercK io non spero di tornar giammai . 149

Because mine eyes can never have their fill

PoichZ saziar non posso gli occhi miei . , , loo

Because ye made your backs your shields it came

Cuelfi per fare scudo delle reni . . . , 330

Being in thought of love I chanced to see

Era in pensier d'amor quand^ io trovai , , .124

Be stirring girls we ought to have a run

State su donne che dcbbiam noifare . , 394

Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space

Oltre la spera che piii larga gira . .94

By a clear well within a little field

Intorno adunafonte in un pratello * . 230

By the long sojourning

Per lunga dimoranza . . . > 319

Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing

Sei tu colui eft hai trait ato sovente . . . 62

Dante Alighieri a dark oracle

Dante Alighieri son Minerva oscttra • < . 227

Dante Alighieri Cecco your good friend

Dante Alighier Cecco tuo servo e amico . . ,183

Dante Alighieri if I jest and lie

Dante Alighier s't'0 son biton legolardo • • . 205

Dante Alighieri in Becchina's praise

Lassar vuol Io trovare di Becchina • • • 192

Dante a sigh that rose from the heart's core

Dante tin sospiro messagger del core . .128

Dante if thou within the sphere of Love

Dante se tit nclF amorosa spera . , . 228

Dante since I from my own native place

Poich? io fui Dante dal mio natal silo . , ,109

Dante whenever this thing happeneth

Dante qitando per caso s'a bbandvna . , . 167

Death alway cruel Pity's foe in chief

Morte villana di Pitta nemica .... 38

aa. INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PACE

Death since I find not one with whom to grieve

Alorte poicK io non trovo a cui mi doglia • 104

Death why hast thou made life so hard to bear

A forte perche m'haifatfo si gran guerra , « . 303

Do not conceive that I shall here recount

Non intendiate ch' io qui le vi dica . . , 37 1

Each lover's longing leads him naturally

Naturalmentt chere ogni amadore . , , 163

Even as the day when it is yet at dawning

Come Io gionw quando e al mat lino , , . 358

Even as the moon among the stars doth shed

Come le stelle sopra la Diana . , , 366

Even as the others mock thou mockest me

Con faltre donne mia vista gal-bate , . • 49

Fair sir this love of ours

Messer Io nostro amore . . • 4 308

Flowers hast thou in thyself and foliage

Avete in voi lifiori e la verdura . . . ,117

For a thing done repentance is no good

A cosafattagia non val pentire . , ( » 196

For August be your dwelling thirty towers

D'Agosto si vi do trenla castdla . , . 338

For certain he hath seen all perfectness

Vede perfettamente ogni salute . . . , 74

For grief I am about to sing

Di dolor mi conviene cantare > • • 259

For January I give you vests of skins

Io dono vat nel mese di Gennaio . , , 4 335

For July in Siena by the willow-tree

Di Luglio in Siena sulla saliciate • • « 338

For no love borne by me

No» per ben cK io ti voglia • • • • 400

For Thursday be the tournament prepared

Ed ogni Giffved} torniamento . . • , 344

Friend I well know thou knowest well to bear

Amico saccio btn che sai limare . , « , 137

INDEX OF FIRST LINES. va\

PAGE

Glory to God and to God's Mother chaste

Lode di Dio e della Madre pura . . . .216

Gramercy Death as you've my love to win

Morte mercZ si tl friego e nil in grata , . < 200

Guido an image of my lady dwells

Unafigura ddla donna mia . , « ,121

Guido I wish that Lapo thou and I

Guido vorrri che tu t Lapo ed io . . . -126

Guido that Gianni who a day agone

Guido quel Gianni che a tefft fait fieri . . .138

Hard is it for a man to please all men

Greve pnof uom piacere a tutta genie , . .272

lie that has grown to wisdom hurries not

Uomo cK 2 saggio non corre leggiero . . ; 269

Her face has made my life most proud and glad

Lo visa ml fa andare allfgramente . . > 288

I am afar but near thee is my heart

Lonlan z>i son ma presso v1 e lo core . . . 356

I am all bent to glean the golden ore

Io mi son dalo tutto a tragger oro . , 168

I am enamoured and yet not so much

Io sono innamorato ma non tan fa . . . .184

I am so passing rich in poverty

Eo son si ricco della poverlate .... 307 I am so out of love through poverty

La poverta m' ha s\ disamorato .... 198 I come to thee by daytime constantly

Io vegno il giorno a te infinite volte . . : 144

I felt a spirit of love begin to stir

Io mi sentii svegliar dentro dal core • „' « . . 69

If any his own foolishness might see

Chi conoscesse s\ la sua fallanza . . , 295

If any man would know the very cause

Se alcun volesse la cagion savere . . . .271

If any one had anything to say

Chi Mcssir Ugolin biasma o rtynnde • . . 362

xxxii INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PACK

If as thou say'st thy love tormenteth thee

Se vi stringesse quanta dite amore . , , • 327

If Danle mourns there wheresoe'cr he be

Se Dante flange dove cli' el si sia . , . 227

If I'd a sack of florins and all new

S'io avessi un sacco di fiorini . , . , iS8

If I entreat this lady that all grace

S'io prego qziesta donna chr pictate • • « 133

If I were fire I'd burn the world away

Sfiofossifocoardereilomondo . , , « 195

If I were still that man worthy to love

S'iofossi quello che d'amorfu degno , , .127

If thou hadst offered friend to blessed Mary

Se avessi detto amico di Maria . . , .122

If you could see fair brother how dead beat

Fratel se tu vedessi questa gente . . . . 370

I give you horses for your games in May

Di Maggio jJ vi do molti cavagli . , , • 337

I give you meadow-lands in April fair

U Aprile vi do la genlil campagna . , , 336

I have it in my heart to serve God so

lo m'aggio fosto in core a Dio servire • , ,279

I hold him verily of mean emprise

Tegno difolle itnpresa allo ver dire . . . 267

I know not Dante in what refuge dwell?

Dante io non odo in qttal albergo sitoni , . .Ill

I laboured these six years

Set anni ho travagliato . . . . . 293

I look at the crisp golden-threaded hair

Io miro i crcspi e gli biondi capegli , • .381

I'm caught like any thrush the nets surprise

Babbo Becchina Amore e mia madre , ! . 193

I'm full of everything I do not want

Io ho ttttte le cose c/i' io non voglio , , ,189

In February I give you gallant sport

Di Febbraio vi dono beJla caccia , « • • 33 5

INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxiii

PACK

In March I give you plenteous fisheries

Di Marzo s\ vi do una peschiera , , . 336

In June I give you a close-wooded fell

Di Giugno dowi una montagnetta . , • 337

I play this sweet prelude

Dolce cominciamento ..... 354 I pray thee Dante shouldst thou meet with Love

Sevedi A more assai ti prego Dante . * .129

J thought to be for ever separate

lo mi credea del tut to esser parlilo • . . loS

I've jolliest merriment for Saturday

E il Sabato diktto cd allegranza . • . 345

I was upon the high and blessed mound

Jo Jut in sull' alto e in sulleato mottle . . . 172

I would like better in the grace to be

lo vorrei innanzi in grazia rilornare . • . 2OI

Just look Manetto at that wry-mouthed minx

Guarda Manetto quella sgrignutiizza . . . 147

Ladies that have intelligence in Love

Donne che avete intelletto d 'A more . . .54

Lady my wedded thought

La mia amorosa incnte . . < ( >312

Lady of Heaven the Mother glorified

Donna del cielo gloriosa Madn •«..•« 306 Lady with all the pains that I can take

Donna io forzeraggio lo podere ...» 352 Last All-Saints' holy-day even now gone by

Di donne io vidi una gent He schiera . > • 97

Last for December houses on the plain

E ili Dicemlre una citlti in piano , , 340

Let baths and wine-butts be November's due

E di Novembre petriiiolo e it bagno , , , 340

Let Friday be your highest hunting-tide

Ed ogni VenerJl gran caccia e forte » . • 345

Let not the inhabitants of hell despair

ffon si disperin quelli ddlo Inferno « * . 203

juudv INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE

Lo I am she who makes the wheel to turn

Jo son la donna che volgo la rota . . . • . 151

Love and the gentle heart are one same thing

A more e cor gciilil son una cosa . . . ,58

Love and the Lady Lngia Guido and I

Amore e Monna Lagia e Guido ed io . . . 130

Love hnth so long possessed me for his own

SI lungamente nt'/ia lenuto Amort . , • 75

Love I demand to have my lady in fee

Amore io chero mia donna in domino . . , 207

Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth

Color d'amore e di pietii sembianti . . .87

Love since it is thy will that I return

Perchi ti place Amore c/i' to ritorni . . t 101

Love steered my course while yet the Sun rode high

Guidommi Amor ardendo ancora il Sole , • • 229

Love taking leave my heart then leaveth me

Amor s'eo part o il cor si parte e dole . , . 328

Love will not have me cry

Amor non vuol ch' io clami .. . , , 284

Many there are praisers of poverty

Alolti son quei che lodan power tadt . . .212

Marvellously elate

Maravigliosamente . , . 280

Master Bertuccio you are called to account

Afesser JBertuccio a dritto uom vi cagiona t . ,361

Master Brunetto this my little maid

Messer Brunctto questa puhelletta . , .96

Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring

Videro gli occhi miei quanta pistate « t ,86

My body resting in a haunt of mine

Poso il corpo in un loco mio pigliando > . .320

My curse be on the day when first I saw

Io maladico il dl c ft1 io vidi imprima , . ,115

My heart's so heavy with a hundred things

Io ho s) tristo il cor di cost cento , , * ,190

INDEX OF FIRST LINES. rxxv

PACE

My lady carries love within her eyes

N:gli occhi porta la mia donna amore • * 59

My lady looks so gentle and so pure

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare . . • 74

My lady mine I send

Madonna mia a voi niando , . ,286

My lady thy delightful high command

Mailonna vostro altero piadmento . • ,296

Nero thus much for tidings in thine ear

Novella ti so dire odi Nerone . . « .148

Never so bare and naked was church-stone

AW tempio santo lion vie? io vtai pietra . • > 199

Never was joy or good that did not soothe

Gioia nt ben non 2 scnza conforto . . . . 310

Next for October to some sheltered coign

Di Ottobre nel canta cK ha buono stallo . • . 339

No man may mount upon a golden stair

Non vi si monta per iscala cToro . > > 141

Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites

Color di cenerfatti son li Bianchi , , 206

Now these four things if thou

Qua tiro cose chi vuole . . . » • 375

Now to Great Britain we must make our way

Ora si passa nella Gran Brctagna . » . 384

Now when it flowereth

Oramai quandoflore . . , . * 277

Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer

Quando la luna e la stdlx diana . « . 343

O Bicci pretty son of who knows whom

Bicci novel Jigliuol di non so cui . . ( .220

Often the day had a most joyful morn

Sptsso di gioia nasce ed incomenza , ".321

Of that wherein thou art a questioner

Di cib che stato set diinandatore . < • .178

O Lady amorous

Donna amorosa .,,,,. 349

xxxvi INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

FAGZ

O Love O thou that for my fealty

O tu Amore che m'haifatto martire . , 169

O Love who all this while hast urged me on

Amor che lungamente ni/iai menato . . . 347

On the last words of what you write to me

Al motto diredan prima ragione . .180

O Poverty by thee the soul is wrapped

0 Povertil come tu set un manto . • . ,154

O sluggish hard ingrate what doest thou

O lento pigro ingrato ignar che fai . . . 159

O thou that often hast within thine eyes

Otit che porti negli occhi sovente . , .131

Pass and let pass this counsel I would give

Per consiglio ti do de fossa passa . . . 363

Prohibiting all hope

Levandomi speranza • • » • . 329

Remembering this how Love

Membrando cib che Amore • . > 289

Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son

Ben so che fosti figliuol d'Alighieri . • . 220

Round her red garland and her golden hair

Sovra lifior •vermigli e i capei d'oro , , .229

Sapphire nor diamond nor emerald

Diamente tie smcraldo ne zaffino * . . 283

Say wouldst thou guard thy son

Vnoi giiardar tuo jiglitiolo • . , > 380

Set Love in order thou that lovest me

Ordina quest" Amore o tu che m'ami . < ,258

So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me

Si mabbeltlo la vostra gran piacenza . , 181

Song 'tis my will that thou do seek out Lova

Ballata io vo che tu ritruovi Amore , , • 44

Stay now with me and listen to my sighs

Venite a intender li sospiri miei . , , ,82

Such wisdom as a little child displays

Saver che sente un picciolo fantino , , , 314

INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxvii

PAGE

That lady of all gentle memories

Era venuta nella mente mia . . . .85

That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse

Quesf altissima stella che si vede . . . .211

The devastating flame of that fierce plague

L1 ardente fiamma dellafiera pcste . • 156

The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear

// pessimo e il crude I odio c he' to port a , , ,194

The eyes that weep for pity of the heart

Gli occhi dolmti per pieta del core . . • • 79

The flower of virtue is the heart's content

Fior di virtu si e* gentil coraggio . , t 332

The fountain-head that is so bright to see

Ciascuna fresco, e dolce fonlanella . . « , 140

The King by whose rich grace His servants be

Lo Re che merta i suoi servi a ristoro . , .217

The lofty worth and lovely excellence

Lo gran valor e e lo pregio amoroso . , , 291

The man who feels not more or less somewhat

Chi non sente d'Amore o tanto o quanta . , , 185

The other night I had a dreadful cough

L altra node mi venne ana gran tosse . , , 222

The sweetly- favoured face

La dolce ciera piacente . . . . • 299

The thoughts are broken in my memory

Cib che rtiincontra nella mente more , , • 5C

The very bitter weeping that ye made

L' amaro lagrimar che voifaceste . , . .88

There is a time to mount to humble thee

Tempo men di salire e di scendere , . . 262

There is a vice prevails

Par che un vizio fur rcgni . • « • 377

There is a vice which oft

Un vizio e che laudato , . * • 373

There is among my thoughts the joyous plan

lo ho pensato di fare un gioiello • » . 342

xxxviii INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

FACE

Think a brief while on the most marvellous aits

Se V subietto preclaro O Ciltadini . . 257

This book of Dante's very sooth to say

In verita questo libel di Dante . . . ,176

This fairest lady who as well I wot

Questa leggiadra donna ched to sen to . . ,170

This fairest one of all the stars whose flame

La be'.la slella che suafiatnina tiene . > . 399

This is the damsel by whom Love is brought

Quest a c la giovinetta c/i' amor guida . . ,210

Thou sweetly-smelling fresh red rose

Rosafresca aulcntissima ..... 245 Thou that art wise let wisdom minister

Prowedi saggio ad esta visione . . . . 1 79

Thou well hast heard that Rollo had two sons

Come udit ' hoi ditefiglinoli ebbe Rollo . . . 388

Though thou indeed hast quite forgotten ruth

Se mhai del tut to obliato mercede . . < . 132

Through this my strong and new misaventure

La forte e nova mia disamentura . , , 134

To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song

E il Marled} li do tin nuovo mondo . , . 343

To every heart which the sweet pain doth move

A ciascun' alma presa e genlil core , , • 33

To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough

Chi udisse tossir la mal fatata . • . .221

To see the green returning

Qiiando 1'cggio rinverdire . , , , 301

To sound of trumpet rather than of horn

A suon di tromba innami che di corno . , , 143

To the dim light and the large circle of shade

Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d'ombra . 113

Two ladies to the summit of my mind

Due donne in cima del la mcnte mia . • 112

Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth

Vedcsti al mio parere ogni valore . . Il6

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE

Unto that lowly lovely maid I wis

A qudla amorosetta forosella . , * . 139

Unto the blithe and lordly fellowship

Alia brigata nobile e cortese . * . . 333

Upon a day came Sorrow in to me

Un di si venne a me Melancolla . „ • ,107

Upon that cruel season when our Lord

Quella crudel stagion che a giitdicare , , . 325

Vanquished and weary was my soul in me

Vinta e lassa era gib r anirna mia . .171

Weep Lovers sith Love's very self doth weep

Piangete amanti poi c he piange A more , , • 37

Were ye but constant Guelfs in war or peace

Coslfaceste voi o guerra o pace . . „ 331

Wert thou as prone to yield unto my prayer

Coslfossi tu acconcia di donarmi . , , , 368

Whatever good is naturally done

Qualunque ben si fa natural me nte . , .186

Whatever while the thought eomes over me

Quantunque volte lasso mi rimcmbra . , , 83

What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thce

Quai son le cose vast re c/i' io vi tolgo , , , 175

Whence come you all of you so sorrowful

Onde venite voi cosl pensose . . , ,98

When God had finished Master Messerin

Quando Iddio Messer Messerin fece , , » 360

When I behold Becchina in a rage

Quando veggio Becchina corrucciata . t ,191

When Lucy draws her mantle round her face

Chi vedesse a Lucia un var cafpuzzo . « , 263

When the last greyness dwells throughout the air

Quando f aria comincia a far si bruna . „ , 399

Whether all grace have failed I scarce may scan

Non so s't merce che mo vene a meno • , . 326

Whoever without money is in love

Chie senza denari innamorato . . . .197

INDEX OF FIRST

Who is she coming whom all gaze upon

Chi t questa che vien cK ogrt uom la mira , « 119

Whoso abandons peace for war-seeking

Chi va cherendo guerra e lassa face • . 315

Who utters of his father aught but praise

Chi dice di suo padre altro che onore , , . 204

Why from the danger did mine eyes not start

Perche nonfuro a me gli occhi dispenti . , ,136

Why if Becchina's heart were diamond

Se di Becchina il cor fosse diamante . , .187

Wilhin a copse I met a shepherd- maid

In tin boschetto trovai pastordla .... 145 Within the gentle heart Love shelters him

Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore » , . 264

With other women I beheld my love

lo vidi donne con la donna mia . . . .120

Woe's me by dint of all these sighs that come

Lasso per forza dJ molti sospiri . , 91

Wonderful countenance and royal neck

Visa mirabil gola morganata . « , ,182

Yea let me praise my lady whom I love

lo vo del ver la mia donna lodare , , , 266

Ye graceful peasant-girls and mountain-maids

Vaghe le montanine e pastorelle .... 392 Ye ladies walking past me piteous-eyed

Voi donne che pietoso otto mostrate • » ,99

Ye pilgrim-folk advancing pensively

Deh peregrini che pensosi andate . . « • 93

You that thus wear a modest countenance

Voi che portate la sembianza umtle , , , 6 1

Your joyful understanding lady mine

Madonna voslra alter a canoscenza . . .316

DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

INTRODUCTION TO PART I.

IN the first division of this volume are included all the poems I could find which seemed to have value as being personal to the circle of Dante's friends, and as illustrating their intercourse with each other. Those who know the Italian collections from which I have drawn these pieces (many of them most obscure) will perceive how much which is in fact elucidation is here attempted to be embodied in themselves, as to their rendering, arrangement, and heading : since the Italian editors have never yet paid any of them, except of course those by Dante, any such attention ; but have printed and reprinted them in a jumbled and dishearten- ing form, by which they can serve little purpose except as testi di lingua — dead stock by whose help the makers of dictionaries may smother the language with decayed words. Appearing now I believe for the first time in print, though in a new idiom, from their once living writers to such living readers as they may find, they require some preliminary notice.

The Vita Nuova (the Autobiography or Autopsycho- logy of Dante's youth till about his twenty-seventh year) is already well known to many in the original, or by means of essays and of English versions partial or entire. It is, therefore, and on all accounts, unnecessary to say

VOL. II. '

a DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

much more of the work here than it says for itself. Wedded to its exquisite and intimate beauties are per- sonal peculiarities which excite wonder and conjecture, best replied to in the words which Beatrice herself is made to utter in the Commedia: " Questi fit tal nella sua vita nuova."* Thus then young Dante was. All that seemed possible to be done here for the work was to translate it in as free and clear a form as was consistent with fidelity to its meaning ; to ease it, as far as possible, from notes and encumbrances ; and to accompany it for the first time with those poems from Dante's own lyrical series which have reference to its events, as well as with such native commentary (so to speak) as might be afforded by the writings of those with whom its author was at that time in familiar intercourse. Not chiefly to Dante, then, of whom so much is known to all or may readily be found written, but to the various other mem- bers of his circle, these few pages should be devoted.

It may be noted here, however, how necessary a knowledge of the Vita Nuova is to the full comprehen- sion of the part borne by Beatrice in the Commedia. Moreover, it is only from the perusal of its earliest and then undivulged self-communings that we can divine the whole bitterness of wrong to such a soul as Dante's, its poignant sense of abandonment, or its deep and jealous refuge in memory. Above all, it is here that we find the first manifestations of that wisdom of obedience, that natural breath of duty, which afterwards, in the Corn- media, lifted up a mighty voice for warning and testi- mony. Throughout the Vita Nuova there is a strain like the first falling murmur which reaches the ear in some remote meadow, and prepares us to look upon the sea.

Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, tells us that the great poet, in later life, was ashamed of this work of his youth. Such a statement hardly seems reconcilable with the allusions to it made or implied in the Commedia;

* Purgatorio, C. xxx.

INTRODUCTION TO PART L 3

but it is true that the Vita Nttova is a book which only youth could have produced, and which must chiefly remain sacred to the young ; to each of whom the figure of Beatrice, less lifelike than lovelike, will seem the friend of his own heart. Nor is this, perhaps, its least praise. To tax its author with effeminacy on account of the extreme sensitiveness evinced by this narrative of his love, would be manifestly unjust, when we find that, though love alone is the theme of the Vita Nuova, war already ranked among its author's experiences at the period to which it relates. In the year 1289, the one preceding the death of Beatrice, Dante served with the foremost cavalry in the great battle of Campaldino, on the eleventh of June, when the Florentines defeated the people of Arezzo. In the autumn of the next year, 1290, when for him, by the death of Beatrice, the city as he says " sat solitary," such refuge as he might find from his grief was sought in action and danger : for we learn from the Cotnmedia (Hell, C. xxi.) that he served in the war then waged by Florence upon Pisa, and was present at the surrender of Caprona. He says, using the reminis- cence to give life to a description, in his great way : —

4 I've seen the troops out of Caprona go •

On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot They found themselves with foemcn compass'd so."

(CAYLEY'S Translation.)

A word should be said here of the title of Dante's autobiography. The adjective Nuovo, nuova, or Novella, novella, literally New, is often used by Dante and other early writers in the sense of young. This has induced some editors of the Vita Nuova to explain the title as meaning Early Life. I should be glad on some accounts to adopt this supposition, as everything is a gain which increases clearness to the modern reader; but on con- sideration I think the more mystical interpretation of the words, as New Life (in reference to that revulsion of his being which Dante so minutely describes as

4 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

having occurred simultaneously with his first sight of Beatrice), appears the primary one, and therefore the most necessary to be given in a translation. The pro- bability may be that both were meant, but this I cannot convey.*

* I must hazard here (to relieve the first page of my translation from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning of the most puzzling passage in the whole Vita Nuova, — that sentence just at the outset which says, "La gloriosa donna della mia mente, la quale fu chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non sapeano che si chiamarc." On this passage all the commentators seem helpless, turning it about and sometimes adopting alterations not to be found in any ancient manuscript of the work. The words mean Jterally, " The glorious lady of my mind who was called Beatrice by many who knew not how she was called." This presents the obvious difficulty that the lady's name really was Beatrice, and that Dante throughout uses that name himself. In the text of my version I have adopted, as a rendering, the one of the various compromises which seemed to give the most beauty to the mean- ing. But it occurs to me that a less irrational escape out of the difficulty than any I have seen suggested may possibly be found by linking this passage with the close of the sonnet at page 69 of the Vita Nuova, beginning, " I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir," in the last line of which sonnet Love is made to assert that the name of Beatrice is Love. Dante appears to have dwelt on this fancy with some pleasure, from what is said in an earlier sonnet (page 38) about " Love in his proper form " (by which Beatrice seems to be meant) bending over a dead lady. And it is in connection with the sonnet where the name of Beatrice is said to be Love, that Dante, as if to show us that the Love he speaks of is only his own emotion, enters into an argument as to Love being merely an acci- dent in substance, — in other words, " Amore e il cor gcntil son una cosa." This conjecture may be pronounced extravagant ; but the Vita Nuova, when examined, proves so full of intricate and fan- tastic analogies, even in the mere arrangement of its parts (much more than appears on any but the closest scrutiny), that it seems admissible to suggest even a whimsical solution of a difficulty which remains unconquered. Or to have recourse to the much more welcome means of solution afforded by simple inherent beauty : may not the meaning be merely that any person looking on so noble and lovely a creation, without knowledge of her name, must have spontaneously called her Beatrice, — »>., the giver of blessing ? This would be analogous by antithesis to the transla- tion I have adopted in my text.

TO PART L 5

Among the poets of Dante's circle, the first in order, the first in power, and the one whom Dante has styled his "first friend," is GUIDO CAVALCANTI, born about 1250, and thus Dante's senior by some fifteen years. It is therefore probable that there is some inaccuracy about the statement, often repeated, that he was Dante's fellow- pupil under Brunetto Latini ; though it seems certain that they both studied, probably Guido before Dante, with the same teacher. The Cavalcanti family was among the most ancient in Florence ; and its importance may be judged by the fact that in 1280, on the occasion of one of the various missions sent from Rome with the view of pacifying the Florentine factions, the name of "Guido the son of Messer Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti" appears as one of the sureties offered by the city for the quarter of San Piero Scheraggio. His father must have been notoriously a sceptic in matters of religion, since we find him placed by Dante in the sixth circle of Hell, in one of the fiery tombs of the unbelievers. That Guido shared this heresy was the popular belief, as is plain from an anecdote in Boccaccio which I shall give ; and some corroboration of such reports, at any rate as applied to Guide's youth, seems capable of being gathered from an extremely obscure poem, which I have trans- lated on that account (at page 156) as clearly as I found possible. It must be admitted, however, that there is to the full as much devotional as sceptical tendency implied here and there in his writings; while the presence of either is very rare. We may also set against such a charge the fact that Dino Compagni refers, as will be seen, to his having undertaken a religious pilgrimage. But indeed he seems to have been in all things of that fitful and vehement nature which would impress others always strongly, but often in opposite ways. Self-reliant pride gave its colour to all his moods ; making his ex- ploits as a soldier frequently abortive through the head strong ardour of partisanship, and causing the perversity of a logician to prevail in much of his amorous poetry

6 DANTE AND HtS CIRCLE.

The writings of his contemporaries, as well as his own, tend to show him rash in war, fickle in love, and pre- sumptuous in belief; but also, by the same concurrent testimony, he was distinguished by great personal beauty, high accomplishments of all kinds, and daring nobility of soul. Not unworthy, for all the weakness of his strength, to have been the object of Dante's early emulation, the first friend of his youth, and his precursor and fellow- labourer in the creation of Italian Poetry.

In the year 1267, when Guido cannot have been much more than seventeen years of age, a last attempt was made in Florence to reconcile the Guelfs and Ghibellines. With this view several alliances were formed between the leading families of the two factions ; and among others, the Guelf Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti wedded his son Guido to a daughter of the Ghibelline Farinata degli Uberti. The peace was of short duration ; the utter expulsion of the Ghibellines (through French interven- tion solicited by the Guelfs) following almost immediately. In the subdivision, which afterwards took place, of the victorious Guelfs into so-called " Blacks " and " Whites," Guido embraced the White party, which tended strongly to Ghibellinism, and whose chief was Vieri de' Cerchi, while Corso Donati headed the opposite faction. Whether his wife was still living at the time when the events of the Vita Nuova occurred is probably not ascertainable ; but about that time Dante tells us that Guido was ena- moured of a lady named Giovanna or Joan, and whose Christian name is absolutely all that we know of her. However, on the occasion of his pilgrimage to Thoulouse, recorded by Dino Compagni, he seems to have conceived a fresh passion for a lady of that city named Mandetta, who first attracted him by a striking resemblance to his Florentine mistress. Thoulouse had become a place of pilgrimage from its laying claim to the possession of the body, or part of the body, of St. James the Greater; though the same supposed distinction had already made the shrine of Compostella in Galicia one of the most

INTRODUCTION TO PART /. 7

famous throughout all Christendom. That this devout journey of Guido's had other results besides a new love will be seen by the passage from Compagni's Chronicle. He says : —

"A young and noble knight named Guido, son of Messer Caval- cante Cavalcanti, — full of courage and courtesy, but disdainful, solitary, and devoted to study, — was a foe to Messer Corso (Donati), and had many limes cast about to do him hurt Messer Corso feared him exceedingly, as knowing him to be of a great spirit, and sought to assassinate him on a pilgrimage which Guido made to the shrine of St. James; but he might not compass it Wherefore, having returned to Florence and being made aware of this, Guido incited many youths against Messer Corso, and these promised to stand by him. Who being one day on horseback with certain of the house of the Cerchi, and having a javelin in his hand, spurred his horse against Messer Corso, thinking to be fol- lowed by the Cerchi that so their companies might engage each other; and he running in on his horse cast the javelin, which missed its aim. And with Messer Corso were Simon, his son, a strong and daring youth, and Cecchino de' Bardi, who with many others pursued Guido with drawn swords; but not overtaking him they threw stones after him, and also others were thrown at him from the windows, whereby he was wounded in the hand. And by this matter hate was increased. And Messer Corso spoke great scorn of Messer Vieri, calling him the Ass of the Gate ; be- cause, albeit a very handsome man, he was but of blunt wit and no great speaker. And therefore Messer Corso would say often, 'To-day the Ass of the Gate has brayed,' and so greatly dis- parage him ; and Guido he called Cavicchia.* And thus it was spread abroad of the jongleurs ; and especially one named Scam- polino reported worse things than were said, that so the Cerchi might be provoked to engage the Donati."

* A nickname chiefly chosen, no doubt, for its resemblance to Cavalcanti. The word cavicchia, cavicchio, or caviglia, means a wooden peg or pin. A passage in Boccaccio says, " He had tied his ass to a strong wooden pin " (caviglia). Thus Guido, from his mental superiority, might be said to be the Pin to which the Ass, Messer Vieri, was tethered at the Gate, (that is, the gate of San Pietro, near which he lived). However, it seems ~uite as likely that the nickname was founded on a popular phrase by which one who fails in any undertaking is said " to run his rear on a peg " (dart dtl cttlo in un cavicchio). The haughty Corso Dcuati

8 bANtE AND tilS ClRCLk.

The praise which Compagni, his contemporary, awards to Guido at the commencement of the foregoing extract, receives additional value when viewed in connection with the sonnet addressed to him by the same writer (see page 141), where we find that he could tell him of his faults.

Such scenes as the one related above had become common things in Florence, which kept on its course from bad to worse till Pope Boniface VIII. resolved on sending a legate to propose certain amendments in its scheme of government by Priori, or representatives of the various arts and companies. These proposals, how- ever, were so ill received, that the legate, who arrived in Florence in the month of June 1300, departed shortly afterwards greatly incensed, leaving the city under a papal interdict. In the ill-considered tumults which en- sued we again hear of Guido Cavalcanti.

" It happened " (says Giovanni Villani in his History of Florence) 11 that in the month of December (1300) Messer Corso Donati with his followers, and also those of the house of the Cerchi and their followers, going armed to the funeral of a lady of the Frescobaldi family, this party defying that by their looks would have assailed the one the other; whereby all those who were at the funeral having risen up tumultuously and fled each to his house, the whole city got under arms, both factions assembling in great numbers, at their respective houses. Mcsser Gentile de' Cerchi, Guido Caval- canti, Baldinuccio and Corso Adimari, Baschiero della Tosa and Naldo Gherardini, with their comrades and adherents on horse and on foot, hastened to St. Peter's Gate to the house of the Donati. Not finding them there they went on to San Pier Maggiore, where Messer Corso was with his friends and followers ; by whom they were encountered and put to flight, with many wounds and with much shame to the party of the Cerchi and to their adherents."

By this time we may conjecture as probable that Dante, in the arduous position which he then filled as chief of the nine Priori on whom the Government of

himself went by the name of Malcfanimi or " Do-me-harm." For an account of his death in 1307, which proved in keeping with his turbulent life, see Dino Compagni's Chronicle, or the Pecorotte of Giovanni Fiorentin (Gior. xxiv. Nov. 2).

INTRODUCTION to PAR? / $

Florence devolved, had resigned for far other cares the sweet intercourse of thought and poetry which he once held with that first friend of his who had now become so factious a citizen. Yet it is impossible to say how much of the old feeling may still have survived in Dante'? mind when, at the close of the year 1300 or beginning of 1301, it became his duty, as a faithful magistrate of the republic, to add his voice to those of his colleagues in pronouncing a sentence of banishment on the heads of both the Black and White factions, Guido Cavalcanti being included among the latter. The Florentines had been at last provoked almost to demand this course from their governors, by the discovery of a conspiracy, at the head of which was Corso Donati (while among its leading members was Simone de' Bardi, once the husband of Beatrice Portinari), for the purpose of inducing the Pope to subject the republic to a French peace-maker (Pacieri), and so shamefully free it from its intestine broils. It appears therefore that the immediate cause of 'the exile to which both sides were subjected lay entirely with the " Black" party, the leaders of which were banished to the Castello della Pieve in the wild district of Massa Tra- beria, while those of the " White " faction were sent to Sarzana, probably (for more than one place bears the name) in the Genovesato. "But this party" (writes Villani) " remained a less time in exile, being recalled on account of the unhealthiness of the place, which made that Guido Cavalcanti returned with a sickness, whereof he died. And of him was a great loss ; seeing that he was a man, as in philosophy, so in many things deeply versed ; but therewithal too fastidious and prone to take offence."* His death apparently took place in 1301.

When the discords of Florence ceased, for Guido, in death, Dante also had seen their native city for the last

* " Troppo tencro e stizzoso." I judge that " tenero " here is rather to be interpreted as above than as meaning " impression- able " in love affairs, but cannot be certain.

to DANTE AND tiis CIRCLE.

time. Before Guide's return he had undertaken that embassy to Rome which bore him the bitter fruit of un- just and perpetual exile : and it will be remembered that a chief accusation against him was that of favour shown to the White party on the banishment of the factions.

Besides the various affectionate allusions to Guido in the Vita Nuova, Dante has unmistakably referred to him in at least two passages of the Commedia. One of these references is to be found in those famous lines of the Purgatory (C. xi.) where he awards him the palm of poetry over Guido Guinicelli (though also of the latter he speaks elsewhere with high praise), and implies at the same time, it would seem, a consciousness of his own supremacy over both.

"Against all painters Cimabue thought

To keep the field. Now Giotto has the cry, And so the fame o' the first wanes nigh to nought

Thus one from other Guido took the high Glory of language ; and perhaps is born

He who from both shall bear it by-and-bye."

The other mention of Guido is in that pathetic passage of the Hell (C. x.) where Dante meets among the lost souls Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti : —

"All roundabout he looked, as though he had Desire to see if one was with me else. But after his surmise was all extinct, He weeping said : ' If through this dungeon blind Thou goest by loftiness of intellect, — Where is my son, and wherefore not with thee?' And I to him: ' Of myself come I not: He who there waiteth leads me thoro* here, Whom haply in disdain your Guido had.'* * * * *

Raised upright of a sudden, cried he : ' How Didst say He had? Is he not living still ?

* Virgil, Dante's guide through Hell. Any prejudice which Guido entertained against Virgil depended, no doubt, only on his strong desire to see the Latin language give place, in poetry and literature, to a perfected Italian idiom.

INTRODUCTION To PART /. ti

Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes ? ' When he perceived a certain hesitancc Which I was making ere I should reply, He fell supine, and forth appeared no more."

Dante, however, conveys his answer afterwards to the spirit of Guido's father, through another of the con- demned also related to Guide, Farinata degli Uberti, with whom he has been speaking meanwhile : —

11 Then I, as in compunction for my fault, Said : ' Now then shall ye tell that fallen one His son is still united with the quick. And, if I erst was dumb to the response, I did it, make him know, because I thought Yet on the error you have solved for me.' "

(W. M. ROSSETTI'S Translation.)

The date which Dante fixes for his vision is Good Friday of the year 1300. A year later, his answer must have been different. The love and friendship of his Vita Nuova had then both left him. For ten years Beatrice Portinari had been dead, or (as Dante says in the Con- vito) " lived in heaven with the angels and on earth with his soul." And now, distant and probably estranged from him, Guido Cavalcanti was gone too.

Among the Tales of Franco Sacchetti, and in the De- cameron of Boccaccio, are two anecdotes relating to Guido. Sacchetti tells us how, one day that he was intent on a game at chess, Guido (who is described as "one who perhaps had not his equal in Florence") was disturbed by a child playing about, and threatened pun- ishment if the noise continued. The child, however, managed slily to nail Guido's coat to the chair on which he sat, and so had the laugh against him when he rose soon afterwards to fulfil his threat. This may serve as an amusing instance of Guido's hasty temper, but is rather a disappointment after its magniloquent heading, which sets forth how " Guido Cavalcanti, being a man of great valour and a philosopher, is defeated by the cun- ning of a child."

ti DANTE AND fftS CIRCLE.

The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the Decameron relates a repartee of Guide's, which has all the profound platitude of mediaeval wit. As the anecdote, however, is interesting on other grounds, I translate it here.

"You must know that in past times there were in our city cer- tain goodly and praiseworthy customs no one of which is now left, thanks to avarice, which has so increased with riches that it has driven them all away. Among the which was one whereby the gentlemen of the outskirts were wont to assemble together in divers places throughout Florence, and to limit their fellowships to a certain number, having heed to compose them of such as could fitly discharge the expense. Of whom to-day one, and to-morrow another, and so all in turn, laid tables each on his own day for all the fellowship. And in such wise often they did honour to strangers of worship and also to citizens. They all dressed alike at least once in the year, and the most notable among them rode together through the city ; also at seasons they held passages of arms, and specially on the principal feast-days, or whenever any news of victory or other glad tidings had reached the city. And among these fellowships was one headed by Messer Betto Brunelleschi, into the which Messer Betto and his companions had often in- trigued to draw Guido di Messer Cavalcante de* Cavalcanti ; and this not without cause, seeing that not only he was one of the best logicians that the world held, and a surpassing natural philo- sopher (for the which things the fellowship cared little), but also he exceeded in beauty and courtesy, and was of great gifts as a speaker ; and everything that it pleased him to do, and that best became a gentleman, he did better than any other; and was ex- ceeding rich and knew well to solicit with honourable words whomsoever he deemed worthy. But Messer Betto had never been able to succeed in enlisting him ; and he and his companions believed that this was through Guide's much pondering which divided him from other men. Also because he held somewhat of the opinion of the Epicureans, it was said among the vulgar sort that his speculations were only to cast about whether he might find that there was no God. Now on a certain day Guido having left Or San Michele, and held along the Corso degli Adimari as far as San Giovanni (which oftentimes was his walk) ; and coming to the great marble tombs which now are in the Church of Santa Reparata, but were then with many others in San Giovanni ; he being between the porphyry columns which are there among those tombs, and the gate of San Giovanni which was locked ; — it so chanced that Messer Betto and his fellowship came riding up by the Piazza di Santa Reparata, and seeing Guido among the sepuU

INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 13

chrcs, said, 'Let us go and engage him.' Whereupon, spurring their horses in the fashion of a pleasant assault, they were on him almost before he was aware, and began to say to him, 'Thou, Guido, wilt none of our fellowship ; but lo now ! when thou shall have found that there is no God, what wilt thou have done ?' To whom Guido, seeing himself hemmed in among them, readily re- plied, 4 Gentlemen, ye are at home here, and may say what ye please to me.' Wherewith, setting his hand on one of those high tombs, being very light of his person, he took a leap and was over on the other side ; and so having freed himself from them, went his way. And they all remained bewildered, looking on one another; and began to say that he was but a shallow-witted fellow, and that the answer he had made was as though one should say nothing ; seeing that where they were, they had not more to do than other citizens, and Guido not less than they. To whom Messer Betto turned and said thus : ' Ye yourselves are shallow-witted if ye have not understood him. He has civilly and in a few words said to us the most uncivil thing in the world ; for if ye look well to it, these tombs are the homes of the dead, see- ing that in them the dead are set to dwell ; and here he says that we are at home ; giving us to know that we and all other simple unlettered men, in comparison of him and the learned, are even as dead men ; wherefore, being here, we are at home.' Thereupon each of them understood what Guido had meant, and was ashamed ; nor ever again did they set themselves to engage him. Also from that day forth they held Messer Betto to be a subtle and understanding knight."

In the above story mention is made of Guido Caval- canti's wealth, and there seems no doubt that at that time the family was very rich and powerful. On this account I am disposed to question whether the Canzone at page 154 (where the author speaks of his poverty) can really be Guido's work, though I have included it as being interesting if rightly attributed to him ; and it is possible that, when exiled, he may have suffered for the time in purse as well as person. About three years after his death, on the loth June, 1304, the Black party plotted together and set fire to the quarter of Florence chiefly held by their adversaries. In this conflagration the houses and possessions of the Cavalcanti were almost entirely destroyed; the flames in that neigh- bourhood (as Dino Compagni records) gaining rapidly

I4 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

in consequence of the great number of waxen images in the Virgin's shrine at Or San Michele ; one of which, no doubt, was the very image resembling his lady to which Guido refers in a sonnet (see page 121). After this, their enemies succeeded in finally expelling from Florence the Cavalcanti family,* greatly impoverished by this monstrous fire, in which nearly two thousand houses were consumed.

Guido appears, by various evidence, to have written, besides his poems, a treatise on Philosophy and another on Oratory, but his poems only have survived to our day. As a poet, he has more individual life of his own than belongs to any of his predecessors ; by far the best of his pieces being those which relate to himself, his loves and hates. The best known, however, and perhaps the one for whose sake the rest have been preserved, is the metaphysical canzone on the Nature of Love, beginning " Donna mi priega," and intended, it is said, as an answer to a sonnet by Guido Orlandi, written as though coming from a lady, and beginning, "Onde si muove e donde nasce Amore ? " On this canzone of Guide's there are known to exist no fewer than eight commentaries, some of them very elaborate, and written by prominent learned men of the middle ages and re- naissance; the earliest being that by Egidio Colonna, a beatified churchman who died in 1316 ; while most of the too numerous Academic writers on Italian literature speak of this performance with great admiration as Guido's crowning work. A love-song which acts as such a fly-catcher for priests and pedants looks very suspi-

* With them were expelled the still more powerful Gherardini, also great sufferers by the conflagration; who, on being driven from their own country, became the founders of the ancient Geraldine family in Ireland. The Cavalcanti reappear now and then in later European history; and especially we hear of a second Guido Cavalcanti, who also cultivated poetry, and travelled to collect books for the Ambrosian Library; and who, in 1563, visited England as Ambassador to the court of Elizabeth from Charles IX. of France.

INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 15

cious ; and accordingly, on examination, it proves to be a poem beside the purpose of poetry, filled with meta- physical jargon, and perhaps the very worst of Guido's productions. Its having been written by a man whose life and works include so much that is impulsive and real, is easily accounted for by scholastic pride in those early days of learning. I have not translated it, as being of little true interest ; but was pleased lately, neverthe- less, to meet with a remarkably complete translation of it by the Rev. Charles T. Brooks, of Cambridge, United States.* The stiffness and cold conceits which prevail in this poem may be found disfiguring much of what Guido Cavalcanti has left, while much besides is blunt, obscure, and abrupt : nevertheless, if it need hardly be said how far he falls short of Dante in variety and per- sonal directness, it may be admitted that he worked worthily at his side, and perhaps before him, in adding those qualities to Italian poetry. That Guido's poems dwelt in the mind of Dante is evident by his having appropriated lines from them (as well as from those of Guinicelli) with little alteration, more than once, in the Commedta.

Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his Latin treatise De Vulgari Eloquio, again speaks of himself as the friend of a poet, — this time of CINO DA PISTOIA. In an early passage of that work he says that " those who have most sweetly and subtly written poems in modern Italian are Cino da Pistoia and a friend of his." This friend we afterwards find to be Dante himself; as among the various poetical examples quoted are several by Cino followed in three instances by lines from Dante's

* This translation occurs in the Appendix to an Essay on the Vita Nuova of Dante, including extracts, by my friend Mr. Charles E. Norton, of Cambridge, U.S., — a work of high delicacy and ap- preciation, which originally appeared by portions in the Atlantic Monthly, but has since been augmented by the author and pri- vately printed in a volume which is a beautiful specimen of American typography.

16 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

own lyrics, the author of the latter being again described merely as "Amicus ejus." In immediate proximity to these, or coupled in two instances with examples from Dante alone, are various quotations taken from Guido Cavalcanti ; but in none of these cases is anything said to connect Dante with him who was once " the first of his friends."* As commonly between old and new, the change of Guide's friendship for Cino's seems doubtful gain. Cino's poetry, like his career, is for the most part smoother than that of Guido, and in some instances it rises into truth and warmth of expression : but it con- veys no idea of such powers, for life or for work, as seem to have distinguished the " Cavicchia " of Messcr Corso Donati. However, his one talent (reversing the parable) appears generally to be made the most of, while Guido's two or three remain uncertain through the manner of their use.

Cino's Canzone addressed to Dante on the death of Beatrice, as well as his answer to the first sonnet of the Vita Nuova, indicate that the two poets must have become

* It is also noticeable that in this treatise Dante speaks of Guido Guinicclli on one occasion as Guido Maximus, thus seeming to contradict the preference of Cavalcanti which is usually supposed to be implied in the passage I have quoted from the Purgatory. It has been sometimes surmised (perhaps for this reason) that the two Guidos there spoken of may be Guittone d'Arezzo and Guido Guinicelli, the latter being said to surpass the former, of whom Dante elsewhere in the Purgatory has expressed a low opinion. But I should think it doubtful whether the name Guittone, which (if not a nickname, as some say) is substantially the same as Guido, could be so absolutely identified with 'it : at that rate Cino da Pistoia even might be classed as one Guido, his full name, Guitton- cino, being the diminutive of Guittone. I believe it more probable that Guinicelli and Cavalcanti were then really meant, and that Dante afterwards either altered his opinion, or may (conjecturably) have chosen to imply a change of preference in order to gratify Cino da Pistoia, whom he so markedly distinguishes as his friend throughout the treatise, and between whom and Cavalcanti some jealousy appears to have existed, as we may gather from one of Cino's sonnets (at page 175) ; nor is Guido mentioned anywhere with praise by Cino, as other poets are.

INTRODUCTION ?o PAR? /. 17

acquainted in youth, though there is no earlier mention of Cino in Dante's writings than those which occur in his treatise on the Vulgar Tongue. It might perhaps be inferred with some plausibility that their acquaintance was revived after an interruption by the sonnet and answer at pages iio-iu, and that they afterwards cor- responded as friends till the period of Dante's death, when Cino wrote his elegy. Of the two sonnets in which Cino expresses disapprobation of what he thinks the partial judgments of Dante's Commedia, the first seems written before the great poet's death, but I should think that the second dated after that event, as the Paradise, to which it refers, cannot have become fully known in its author's lifetime. Another sonnet sent to Dante elicited a Latin epistle in reply, where we find Cino addressed as " frater carissime." Among Cino's lyrical poems are a few more written in correspondence with Dante, which I have not translated as being of little personal interest.

Guittoncino de' Sinibuldi (for such was Cino's full name) was born in Pistoia, of a distinguished family, in the year 1270. He devoted himself early to the study of law, and in 1307 was Assessor of Civil Causes in his native city. In this year, and in Pistoia, first cradle of the " Black " and " White " factions, their endless contest again sprang into activity ; the " Blacks " and Guelfs of Florence and Lucca driving out the " Whites " and Ghibellines, who had ruled in the city since 1300. With their accession to power came many iniquitous laws in favour of their own party; so that Cino, as a lawyer of Ghibelline opinions, soon found it necessary or advisable to leave Pistoia, for it seems uncertain whether his removal was voluntary or by proscription. He directed his course towards Lombardy, on whose confines the chief of the " White " party, in Pistoia, Filippo Vergiolesi, still held the fortress of Pitecchio. Hither Vergiolesi had retreated with his family and adherents when resistance in the city became no longer possible ; and it may be supposed that Cino came to join him, not VOL. u. a

i8 bANTE AfrD tifS C1RCL&.

on account of political sympathy alone; cs Selvaggia Vcrgiolcsi, his daughter, is the lady celebrated through- out the poet's compositions. Three years later, the Vcrgiolcsi and their followers, finding Pitecchio unten- able, fortified themselves on the Monte della Sambuca, a lofty peak on the Apennines; which again they were finally obliged to abandon, yielding it to the Guelfs of Pistoia at the price of eleven thousand lire. Meanwhile the bleak air of the Sambuca had proved fatal to the lady Selvaggia, who remained buried there, or, as Cino expresses it in one of his poems,

"Catt out upon the steep path of the mountains, \Vhcre Death had shut her in between hard stones."

Over her cheerless tomb Cino bent and mourned, as he has told us, when, after a prolonged absence spent partly in France, he returned through Tuscany on his way to Rome. He had not been with Selvaggia's family at the time of her death ; and it is probable that, on his return to the Sambuca, the fortress was already sur- rendered, and her grave almost the only record left there of the Vergiolesi.

Cino's journey to Rome was on account of his having received a high office under Louis of Savoy, who pre- ceded the Emperor Henry VII. when he went thither to be crowned in 1310. In another three years the last blow was dealt to the hopes of the exiled and persecuted Ghibellines, by the death of the Emperor, caused almost surely by poison. This death Cino has lamented in a canzone. It probably determined him to abandon a cause which seemed dead, and return, when possible, to his native city. This he succeeded in doing before 1319, as in that year we find him deputed, together with six other citizens, by the Government of Pistoia to take possession of a stronghold recently yielded to them. He had now been for some time married to Margherita degli Ughi, of a very noble Pistoiese family, who bore him a son named Mino, and four daughters, Diamante,

INTRODUCTION TO PART 2. 19

Beatrice, Giovanna, and Lombarduccia. Indeed, this marriage must have taken place before the death of Selvaggia in 1310, as in 1325-26 his son Mino was one of those by whose aid from within the Ghibelline Castruccio Antelminelli obtained possession of Pistoia, which he held in spite of revolts till his death some two or three years afterwards, when it again reverted to the Guelfs.

After returning to Pistoia, Cino's whole life was devoted to the attainment of legal and literary fame. In these pursuits he reaped the highest honours, and taught at the universities of Siena, Perugia, and Florence ; having for his disciples men who afterwards became celebrated, among whom rumour has placed Petrarch, though on examination this seems very doubtful. A sonnet by Petrarch exists, however, commencing " Pian- gete donne e con voi pianga Amore," written as a lament on Cino's death, and bestowing the highest praise on him. He and his Selvaggia are also coupled with Dante and Beatrice in the same poet's Trionfi <T Amore (cap. 4).

Though established again in Pistoia, Cino resided there but little till about the time of his death, which occurred in 1336-7. His monument, where he is repre- sented as a professor among his disciples, still exists in the Cathedral of Pistoia, and is a mediaeval work of great interest. Messer Cino de' Sinibuldi was a prosperous man, of whom we have ample records, from the details of his examinations as a student, to the inventory of his effects after death, and the curious items of his funeral expenses. Of his claims as a poet it may be said that he filled creditably the interval which elapsed between the death of Dante and the full blaze of Petrarch's suc- cess. Most of his poems in honour of Selvaggia are full of an elaborate and mechanical tone of complaint which hardly reads like the expression of a real love; never- theless there are some, and especially the sonnet on her tomb (at page 172), which display feeling and power. The finest, as well as the most interesting, of all his

20 DANTE AND ms CIRCL&.

pieces, is the very beautiful canzone in which he attempts to console Dante for the death of Beatrice. Though I have found much fewer among Cino's poems than among Guide's which seem to call for translation, the collection of the former is a larger one. Cino pro- duced legal writings also, of which the chief one that has survived is a Commentary on the Statutes of Pistoia, said to have great merit, and whose production in the short space of two years was accounted an extraordinary achievement.

Having now spoken of the chief poets of this division, it remains to notice the others of whom less is known.

DANTE DA MAIANO (Dante being, as with Alighieri, the short of Durante, and Maiano in the neighbourhood of Fiesole) had attained some reputation as a poet before the career of his great namesake began; his Sicilian lady Nina (herself, it is said, a poetess, and not personally known to him) going by the then unequivocal title of " La Nina di Dante. " This priority may also be inferred from the contemptuous answer sent by him to Dante Alighieri's dream sonnet in the Vita Nuova (see page 178). All the writers on early Italian poetry seem to agree in specially censuring this poet's rhymes as coarse and trivial in manner ; nevertheless, they are sometimes distinguished by a careless force not to be despised, and even by snatches of real beauty. Of Dante da Maiano's life no record whatever has come down to us.

Most literary circles have their prodigal, or what in modern phrase might be called their " scamp" ; and among our Danteans, this place is indisputably filled by CECCO ANGIOLIERI, of Siena. Nearly all his sonnets (and no other pieces by him have been preserved) relate either to an unnatural hatred of his father, or to an infatuated love for the daughter of a shoemaker, a certain married Becchina. It would appear that Cecco was probably enamoured of her before her marriage as well as after- wards, and we may surmise that his rancour against his father may have been partly dependent, in the first

INTRODUCTION TO PART 2. 21

instance, on the disagreements arising from such a con- nection. However, from an amusing and lifelike story in the Decameron (Gior. ix. Nov. 4) we learn that on one occasion Cecco's father paid him six months' allowance in advance, in order that he might proceed to the Marca d'Ancona, and join the suite of a Papal Legate who was his patron ; which looks, after all, as if the father had some care of his graceless son. The story goes on to relate how Cecco (whom Boccaccio describes as a hand- some and well-bred man) was induced to take with him as his servant a fellow-gamester with whom he had formed an intimacy purely on account of the hatred which each of the two bore his own father, though in other respects they had little in common. The result was that this fellow, during the journey, while Cecco was asleep at Buonconvento, took all his money and lost it at the gaming table, and afterwards managed by an adroit trick to get possession of his horse and clothes, leaving him nothing but his shirt. Cecco then, ashamed to return to Siena, made his way, in a borrowed suit and mounted on his servant's sorry hack, to Corsignano, where he had relations ; and there he stayed till his father once more (surely much to his credit) made him a remittance of money. Boccaccio seems to say in conclusion '.Jiat Cecco ultimately had his revenge on the thief.

In reading many both of Cecco's love-sonnets and hate-sonnets, it is impossible not to feel some pity for the indications they contain of self-sought poverty, un- happiness, and natural bent to ruin. Altogether they have too much curious individuality to allow of their being omitted here : especially as they afford the earliest prominent example of a naturalism without afterthought in the whole of Italian poetry. Their humour is some- times strong, if not well chosen ; their passion always forcible from its evident reality : nor indeed are several among them devoid of a certain delicacy. This quality is also to be discerned in other pieces which I have not included as having less personal interest j but it must

n DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

be confessed that for the most part the sentiments ex- pressed in Cecco's poetry are either impious or licentious. Most of the sonnets of his which are in print are here given ; * the selections concluding with an extraordinary one in which he proposes a sort of murderous crusade against all those who hate their fathers. This I have placed last (exclusive of the Sonnet to Dante in exile) in order to give the writer the benefit of the possibility that it was written last, and really expressed a still rather blood-thirsty contrition ; belonging at best, I fear, to the content of self-indulgence when he came to enjoy his father's inheritance. But most likely it is to be received as an expression of impudence alone, unless perhaps of hypocrisy.

Cecco Angiolieri seems to have had poetical intercourse with Dante early as well as later in life ; but even from the little that remains, we may gather that Dante soon put an end to any intimacy which may have existed between them. That Cecco already poetized at the time to which the Vita Nuova relates, is evident from a date given in one of his sonnets, — the 2oth June 1291, and from his sonnet raising objections to the one at the close of Dante's autobiography. When the latter was written he was probably on good terms with the young Alighieri ; but within no great while afterwards they had discovered that they could not agree, as is shown by a sonnet in which Cecco can find no words bad enough for Dante, who has remonstrated with him about Becchina.f Much

* It may be mentioned (as proving how much of the poetry of this period still remains in MS.) that Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, published in 1640, cites as grammatical examples no fewer than twenty-three short fragments from Cecco Angiolieri, one of which alone is to be found among the sonnets which I have seen, and which I believe are the only ones in print. Ubaldini quotes them from the Strozzi MSS.

f Of this sonnet I have seen two printed versions, in both ol which the text is so corrupt as to make them very contradictory in important points ; but I believe that by comparing the two I have given its meaning correctly. (See page 192.)

INTRODUCTION TO PART 1. 23

later, as we may judge, he again addresses Dante in an insulting tone, apparently while the latter was living in exile at the court of Can Grande della Scala. No other reason can well be assigned for saying that he had " turned Lombard"; while some of the insolent allusions seem also to point to the time when Dante learnt by experience " how bitter is another's bread and how steep the stairs of his house."

Why Cecco in this sonnet should describe himself as having become a Roman, is more puzzling. Boccaccio certainly speaks of his luckless journey to join a Papal legate, but does not tell us whether fresh clothes and the wisdom of experience served him in the end to become so far identified with the Church of Rome. However, from the sonnet on his father's death he appears (though the allusion is desperately obscure) to have been then living at an abbey ; and also, from the one mentioned above, we may infer that he himself, as well as Dante, was forced to sit at the tables of others : coincidences which almost seem to afford a glimpse of the phenomenal fact that the bosom of the Church was indeed for a time the refuge of this shorn lamb. If so, we may further conjecture that the wonderful crusade-sonnet was an amende honorable then imposed on him, accompanied probably with more fleshly penance.

Though nothing indicates the time of Cecco Angiolieri's death, I will venture to surmise that he outlived the writing and revision of Dante's Inferno, if only by the token that he is not found lodged in one of its meaner circles. It is easy to feel sure that no sympathy can ever have existed for long between Dante and a man like Cecco ; however arrogantly the latter, in his verses, might attempt to establish a likeness and even an equality. We may accept the testimony of so reverent a biographer as Boccaccio, that the Dante of later years was far other than the silent and awe-struck lover of the Vita Nuova; but he was still (as he proudly called him- self) " the singer of Rectitude/' a.nd his that " indignant

24 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

soul " which made blessed the mother who had borne him.*

Leaving to his fate (whatever that may have been) the Scamp of Dante's Circle, I must risk the charge of a con- firmed taste for slang by describing GUIDO ORLANDI as its Bore. No other word could present him so fully. Very few pieces of his exist besides the five I have given. In one of these, t he rails against his political adversaries ; in three, \ falls foul of his brother poets ; and in the remaining one, § seems somewhat appeased (I think) by a judicious morsel of flattery. I have already referred to a sonnet of his which is said to have led to the composition of Guido Cavalcanti's Canzone on the Nature of Love. He has another sonnet beginning, u Per troppa sottiglianza il fil si rompe," || in which he is cer- tainly enjoying a fling at somebody, and I suspect at Cavalcanti in rejoinder to the very poem which he him- self had instigated. If so, this stamps him a master- critic of the deepest initiation. Of his life nothing is recorded ; but no wish perhaps need be felt to know much of him, as one would probably have dropped his acquaintance. We may be obliged to him, however, for his character of Guido Cavalcanti (at page 137), which is boldly and vividly drawn.

Next follow three poets of whom I have given one specimen apiece. By BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA (page 139) no other is known to exist, nor can anything be learnt of his career. GIANNI ALFANI was a noble and distinguished Florentine, a much graver man, it would seem, than one could judge from this sonnet of his (page 138), which belongs rather to the school of Sir Pandarus of Troy.

DINO COMPAGNI, the chronicler of Florence, is repre-

* a Alma sdegnosa, Benedetta colei che in te s' incinse ! "

(Inferno, C. vm.)

f Page 206. J Pages 122, 137, 180. § Page 143. if This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle ; let us hope (in 30 immaculate a censor) from unlHness for publication.

INTRODUCTION TO PART L *$

sented here by a sonnet addressed to Guido Cavalcanti,* which is all the more interesting, as the same writer's historical work furnishes so much of the little known about Guido. Dino, though one of the noblest citizens of Florence, was devoted to the popular cause, and held successively various high offices in the state. The date of his birth is not fixed, but he must have been at least thirty in 1289, as he was one of the Priori in that year, a post which could not be held by a younger man. He died at Florence in 1323. Dino has rather lately assumed for the modern reader a much more important position than he occupied before among the early Italian poets. I allude to the valuable discovery, in the Ma- gliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem by him in nona ritna, containing 309 stanzas. It is entitled " L'Intelligenza/' and is of an allegorical nature inter- spersed with historical and legendary abstracts, t

I have placed LAPO GIANNI in this my first division on account of the sonnet by Dante (page 126), in which he seems undoubtedly to be the Lapo referred to. It has been supposed by some that Lapo degli Uberti (father of Fazio, and brother-in-law of Guido Cavalcanti) is meant; but this is hardly possible. Dante and Guido seem to have been in familiar intercourse with the Lapo of the sonnet at the time when it and others were written; whereas no Uberti can have been in Florence after the year 1267, when the Ghibellines were expelled; the Uberti family (as I have mentioned elsewhere) being the one of all others which was most jealously kept afar and excluded from every amnesty. The only information which I can find respecting Lapo Gianni is the statement

* Crescimbeni (1st. d. Volg. Poes.) gives this sonnet from a MS., where it is headed "To Guido Guinicelli " ; but he surmises, and I have no doubt correctly, that Cavalcanti is really the person addressed in it.

f See Documents inedils pour servira Thistoire litteraire de Fltalie, &-c., pat A. F. Ozanam (Pans, 1850), where the poem is printed

26 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

that he was a notary by profession. I have also seen it somewhere asserted (though where I cannot recollect, and am sure no authority was given), that he was a cousin of Dante. We may equally infer him to have been the Lapo mentioned by Dante in his treatise on the Vulgar Tongue, as being one of the few who up to that time had written verses in pure Italian.

DINO FRESCOBALDI'S claim to the place given him here will not be disputed when it is remembered that by his pious care the seven first cantos of Dante's Hell were restored to him in exile, after the Casa Alighieri in Florence had been given up to pillage ; by which restoration Dante was enabled to resume his work. This sounds strange when we reflect that a world with- out Dante would be a poorer planet. Meanwhile, beyond this great fact of Dino's life, which perhaps hardly occupied a day of it, there is no news to be gleaned of him.

GIOTTO falls by right into Dante's circle, as one great man comes naturally to know another. But he is said actually to have lived in great intimacy with Dante, who was about twelve years older than himself; Giotto having been born in or near the year 1276, at Vespignano, fourteen miles from Florence. He died in 1336, fifteen years after Dante. On the authority of Benvenuto da Imola (an early commentator on the Comtnedici), of Vasari, and others, it is said that Dante visited Giotto while he was painting at Padua ; that the great poet furnished the great painter with the conceptions of a series of subjects from the Apocalypse, which he painted at Naples; and that Giotto, finally, passed some time with Dante in the exile's last refuge at Ravenna. There is a tradition that Dante also studied drawing with Giotto's master Cimabue; and that he practised it in some degree is evident from the passage in the Vita Nuova, where he speaks of his drawing an angel. The reader will not need to be reminded of Giotto's portrait of the youthful Dante, painted in tbf Rargello at Florence,

INTRODUCTION TO PART f. 27

then the chapel of the Podesta. This is the author of the Vita Nuova. That other portrait shown us in the posthumous mask, — a face dead in exile after the death of hope, — should front the first page of the Sacred Poem to which heaven and earth had set their hands, but which might never bring him back to Florence, though it had made him haggard for many years.*

Giotto's Canzone on the doctrine of voluntary poverty, — the only poem we have of his, — is a protest against a perversion of gospel teaching which had gained ground in his day to the extent of becoming a popular frenzy. People went literally mad upon it ; and to the reaction against this madness may also be assigned (at any rate partly) Cavalcanti's poem on Poverty, which, as we have seen, is otherwise not easily explained, if authentic. Giotto's canzone is all the more curious when we remem- ber his noble fresco at Assisi, of Saint Francis wedded to Poverty.f It would really almost seem as if the poem had been written as a sort of safety-valve for the painter's true feelings, during the composition of the picture. At any rate, it affords another proof of the strong common sense and turn for humour which all accounts attribute to Giotto.

I have next introduced, as not inappropriate to the series of poems connected with Dante, SIMONE DALL' ANTELLA'S fine sonnet relating to the last enterprises of Henry of Luxembourg, and to his then approaching end, — that deathblow to the Ghibelline hopes which Dante so deeply shared. This one sonnet is all we know of its author, besides his name.

GIOVANNI QUIRINO is another name which stands

* " Se mai continga che il poema sacro

Al quale ha posto tnano e cielo e terra, Si che m' ha fatto per piu anni macro, Vinca la crudelta che fuor mi serra," etc.

(Parad. C. xxv.)

•f- See Dante's reverential treatment of this subject. \Par<nd. C *».}

a8 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

forlorn of any personal history. Fraticelli (in his well- known and valuable edition of Dante's Minor Works) says that there lived about 1250 a bishop of that name, belonging to a Venetian family. It is true that the tone of the sonnet which I give (and which is the only one attributed to this author) seems foreign at least to the confessions of bishops. It might seem credibly thus ascribed, however, from the fact that Dante's sonnet pro- bably dates from Ravenna, and that his correspondent writes from some distance ; while the poet might well have formed a friendship with a Venetian bishop at the court of Verona.

For me Quirino's sonnet has great value ; as Dante's answer* to it enables me to wind up this series with the name of its great chief; and, indeed, with what would almost seem to have been his last utterance in poetry, at that supreme juncture when he

44 Slaked in his heart the fervour of desire," as at last he neared the very home

44 Of Love which sways the sun and all the stars."-f

I am sorry to see that this necessary introduction to my first division is longer than I could have wished. Among the severely-edited books which had to be con- sulted in forming this collection, I have often suffered keenly from the buttonholders of learned Italy, who will not let one go on one's way ; and have contracted a horror of those editions where the text, hampered with numerals for reference, struggles through a few lines at the top of the page only to stick fast at the bottom in *

* In the case of the above two sonnets, and of all others inter- changed between two poets, I have thought it best to place them together among the poems of one or the other correspondent, wherever they seemed to have most biographical value ; and the same with several epistolary sonnets which have no answer,

t The last line of the Paradise ^CAYLEY'S Translation)

TO PART L ±$

slough of verbal analysis. It would seem unpardonable to make a book which should be even as these; and I have thus found myself led on to what I fear forms, by its length, an awkward intermezzo to the volume, in the hope of saying at once the most of what was to say ; that so the reader may not find himself perpetually worried with footnotes during the consideration of some- thing which may require a little peace. The glare of too many tapers is apt to render the altar-picture confused and inharmonious, even when their smoke does not obscure or deface it.

DANTE ALIGHIERI.

THE NEW LIFE. (LA VITA NUOVA.)

IN that part of the book of my memory before the which is little that can be read, there is a rubric, saying, Incipit Vita Nova* Under such rubric I find written many things ; and among them the words which I purpose to copy into this little book ; if not all of them, at the least their substance.

Nine times already since my birth had the heaven of light returned to the selfsame point almost, as concerns its own revolution, when first the glorious Lady of my mind was made manifest to mine eyes ; even she who was called Beatrice by many who knew not wherefore.t She had already been in this life for so long as that, within her time, the starry heaven had moved towards the Eastern quarter one of the twelve parts of a degree ; so that she appeared to me at the beginning of her ninth year almost, and I saw her almost at the end of

* " Here beginneth the new life."

f In reference to the meaning of the name, " She who confers blessing." We learn from Boccaccio that this first meeting took place at a May Feast, given in the year 1274 by Folco Portinari, father of Beatrice, who ranked among the principal citizens of Florence : to which feast Dante accompanied his father, Alighiero Alighieri.

NEW LIFE. $t

my ninth year. Her dress, on that day, was of a most noble colour, a subdued and goodly crimson, girdled and adorned in such sort as best suited with her very tender age. At that moment, I say most truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the secretest chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that the least pulses of my body shook therewith; and in trembling it said these words : Ecce deus fortior me, gut veniens dotninabitur tni/ti.* At that moment the animate spirit, which dwelleth in the lofty chamber whither all the senses carry their perceptions, was filled with won- der, and speaking more especially unto the spirits of the eyes, said these words : Apparuit jam beatitudo vestra.t At that moment the natural spirit, which dwelleth there where our nourishment is administered, began to weep, and in weeping said these words : Hen miser ! quia frequenter impedifus era deinceps.*

I say that, from that time forward, Love quite governed my soul ; which was immediately espoused to him, and with so safe and undisputed a lordship (by virtue of strong imagination) that I had nothing left for it but to do all his bidding continually. He oftentimes commanded me to seek if I might see this youngest of the Angels : wherefore I in my boyhood often went in search of her, and found her so noble and praise- worthy that certainly of her might have been said those words of the poet Homer, " She seemed not to be the daughter of a mortal man, but of God." § And albeit her image, that was with me always, was an exultation of Love to subdue me, it was yet of so perfect a quality

* " Here is a deity stronger than I ; who, coming, shall rule over me."

f " Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto you." i " Woe is me I for that often I shall be disturbed from this lime forth I "

§ 01,51 <?<*>m

'AvSpot ye Ovrfrou iro.lt e/j./j.tvai, dXXa Qtoio,

(tiiad, xxiv. 258.)

that it never allowed me to be overruled by Love with* out the faithful counsel of reason, whensoever such counsel was useful to be heard. But seeing that were I to dwell overmuch on the passions and doings of such early youth, my words might be counted something fabulous, I will therefore put them aside; and passing many things that may be conceived by the pattern of these, I will come to such as are writ in my memory with a better distinctness.

After the lapse of so many days that nine years exactly were completed since the above-written appear- ance of this most gracious being, on the last of those days it happened that the same wonderful lady ap- peared to me dressed all in pure white, between two gentle ladies elder than she. And passing through a street, she turned her eyes thither where I stood sorely abashed : and by her unspeakable courtesy, which is now guerdoned in the Great Cycle, she saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness. The hour of her most sweet salutation was exactly the ninth of that day ; and because it was the first time that any words from her reached mine ears, I came into such sweetness that I parted thence as one intoxicated. And betaking me to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell to thinking of this most courteous lady, thinking of whom I was over- taken by a pleasant slumber, wherein a marvellous vision was presented for me : for there appeared to be in my room a mist of the colour of fire, within the which I dis- cerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect to such as should gaze upon him, but who seemed therewithal to rejoice inwardly that it was a marvel to see. Speaking he said many things, among the which I could under- stand but few ; and of these, this : Ego dominus tuus.* In his arms it seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only with a blood-coloured cloth ; upon whom

* " I am thy master."

THE NEW LIFE. 33

looking very attentively, I knew that it was the lady of the salutation who had deigned the day before to salute me. And he who held her held also in his hand a thing that was burning in flames ; and he said to me, Vide cor tuum.* But when he had remained with me a little while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her that slept ; after the which he made her to eat that thing which flamed in his hand ; and she ate as one fearing. Then, having waited again a space, all his joy was turned into most bitter weeping ; and as he wept he gathered the lady into his arms, and it seemed to me that he went with her up towards heaven : whereby such a great anguish came upon me that my light slumber could not endure through it, but was suddenly broken. And immediately having considered, I knew that the hour wherein this vision had been made manifest to me was the fourth hour (which is to say, the first of the nine last hours) of the night.

Then, musing on what I had seen, I proposed to relate the same to many poets who were famous in that day : and for that I had myself in some sort the art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on making a sonnet, in the which, having saluted all such as are subject unto Love, and entreated them to expound my vision, I should write unto them those things which I had seen in my sleep. And the sonnet I made was this : —

To every heart which the sweet pain doth move, And unto which these words may now be brought For true interpretation and kind thought,

Be greeting in our Lord's name, which is Love.

Of those long hours wherein the stars, above,

Wake and keep watch, the third was almost nought, When Love was shown me with such terrors fraught

As may not carelessly be spoken of.

* " Behold thy heart." VOL. II. *

34 DANTE ALIGH1EK1.

He seemed like one who is full of joy, and had My heart within his hand, and on hu arm My lady, with a mantle round her, slept ;

Whom (having wakened her) anon he made To eat that heart ; she ate, as fearing harm. Then he went out ; and as he went, he wept

This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I give greeting, and ask an answer ; in the second, I signify what thing has to be answered to. The second part com- mences here : "Of those long hours"

To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying many different opinions ; of the which one was sent by him whom I now call the first among my friends, and it began thus, " Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth."* And indeed, it was when he learned that I was he who had sent those rhymes to him, that our friendship commenced. But the true meaning of that vision was not then perceived by any one, though it be now evident to the least skilful.

From that night forth, the natural functions of my body began to be vexed and impeded, for I was given up wholly to thinking of this most gracious creature : whereby in short space I became so weak and so reduced that it was irksome to many of my friends to look upon me ; while others, being moved by spite, went about to discover what it was my wish should be con- cealed. Wherefore I (perceiving the drift of their unkindly questions), by Love's will, who directed me according to the counsels of reason, told them how it was Love himself who had thus dealt with me : and I said so, because the thing was so plainly to be discerned in my countenance that there was no longer any means of concealing it. But when they went on to ask, " And

* The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Cavalcanti. For his answer, and those of Cino da Pistoia and Dante da Maiano, se« their poems further on.

THE NEW LIFE. 35

by whose help hath Love done this ? " I looked in their faces smiling, and spake no word in return.

Now it fell on a day, that this most gracious creature was sitting where words were to be heard of the Queen of Glory;* and I was in a place whence mine eyes could behold their beatitude : and betwixt her and me, in a direct line, there sat another lady of a pleasant favour ; who looked round at me many times, marvelling at my continued gaze which seemed to have her for its object. And many perceived that she thus looked; so that departing thence, I heard it whispered after me, " Look you to what a pass such a lady hath brought him " ; and in saying this they named her who had been midway between the most gentle Beatrice and mine eyes. Therefore I was reassured, and knew that for that day my secret had not become manifest. Then immediately it came into my mind that I might make use of this lady as a screen to the truth : and so well did I play my part that the most of those who had hitherto watched and wondered at me, now imagined they had found me out. By her means I kept my secret concealed till some years were gone over; and for my better security, I even made divers rhymes in her honour ; whereof I shall here write only as much as concerneth the most gentle Beatrice, which is but a very little. Moreover, about the same time while this lady was a screen for so much love on my part, I took the resolution to set down the name of this most gracious creature accompanied with many other women's names, and especially with hers whom I spake of. And to this end I put together the names of sixty the most beautiful ladies in that city where God had placed mine own lady ; and these names I introduced in an epistle in the form of a sirvent, which it is not my intention to tran- scribe here. Neither should I have said anything of this matter, did I not wish to take note of a certain

* /.«. in a church.

36 DANTE ALIGH1ERI.

strange thing, to wit : that having written the list, I found my lady's name would not stand otherwise than ninth in order among the names of these ladies.

Now it so chanced with her by whose means I had thus long time concealed my desire, that it behoved her to leave the city I speak of, and to journey afar : where- fore I, being sorely perplexed at the loss of so excellent a defence, had more trouble than even I could before have supposed. And thinking that if 1 spoke not somewhat mournfully of her departure, my former counterfeiting would be the more quickly perceived, I determined that I would make a grievous sonnet * thereof; the which I will write here, because it hath certain words in it whereof my lady was the immediate cause, as will be plain to him that understands. And the sonnet was this : —

ALL ye that pass along Love's trodden way, Pause ye awhile and say

If there be any grief like unto mine : I pray you that you hearken a short space Patiently, if my case

Be not a piteous marvel and a sign.

Love (never, certes, for my worthless part, But of his own great heart,)

Vouchsafed to me a life so calm and sweet That oft I heard folk question as I went What such great gladness meant : —

They spoke of it behind me in the street.

* It will be observed that this poem is not what we now call a sonnet. Its structure, however, is analogous to that of the sonnet, being two sextetts followed by two quatrains, instead of two quatrains followed by two triplets. Dante applies the term sonnet to both these forms of composition, and to no other.

THE NEW LIFE. 37

But now that fearless bearing is all gone

Which with Love's hoarded wealth was given me ; Till I am grown to be

So poor that I have dread to think thereon.

And thus it is that I, being like as one Who is ashamed and hides his poverty, Without seem full of glee,

And let my heart within travail and moan.

This poem has two principal parts ; for, in the first, I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of Jeremias the Prophet, " O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus," and to pray them to stay and hear me. In the second I tell •where Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that which the last part of the poem shows, and I say what I have lost. The second part begins here, " Love, (never, certes.")

A certain while after the departure of that lady, it pleased the Master of the Angels to call into His glory a damsel, young and of a gentle presence, who had been very lovely in the city I speak of : and I saw her body lying without its soul among many ladies, who held a pitiful weeping. Whereupon, remembering that I had seen her in the company of excellent Beatrice, I could not hinder myself from a few tears ; and weeping, I conceived to say somewhat of her death, in guerdon of having seen her somewhile with my lady ; which thing I spake of in the latter end of the verses that I writ in this matter, as he will discern who understands. And I wrote two sonnets, which are these : —

WEEP, Lovers, sith Love's very self doth weep, And sith the cause for weeping is so great ;

•tf DANTE ALIGHIERL

When now so many dames, of such estate In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep For Death the churl has laid his leaden sleep

Upon a damsel who was fair of late,

Defacing all our earth should celebrate, — Yea all save virtue, which the soul doth keep. Now hearken how much Love did honour her.

I myself saw him in his proper form

Bending above the motionless sweet dead, And often gazing into Heaven ; for there

The soul now sits which when her life was warm Dwelt with the joyful beauty that is fled.

This first sonnet is divided into three parts. In the fiist, I call and beseech the Faithful of Love to weep ; and I say that their Lord weeps, and that they, hearing the reason why he weeps, shall be more minded to listen to me. In the second, I relate this reason. In the third, I speak of honour done by Love to this Lady. The second part begins here, "When now so many damesr '; the third here, "Now hearken"

ii.

DEATH, alway cruel, Pitj's foe in chief, Mother who brought forth grief,

Merciless judgment and without appeal !

Since thou alone hast made my heart to feel

This sadness and unweal, My tongue upbraideth thee without relief.

And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth)

Behoves me speak the truth

Touching thy cruelty and wickedness :

Not that they be not known ; but ne'ertheless

I would give hate more stress

With them that feed on love in very sooth.

THE NEW LIFE. 39

Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy, And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood ; And out of youth's gay mood

The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee.

Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me Save by the measure of these praises given. Whoso deserves not Heaven

May never hope to have her company.*

This poem is divided into four parts. In the first I address Death by certain proper names of hers. In the second, speaking to her, I tell the reason why I am moved to denounce her. In the third, I rail against her. In tht. fourth, I turn to speak to a person undefined, although defined in my own conception. The second part commences here, " Since thou alone"; the third here, "And now (for I must)' ; the fourth here, " Whoso deserves not."

Some days after the death of this lady, I had occasion to leave the city I speak of, and to go thitherwards where she abode who had formerly been my protection ; albeit the end of my journey reached not altogether so far And notwithstanding that I was visibly in the compar<y of many, the journey was so irksome that I had scarcely sighing enough to ease my heart's heaviness ; seeing that as I went, I left my beatitude behind me. Wherefore it came to pass that he who ruled me by virtue of

* The commentators assert that the last two lines here do not cllude to the dead lady, but to Beatrice. This would make the poem very clumsy in construction ; yet there must be some covert allusion to Beatrice, as Dante himself intimates. The only form in which I can trace it consists in the implied assertion that such person as had enjoyed the dead lady's society was worthy of heaven, and that person was Beatrice. Or indeed the allusion to Beatrice might be in the first poem, where he says that Love " in forma vera " (that is, Beatrice,) mourned over the corpse : as he after- wards says of Beatrice, "Quella ha nonte Amor." Most probably both allusions are intended.

40 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

my most gentle lady was made visible to my mind, in the light habit of a traveller, coarsely fashioned. He appeared to me troubled, and looked always on the ground ; saving only that sometimes his eyes were turned towards a river which was clear and rapid, and which flowed along the path I was taking. And then I thought that Love called me and said to me these words : " I come from that lady who was so long thy surety ; for the matter of whose return, I know that it may not be. Wherefore I have taken that heart which I made thee leave with her, and do bear it unto another lady,, who, as she was, shall be thy surety ; " (and when he named her I knew her well.) "And of these words I have spoken if thou shouldst speak any again, let it be in such sort as that none shall perceive thereby that thy love was feigned for her, which thou must now feign for another." And when he had spoken thus, all my imagining was gone suddenly, for it seemed to me that Love became a part of myself: so that, changed as it were in mine aspect, I rode on full of thought the whole of that day, and with heavy sighing. And the day being over, I wrote this sonnet : —

A DAY agone, as I rode sullenly

Upon a certain path that liked me not, I met Love midway while the air was hot,

Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be.

And for the cheer he showed, he seemed to me As one who hath lost lordship he had got ; Advancing tow'rds me full of sorrowful thought,

Bowing his forehead so that none should see.

Then as I went, he called me by my name, Saying : " I journey since the morn was dim Thence where I made thy heart to be : which now

I needs must bear unto another dame."

Wherewith so much passed into me of him That he was gone, and I discerned not how.

THE NEW LIFE. 41

This sonnet has three parts. In the first part, I tell how 2 met Love, and of his aspect. In the second, I tell what he said to me, although not in full, through the fear I had of discoi>ering my secret. In the third, I say how he dis- appeared. The second part commences here, " Then as I went "/ the third here, " Wherewith so much"

On my return, I set myself to seek out that lady whom my master had named to me while I journeyed sighing. And because I would be brief, I will now narrate that in a short while I made her my surety, in such sort that the matter was spoken of by many in terms scarcely courteous ; through the which I had oftenwhiles many troublesome hours. And by this it happened (to wit : by this false and evil rumour which seemed to misfame me of vice) that she who was the destroyer of all evil and the queen of all good, coming where I was, denied me her most sweet salutation, in the which alone was my blessedness.

And here it is fitting for me to depart a little from this present matter, that it may be rightly understood of what surpassing virtue her salutation was to me. To the which end I say that when she appeared in any place, it seemed to me, by the hope of her excellent salutation, that there was no man mine enemy any longer ; and such warmth of charity came upon me that most certainly in that moment I would have pardoned whosoever had done me an injury ; and if one should then have ques- tioned me concerning any matter, I could only have said unto him " Love," with a countenance clothed in humbleness. And what time she made ready to salute me, the spirit of Love, destroying all other perceptions, thrust forth the feeble spirits of my eyes, saying, "Do homage unto your mistress," and putting itself in their place to obey : so that he who would, might then have beheld Love, beholding the lids of my eyes shake. And when this most gentle lady gave her salutation, Love, so far from being a medium beclouding mine intolerable beatitude, then bred in me such an overpowering sweet-

42 DANTE ALIGHIERL

ness that my body, being all subjected thereto, remained many times helpless and passive. Whereby it is made manifest that in her salutation alone was there any beatitude for me, which then very often went beyond my endurance.

And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to relate that when, for the first time, this beatitude was denied me, I became possessed with such grief that, parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears : and when, by this heat of weeping, I was somewhat relieved, 1 betook myself to my chamber, where I could lament unheard. And there, having prayed to the Lady of all Mercies, and having said also, "O Love, aid thou thy servant," I went suddenly asleep like a beaten sobbing child. And in my sleep, towards the middle of it, I seemed to see in the room, seated at my side, a youth in very white raiment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep thought And when he had gazed some time, I thought that he sighed and called to me in these words : " Fili mt\ tempus est ut prceternnilantur simulata nostra"* And thereupon I seemed to know him ; for the voice was the same wherewith he had spoken at other times in my sleep. Then looking at him, I perceived that he was weeping piteously, and that he seemed to be waiting for me to speak. Wherefore, taking heart, I began thus : " Why weepest thou, Master of all honour ? " And he made answer to me : " Ego tanquam centrum circuit, cui simili modo se habent circumferentia paries : tu autem non sic" t

* " My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting." f " I am as the centre of a circle, to the which all parts of the circumference bear an equal relation : but with thee it is not thus." This phrase seems to have remained as obscure to commentators as Dante found it at the moment. No one, as far as I know, has even fairly tried to find a meaning for it. To me the following appears a not unlikely one. Love is weeping on Dante's account, and not on his own. He says, " I am the centre of a circle (Amor che tnuove il sole e F altre stelle) : therefore all lovable objects, whether in heaven or earth, or any part of the circle's circum-

THE NEW LIFE. 43

And thinking upon his words, they seemed to me obscure; so that again compelling myself unto speech, I asked of him : " What thing is this, Master, that thou hast spoken thus darkly ? " To the which he made answer in the vulgar tongue : " Demand no more than may be useful to thee." Whereupon I began to discourse with him concerning her salutation which she had denied me ; and when I had questioned him of the cause, he said these words : " Our Beatrice hath heard from certain persons, that the lady whom I named to thee while thou journeyedst full of sighs is sorely disquieted by thy solicitations : and therefore this most gracious creature, who is the enemy of all disquiet, being fearful of such disquiet, refused to salute thee. For the which reason (albeit, in very sooth, thy secret must needs have become known to her by familiar observation) it is my will that thou compose certain things in rhyme, in the which thou shalt set forth how strong a mastership I have obtained over thee, through her; and how thou wast hers even from thy childhood. Also do thou call upon him that knoweth these things to bear witness to them, bidding him to speak with her thereof; the which I, who am he, will do willingly. And thus she shall be made to know thy desire ; knowing which, she shall know likewise that they were deceived who spake of thee to her. And so write these things, that they shall seem rather to be spoken by a third person ; and not directly by thee to her, which is scarce fitting. After the which, send them, not without me, where she may chance to hear them ; but have them fitted with a pleasant music, into the which I will pass whensoever it needeth." With this speech he was away, and my sleep was broken up. Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I had

ference, are equally near to me. Not so thou, who wilt one day lose Beatrice when she goes to heaven." The phrase would thus contain an intimation of the death of Beatrice, accounting for Dante being next told not to inquire the meaning of the speech,—' " Demand no more than may be useful to thee."

44 DANTE ALIGHIERL

beheld this vision during the ninth hour of the day ; and I resolved that I would make a ditty, before I left my chamber, according to the words my master had spoken. And this is the ditty that I made : —

SONG, 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love, And go with him where my dear lady is ; That so my cause, the which thy harmonies

Do plead, his better speech may clearly prove.

Thou goest, my Song, in such a courteous kind, That even companionless

Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere. And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind, First unto Love address

Thy steps ; whose aid, mayhap, 'twere ill to spare, Seeing that she to whom thou mak'st thy prayer Is, as I think, ill-minded unto me, And that if Love do not companion thee,

Thou'lt have perchance small cheer to tell me of.

With a sweet accent, when thou com'st to her, Begin thou in these words,

First having craved a gracious audience : " He who hath sent me as his messenger, Lady, thus much records,

An thou but suffer him, in his defence. Love, who comes with me, by thine influence Can make this man do as it liketh him : Wherefore, if this fault is or doth but seem

Do thou conceive : for his heart cannot move."

Say to her also : " Lady, his poor heart Is so confirmed in faith

That all its thoughts are but of serving thee :

THE NEW LIFE. 45

Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart" Then, if she wavereth,

Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be. And in the end, beg of her modestly To pardon so much boldness : saying too : — " If thou declare his death to be thy due,

The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove."

Then pray thou of the Master of all ruth, Before thou leave her there,

That he befriend my cause and plead it well. " In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth " (Entreat him) " stay with her ;

Let not the hope of thy poor servant fail ; And if with her thy pleading should prevail, Let her look on him and give peace to him." Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem,

Do this : so worship shall be thine and love.

This ditty is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the more confidently, and I tell it whose company to join if it would go with confidence and without any danger. In the second, I say that which it behoves the ditty to set forth. In the third, I give it leave to start when it pleases, recommending its course to the arms of Fortune. The second part begins here, " With a sweet accent "; the third here, " Gentle my Song." Some might contradict me, and say that they under- stand not whom I address in the second person, seeing that the ditty is merely the very words I am speaking. And therefore I say that this doubt I intend to solve and clear up in this little book itself, at a more difficult passage, and then let hint understand who now doubts, or would now contra- dict as aforesaid.

After this vision I have recorded, and having written those words which Love had dictated to me, I began to be harassed with many and divers thoughts, by each of

46 DANTE ALIGH1ERI.

which I was sorely tempted ; and in especial, there were four among them that left me no rest. The first was this : " Certainly the lordship of Love is good ; seeing that it diverts the mind from all mean things." The second was this: "Certainly the lordship of Love is evil ; seeing that the more homage his servants pay to him, the more grievous and painful are the torments wherewith he torments them." The third was this : "The name of Love is so sweet in the hearing that it would not seem possible for its effects to be other than sweet ; seeing that the name must needs be like unto the thing named : as it is written : Nomina sunt con- sequentia rerum"* And the fourth was this: "The lady whom Love hath chosen out to govern thee is not as other ladies, whose hearts are easily moved."

And by each one of these thoughts I was so sorely assailed that I was like unto him who doubteth which path to take, and wishing to go, goeth not. And if I bethought myself to seek out some point at the which all these paths might be found to meet, I discerned but one way, and that irked me ; to wit, to call upon Pity, and to commend myself unto her. And it was then that, feeling a desire to write somewhat thereof in rhyme, I wrote this sonnet : —

ALL my thoughts always speak to me of Love, Yet have between themselves such difference That while one bids me bow with mind and sense,

A second saith, " Go to : look thou above " ;

The third one, hoping, yields me joy enough ;

And with the last come tears, I scarce know whence : All of them craving pity in sore suspense,

Trembling with fears that the heart knoweth of.

And thus, being all unsure which path to take, Wishing to speak I know not what to say, And lose myself in amorous wanderings :

* " Names are the consequents of things."

THE NEW LIFE. 47

Until, (my peace with all of them to make,) Unto mine enemy I needs must pray, My Lady Pity, for the help she brings.

This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the first, I say and propound that all my thoughts are concern- ing Love. In the second, I say that they are diverse, and I relate their diversity. In the third, I say wherein they all seem to agree. In the fourth, I say that, wishing to speak of Love, I know not from which of these thoughts to take my argument ; and that if I would take it from all, I shall have to call upon mine enemy, my Lady Pity. "Lady" I say, as in a scornful mode of speech. The second begins here, " Yet have between themselves" ; the third, "All of them craving" ; the fourth, "And thus."

After this battling with many thoughts, it chanced on a day that my most gracious lady was with a gathering of ladies in a certain place ; to the which I was conducted by a friend of mine ; he thinking to do me a great pleasure by showing me the beauty of so many women. Then I, hardly knowing whereunto he conducted me, but trusting in him (who yet was leading his friend to the last verge of life), made question : " To what end are we come among these ladies ? " and he answered : " To the end that they may be worthily served." And they were assembled around a gentlewoman who was given in marriage on that day; the custom of the city being that these should bear her company when she sat down for the first time at table in the house of her husband. Therefore I, as was my friend's pleasure, resolved to stay with him and do honour to those ladies.

But as soon as I had thus resolved, I began to feel a faintness and a throbbing at my left side, which soon took possession of my whole body. Whereupon I remember that I covertly leaned my back unto a painting that ran round the walls of that house ; and being fearful lest my trembling should be discerned of them, I lifted mine eyes

48 DANTE ALIGHIERL

to look on those ladies, and then first perceived among them the excellent Beatrice. And when I perceived her, all my senses were overpowered by the great lordship that Love obtained, finding himself so near unto that most gracious being, until nothing but the spirits of sight remained to me ; and even these remained driven out of their own instruments because Love entered in that honoured place of theirs, that so he might the better behold her. And although I was other than at first, I grieved for the spirits so expelled, which kept up a sore lament, saying : " If he had not in this wise thrust us forth, we also should behold the marvel of this lady." By this, many of her friends, having discerned my confusion, began to wonder; and together with herself, kept whis- pering of me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who knew not what to conceive, took me by the hands, and drawing me forth from among them, required to know what ailed me. Then, having first held me at quiet for a space until my perceptions were come back to me, I made answer to my friend : " Of a surety I have now set my feet on that point of life, beyond the which he must not pass who would return." *

Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room where I had wept before ; and again weeping and ashamed, said : " If this lady but knew of my condition, I do not think that she would thus mock at me ; nay, I am sure that she must needs feel some pity." And in my weeping I bethought me to write certain words, in the which, speaking to her, I should signify the occasion

* It is difficult not to connect Dante's agony at this wedding- feast, with our knowledge that in her twenty-first year Beatrice was wedded to Simonede' Bardi. That she herself was the bride on this occasion might seem out of tr?e question, from the fact of its not being in any way so stated : but on the other hand, Dante's silence throughout the Vita Nuova as regards her marriage (which must have brought deep sorrow even to his ideal love) is so startling, that we might almost be led to conceive in this passage the only intimation of it which he thought fit to give.

THE NEW LIFE, 49

of my disfigurement, telling her also how I knew that she had no knowledge thereof; which, if it were known, I was certain must move others to pity. And then, because I hoped that peradventure it might come into her hearing, I wrote this sonnet : —

EVEN as the others mock, thou mockest me ;

Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is

That I am taken with strange semblances, Seeing thy face which is so fair to see : .. For else, compassion would not suffer thee

To grieve my heart with such harsh scoffs as these.

Lo ! Love, when thou art present, sits at ease, And bears his mastership so mightily That all my troubled senses he thrusts out,

Sorely tormenting some, and slaying some, Till none but he is left and has free range To gaze on thee. This makes my face to change

Into another's ; while I stand all dumb, And hear my senses clamour in their rout.

This sonnet I divide not into parts, because a division is only made to open the meaning of the thing divided : and this, as it is sufficiently manifest through the reasons given, has no need of division. True it is that, amid the words whereby is shown the occasion of this sonnet, dubious words are to be found ; namely, when I say that Love fills all my spirits, but that the visual remain in life, only outside of their own instruments. And this difficulty it is impossible for any to solve who is not in equal guise liege unto Love ; and, to those who are so, that is manifest which would clear up the dubious words. And therefore it were not well for me to expound this difficulty, inasmuch as my speaking would be either fruitless or else superfluous.

A while after this strange disfigurement, I became possessed with a strong conception which left me but very seldom, and then to return quickly. And it was

VOL. II. 4

50 DANTE ALIGHIERL

this : " Seeing that thou comest into such scorn by the companionship of this lady, wherefore seekest thou to behold her ? If she should ask thee this thing, what answer couldst thou make unto her ? yea, even though thou wert master of all thy faculties, and in no way hindered from answering." Unto the which, another very humble thought said in reply: "If I were master of all my faculties, and in no way hindered from an- swering, I would tell her that no sooner do I image to myself her marvellous beauty than I am possessed with the desire to behold her, the which is of so great strength that it kills and destroys in my memory all those things which might oppose it ; and it is therefore that the great anguish I have endured thereby is yet not enough to restrain me from seeking to behold her." And then, because of these thoughts, I resolved to write somewhat, wherein, having pleaded mine excuse, I should tell her of what I felt in her presence. Whereupon I wrote this sonnet : —

THE thoughts are broken in my memory,

Thou lovely Joy, whene'er I see thy face ;

When thou art near me, Love fills up the space, Often repeating, " If death irk thee, fly." My face shows my heart's colour, verily,

Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place ;

Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace, The very stones seem to be shrieking, " Die ! " It were a grievous sin, if one should not

Strive then to comfort my bewildered mind

(Though merely with a simple pitying) For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought

In the dead sight o' the eyes grown nearly blind, Which look for death as for a blessed thing.

This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first t I if II tJie cause why I abstain not from coming to this lady.

THE NEW LIFE. 51

In the second, I tell what befalls me through coming to her ; and this fart begins here, " When thou art near" And also this second part divides into five distinct statements. For, in the first, I say what Love, counselled by Reason, tells me when I am near the Lady. In the second, I set forth the state of my heart by the example of the face. In the third, I say how all ground of trust fails me. In the fourth, I say that he sins who shows not pity of me, which would give me some comfort. In the last, I say why people should take pity ; namely, for the piteous look which comes into mine eyes ; which piteous look is destroyed that is, appeareth not unto others, through the jeering of this lady, who draws to the like action those who perad venture would see this piteousness. The second part begins here, " My face shows " ; the third, "Till, in the drunken terror" ; the fourth, " It were a grievous sin" ; the fifth, "For the great anguish"

Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write down in verse four other things touching my condition, the which things it seemed to me that I had not yet made manifest. The first among these was the griet that possessed me very often, remembering the strange- ness which Love wrought in me ; the second was, how Love many times assailed me so suddenly and with such strength that I had no other life remaining except a thought which spake of my lady ; the third was, how, when Love did battle with me in this wise, I would rise up all colourless, if so I might see my lady, conceiving that the sight of her would defend me against the assault of Love, and altogether forgetting that which her presence brought unto me ; and the fourth was, how, when I saw her, the sight not only defended me not, but took away the little life that remained to me. And I said these four things in a sonnet, which is this : —

AT whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over The quality of anguish that is mine Through Love : then pity makes my voice to pine,

52 DANTE ALIGHIER1.

Saying, " Is any else thus, anywhere ? "

Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear ;

So that of all my life is left no sign

Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine, Leaves not the body but abideth there. And then if I, whom other aid forsook,

Would aid myself, and innocent of art

Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope, No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look

Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, And all my pulses beat at once and stop.

This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things being therein narrated ; and as these are set forth above, I only proceed to distinguish the parts by their beginnings. Where- fore I say that the second part begins, " Love smiteth me" ; the third, " And then if I1' ; the fourth, " No sooner do I lift."

After I had written these three last sonnets, wherein I spake unto my lady, telling her almost the whole of my condition, it seemed to me that I should be silent, having said enough concerning myself. But albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me afterward to write of another matter, more noble than the foregoing. And for that the occasion of what I then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I will relate it as briefly as I may.

Through the sore change in mine aspect, the secret of my heart was now understood of many. Which thing being thus, there came a day when certain ladies to whom it was well known (they having been with me at divers times in my trouble) were met together for the pleasure of gentle company. And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very sweet speech. And when I had come close up with them, and perceived that they had

THE NEW LIFE. 53

not among them mine excellent lady, I was reassured ; and saluted them, asking of their pleasure. The ladies were many; divers of whom were laughing one to another, while divers gazed at me as though I should speak anon. But when I still spake not, one of them, who before had been talking with another, addressed me by my name, saying, " To what end lovest thou this lady, seeing that thou canst not support her presence ? Now tell us this thing, that we may know it : for certainly the end of such a love must be worthy of knowledge." And when she had spoken these words, not she only, but all they that were with her, began to observe me, waiting for my reply. Whereupon I said thus unto them : — " Ladies, the end and aim of my Love was but the salutation of that lady of whom I conceive that ye are speaking; wherein alone I found that beatitude which is the goal of desire. And now that it hath pleased her to deny me this, Love, my Master, of his great goodness, hath placed all my beatitude there where my hope will not fail me." Then those ladies began to talk closely together ; and as I have seen snow fall among the rain, so was their talk mingled with sighs. But after a little, that lady who had been the first to address me, addressed me again in these words : " We pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein abideth this thy beatitude." And answer- ing, I said but thus much : " In those words that do praise my lady." To the which she rejoined : " If thy speech were true, those words that thou didst write concerning thy condition would have been written with another intent."

Then I, being almost put to shame because of her answer, went out from among them ; and as I walked, I said within myself: "Seeing that there is so much beatitude in those words which do praise my lady, wherefore hath my speech of her been different ? " And then I resolved that thenceforward I would choose for the theme of my writings only the praise of this most gracious being. But when I had thought exceedingly,

54 DANTE ALIGH1ER1.

it seemed to me that I had taken to myself a theme which was much too lofty, so that I dared not begin ; and I remained during several days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of beginning. After which it happened, as I passed one day along a path which lay beside a stream of very clear water, that there came upon me a great desire to say somewhat in rhyme : but when I began thinking how I should say it, methought that to speak of her were unseemly, unless I spoke to other ladies in the second person ; which is to say, not to any other ladies, but only to such as are so called because they are gentle, let alone for mere womanhood. Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as though by its own impulse, and said, " Ladies that have intel- ligence in love." These words I laid up in my mind with great gladness, conceiving to take them as my commencement. Wherefore, having returned to the city I spake of, and considered thereof during certain days, I began a poem with this beginning, constructed in the mode which will be seen below in its division. The poem begins here : —

LADIES that have intelligence in love,

Of mine own lady I would speak with you ; Not that I hope to count her praises through,

But telling what I may, to ease my mind. And I declare that when I speak thereof, Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me That if my courage failed not, certainly

To him my listeners must be all resign'd.

Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind That mine own speech should foil me, which were

base; But only will discourse of her high grace

In these poor words, the best that I can find, With you alone, dear dames and damozels : Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.

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An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith

To God : " Lord, in the world that Thou hast made, A miracle in action is display'd,

By reason of a soul whose splendours fare Even hither : and since Heaven requireth Nought saving her, for her it prayeth Thee, Thy Saints crying aloud continually." Yet Pity still defends our earthly share In that sweet soul; God answering thus the prayer. " My well-beloved, suffer that in peace Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is,

There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her : And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say, ' I have looked on that for which God's chosen pray.' "

My lady is desired in the high Heaven : Wherefore, it now behoveth me to tell, Saying : Let any maid that would be well

Esteemed keep with her : for as she goes by, Into foul hearts a deathly chill is driven By Love, that makes ill thought to perish there : While any who endures to gaze on her

Must either be ennobled, or else die.

When one deserving to be raised so high Is found, 'tis then her power attains its proof, Making his heart strong for his soul's behoof

With the full strength of meek humility. Also this virtue owns she, by God's will : Who speaks with her can never come to ill.

Love saith concerning her : " How chanceth it

That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure ? " Then, gazing always, he makes oath : " Forsure, This is a creature of God till now unknown." She hath that paleness of the pearl that's fit In a fair woman, so much and not more ; She is as high as Nature's skill can soar ; Beauty is tried by her comparison.

56 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon, Spirits of love do issue thence in flame, Which through their eyes who then may look on them

Pierce to the heart's deep chamber every one. And in her smile Love's image you may see ; Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly.

Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech With many ladies, when I send thee forth : Wherefore (being mindful that thou hadst thy birth

From Love, and art a modest, simple child,) Whomso thou meetest, say thou this to each : " Give me good speed 1 To her I wend along In whose much strength my weakness is made strong."

And if, i' the end, thou wouldst not be beguiled

Of all thy labour, seek not the defiled And common sort ; but rather choose to be Where man and woman dwell in courtesy.

So to the road thou shalt be reconciled, And find the lady, and with the lady, Love. Commend thou me to each, as doth behove.

This poem, that it may be better understood, I will divide more subtly than the others preceding; and therefore I will make three parts of it. The first part is a proem to the words following. The second is the matter treated of. The third is, as it were, a handmaid to the preceding words. The second begins here, " An angel " ; the third here, " Dear Song, I know" The first part is divided into four. In the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my Lady, and wherefore I will so speak. In the second, I say what she appears to myself to be when I reflect upon her excellence^ and what I would utter if I lost not courage. In the third,, I say what it is I purpose to speak so as not to be impeded by faintheartedness. In the fourth, repeating to whom I purpose speaking, I tell the reason why I speak to them The second begins here, " And I declare " ; the third here,

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«' Wherefore I will not speak " ; the fourth here, " With you alone" Then, when I say " An angel" I begin treating of this lady : and this part is divided into two. In the first, I tell what is understood of her in heaven. In the second, I tell what is understood of her on earth : here, " My lady is desired." This second part is divided into two ; for, in the first, I sfeak of her as regards the nobleness of her soul, relating some of her virtues proceeding from her soul; in the second^ I speak of her as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating some of her beauties: here, "Low saith concerning her" This second part is divided into two, for, in the first, I speak of certain beauties which belong to the whole person ; in the second, I speak of certain beauties which belong to a distinct part of the person : here, " Whatever her sweet eyes" This second part is divided into two ; for, in the one, I speak of the eyes, which are the beginning of love ; in the second, I speak of the mouth, which is the end of love. And that every vicious thought may be dis- carded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is above written that the greeting of this lady, which was an act of her mouth, was the goal of my desires, while J could receive it. Then, when I say, " Dear Song, I know," I add a stanza as it were handmaid to the others, wherein I say what I desire from this my poem. And because this last part is easy to understand, I trouble not myself with more divisions. I say, indeed, that the further to open the mean- ing of this poem, more minute divisions ought to be used ; but nevertheless he who is not of wit enough to understand it by these which have been already made is welcome to leave it alone ;for certes, I fear I have communicated its sense to too many by these present divisions, if it so happened that many should hear it.

When this song was a little gone abroad, a certain one of my friends, hearing the same, was pleased to question me, that I should tell him what thing love is ; it may be, conceiving from the words thus heard a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I, thinking that after such discourse it were well to say somewhat of the

58 DANTE ALIGHIERL

nature of Love, and also in accordance with my friend's desire, proposed to myself to write certain words in the which I should treat of this argument. And the sonnet that I then made is this : —

LOVE and the gentle heart are one same thing, Even as the wise man * in his ditty saith : Each, of itself, would be such life in death

As rational soul bereft of reasoning.

Tis Nature makes them when she loves : a king Love is, whose palace where he sojourneth Is called the Heart ; there draws he quiet breath

At first, with brief or longer slumbering.

Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind

Will make the eyes desire, and through the heart Send the desiring of the eyes again ;

Where often it abides so long enshrin'd

That Love at length out of his sleep will start. And women feel the same for worthy men.

This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I speak of him according to his power. In the second, I speak of him according as his power translates itself into act. The second part begins here, " Then beauty seen" The first is divided into two. In the first, I say in what subject this power exists. In the second, I say how this subject and this power are produced together, and how the one regards the other, as form does matter. The second begins here, " 'Tis Nature" Afterwards when I say, " Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind," I say how this power translates itself into act ; and, first, how it so translates itself in a man, then how it so translates itself in a woman: here, " And women feel"

Having treated of love in the foregoing, it appeared to

* Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, " Within the gentle heart Love shelters him." (See Part II. page 264.)

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me that I should also say something in praise of my lady, wherein it might be set forth how love manifested itself when produced by her ; and how not only she could awaken it where it slept, but where it was not she could marvellously create it. To the which end I wrote another sonnet ; and it is this : —

MY lady carries love within her eyes : All that she looks on is made pleasanter j Upon her path men turn to gaze at her ;

He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,

And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs, And of his evil heart is then aware : Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshiper.

O women, help to praise her in somewise.

Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well, By speech of hers into the mind are brought, And who beholds is blessed oftenwhiles. The look she hath when she a little smiles Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought ;

'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.

This sonnet has three sections. In the first, I say how this lady brings this power into action by those most noble features, her eyes ; and, in the third, I say this same as to that most noble feature, her mouth. And between these two sections is a little section, which asks, as it were, help for the previous section and the subsequent ; and it begins here, " 0 women, help" The third begins here," Humbleness" The first is divided into three ; for, in the first, I say how she with power makes noble that which she looks upon ; and this is as much as to say that she brings Love, in power, thither where he is not. In the second, I say how she brings Love, in ad, into the hearts of all those whom she sees. In the third, I tell what she afterwards, with virtue, operates upon their hearts. The second begins, " Upon her path " ; the third, "He whom she greeteth" Then, when I say " O women,

60 DANTE ALIGH1ER1.

help" I intimate to whom it is my intention to speak, calling on women to help me to honour her. Then, when I say, " Humbleness" I say that same which is said in the first part, regarding two acts of her mouth, one whereof is her most sweet speech, and the other her marvellous smile. Only, I say not of this last how it operates upon the hearts of others, because memory cannot retain this smile, nor its operation.

Not many days after this (it being the will of the most High God, who also from Himself put not away death), the father of wonderful Beatrice, going out of this life, passed certainly into glory. Thereby it happened, as of very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady was made full of the bitterness of grief : seeing that such a parting is very grievous unto those friends who are left, and that no other friendship is like to that between a good parent and a good child ; and furthermore con- sidering that this lady was good in the supreme degree, and her father (as by many it hath been truly averred) of exceeding goodness. And because it is the usage of that city that men meet with men in such a grief, and women with women, certain ladies of her companionship gathered themselves unto Beatrice, where she kept alone in her weeping : and as they passed in and out, I could hear them speak concerning her, how she wept. At length two of them went by me, who said : " Certainly she grieveth in such sort that one might die for pity, behold- ing her." Then, feeling the tears upon my face, I put up my hands to hide them : and had it not been that I hoped to hear more concerning her (seeing that where I sat, her friends passed continually in and out), I should assuredly have gone thence to be alone, when I felt the tears come. But as I still sat in that place, certain ladies again passed near me, who were saying among them- selves : "Which of us shall be joyful any more, who have listened to this lady in her piteous sorrow ? " And there were others who said as they went by me : " He that sitteth here could not weep more if he had beheld her

THE NEW LIFE. 6 1

as we have beheld her ; " and again : " He is so altered that he seemeth not as himself." And still as the ladies passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after this fashion of her and of me.

Wherefore afterwards, having considered and per- ceiving that there was herein matter for poesy, I resolved that I would write certain rhymes in the which should be contained all that those ladies had said. And because I would willingly have spoken to them if it had not been for discreetness, I made in my rhymes as though I had spoken and they had answered me. And thereof I wrote two sonnets ; in the first of which I addressed them as I would fain have done; and in the second related their answer, using the speech that I had heard from them, as though it had been spoken unto myself. And the sonnets are these : —

You that thus wear a modest countenance

With lids weigh'd down by the heart's heaviness, Whence come you, that among you every face

Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance ?

Have you beheld my lady's face, perchance,

Bow'd with the grief that Love makes full of grace ? Say now, " This thing is thus " ; as my heart says,

Marking your grave and sorrowful advance.

And if indeed you come from where she sighs

And mourns, may it please you (for his heart's relief) To tell how it fares with her unto him

Who knows that you have wept, seeing your eyes, And is so grieved with looking on your grief

That his heart trembles and his sight grows dim ?

This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I call and ask these ladies whether they come from her, telling them that I think they do, because they return the nobler.

62 DANTE ALIGHIERL

In the second, I pray them to tell me of her ; and the second begins here, "And if indeed"

n.

CANST thou indeed be he that still would sing

Of our dear lady unto none but us ?

For though thy voice confirms that it is thus, Thy visage might another witness bring. And wherefore is thy grief so sore a thing

That grieving thou mak'st others dolorous ?

Hast thou too seen her weep, that thou from us Canst not conceal thine inward sorrowing ? Nay, leave our -woe to us : let us alone :

'Twere sin if one should strive to soothe our woe, For in her weeping we have heard her speak • Also her look's so full of her heart's moan

That they who should behold her, looking so, Must fall aswoon, feeling all life grow weak.

This sonnet has four farts, as the ladies in whose person 1 reply had four forms of answer. And, because these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not to explain the purport of the farts, and therefore I only discriminate them. The second begins here, " And wherefore is thy grief"; the third here, " Nay, leave our -woe"; the fourth, "Also her look."

A few days after this, my body became afflicted with a painful infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for many days, which at last brought me unto such weakness that I could no longer move. And I remember that on the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable pain, a thought came into my mind concerning my lady : but when it had a little nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over mine enfeebled body. And then perceiving how frail a thing life is, even though health keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful

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that I could not choose but weep; and weeping I said within myself: "Certainly it must some time come to \

pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die." Then, feel- ing bewildered, I closed mine eyes ; and my brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations as here follow.

And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women with their hair loosened, which called out to me, " Thou shalt surely die " ; after the which, other terrible and unknown appearances said unto me, " Thou art dead." At length, as my phantasy held on in its wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to behold a throng of dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and thither weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves, and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping : and it seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, and that there were great earthquakes. With that, while I wondered in my trance, and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a certain friend came unto me and said : " Hast thou not heard ? She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life." Then I began to weep very piteously; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine eyes, which were wet with tears. And I seemed to look towards Heaven, and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards, having before them an exceedingly white cloud : and these angels were singing together gloriously, and the words of their song were these : " Osanna in excelsis " ; and there was no more that I heard. Then my heart that was so full of love said unto me : " It is true that our lady lieth dead ; " and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. And so strong was this idle imagining, that it made me to behold my lady in death, whose head certain ladies seemed to be covering with a white veil ; and who was so humble of her aspect that it was as though she had

64 DANTE ALIGHIEK1.

said, " I have attained to look on the beginning of peace." And therewithal I came unto such humility by the sight of her, that I cried out upon Death, saying : " Now come unto me, and be not bitter against me any longer : surely, there where thou hast been, thou hast learned gentleness. Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire thee : seest thou not that I wear thy colour already ? " And when I had seen all those offices performed that are fitting to be done unto the dead, it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up towards Heaven. And so strong was my phantasy that I wept again in very truth, and said with my true voice : " O excellent soul 1 how blessed is he that now looketh upon thee ! "

And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan that she made (who indeed was of my very near kindred), led her away from where I was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying : " Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted."

Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to an end, at the moment that I was about to say, " O Beatrice I peace be with thee." And already I had said, " O Beatrice ! " when being aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love's counselling. And when they beheld me, they began to say, " He seemeth as one dead," and to whisper among themselves, " Let us strive if we may not

THE NEW LIFE. 65

comfort him." Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned me moreover touching the cause of my fear. Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto them, "This thing it was that made me afeard;" and told them of all that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my sick- ness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme ; deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem :

A VERY pitiful lady, very young,

Exceeding rich in human sympathies,

Stood by, what time I clamour'd upon Death And at the wild words wandering on my tongue And at the piteous look within mine eyes

She was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.

So by her weeping where I lay beneath, Some other gentle ladies came to know My state, and made her go : Afterward, bending themselves over me, One said, " Awaken thee ! "

And one, " What thing thy sleep disquieteth ? " With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse, The while my lady's name rose to my lips :

But utter*d in a voice so sob-broken, So feeble with the agony of tears,

That I alone might hear it in my heart ; And though that look was on my visage then Which he who is ashamed so plainly wears,

Love made that I through shame held not apart, But gazed upon them. And my hue was such That they look'd at each other and thought of death ; Saying under their breath Most tenderly, " O let us comfort him : "

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66 DANTE ALIGHIERL

Then unto me : " What dream

Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much ? " And when I was a little comforted, " This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt," I said.

" I was a-thinking how life fails with us Suddenly after such a little while ;

When Lo^e sobb'd in my heart, which is his home. Whereby my spirit wax'd so dolorous That in myself I said, with sick recoil :

' Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.' And therewithal such a bewilderment Possess'd me, that I shut mine eyes for peace ; And in my brain did cease Order of thought, and every healthful thing. Afterwards, wandering

Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went, Some certain women's faces hurried by, And shrieked to me, ' Thou too shalt die, shalt die I '

" Then saw I many broken hinted sights In the uncertain state I stepp'd into.

Meseem'd to be I know not in what place, Where ladies through the streets, like mournful lights, Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten'd you,

By their own terror, and a pale amaze :

The while, little by little, as I thought, The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather, And each wept at the other ; And birds dropp'd in mid-flight out of the sky ; And earth shook suddenly ;

And I was 'ware of one, hoarse and tired out, Who ask'd of me : ' Hast thou not heard it said ? . . . Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.'

" Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came, I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,

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In a long flight flying back Heavenward ; Having a little cloud in front of them,

After the which they went and said, ' Hosanna ' ;

And if they had said more, you should have heard.

Then Love said, ' Now shall all things be made

clear :

Come and behold our lady where she lies/ These 'wildering phantasies Then carried me to see my lady dead. Even as I there was led,

Her ladies with a veil were covering her ; And with her was such very humbleness That she appeared to say, ' I am at peace.'

" And I became so humble in my grief, Seeing in her such deep humility,

That I said : ' Death, I hold thee passing good Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,

Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee :

Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.

Lo ! I do so desire to see thy lace That I am like as one who nears the tomb ; My soul entreats thee, Come.' Then I departed, having made my moan ; And when I was alone

I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place : ' Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance 1 ' . . . Just then you woke me, of your complai-

saunce."

This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and hcnu I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say hmv I told them. The second part begins here, " / was a-thinking" The first part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In

68 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, " But uttered in a voice." Then, when I say, " I was a-thinking" 1 say how I told them this my imagination ; and concerning this I have two parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second, saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them : and this part begins here, "Just then you woke me."

After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful, that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it could not have been other- wise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I per- ceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, and I seemed to see him coming from my lady ; and he said, not aloud but within my heart : " Now take heed that thou bless the day when I entered into thee ; for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so." And with that my heart was so full of gladness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very truth mine own heart and not another.

A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the tongue of Love, I saw coming towards me a certain lady who was very famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already called the first among my friends had long been enamoured. This lady's right name was Joan ; but because of her comeli- ness (or at least it was so imagined) she was called of many Primavera (Spring), and went by that name among them. Then looking again, I perceived that the most noble Beatrice followed after her. And when both these ladies had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love spake again in my heart, saying : " She that came first was called Spring, only because of that which was to happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused that name to be given her ; seeing that as the Spring cometh first in the year, so should she come first on this day,* when Beatrice was to show herself after the vision

* There is a play in the original upon the words Primavera

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of her servant. And even if thou go about to consider her right name, it is also as one should say, ' She shall come first' : inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who went before the True Light, saying : ' Ego vox clamant is in deserto : Parate viam Domini? * And also it seemed to me that he added other words, to wit : " He who should inquire delicately touching this matter, could not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to say, Love ; beholding her so like unto me."

Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend ; but setting aside certain words f which seemed proper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring. And I wrote this sonnet : —

I FELT a spirit of love begin to stir

Within my heart, long time unfelt till then ;

And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain, (That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer), Saying, " Be now indeed my worshiper ! "

And in his speech he laugh'd and laugh'd again.

Then, while it was his pleasure to remain, I chanced to look the way he had drawn near, And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice

Approach me, this the other following, One and a second marvel instantly.

(Spring) and prima verra (she shall come first), to which I have given as near an equivalent as I could.

* " I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness : ' Prepare ye the way of the Lord.' "

f That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from delicacy to- wards his friend, the words in which Love describes Joan as merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in the latter part of this sentence a reproach is gently conveyed to the fickle Guido Caval- canti, who may already have transferred his homage (though Dante had not then learned it) from Joan to Mandetta. (See his Poems.)

70 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

And even as now my memory speaketh this,

Love spake it then : " The first is christen'd Spring ; The second Love, she is so like to me."

This sonnet has many parts : whereof the first tells how I felt awakened within my heart the accustomed tremor, and how it seemed that Love appeared to me joyful from afar. The second says how it appeared to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect. The third tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, 2 saw and heard certain things. The second part begins here, " Saying, ' Be now ' " ; the third here, " Then, while it was his pleasure" Tlie third part divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw. In the second, I say what I heard ; and it begins here, " Love spake it then."

It might be here objected unto me, (and even by one worthy of controversy,) that I have spoken of Love as though it were a thing outward and visible : not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily substance also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy ; Love not being of itself a substance, but an accident of substance. Yet that I speak of Love as though it were a thing tangible and even human, appears by three things which I say thereof. And firstly, I say that I perceived Love coming towards me; whereby, seeing that to come be- speaks locomotion, and seeing also how philosophy teacheth us that none but a corporeal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that I speak of Love as of a cor- poreal substance. And secondly, I say that Love smiled : and thirdly, that Love spake ; faculties (and especially the risible faculty) which appear proper unto man : whereby it further seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man. Now that this matter may be explained, (as is fitting), it must first be remembered that anciently they who wrote poems of Love wrote not in the vulgar tongue, but rather certain poets in the Latin tongue. I mean, among us, although perchance the same may have been among others, and although likewise, as among the

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Greets, they were not writers of spoken language, but men of letters treated of these things.* And indeed it is not a great number of years since poetry began to be made in the vulgar tongue ; the writing of rhymes in spoken language corresponding to the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language of oco and the language of si, t we shall not find in those tongues any written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and fifty years. Also the reason why certain of a very mean sort obtained at the first some fame as poets is, that before them no man has written verses in the language of si : and of these, the first was moved to the writing of such verses by the wish to make himself understood of a certain lady, unto whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is against such as rhyme con- cerning other matters than love; that mode of speech having been first used for the expression of love alone. J Wherefore, seeing that poets have a license allowed them that is not allowed unto the writers of prose, and

* On reading Dante's treatise De Vulgari Eloquio, it will be found that the distinction which he intends here is not between one language, or dialect, and another ; but between " vulgar speech " (that is, the language handed down from mother to son without any conscious use of grammar or syntax), and language as regulated by grammarians and the laws of literary composition, and which Dante calls simply " Grammar." A great deal might be said on the bearings of the present passage, but it is no part of my plan to enter on such questions.

f I.e., the languages of Provence and Tuscany.

It strikes me that this curious passage furnishes a reason, hitherto (I believe) overlooked, why Dante put such of his lyrical poems as relate to philosophy into the form of love-poems. He liked writing in Italian rhyme rather than Latin metre ; he thought Italian rhyme ought to be confined to love-poems : therefore what- ever he wrote (at this age) had to take the form of a love-poem. Thus any poem by Dante not concerning love is later than his twenty-seventh year (1291-2), when he wrote the prose of the Vita Nuova ; the poetry having been written earlier, at the time of the events referred to.

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seeing also that they who write in rhyme are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and reason- able that a larger license should be given to these than to other modern writers ; and that any metaphor or rhetorical similitude which is permitted unto poets, should also be counted not unseemly in the rhymers of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if we perceive that the former have caused inanimate things to speak as though they had sense and reason, and to discourse one with another; }*ea, and not only actual things, but such also as have no real existence (seeing that they have made things which are not, to speak ; and oftentimes written of those which are merely accidents as though they were sub- stances and things human); it should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the like ; which is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such sufficient motive as may afterwards be set forth in prose.

That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through Virgil, where he saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto ^Eolus, master of the Winds ; as it is written in the first book of the ^Eneid, sEole, namque tibi, etc.; and that this master of the Winds made reply : Tuus, o regina, quid optes — Explorare labor, mihi jussa capesserefas est. And through the same poet, the inanimate thing speaketh unto the animate, in the third book of the ^Eneid, where it is written : Dardanida duri, etc. With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh to the inanimate ; as thus : Multum, Roma, tamen debes ciinlibus armis. In Horace, man is made to speak to his own intelligence as unto another person ; (and not only hath Horace done this, but herein he followeth the excellent Homer,) as thus in his Poetics : Die mihi, Musa, virum, etc. Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning of his discourse De Remediis Amoris : as thus : Bella mihi, video, bella parantur, ait. By which ensamples this thing shall be made manifest unto such as may be offended at any part of this my book. And lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering

THE NEW LIFE. 73

hereat, I will here add, that neither did these ancient poets speak thus without consideration, nor should they who are makers of rhyme in our day write after the same fashion, having no reason in what they write ; for it were a shameful thing if one should rhyme under the semblance of metaphor or rhetorical similitude, and afterwards, being questioned thereof, should be unable to rid his words of such semblance, unto their right understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as rhyme thus foolishly,) myself and the first among my friends do know many.

But returning to the matter of my discourse. This excellent lady of whom I spake in what hath gone before, came at last into such favour with all men, that when she passed anywhere folk ran to behold her ; which thing was a deep joy to me : and when she drew near unto any, so much truth and simpleness entered into his heart, that he dared neither to lift his eyes nor to return her salutation : and unto this, many who have felt it can bear witness. She went along crowned and clothed with humility, showing no whit of pride in all that she heard and saw : and when she had gone by, it was said of many, "This is not a woman, but one of the beautiful angels of Heaven : " and there were some that said : " This is surely a miracle ; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work thus marvellously." I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so gentle and so full of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech ; neither could any look upon her without sighing immediately. These things, and things yet more wonderful, were brought to pass through her miraculous virtue. Wherefore I, con- sidering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale of her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her surpassing influence ; to the end that not only they who had beheld her, but others also, might know as much concerning her as words could give to the under- standing. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet : —

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MY lady looks so gentle and so pure When yielding salutation by the way, That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,

And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.

And still, amid the praise she hears secure, She walks with humbleness for her array ; Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay

On earth, and show a miracle made sure.

She is so pleasant in the eye* of men

That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain A sweetness which needs proof to know it by :

And from between her lips there seems to move

A soothing essence that is full of love, Saying for ever to the spirit, " Sigh ! "

This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what is afore narrated, that it needs no division ; and therefore, leaving it, I say also that this excellent lady came into such favour with all men, that not only she herself was honoured and commended, but through her companion- ship, honour and commendation came unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving this, and wishing that it should also be made manifest to those that beheld it not, wrote the sonnet here following ; wherein is signified the power which her virtue had upon other ladies : —

FOR certain he hath seen all perfectness Who among other ladies hath seen mine : They that go with her humbly should combine

To thank their God for such peculiar grace.

So perfect is the beauty of her face That it begets in no wise any sign Of envy, but draws round her a clear line

Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.

Merely the sight of her makes all things bow : Not she herself alone is holier

Than all ; but hers, through her, are raised above.

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From all her acts such lovely graces flow

That truly one may never think of her

Without a passion of exceeding love.

Tfiis sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in what company this lady appeared most wondrous. In the second, I say how gracious was her society. In the third, I tell of the things which she, with power, worked upon others. The second begins here, " They that go with her" ; the third here, "So perfect." This last part divides into three. In the first, I tell w fiat she operated upon women, that is, by their own faculties. In the second, I tell what she operated in them through others. In the third, I say how she not only operated in women, but in all people ; and not only while herself present, but, by memory of her, operated won- drously. Tfie second begins here, "Merely the sight" ; the third here, " From all her acts"

Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that which I had said of my lady : to wit, in these two sonnets afore- gone : and becoming aware that I had not spoken of her immediate effect on me at that especial time, it seemed to me that I had spoken defectively. Whereupon I resolved to write somewhat of the manner wherein I was then subject to her influence, and of what her influence then was. And conceiving that I should not be able to say these things in the small compass of a sonnet, 1 began therefore a poem with this beginning : —

LOVE hath so long possessed me for his own

And made his lordship so familiar That he, who at first irked me, is now grown

Unto my heart as its best secrets are.

And thus, when he in such sore wise doth mar My life that all its strength seems gone from it, Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit

Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar.

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Love also gathers to such power in me

That my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing, Always soliciting

My lady's salutation piteously.

Whenever she beholds me, it is so,

Who is more sweet than any words can show.

****** ******

Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo ! facta est quasi I'idua domina gentium / *

I was still occupied with this poem, (having composed thereof only the above written stanza,) when the Lord God of justice called my most gracious lady unto Him- self, that she might be glorious under the banner of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good that I should say some- what concerning her departure, I will herein declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so.

And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth not of right to the present argument; if one consider the opening of this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behove me to speak also mine own praises : a thing that in who- soever doeth it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I will leave this matter to be treated of by some other than myself.

Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath

* " How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people ! how is she become as a widow, she that was great among the nations ! " • — Lamentations of Jeremiah, i. i.

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often had mention in what hath gone before, (and not, as it might appear, without reason,) seems also to have borne a part in the manner of her death : it is therefore right that I should say somewhat thereof. And for this cause, having first said what was the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point out a reason which made that this number was so closely allied unto my lady.

I say, then, that according to the division of time in Italy her most noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour of the ninth day of the month ; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the ninth month of the year : seeing that Tismim, which with us is October, is there the first month. Also she was taken from among us in that year of our reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which the perfect number was nine times multiplied within that century wherein she was born into the world : which is to say, the thirteenth century of Christians.*

And touching the reason why this number was so closely allied unto her, it may peradventure be this. According to Ptolemy, (and also to the Christian verity,) the revolving heavens are nine ; and according to the common opinion among astrologers, these nine heavens together have influence over the earth. Wherefore it would appear that this number was thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying that, at her birth, all these nine heavens were at perfect unity with each other as to their influence. This is one reason that may be brought : but more narrowly considering, and according to the infallible truth, this number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The number three is the

* Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died during the first hour of the gth of June, 1290. And from what Dante says at the commencement of this work, (viz. that she was younger than himself by eight or nine months,) it may also be gathered that her age, at the time of her death, was twenty-four years and three months. The "perfect number" mentioned in the present passage is the number ten.

78 DANTE ALIGHIER1.

root of the number nine ; seeing that without the inter- position of any other number, being multiplied merely by itself, it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive that three times three are nine. Thus, three being of itself the efficient of nine, and the Great Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons (to wit : the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), which, being Three, are also One : — this lady was accompanied by the number nine to the end that men might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a miracle, whose only root is the Holy Trinity. It may be that a more subtile person would find for this thing a reason of greater subtilty : but such is the reason that I find, and that liketh me best.

After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition ; taking for my ^commencement those words of Jeremias : Quo- modo sedet sola dvitas / etc. And I make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I began this little book with the intent that it should be written altogether in the vulgar tongue ; wherefore, seeing that the epistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine undertaking : more especially as I know that my chief friend, for whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of it should be in the vulgar tongue.

When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit ; and I then began " The eyes that weep."

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That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing it ; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say that this poor little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to the poem. The second begins here, " Beatrice is gone up " ; the third here, " Weep, pitiful Song of mine" The first divides into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here, "And because often, thinking" ; the third here, " And I will say." Then, when I say, " Beatrice is gone up? I speak of her ; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell the cause why she was taken away from us : afterwards, 1 say how one weeps her parting ; and this part commences here, " Wonderfully." This part divides into three. In the first, I say who it is that weeps her not. In the second, I say who it is that doth weep her. In the third, I speak of my condition. The second begins here, " But sighing comes, and grief" ; the third, " With sighs." Then, when I say, " Weep, pitiful Song of mine" I speak to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, ana stay with.

THE eyes that weep for pity of the heart

Have wept so long that their grief languisheth,

And they have no more tears to weep withal : And now, if I would ease me of a part Of what, little by little, leads to death, It must be done by speech, or not at all. And because often, thinking, I recall How it was pleasant, ere she went afar, To talk of her with you, kind damozels, I talk with no one else, But only with such hearts as women's are.

And I will say, — still sobbing as speech fails, — That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly, And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.

8o DANTE ALIGHIERI.

Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,

The kingdom where the angels are at peace ;

And lives with them : and to her friends is dead. Not by the frost of winter was she driven Away, like others ; nor by summer-heats ; But through a perfect gentleness, instead. For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead Such an exceeding glory went up hence That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire, Until a sweet desire Entered Him for that lovely excellence,

So that He bade her to Himself aspire ; Counting this weary and most evil place Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.

Wonderfully out of the beautiful form Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while ;

And is in its first home, there where it is. Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm Upon his face, must have become so vile As to be dead to all sweet sympathies. Out upon him 1 an abject wretch like this May not imagine anything of her, — He needs no bitter tears for his relief. But sighing comes, and grief, And the desire to find no comforter,

(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief,) To him who for a while turns in his thought How she hath been among us, and is not.

With sighs my bosom always laboureth In thinking, as I do continually,

Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace ; And very often when I think of death, Such a great inward longing comes to me That it will change the colour of my face ; And, if the idea settles in its place,

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All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit : Till, starting up in wild bewilderment, I do become so shent

That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it. Afterward, calling with a sore lament

On Beatrice, I ask, " Canst thou be dead ? "

And calling on her, I am comforted.

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs, Come to me now whene'er I am alone ;

So that I think the sight of me gives pain. And what my life hath been, that living dies, Since for my lady the New Birth's begun, I have not any language to explain. And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain, I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus. All joy is with my bitter life at war ; Yea, I am fallen so far That all men seem to say, " Go out from us,"

Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are. But she, though I be bowed unto the dust, Watches me ; and will guerdon me, I trust.

Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,

To the dames going and the damozels

For whom and for none else Thy sisters have made music many a day. Thou, that art very sad and not as they

Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.

After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat

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8a DANTE ALIGHIERL

in memory of a lady who had died ; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead : wherefore I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as he required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations ; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the son- net saith thus ; " Stay now with me," etc.

This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, " Mark how they force"

STAY now with me, and listen to my sighs,

Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.

Mark how they force their way out and press through ; If they be once pent up, the whole life dies. Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes

Oftener refuse than I can tell to you

(Even though my endless grief is ever new,) To weep and let the smothered anguish rise. Also in sighing ye shall hear me call

On her whose blessed presence doth enrich

The only home that well befitteth her : And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all

Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech That mourns its joy and its joy's minister.

But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to rne that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem : the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him, but the other being

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mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the same person. Nevertheless, looking closely, one must perceive that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious creature his lady, and the other does, as is manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them only for him.

The poem begins, " Whatever while" and has two parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament ; that is, in tfie other stanza, which begins, " For ever" And thus it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a brother, the other as a servant.

WHATEVER while the thought comes over me That I may not again

Behold that lady whom I mourn for now, About my heart my mind brings constantly So much of extreme pain

That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou ? Truly the anguish, soul, that we must bow Beneath, until we win out of this life, Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth : So that I call on Death Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife, Saying, Come unto 'ne. Life showeth grim And bare ; and if one dies, I envy him.

For ever, among all my sighs which burn, There is a piteous speech

That clamours upon death continually : Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn Since first his hand did reach

My lady's life with most foul cruelty. But from the height of woman's fairness, she, Going up from us with the joy we had,

84 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

Grew perfectly and spiritually fair ;

That so she spreads even there A light of Love which makes the Angels glad, And even unto their subtle minds can bring A certain awe of profound marvelling.

On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remem- bering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did : also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said : " Another was with me." *

Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels : in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith, " That lady " : and as this sonnet hath two commencements, it be- hoveth me to divide it with both of them here.

/ say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts. In the first, 1 say that this lady was then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I sfeak of the effects of Love. The second begins here, "Love knowing" ; the third here, "forth went they" This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second begins here, "And still" In this

* Thus according to some texts. The majority, however, add the words, " And therefore was I in thought : " but the shorter speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic.

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same manner is it divided with the other beginning, save that, in the first part, 2 tell when this lady had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in the other.

THAT lady of all gentle memories

Had lighted on my soul ; — whose new abode Lies now, as it was well ordained of God,

Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.

Love, knowing that dear image to be his,

Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow' d, Unto the sighs which are its weary load

Saying, " Go forth." And they went forth, I wis ;

Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached ; With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe

Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath

Came whispering thus : " O noble intellect I It is a year to-day that thou art gone."

SECOND COMMENCEMENT.

THAT lady of all gentle memories

Had lighted on my soul ; — for whose sake flowed The tears of Love ; in whom the power abode

Which led you to observe while I did this.

Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.

Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought because of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly mani- fest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, feeling this and being in dread lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look ; and then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compassion in

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others, are then most moved unto weeping, as though they also felt pity for themselves, it came to pass that mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject condition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen of that lady ; saying afterwards within myself : " Certainly with her also must abide most noble Love." And with that, I resolved upon writing a sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it : —

MINE eyes beheld the blessed pity spring

Into thy countenance immediately

A while agone, when thou beheldst in me The sickness only hidden grief can bring ; And then I knew thou wast considering

How abject and forlorn my life must be ;

And I became afraid that thou shouldst see My weeping, and account it a base thing. Therefore I went out from thee ; feeling how

The tears were straightway loosened at my heart Beneath thine eyes' compassionate control. And afterwards I said within my soul :

" Lo I with this lady dwells the counterpart Of the same Love who holds me weeping now."

It happened after this that whensoever I was seen of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance, as though it had been with love ; whereby she remem- bered me many times of my own most noble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know that often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet : which begins, " Love's pallor," and which is plain without being divided, by its exposition aforesaid : —

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LOVE'S pallor and the semblance of deep ruth

Were never yet shown forth so perfectly

In any lady's face, chancing to see Griefs miserable countenance uncouth, As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe,

When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me ;

Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee, My heart might almost wander from its truth. Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes

From gazing very often upon thine

In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep ; And at such time, thou mak'st the pent tears rise

Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine ; Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.

At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine eyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company ; through which thing many times I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person : also, many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them inwardly : " Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while to make others weep ? And will ye now forget this thing because a lady looketh upon you ? who so looketh merely in compassion of the grief ye then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed eyes I many a time will I make you remember it ! for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping." And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward strife which I had undergone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to com- prehend in it this horrible condition. And I wrote this which begins, " The very bitter weeping."

The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus : and

88 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

this part begins here, " So far. " // well might receive other divisions also ; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition.

" THE very bitter weeping that ye made So long a time together, eyes of mine, Was wont to make the tears of pity shine

In other eyes full oft, as I have said.

But now this thing were scarce remembered If I, on my part, foully would combine With you, and not recall each ancient sign

Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed.

It is your fickleness that doth betray

My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus What while a lady greets me with her eyes.

Except by death, we must not any way Forget our lady who is gone from us."

So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.

The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear unto me ; and I began to consider her thus : " This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise : perchance it was Love himself who set her in my path, that so my life might find peace." And there were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: " What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all other imagining ? " Also there was another voice within me, that said : " And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through Love, not escape while yet thou mayst from so much bitterness? Thou must surely know that this thought carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its life from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed

THE NEW LIFE. 89

thee so much pity." Wherefore I, having striven sorely and very often with myself, bethought me to say some- what thereof in rhyme. And seeing that in the battle of doubts, the victory most often remained with such as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, it seemed to me that I should address this sonnet unto her : in the first line whereof, I call that thought which spake of her a gentle thought, only becauss it spoke of one who was gentle ; being of itself most vile.*

In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my thoughts were divided one from the other. The one part I call Heart, that is, appetite; the other, Soul, that is, reason ; and I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest enough to them to whom I wish this to be open. True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of the Heart against the Eyes ; and that appears contrary to what I say in the present ; and therefore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean appetite, because yet greater was my desire to remember my most gentle lady than to see this other, although indeed I had some appetite towards her, but it appeared slight : wherefrom it appears that the one statement is not contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all towards her. In the second, I say how the soul, that is the reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins here, " And what is this ? " the third here, " And the heart answers"

* Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma Donat? about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma then be " the lady of the window," his love for whom Dante so contemns ? Such a passing conjecture (when considered together with the inter- pretation of this passage in Dante's later work, the Convito) would of course imply an admission of what I believe to lie at the heart of all true Dantesque commentary; that is, the existence always of the actual events even where the allegorical superstructure has been raised by Dante himself.

90 DANTE ALIGHIERL

A GENTLE thought there is will often start, Within my secret self, to speech of thee : Also of Love it speaks so tenderly That much in me consents and takes its part " And what is this," the soul saith to the heart, " That cometh thus to comfort thee and me, And thence where it would dwell, thus potently Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art ? " And the heart answers : " Be no more at strife 'Twixt doubt and doubt : this is Love's messenger And speaketh but his words, from him received ; And all the strength it owns and all the life It draweth from the gentle eyes of her

Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved."

But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld her; also she appeared to me of the same tender age as then. Where- upon I fell into a deep thought of her : and my memory ran back, according to the order of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part ; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so basely let itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason.

And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought con- stantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart ; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner;

THE NEW LIFE. 91

so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom : neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring them to shame and evil : from which things it will appear that they were fitly guer- doned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten) proposed to write a sonnet wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote, " Woe's me ! "

/ said, " Woe's me!" because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide , since its purport is manifest enough.

WOE'S me ! by dint of all these sighs that come Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove, Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to move

Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome,

They wept so long that now they are grief's home, And count their tears all laughter far above ; They wept till they are circled now by Love

With a red circle in sign of martyrdom.

These musings, and the sighs they bring from me, Are grown at last so constant and so sore

That love swoons in my spirit with faint breath ;

Hearing in those sad sounds continually

The most sweet name that my dead lady bore, With many grievous words touching her death.

About this time, it happened that a great number of persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His beautiful countenance * (upon which countenance my dear lady

* The Veronica (Vera icon, or true image) ; that is, the napkin

92 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

now looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful, passed by a path which is well-nigh in the midst of the city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died.

Then I, beholding them, said within myself : " These pilgrims seen to be come from very far ; and I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know any- thing concerning her. Their thoughts are not of her, but of other things ; it may be, of their friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not." And I went on to say : " I know that if they were of a country near unto us, they would in some wise seem disturbed, passing through this city which is so full of grief." And I said also : " If I could speak with them a space, I am certain that I should make them weep before they went forth of this city ; for those things that they would hear from me must needs beget weeping in any."

And when the last of them had gone by me, I be- thought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech ; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth : " Ye pilgrim-folk." I made use of the word pilgrim for its general significa- tion ; for " pilgrim " may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth ; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is

with which a woman was said to have wiped our Saviour's face on His way to the cross, and which miraculously retained its likeness. Dante makes mention of it also in the Commedia (Parad. xxi. 103), where he says : —

" Qual e colui che forse di Croazia

Viene a veder la Veronica nostra Che per 1'antica fama non si sazia

Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra : Signor mio Gesii Cristo, Iddio verace, Or fu si fatta la sembianza vostra ? " etc.

THE NEW LIFE. 93

a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowards the House ot St. James. For there are three separate denominations proper unto those who undertake journeys to the glory of God. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas eastward, whence often they bring palm-branches. And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who journey unto the holy House of Gallicia ; seeing that no other apostle was buried so far from his birth-place as was the blessed Saint James. And there is a third sort who are called Romers ; in that they go whither these whom I have called pilgrims went : which is to say, unto Rome.

This sonnet is not divided, because its own words suffi- ciently declare it.

YE pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively

As if in thought of distant things, I pray,

Is your own land indeed so far away — As by your aspect it would seem to be — That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free

Though passing through the mournful town mid-way ;

Like unto men that understand to-day Nothing at all of her great misery ? Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,

And listen to my words a little space,

At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice. It is her Beatrice that she hath lost ;

Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace That men weep hearing it, and have no choice.

A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them certain of these my rhymes. And I (taking into account their worthiness and consideration,) resolved that I would write also a new thing, and send it them together with those others, to the end that their wishes might be more honourably fulfilled. Therefore I made a sonnet, which narrates my condition, and which I caused to be con- veyed to them, accompanied by the one preceding, and

94 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

with that other which begins, " Stay now with me and listen to my sighs." And the new sonnet is, " Beyond the sphere."

This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who wakes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a "Pilgrim Spirit," because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I cannot understand her ; that is to say my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eye weak against the sun ; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot see there whither my thought carries me — that is, to her admirable essence — / at least understand this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because I often hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, '•'•Ladies mine," to show that they are ladies to whom I speak. The second part begins, "A new perception " ; the third, " When it hath reached"; the fourth, "It sees her such" ; the fifth, " And yet I know." It might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet clearer ; but this division may pass, and therefore I stay not to divide it further.

BEYOND the sphere which spreads to widest space Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above ; A new perception born of grieving Love

Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.

When it hath reached unto the end, and stays, It sees a lady round whom splendours move In homage ; till, by the great light thereof

Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.

It sees her such, that when it tells me this

THE NEW LIFE. 95

Which it hath seen, I understand it not, It hath a speech so subtile and so fine.

And yet I know its voice within my thought

Often remembereth me of Beatrice :

So that I understand it, ladies mine.

After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision : * wherein I saw things which determined me that I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as I could dis- course more worthily concerning her. And to this end I labour all I can ; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what hath not before been written of any woman. After the which, may it seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of its lady : to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now gazeth continually on His countenance qui est per omnia scecula benedictus. t Laus Deo.

* This we may believe to have been the Vision of Hell, Purga- tory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple argument of the Divina Comtnedia. The Latin words ending the Vita Nuova are almost identical with those at the close of the letter in which Dante, on concluding the Paradise, and accomplishing the hope here expressed, dedicates his great work to Can Grande della Scala.

f " Who is blessed throughout all ages."

THE END OF THE NEW LIFE.

96 DANTE ALIGHIERI.

I.

TO BRUNETTO LATINI.

SONNET. Sent with the Vita Nuova.

MASTER BRUNETTO, this my little maid

Is come to spend her Easter-tide with you ; Not that she reckons feasting as her due, —

Whose need is hardly to be fed, but read.

Not in a hurry can her sense be weigh'd, Nor mid the jests of any noisy crew : Ah ! and she wants a little coaxing too

Before she'll get into another's head.

But if you do not find her meaning clear,

You've many Brother Alberts* hard at hand, Whose wisdom will respond to any call.

Consult with them and do not laugh at her ; And if she still is hard to understand, Apply to Master Janus last of all.

* Probably in allusion to Albert of Cologne. Giano (Janus), which follows, was in use as an Italian name, as for instance Giano dclla Bella ; but it seems probable that Dante is merely playfully advising his preceptor to avail himself of the twofold insight of Janus the double-faced.

DANTE ALIGHIERI. 97

II.

SONNET.* Of Beatrice de* Portinari, on All Saints* Day.

LAST All Saints' holy-day, even now gone by,

I met a gathering of damozels :

She that came first, as one doth who excels, Had Love with her, bearing her company : A flame burned forward through her steadfast eye.

As when in living fire a spirit dwells :

So, gazing with the boldness which prevails O'er doubt, I knew an angel visibly. As she passed on, she bowed her mild approof

And salutation to all men of worth, Lifting the soul to solemn thoughts aloof.

In Heaven itself that lady had her birth, I think, and is with us for our behoof:

Blessed are they who meet her on the earth.

* This and the six following pieces (with the possible exception of the canzone at page 101) seem so certainly to have been written at the same time as the poetry of the Vita Nuova, that it becomes difficult to guess why they were omitted from that work. Other poems in Dante's Caneonitre refer in a more general manner to his love for Beatrice, but each among those I allude to bears the impress of some special occasion.

VOL. II.

98 DANTE ALIGH1ERL

III.

SONNET.

To certain Ladies ; when Beatrice was lamenting her Father's Death*

WHENCE come you, all of you so sorrowful ?

An it may please you, speak for courtesy.

I fear for my dear lady's sake, lest she Have made you to return thus filled with dule. O gentle ladies, be not hard to school

In gentleness, but to some pause agree,

And something of my lady say to me, For with a little my desire is full. Howbeit it be a heavy thing to hear :

For Love now utterly has thrust me forth, With hand for ever lifted, striking fear.

See if I be not worn unto the earth ; Yea, and my spirit must fail from me here,

If, when you speak, your words are of no worth.

* See the Vita Nuova, at page 60.

DANTE ALIGHIER1, 99

IV.

SONNET. To the same Ladies ; with their Answer.

YE ladies, walking past me piteous-eyed, Who is the lady that lies prostrate here ? Can this be even she my heart holds dear ?

Nay, if it be so, speak, and nothing hide.

Her very aspect seems itself beside,

And all her features of such altered cheer That to my thinking they do not appear

Hers who makes others seem beatified.

" If thou forget to know our lady thus,

Whom grief o'ercomes, we wonder in no wise,

For also the same thing befalleth us.

Yet if thou watch the movement of her eyes,

Of her thou shall be straightway conscious. O weep no more ; thou art all wan with sighs,"

ioo DANTE AL1GH1ERL

V.

BALLATA. He will gate upon Beatrice.

BECAUSE mine eyes can never have their fill Of looking at my lady's lovely face,

I will so fix my gaze That I may become blessed, beholding her

Even as an angel, up at his great height Standing amid the light,

Becometh blessed by only seeing God : — So, though I be a simple earthly wight, Yet none the less I might,

Beholding her who is my heart's dear load,

Be blessed, and in the spirit soar abroad. Such power abideth in that gracious one ; Albeit felt of none

Save of him who, desiring, honours her.

DANTE ALIGHIERL 101

VI.

CANZONE.* A Complaint of his Lady's scorn.

LOVE, since it is thy will that I return 'Neath her usurped control

Who is thou know'st how beautiful and proud ; Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding burn Thy flame within her soul

That she rejoice not when my cry is loud.

Be thou but once endowed With sense of the new peace, and of this fire,

And of the scorn wherewith I am despised, And wherefore death is my most fierce desire ;

And then thou'lt be apprised Of all. So if thou slay me afterward, Anguish unburthened shall make death less hard

O Lord, thou knowest very certainly

That thou didst make me apt To serve thee. But I was not wounded yet, When under heaven I beheld openly

The face which thus hath rapt My soul. Then all my spirits ran elate

Upon her will to wait.

And she, the peerless one who o'er all worth Is still her proper beauty's worshiper,

* This poem seems probably referable to the time during which Beatrice denied her salutation to Dante. (See the Vita Nuova, at page 41 etseq.)

tea DANTE ALIGHIERI.

Made semblance then to guide them safely forth :

And they put faith in her : Till, gathering them within her garment all, She turned their blessed peace to tears and gall.

Then I (for I could hear how they complained,)

As sympathy impelled, Full oft to seek her presence did arise. And mine own soul (which better had refrained)

So much my strength upheld That I could steadily behold her eyes. This in thy knowledge lies, Who then didst call me with so mild a face

That I hoped solace from my greater load : And when she turned the key on my dark place,

Such ruth thy grace bestowed Upon my grief, and in such piteous kind, That I had strength to bear, and was resign'd.

For love of the sweet favour's comforting Did I become her thrall ;

And still her every movement gladdened me With triumph that I served so sweet a thing : Pleasures and blessings all

I set aside, my perfect hope to see :

Till her proud contumely — That so mine aim might rest unsatisfied —

Covered the beauty of her countenance. So straightway fell into my living side,

To slay me, the swift lance : While she rejoiced and watched my bitter end, Only to prove what succour thou wouldst send.

I therefore, weary with my love's constraint,

To death's deliverance ran, That out of terrible grief I might be brought : For tears had broken me and left me faint Beyond the lot of man,

DANTE ALIGHIER1. 103

Until each sigh must be my last, I thought.

Yet still this longing wrought So much of torment for my soul to bear,

That with the pang I swooned and fell to earth. Then, as in trance, 'twas whispered at mine ear,

How in this constant girth Of anguish, I indeed at length must die : So that I dreaded Love continually.

Master, thou knowest now The life which in thy service I have borne :

Not that I tell it thee to disallow Control, who still to thy behest am sworn.

Yet if through this my vow I remain dead, nor help they will confer, Do thou at least, for God's sake, pardon her.

it>4

DANTE ALIGH1EK1.

VII.

CANZONE. He beseeches Death for the Life of Beatrice.

DEATH, since I find not one with whom to grieve,

Nor whom this grief of mine may move to tears,

Whereso I be or whitherso I turn : Since it is thou who in my soul wilt leave

No single joy, but chill'st it with just fears And makest it in fruitless hopes to burn : Since thou, Death, and thou only, canst decern Wealth to my life, or want, at thy free choice : — It is to thee that I lift up my voice,

Bowing my face that's like a face just dead. I come to thee, as to one pitying, In grief for that sweet rest which nought can bring

Again, if thou but once be entered Into her life whom my heart cherishes Even as the only portal of its peace.

Death, how most sweet the peace is that thy grace Can grant to me, and that I pray thee for, Thou easily mayst know by a sure sign, If in mine eyes thou look a little space

And read in them the hidden dread they store, — If upon all thou look which proves me thine. Since the fear only maketh me to pine After this sort, — what will mine anguish be When her eyes close, of dreadful verity,

In whose light is the light of mine own eyes ?

DANTE ALIGHIBRL 105

But now I know that thou wouldst have my life As hers, and joy'st thee in my fruitless strife.

Yet I do think this which I feel implies That soon, when I would die to flee from pain, I shall find none by whom I may be slain.

Death, if indeed thou smite this gentle one

Whose outward worth but tells the intellect

How wondrous is the miracle within, — Thou biddest Virtue rise up and begone,

Thou dost away with Mercy's best effect, Thou spoil'st the mansion of God's sojourning. Yea, unto nought her beauty thou dost bring Which is above all other beauties, even In so much as befitteth one whom Heaven

Sent upon earth in token of its own. Thou dost break through the perfect trust which hath Been alway her companion in Love's path :

The light once darkened which was hers alone, Love needs must say to them he ruleth o'er, " I have lost the noble banner that I bore."

Death, have some pity then for all the ill

Which cannot choose but happen if she die, And which will be the sorest ever known. Slacken the string, if so it be thy will,

That the sharp arrow leave it not, — thereby Sparing her life, which if it flies is flown. O Death, for God's sake, be some pity shown 1 Restrain within thyself, even at its height, The cruel wrath which moveth thee to smite

Her in whom God hath set so much of grace. Show now some ruth if 'tis a thing thou hast ! I seem to see Heaven's gate, that is shut fast,

Open, and angels filling all the space About me, — come to fetch her soul whose laud Is sung by saints and angels before God.

1 06

DANTE ALIGHIER1.

Song, thou must surely see how fine a thread

This is that my last hope is holden by,

And what I should be brought to without her. Therefore for thy plain speech and lowlihead

Make thou no pause : but go immediately, (Knowing thyself for my heart's minister,) And with that very meek and piteous air Thou hast, stand up before the face of Death, To wrench away the bar that prisoneth

And win unto the place of the good fruit. And if indeed thou shake by thy soft voice Death's mortal purpose, — haste thee and rejoice

Our lady with the issue of thy suit. So yet awhile our earthly nights and days Shall keep the blessed spirit that I praise.

DANTE ALIGHIERl. 107

VIII.

SONNET.

On the qth of June \ 290.

UPON a day, came Sorrow in to me,

Saying, " I've come to stay with thee a while ;"

And I perceived that she had ushered Bile And Pain into my house for company. Wherefore I said, " Go forth — away with thee ! "

But like a Greek she answered, full of guile,

And went on arguing in an easy style. Then, looking, I saw Love come silently, Habited in black raiment, smooth and new,

Having a black hat set upon his hair ; And certainly the tears he shed were true.

So that I asked, "What ails thee, trifler?" Answering he said : " A grief to be gone through ;

For our own lady's dying, brother dear."

io8 DANTE AL1GH1ERL

IX. TO CINO DA PISTOIA.

SONNET. He rebukes Cinofor Fickleness*

\ THOUGHT to be for ever separate,

Fair Master Cino, from these rhymes of yours ;

Since further from the coast, another course, My vessel now must journey with her freight.* Yet still, because I hear men name your state

As his whom every lure doth straight beguile,

I pray you lend a very little while Unto my voice your ear grown obdurate. The man after this measure amorous,

Who still at his own will is bound and loosed,

How slightly Love him wounds is lightly known. If on this wise your heart in homage bows,

I pray you for God's sake it be disused,

So that the deed and the sweet words be one.

* This might seem to suggest that the present sonnet was written about the same time as the close of the Vita Nuova, and that an allusion may also here be intended to the first conception of Dante's s-reat work.

C1NO DA PISTOIA. 109

CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

SONNET. He ansivers Dante, confessing his unsteadfast heart.

DANTE, since I from my own native place

In heavy exile have turned wanderer,

Far distant from the purest joy which e'er Had issued from the Fount of joy and grace, I have gone weeping through the world's dull space,

And me proud Death, as one too mean, doth spare ;

Yet meeting Love, Death's neighbour, I declare That still his arrows hold my heart in chase. Nor from his pitiless aim can I get free,

Nor from the hope which comforts my weak will, Though no true aid exists which I could share. One pleasure ever binds and looses me ;

That so, by one same Beauty lured, I still Delight in many women here and there.

110

DANTE ALIGHIERL

TO CINO DA PISTOIA.

SONNET.

Written in Exile.

BECAUSE I find not whom to speak withal Anent that lord whose I am as thou art, Behoves that in thine ear I tell some part

Of this whereof I gladly would say all.

And deem thou nothing else occasional Of my long silence while I kept apart, Except this place, so guilty at the heart

That the right has not who will give it stall.

Love comes not here to any woman's face, Nor any man here for his sake will sigh,

For unto such, "Thou fool !" were straightway said.

Ah ! Master Cino, how the time turns base,

And mocks at us, and on our rhymes says " Fie I " Since truth has been thus thinly harvested.

CINO DA PISTOIA.

Ill

CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

SONNET.

He answers the foregoing Sonnet, and prays Dante, in the name of Beatrice, to continue his great Poem.

I KNOW not, Dante, in what refuge dwells The truth, which with all men is out of mind ; For long ago it left this place behind,

Till in its stead at last God's thunder swells.

Yet if our shifting life most clearly tells

That here the truth has no reward assign'd, — 'Twas God, remember, taught it to mankind,

And even among the fiends preached nothing else.

Then, though the kingdoms of the earth be torn, Where'er thou set thy feet, from Truth's control, Yet unto me thy friend this prayer accord : —

Beloved, O my brother, sorrow-worn,

Even in that lady's name who is thy goal, Sing on till thou redeem thy plighted word ! *

* That is, the pledge given at the end of the Vita Nuova. This may perhaps have been written in the early days of Dante's exile, before his resumption of the interrupted Commedia.

ua DANTE ALIGHIERL

XL

SONNET. Of Beauty and Duty.

Two ladies to the summit of my mind Have clomb, to hold an argument of love. The one has wisdom with her from above,

For every noblest virtue well designed :

The other, beauty's tempting power refined And the high charm of perfect grace approve : And I, as my sweet Master's will doth move,

At feet of both their favours am reclined.

Beauty and Duty in my soul keep strife,

At question if the heart such course can take And 'twixt two ladies hold its love complete. The fount of gentle speech yields answer meet, That Beauty may be loved for gladness' sake,

And Duty in the lofty ends of life.

DANTE ALIGHIER1. 113

XII.

SESTINA.* Of the Lady Pietra dcgli Scrovigni,

To the dim light and the large circle of shade

I have clomb, and to the whitening of the hills,

There where we see no colour in the grass.

Nathless my longing loses not its green,

It has so taken root in the hard stone

Which talks and hears as though it were a lady.

Utterly frozen is this youthful lady,

Even as the snow that lies within the shade ;

For she is no more moved than is the stone

By the sweet season which makes warm the hills

And alters them afresh from white to green,

Covering their sides again with flowers and grass.

When on her hair she sets a crown of grass The thought has no more room for other lady ,

* I have translated this piece both on account of its great and peculiar beauty, and also because it affords an example of a form of composition which I have met with in no Italian writer before Dante's time, though it is not uncommon among the Provencal poets (see Dante, De Vulg. Eloq.). I have headed it with the name of a Paduan lady, to whom it is surmised by some to have been addressed during Dante's exile ; but this must be looked upon as a rather doubtful conjecture, and I have adopted the name chiefly to mark it at once as not referring to Beatrice.

VOL. II. 8

H4 DANTE A UGH IE RI.

Because she weaves the yellow with the green So well that Love sits down there in the shade, — Love who has shut me in among low hills Faster than between walls of granite-stone.

She is more bright than is a precious stone ;

The wound she gives may not be healed with grass :

I therefore have fled far o'er plains and hills

For refuge from so dangerous a lady ;

But from her sunshine nothing can give shade, —

Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green.

A while ago, I saw her dressed in green, — So fair, she might have wakened in a stone This love which I do feel even for her shade ; And therefore, as one woos a graceful lady, I wooed her in a field that was all grass Girdled about with very lofty hills.

Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills Before Love's flame in this damp wood and green Burn, as it burns within a youthful lady, For my sake, who would sleep away in stone My life, or feed like beasts upon the grass, Only to see her garments cast a shade.

How dark soe'er the hills throw out their shade, Under her summer-green the beautiful lady Covers it, like a stone covered in grass.

DANTE ALIGHIERL

XIII.

SONNET.* A Curse for a fruitless Low

MY curse be on the day when first I saw

The brightness in those treacherous eyes of thine, — The hour when from my heart thou cam'st to draw

My soul away, that both might fail and pine :

My curse be on the skill that smooth'd each line Of my vain songs, — the music and just law

Of art, by which it was my dear design That the whole world should yield thee love and awe. Yea, let me curse mine own obduracy,

Which firmly holds what doth itself confound — • T o wit, thy fair perverted face of scorn : For whose sake Love is oftentimes forsworn So that men mock at him : but most at me

Who would hold fortune's wheel and turn it round.

* I have separated this sonnet from the pieces bearing on the Vita Niiova, as it is naturally repugnant to connect it with Beatrice. I cannot, however, but think it possible that it may have been the bitter fruit of some bitterest moment in those hours when Dante endured her scorn.

GUIDO CAVALCANT1.

TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

SONNET.

He interprets Dante's Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova.*

UNTO my thinking, thou beheld'st all worth, All joy, as much of good as man may know, If thou wert in his power who here below

Is honour's righteous lord throughout this earth.

Where evil dies, even there he has his birth, Whose justice out of pity's self doth grow. Softly to sleeping persons he will go,

And, with no pain to them, their hearts draw forth.

Thy heart he took, as knowing well, alas ! That Death had claimed thy lady for a prey : In fear whereof, he fed her with thy heart. But when he seemed in sorrow to depart, Sweet was thy dream ; for by that sign, I say,

Surely the opposite shall come to pass.t

* See the Vita Nuova, at page 33.

f This may refer to the belief that, towards morning, dreams go by contraries.

GUIDO CAVALCANTL

n.

SONNET.

To his Lady Joan, of Florence.

FLOWERS hast thou in thyself, and foliage,

And what is good, and what is glad to see ; The sun is not so bright as thy visage ;

All is stark naught when one hath looked on thee ; There is not such a beautiful personage

Anywhere on the green earth verily ; If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage

Comforteth him, and no more fear hath he. Thy lady friends and maidens ministering

Are all, for love of thee, much to my taste : And much I pray them that in everything

They honour thee even as thou meritest, And have thee in their gentle harbouring :

Because among them all thou art the best.

.18

GUIDO CAVALCANTI

III.

SONNET.

ffe compares all Things with his Lady, and finds them wanting.

BEAUTY in woman ; the high will's decree ;

Fair knighthood armed for manly exercise ;

The pleasant song of birds ; love's soft replies ; The strength of rapid ships upon the sea ; The serene air when light begins to be ;

The white snow, without wind that falls and lies ;

Fields of all flower ; the place where waters rise ; Silver and gold ; azure in jewellery : — Weighed against these, the sweet and quiet worth

Which my dear lady cherishes at heart Might seem a little matter to be shown ;

Being truly, over these, as much apart As the whole heaven is greater than this earth. All good to kindred natures cleaveth soon.

GU1DO CAVALCANTI, 119

IV.

SONNET.

A Rapture concerning his Lady.

WHO is she coming, whom all gaze upon,

Who makes the air all tremulous with light, And at whose side is Love himself? that none

Dare speak, but each man's sighs are infinite.

Ah me ! how she looks round from left to right, Let Love discourse : I may not speak thereon. Lady she seems of such high benison

As makes all others graceless in men's sight. The honour which is hers cannot be said ;

To whom are subject all things virtuous,

While all things beauteous own her deity. Ne'er was the mind of man so nobly led,

Nor yet was such redemption granted us That we should ever know her perfectly.

GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

V. BALLATA.

Of his Lady among other Ladies.

WITH other women I beheld my love ; —

Not that the rest were women to mine eyes, Who only as her shadows seemed to move.

I do not praise her more than with the truth, Nor blame I these if it be rightly read.

But while I speak, a thought I may not soothe Says to my senses : " Soon shall ye be dead, If for my sake your tears ye will not shed."

And then the eyes yield passage, at that thought, To the heart's weeping, which forgets her not.

GUIDO CAVALCANTL 121

VI. TO GUIDO ORLANDI.

SONNET. Of a consecrated Image resembling his Lady.

GUIDO, an image of my lady dwells At San Michele in Orto, consecrate And duly worshiped. Fair in holy state She listens to the tale each sinner tells : And among them that come to her, who ails The most, on him the most doth blessing wait. She bids the fiend men's bodies abdicate ; Over the curse of blindness she prevails, And heals sick languors in the public squares. A multitude adores her reverently :

Before her face two burning tapers are ; Her voice is uttered upon paths afar. Yet through the Lesser Brethren's* jealousy She is named idol ; not being one of theirs.

* The Franciscans, in profession of deeper poverty and humility than belonged to other Orders, called themselves Fralres minores.

122 GUWO ORLAUDL

GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTL

MADRIGAL. In answer to the foregoing Sonnet.

IF thou hadst offered, friend, to blessed Mary

A pious voluntary,

As thus : " Fair rose, in holy garden set " : Thou then hadst found a true similitude :

Because all truth and good Are hers, who was the mansion and the gate Wherein abode our High Salvation,

Conceived in her, a Son, Even by the angel's greeting whom she met. Be thou assured that if one cry to her,

Confessing, " I did err," For death she gives him life ; for she is great.

Ah ! how mayst thou be counselled to implead

With God thine own misdeed, And not another's ? Ponder what thou art ;

And humbly lay to heart That Publican who wept his proper need. The Lesser Brethren cherish the divine

Scripture and church-doctrine ; Being appointed keepers of the faith

Whose preaching succoureth : For what they preach is our best medicine.

GUIDO CAVALCANTI. «3

VII.

SONNET.

Of the Eyes of a certain Mandetta, of Thoulouse, which resemble those of his Lady Joan, of Florence.

A CERTAIN youthful lady in Thoulouse, Gentle and fair, of cheerful modesty, Is in her eyes, with such exact degree,

Of likeness unto mine own lady, whose

I am, that through the heart she doth abuse The soul to sweet desire. It goes from me To her ; yet, fearing, saith not who is she

That of a truth its essence thus subdues.

This lady looks on it with the sweet eyes

Whose glance did erst the wounds of Love anoint Through its true lady's eyes which are as they,

Then to the heart returns it, full of sighs, Wounded to death by a sharp arrow's point Wherewith this lady speeds it on its way.

I24 GUIDO CAVALCANTl.

VIII.

BALLATA. He reveals } in a Dialogue, his increasing Love for Mandetta

BEING in thought of love, I chanced to see

Two youthful damozels. One sang : " Our life inhales All love continually."

Their aspect was so utterly serene,

So courteous, of such quiet nobleness, That I said to them : " Yours, I may well ween, 'Tis of all virtue to unlock the place. Ah ! damozels, do not account him base Whom thus his wound subdues : Since I was at Thoulouse, My heart is dead in me."

They turned their eyes upon me in so much

As to perceive how wounded was my heart ; While, of the spirits born of tears, one such

Had been begotten through the constant smart. Then seeing me, abashed, to turn apart, One of them said, and laugh'd : " Love, look you, by his craft Holds this man thoroughly."

GUIDO CAVALCANT1. 125

But with grave sweetness, after a brief while,

She who at first had laughed on me replied, Saying : " This lady, who by Love's great guile Her countenance in thy heart has glorified, Look'd thee so deep within the eyes, Love sigh'd And was awakened there. If it seem ill to bear,

In him thy hope must be."

The second piteous maiden, of all ruth,

Fashioned for sport in Love's own image, said : " This stroke, whereof thy heart bears trace in sooth, From eyes of too much puissance was shed, Whence in thy heart such brightness entered, Thou mayst not look thereon. Say, of those eyes that shone

Canst thou remember thee ? "

Then said I, yielding answer therewithal

Unto this virgin's difficult behest : " A lady of Thoulouse, whom Love doth call Mandetta, sweetly kirtled and enlac'd, I do remember to my sore unrest. Yea, by her eyes indeed My life has been decreed To death inevitably."

Go, Ballad, to the city, even Thoulouse,

And softly entering the Daurade,* look round And softly call, that so there may be found Some lady who for compleasaunce may choose To show thee her who can my life confuse. And if she yield thee way, Lift thou thy voice and say :

"For grace I come to thee."

* The ancient church of the Daurade still exists at Thoulouse. It was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics adorning it

126 DANTE ALIGHIERL

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

SONNET.

He imagines a pleasant Voyage for Guido, Lapo Gianni, and himself, with their three Ladies.

GUIDO, I wish that Lapo, thou, and I,

Could be by spells conveyed, as it were now, Upon a barque, with all the winds that blow

Across all seas at our good will to hie.

So no mischance nor temper of the sky

Should mar our course with spite or cruel slip ; But we, observing old companionship,

To be companions still should long thereby.

And Lady Joan, and Lady Beatrice,

And her the thirtieth on my roll,* with us Should our good wizard set, o'er seas to move And not to talk of anything but love :

And they three ever to be well at ease,

As we should be, I think, if this were thus.

* That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies of Florence, referred to in the Vita Nuova ; among whom Lapo Gianni's lady, Lagia, would seem to have stood thirtieth.

GUIDO CAVALCANTL 127

IX. TO DANTE ALIGHIERL

SONNET.

Guide answers the foregoing Sonnet, speaking with shame of his changed Love.

IF I were still that man, worthy to love,

Of whom I have but the remembrance now, Or if the lady bore another brow,

To hear this thing might bring me joy thereof.

But thou, who in Love's proper court dost move, Even there where hope is born of grace, — see how My very soul within me is brought low :

For a swift archer, whom his feats approve,

Now bends the bow, which Love to him did yield, In such mere sport against me, it would seem As though he held his lordship for a jest. Then hear the marvel which is sorriest : — My sorely wounded soul forgiveth him,

Yet knows that in his act her strength is kill'd.

tag GU1DO CAVALCANTL

TO DANTE ALIGHIERL

SONNET.

He reports, in a feigned Vision, the successful Is site of Lapo Gianni's Love.

DANTE, a sigh that rose from the heart's core

Assailed me, while I slumbered, suddenly : So that I woke o' the instant, fearing sore

Lest it came thither in Love's company : Till, turning, I beheld the servitor

Of Lady Lagia : " Help me," so said he, " O help me, Pity." Though he said no more,

So much of Pity's essence entered me, That I was ware of Love, those shafts he wields

A- whetting, and preferred the mourner's quest

To him, who straightway answered on this wise " Go tell my servant that the lady yields, . And that I hold her now at his behest : If he believe not, let him note her eyes."

GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 129

XI. TO DANTE ALIGHIER1.

SONNET. He mistrusts the Love of Lapo Gianni.

I PRAY thee, Dante, shouldst thou meet with Ix»ve In any place where Lapo then may be, That there thou fail not to mark heedfully

If Love with lover's name that man approve ;

If to our Master's will his lady move Aright, and if himself show fealty : For ofttimes, by ill custom, ye may see

This sort profess the semblance of true love.

Thou know'st that in the court where Love ho!ds sway A law subsists, that no man who is vile Can service yield to a lost woman there. If suffering aught avail the sufferer, Thou straightway shalt discern our lofty style

Which needs the badge of honour must display.

VOL.

CUIDO CAVALCANTI.

XIL

SONNET. On the Detection of a false Friend.*

LOVE and the Lady Lagia, Guido and I,

Unto a certain lord are bounden all,

Who has released us — know ye from whose thrall ? Yet I'll not speak, but let the matter die : Since now these three no more are held thereby,

Who in such homage at his feet did fall

That I myself was not more whimsical, In him conceiving godship from on high. Let Love be thanked the first, who first discern'd

The truth ; and that wise lady afterward,

Who in fit time took back her heart again ; And Guido next, from worship wholly turn'd ;

And I, as he. But if ye have not heard, I shall not tell how much I loved him then.

* I should think, from the mention of Lady Lagia, that this might refer again to Lapo Gianni, who seems (one knows not why) to have fallen into disgrace with his friends. The Guido mentioned is probably Guido Orlandi.

GUWO CA VALCANTI. 131

XIIL

SONNET. He speaks of a third Love of his.

O THOU that often hast within thine eyes A Love who holds three shafts, — know thou from me That this my sonnet would commend to thee

(Come from afar) a soul in heavy sighs,

Which even by Love's sharp arrow wounded lies. Twice did the Syrian archer shoot, and he Now bends his bow the third time, cunningly

That, thou being here, he wound me in no wise.

Because the soul would quicken at the core Thereby, which now is near to utter death,

From those two shafts, a triple wound that yie!d. The first gives pleasure, yet disquieteth ;

And with the second is the longing for

The mighty gladness by the third fulfill'd.

133 GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

XIV.

BALLATA. Of a continual Death in Love.

THOUGH thou, indeed, hast quite forgotten ruth, Its steadfast truth my heart abandons not ; But still its thought yields service in good part To that hard heart in thee.

Alas ! who hears believes not I am so. Yet who can know ? of very surety, none. From Love is won a spirit, in some wise, Which dies perpetually :

And, when at length in that strange ecstasy

The heavy sigh will start,

There rains upon my heart

A love so pure and fine, That I say : " Lady, I am wholly thine." *

* I may take this opportunity of mentioning that, in every case where an abrupt change of metre occurs in one of my translations, it is so also in the original poem.

CU1DO CAVALCANTt. 133

XV.

SONNET To a Friend who does not pity his Love.

IF I entreat this lady that all grace

Seem not unto her heart an enemy,

Foolish and evil thou declarest me, And desperate in idle stubbornness. Whence is such cruel judgment thine, whose face,

To him that looks thereon, professeth thee

Faithful, and wise, and of all courtesy, And made after the way of gentleness ? Alas ! my soul within my heart doth find

Sighs, and its grief by weeping doth enhance,

That, drowned in bitter tears, those sighs depart And then there seems a presence in the mind,

As of a lady's thoughtful countenance

Come to behold the death of the poor heart.

CUIDO CAVALCANTL

XVI. BALLATA. He perceives that his highest Love is gone from him.

THROUGH this my strong and new misaventure,

All now is lost to me Which most was sweet in Love's supremacy.

So much of life is dead in its control,

That she, my pleasant lady of all grace, Is gone out of the devastated soul :

I see her not, nor do I know her place ;

Nor even enough of virtue with me stays

To understand, ah me ! The flower of her exceeding purity.

Because there comes — to kill that gentle thought With saying that I shall not see her more —

This constant pain wherewith I am distraught, Which is a burning torment very sore, Wherein I know not whom I should implore. Thrice thanked the Master be

Who turns the grinding wheel of misery I

Full of great anguish in a place of fear

The spirit of my heart lies sorrowing, Through Fortune's bitter craft. She lured it here,

And gave it o'er to Death, and barbed the sting ;

She wrought that hope which was a treacherous thing ;

In Time, which dies from me, She made me lose mine hour of ecstasy.

GUIDO CAVALCANTL 135

For you, perturbed and fearful words of mine, Whither yourselves may please, even thither go ;

But always burthened with shame's troublous sign, And on my lady's name still calling low. For me, I must abide in such deep woe That all who look shall see

Death's shadow on my face assuredly.

156 GUIDO CAVALCANTL

XVII.

SONNET. Of his Pain from a new Love.

WHY from tta danger did mine eyes not start, — Why not become even blind, — ere through my sight Within my soul thou ever couldst alight To say : " Dost thou not hear me in thy heart ? " New torment then, the old torment's counterpart, Filled me at once with such a sore affright, That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not quite Mine eyes and me 1 O help us where thou art 1 Thou hast so left mine eyes, that love is fain — Even Love himself — with pity uncontroll'd

To bend above them, weeping for their loss : Saying : " If any man feel heavy pain,

This man's more painful heart let him behold ; Death has it in her hand, cut like a cross."

CUIDO ORLAND1. 137

GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

PROLONGED SONNET. He finds fault with the Conceits of the foregoing Sonnet.

FRIEND, well I know thou knowest well to bear

Thy sword's-point, that it pierce the close-locked mail And like a bird to flit from perch to pale :

And out of difficult ways to find the air :

Largely to take and generously to share : Thrice to secure advantage : to regale Greatly the great, and over lands prevail.

In all thou art, one only fault is there :

For still among the wise of wit thou say'st

That Love himself doth weep for thine estate ; And yet, no eyes no tears : lo now, thy whim I

Soft, rather say : This is not held in haste ; But bitter are the hours and passionate, To him that loves, and love is not for him.

For me, (by usage strengthened to forbear From carnal love,) I fall not in such snare.

GIANNI ALFANI.

GIANNI ALFANI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

SONNET.* On the part of a Lady of Pita.

GUIDO, that Gianni who, a day agone,

Sought thee, now greets thee (ay and thou mayst

laugh !)

On that same Pisan beauty's sweet behalf Who can deal love-wounds even as thou hast done. She asked me whether thy good will were prone For service unto Love who troubles her, If she to thee in suchwise should repair That, save by him and Gualtier, 'twere not known : — For thus her kindred of ill augury

Should lack the means wherefrom there might be

plann'd

Worse harm than lying speech that smites afar. I told her that thou hast continually A goodly sheaf of arrows to thy hand,

Which well should stead her in such gentle war.

* From a passage in Ubaldini's Glossary (1640) to the " Docu- ment! d'Amore " of Francesco Barberino (1300), I judge thatGuido answered the above sonnet, and that Alfani made a rejoinder, from which a scrap there printed appears to be taken. The whole piece existed, in Ubaldini's time, among the Strozzi MSS.

BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. 139

BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA TO GUIDO CAVALCANTL

SONNET.

He writes to Guide t telling him of the Love which a certain Pinella showed on seeing him.

UNTO that lowly lovely maid, I wis,

So poignant in the heart was thy salute,

That she changed countenance, remaining mute. Wherefore I asked : " Pinella, how is this ? Hast heard of Guido ? know'st thou who he is ? "

She answered, " Yea ; " then paused, irresolute;

But I saw well how the love-wounds acute Were widened, and the star which Love calls his Filled her with gentle brightness perfectly.

" But, friend, an't please thee, I would have it told," She said, " how I am known to him through thee.

Yet since, scarce seen, I knew his name of old, — Even as the riddle is read, so must it be.

Oh ! send him love of mine a thousand-fold ! "

140 GUI DO CAVALCANTI

XVIII. TO BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA.

SONNET.

Guido answers^ commending fine/la, and saying that the Love lie can offer her is already shared by many noble Ladies.

THE fountain-head that is so bright to see

Gains as it runs in virtue and in sheen, Friend Bernard ; and for her who spoke with thee,

Even such the flow of her young life has been : So that when Love discourses secretly

Of things the fairest he has ever seen, He says there is no fairer thing than she,

A lowly maid as lovely as a queen. And for that I am troubled, thinking of

That sigh wherein I burn upon the waves

Which drift her heart, — poor barque, so ill bested I — Unto Pinella a great river of love

I send, that's full of sirens, and whose slaves Are beautiful and richly habited.

DINO COMPAGNI. 141

DINO COMPAGNI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

. .

SONNET.

He reproves Guido for his Arrogance in Love.

No man may mount upon a golden stair,

Guido my master, to Love's palace-sill : No key of gold will fit the lock that's there,

Nor heart there enter without pure goodwill. Not if he miss one courteous duty, dare

A lover hope he should his love fulfil ; But to his lady must make meek repair,

Reaping with husbandry her favours still. And thou but know'st of Love (I think) his name :

Youth holds thy reason in extremities :

Only on thine own face thou turn'st thine eyes ; Fairer than Absalom's account's! the same ; And think'st, as rosy moths are drawn by flame,

To draw the women from their balconies.*

* It is curious to find these poets perpetually rating one another for the want of constancy in love. Guido is rebuked, as above, by Dino Compagni ; Cino da Pistoia by Dante (p. 1 08) ; and Dante by Guido (p. 144), who formerly, as we have seen (p. 129), had confided to him his doubts of Lapo Gianni.

142 GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

XIX. TO GUIDO ORLANDI.

SONNET In praise of Gnido Orlandfs Lady.

A LADY in whom love is manifest —

That love which perfect honour doth adorn — Hath ta'en the living heart out of thy breast,

Which in her keeping to new life is born : For there by such sweet power it is possest

As even is felt of Indian unicorn : * And all its virtue now, with fierce unrest,

Unto thy soul makes difficult return. For this thy lady is virtue's minister

In suchwise that no fault there is to show,

Save that God made her mortal on this ground. And even herein His wisdom shall be found :

For only thus our intellect could know That heavenly beauty which resembles her.

* In old representations, the unicorn is often seen with hit head in a virgin's lap.

GU1DO ORLANDI. 143

GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

SONNET.

He answers /'« foregoing Sonnet, declaring himself his Lady's Champion.

To sound of trumpet rather than of horn, I in Love's name would hold a battle-play Of gentlemen in arms on Easter Day ;

And, sailing without oar or wind, be borne

Unto my joyful beauty ; all that morn

To ride round her, in her cause seeking fray Of arms with all but thee, friend, who dost say

The truth of her, and whom all truths adorn.

And still I pray Our Lady's grace above,

Most reverently, that she whom my thoughts bear In sweet remembrance own her Lord supreme.

Holding her honour dear, as doth behove, — In God who therewithal sustaineth her Let her abide, and not depart fropi Him.

144 GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

XX. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

SONNET.

lie rebukes Dante for his way of Life, after the Deatn of Beatrice.*

I COME to thee by daytime constantly, But in thy thoughts too much of baseness find : Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind,

And for thy many virtues gone from thee.

It was thy wont to shun much company, Unto all sorry concourse ill inclin'd : And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and kind,

Had made me treasure up thy poetry.

But now I dare not, for thine abject life, Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes ;

Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst know. Ah ! prythee read this sonnet many times :

So shall that evil one who bred this strife

Be thrust from thy dishonoured soul and go.

* This interesting sonnet must refer to the same period of Dante's life regarding which he has made Beatrice address him in words of ncble reproach when he meets her in Eden. (Ptirg. C. xxx.)

GUWO CAVALCANTL 145

XXL

BALLATA.

Concerning a Slupherd-maii.

WITHIN a copse I met a shepherd-maid, More fair, I said, than any star to see.

She came with waving tresses pale and bright, With rosy cheer, and loving eyes of flame,

Guiding the lambs beneath her wand aright. Her naked feet still had the dews on them, As, singing like a lover, so she came ;

Joyful, and fashioned for all ecstasy.

I greeted her at once, and question made

What escort had she through the woods in spring ?

But with soft accents she replied and said That she was all alone there, wandering ; Moreover : " Do you know, when the birds sing, My heart's desire is for a mate," said she.

While she was telling me this wish of hers,

The birds were all in song throughout the wood.

" Even now then," said my thought, 4< the time recur? With mine own longing to assuage her mood." And so, in her sweet favour's name, I sued

That she would kiss there and embrace with me.

VOL. ii. 10

146 GUIDO CAVALCANTJ.

She took my hand to her with amorous will, And answered that she gave me all her heart,

And drew me where the leaf is fresh and still,

Where spring the wood-flowers in the shade apart. And on that day, by Joy's enchanted art,

There Love in very presence seemed to be.*

* The glossary to Barberino, already mentioned, refers to the existence, among the Strozzi MSS., of a poem by Lapo di Farinata degli Uberti, written in answer to the above ballata of Cavalcanti. As this respondent was no other than Guide's brother-in-law, one feels curious to know what he said to the peccadilloes of his sister's husband. But I fear the poem cannot yet have been published, as I have sought for it in vain at all my printed sources of intormation.

CU1DO CAVALCANTI. 147

XXII.

SONNET.

Of an ill favoured Lady,

JUST look, Manetto, at that wry-mouthed minx ;

Merely take notice what a wretch it is ;

How well contrived in her deformities, How beastly favoured when she scowls and blinks. Why, with a hood on (if one only thinks)

Or muffle of prim veils and scapularies, —

And set together, on a day like this, Some pretty lady with the odious sphinx ; — Why, then thy sins could hardly have such weight,

Nor thou be so subdued from Love's attack,

Nor so possessed in Melancholy's sway, But that perforce thy peril must be great

Of laughing till the very heart-strings crack : Either thou'dst die, or thou must run away

148 GUIDO CAVALCAN12.

XXIII. TO POPE BONIFACE VIIL

SONNET.

«ir After the Pope's Interdict, when the great Houses were

leaving Florence.

NERO, thus much for tidings in thine ear.

They of the Buondelmonti quake with dread,

Nor by all Florence may be comforted, Noting in thee the lion's ravenous cheer ; Who more than any dragon giv'st them fear,

In ancient evil stubbornly array'd ;

Neither by bridge nor bulwark to be stay'd, But only by King Pharaoh's sepulchre. O in what monstrous sin dost thou engage, —

All these which are of loftiest blood to drive

Away, that none dare pause but all take wing ! Yet sooth it is, thou might'st redeem the pledge

Even yet, and save thy naked soul alive, Wert thou but patient in the bargaining.

GU1DO CAVALCANT1. 149

XXIV.

BALLATA. In Exile at Sarzana,

BECAUSE I think not ever to return, Ballad, to Tuscany, — Go therefore thou for me

Straight to my lady's face,

Who, of her noble grace, Shall show thee courtesy.

Thou seekest her in charge of many sighs, Full of much grief and of exceeding fear. But have good heed thou come not to the eyes Of such as are sworn foes to gentle cheer : For, certes, if this thing should chance, — from her Thou then couldst only look For scorn, and such rebuke As needs must bring me pain ; — Yea, after death again Tears and fresh agony.

Surely thou knowest, Ballad, how that Death Assails me, till my life is almost sped :

Thou knowest how my heart still travaileth

Through the sore pangs which in my soul are bred My body being now so nearly dead, It cannot suffei more.

ISO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

Then, going, I implore That this my soul thou take (Nay, do so for my sake,) When my heart sets it free.

Ah ! Ballad, unto thy dear offices

1 do commend my soul, thus trembling ; That thou mayst lead it, for pure piteousness, Even to that lady's presence whom I sing. Ah I Ballad, say thou to her, sorrowing, Whereso thou meet her then :— " This thy poor handmaiden Is come, nor will be gone, Being parted now from one Who served Love painfully."

Thou also, thou bewildered voice and weak,

That goest forth in tears from my grieved heart, Shalt, with my soul and with this ballad, speak Of my dead mind, when thou dost hence depart, Unto that lady (piteous as thou art I)

Who is so calm and bright,

It shall be deep delight

To feel her presence there.

And thou, Soul, worship her

Still in her purity.

GUIDO CAVALCANTl. 151

XXV.

CANZONE.* A Song of Fortune.

Lo ! I am she who makes the wheel to turn ; Lo ! I am she who gives and takes away ;

Blamed idly, day by day, In all mine acts by you, ye humankind. For whcso smites his visage and doth mourn, What time he renders back my gifts to me,

Learns then that I decree

No state which mine own arrows may not find. Who clomb must fall :— this bear ye well in mind, Nor say, because he fell, I did him wrong.

Yet mine is a vain song : For truly ye may find out wisdom when King Arthur's resting-place is found of men.

Ye make great marvel and astonishment What time ye see the sluggard lifted up

And the just man to drop, And ye complain on God and on my sway.

O humankind, ye sin in your complaint :

* This and the three following Canzoni are only to be found in the later collections of Guido Cavalcanti's poems. I have included them on account of their interest, if really his, and especially for the beauty of the last .among them ; but must confess to some doubts of their authenticity.

152 GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

For He, that Lord who made the world to live,

Lets me not take or give By mine own act, but as He wills I may. Yet is the mind of man so castaway, That it discerns not the supreme behest.

Alas ! ye wretchedest, And chide ye at God also ? Shall not He Judge between good and evil righteously ?

Ah ! had ye knowledge how God evermore, With agonies of soul and grievous heats,

As on an anvil beats

On them that in this earth hold high estate, — Ye would choose little rather than much store, And solitude than spacious palaces ;

Such is the sore disease Of anguish that on all their days doth wait. Behold if they be not unfortunate, When oft the father dares not trust the son I

O wealth, with thee is won A worm to gnaw for ever on his soul Whose abject life is laid in thy control !

If also ye take note what piteous death

They ofttimes make, whose hoards were manifold,

Who eities had and gold And multitudes of men beneath their hand ; Then he among you that most angereth

Shall bless me, saying, " Lo ! I worship thee

That I was not as he

Whose death is thus accurst throughout the land." But now your living souls are held in band Of avarice, shutting you from the true light Which shows how sad and slight Are this world's treasured riches and array That still change hands a hundred times a-day.

GUI DO CAVALCANTI. 153

For me, — could envy enter in my sphere, Which of all human taint is clean and quit, —

I well might harbour it When I behold the peasant at his toil. Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear, He leaves his perfect furrow as he goes,

And gives his field repose

From thorns and tares and weeds that vex the soil : Thereto he labours, and without turmoil Entrusts his work to God, content if so

Such guerdon from it grow That in that year his family shall live : Nor care nor thought to other things will give.

But now ye may no more have speech of me, For this mine office craves continual use :

Ye therefore deeply muse

Upon those things which ye have heard the while : Yea, and even yet remember heedfully How this my wheel a motion hath so fleet,

That in an eyelid's beat Him whom it raised it maketh low and vile. None was, nor is, nor shall be of such guile, Who could, or can, or shall, I say, at length

Prevail against my strength. But still those men that are my questioners In bitter torment own their hearts perverse.

Song, that wast made to carry high intent Dissembled in the garb of humbleness,—

With fair and open face To Master Thomas let thy course be bent. Say that a great thing scarcely may be pent In little room : yet always pray that he

Commend us, thee and me, To them that are more apt in lofty speech : For truly one must learn ere he can teach.

154 GU1DO CAVALCANTl.

XXVL

CANZONE. A Song against Poverty.

0 POVERTY, by thee the soul is wrapp'd

With hate, with envy, dolefulness, and doubt

Even so be thou cast out, And even so he that speaks thee otherwise.

1 name thee now, because my mood is apt To curse thee, bride of every lost estate,

Through whom are desolate On earth all honourable things and wise. Within thy power each blest condition dies : By thee, men's minds with sore mistrust are made

Fantastic and afraid : —

Thou, hated worse than Death, by just accord, And with the loathing of all hearts abhorr'd.

Yea, rightly art thou hated worse than Death, For he at length is longed for in the breast

But not with thee, wild beast, Was ever aught found beautiful or good. For life is all that man can lose by death, Not fame and the fair summits of applause 5

His glory shall not pause, But live in men's perpetual gratitude. While he who on thy naked sill has stood, Though of great heart and worthy everso,

He shall be counted low. Then let the man thou troublest never hope To spread his wings in any lofly scope.

GUIDO CAVALCANTL 155

Hereby my mind is laden with a fear,

And I will take some thought to shelter me.

For this I plainly see : —

Through thee, to fraud the honest man is led j To tyranny the just lord turneth here, And the magnanimous soul to avarice.

Of every bitter vice

Thou, to my thinking, art the fount and head ; From thee no light in any wise is shed, Who bringest to the paths of dusky hell.

I therefore see full well,

That death, the dungeon, sickness, and old age, Weighed against thee, are blessed heritage.

And what though many a goodly hypocrite, Lifting to thee his veritable prayer,

Call God to witness there

How this thy burden moved not Him to wrath. Why, who may call (of them that muse aright) Him poor, who of the whole can say, 'Tis Mine ?

Methinks I well divine

That want, to such, should seem an easy path. God, who made all things, all things had and hath ; Nor any tongue may say that He was poor,

What while He did endure For man's best succour among men to dwell : Since to have all, with Him, was possible.

Song, thou shall wend upon thy journey now: And, if thou meet with folk who rail at thee,

Saying that poverty

Is not even sharper than thy words allow,— Unto such brawlers briefly answer thou, To tell them they are hypocrites ; and then

Say mildly, once again, That I, who am nearly in a beggar's case, Might not presume to sing my proper praise

156 CV1DO CAVALCANT1.

XXVII.

CANZONE.

He laments the Presumption and Incontinence of his Youth.

THE devastating flame of that fierce plague, The foe of virtue, fed with others' peace

More than itself foresees, Being still shut in to gnaw its own desire ; Its strength not weakened, nor its hues more vague, For all the benison that virtue sheds,

But which for ever spreads To be a living curse that shall not tire :

Or yet again, that other idle fire Which flickers with all change as winds may please :

One whichsoe'er of these At length has hidden the true path from me

Which twice man may not see, And quenched the intelligence of joy, till now All solace but abides in perfect woe.

Alas ! the more my painful spirit grieves, The more confused with miserable strife

Is that delicious life Which sighing it recalls perpetually : But its worst anguish, whence it still receives More pain than death, is sent, to yield the sting

Of perfect suffering,

By him who is my lord and governs me ; Who holds all gracious truth in fealty, Being nursed in those four sisters' fond caress Through whom comes happiness.

GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 157

He now has left me ; and I draw my breath

Wound in the arms of Death, Desirous of her : she is cried upon In all the prayers my heart puts up alone.

How fierce aforetime and how absolute

That wheel of flame which turned within my head,

May never quite be said,

Because there are not words to speak the whole. It slew my hope whereof I lack the fruit, And stung the blood within my living flesh

To be an intricate mesh Of pain beyond endurance or control ; Withdrawing me from God, who gave my soul To know the sign where honour has its seat

From honour's counterfeit. So in its longing my heart finds not hope,

Nor knows what door to ope ; Since, parting me from God, this foe took thought To shut those paths wherein He may be sought.

My second enemy, thrice armed in guile, As wise and cunning to mine overthrow

As her smooth face doth show, With yet more shameless strength holds mastery. My spirit, naked of its light and vile,

Is lit by her with her own deadly gleam,

Which makes all anguish seem As nothing to her scourges that I see. O thou the body of grace, abide with me As thou wast once in the once joyful time ;

And though thou hate my crime, Fill not my life with torture to the end ;

But in thy mercy, bend My steps, and for thine honour, back again ; Till, finding joy through thee, I bless my pain.

158 GUWO CAVALCANTI.

Since that first frantic devil without faith

Fell, in thy name, upon the stairs that mount

Unto the limpid fount Of thine intelligence, — withhold not now Thy grace, nor spare my second foe from death. For lo ! on this my soul has set her trust ;

And failing this, thou must Prove false to truth and honour, seest thou ! Then, saving light and throne of strength, allow My prayer, and vanquish both my foes at last ;

That so I be not cast Into that woe wherein I fear to end.

Yet if it is ordain'd

That I must die ere this be perfected, — Ah I yield me comfort after I am dead.

Ye unadorned words obscure of sense, With weeping and with sighing go from me,

And bear mine agony (Not to be told by words, being too intense,)

To His intelligence

Who moved by virtue shall fulfil my breath In human life or compensating death.

CU1DO CAVALCANTL 159

XXVIII.

CANZONE. A Dispute with Death.

" O SLUGGISH, hard, ingrate, what doest thou ? Poor sinner, folded round with heavy sin, Whose life to find out joy alone is bent. I call thee, and thou fall'st to deafness now ; And, deeming that my path whereby to win Thy seat is lost, there sitt'st thee down content, And hold'st me to thy will subservient. But I into thy heart have crept disguised :

Among thy senses and thy sins I went, By roads thou didst not guess, unrecognised. Tears will not now suffice to bid me go, Nor countenance abased, nor words of woe."

Now, when I heard the sudden dreadful voice Wake thus within to cruel utterance,

Whereby the very heart of hearts did fail, My spirit might not any more rejoice,

But fell from its courageous pride at once,

And turned to fly, where flight may not avail

Then slowly 'gan some strength to re-inhale The trembling life which heard that whisper speak.

And had conceived the sense with sore travail , Till in the mouth it murmured, very weak, Saying : u Youth, wealth, and beauty, these have I O Death ! remit thy claim, — I would not die.'

i6o CUIDO CAVALCANTI.

Small sign of pity in that aspect dwells

Which then had scattered all my life abroad

Till there was comfort with no single sense : And yet almost in piteous syllables,

When I had ceased to speak, this answer flow'd :

" Behold what path is spread before thee hence ;

Thy life has all but a day's permanence. And is it for the sake of youth there seems

In loss of human years such sore offence ? Nay, look unto the end of youthful dreams. What present glory does thy hope possess, That shall not yield ashes and bitterness ? "

But, when I looked on Death made visible,

From my heart's sojourn brought before mine eyes,

And holding in her hand my grievous sin, I seemed to see my countenance, that fell,

Shake like a shadow : my heart uttered cries, And my soul wept the curse that lay therein. Then Death : "Thus much thine urgent prayer

shall win : — I grant thee the brief interval of youth

At natural pity's strong soliciting." And I (because I knew that moment's ruth But left my life to groan for a frail space) Fell in the dust upon my weeping face.

So, when she saw me thus abashed and dumb, In loftier words she weighed her argument,

That new and strange it was to hear her speak ; Saying : " The path thy fears withhold thee from Is thy best path. To folly be not shent,

Nor shrink from me because thy flesh is weak.

Thou seest how man is sore confused, and eke How ruinous Chance makes havoc of his life,

And grief is in the joys that he doth seek ;

GUI DO CAVALCANTI. 161

Nor ever pauses the perpetual strife Twixt fear and rage ; until beneath the sun His perfect anguish be fulfilled and done."

" O Death ! thou art so dark and difficult, That never human creature might attain

By his own will to pierce thy secret sense, Because, foreshadowing thy dread result, He may not put his trust in heart or brain,

Nor power avails him, nor intelligence.

Behold how cruelly thou takest hence These forms so beautiful and dignified,

And chain's! them in thy shadow chill and dense, And forcest them in narrow graves to hide ; With pitiless hate subduing still to thee The strength of man and woman's delicacy."

" Not for thy fear the less I come at last, For this thy tremor, for thy painful sweat.

Take therefore thought to leave (for lo ! I call) Kinsfolk and comrades, all thou didst hold fast, — Thy father and thy mother, — to forget

All these thy brethren, sisters, children, all. Cast sight and hearing from thee ; let hope fall ; Leave every sense and thy whole intellect,

These things wherein thy life made festival : For I have wrought thee to such strange effect That thou hast no more power to dwell with these As living man. Let pass thy soul in peace."

Yea, Lord. O thou, the Builder of the spheres, Who, making me, didst shape me, of thy grace,

In thine own image and high counterpart ; Do thou subdue my spirit, long perverse, To weep within thy will a certain space, Ere yet thy thunder come to rive my heart Set in my hand some sign of what thou art,

VOL. II. II

l6a GUIDO CAVALCANTL

Lord God, and suffer me to seek out Christ, — Weeping, to seek Him in thy ways apart ; Until my sorrow have at length suffic'd In some accepted instant to atone For sins of thought, for stubborn evil done.

Dishevelled and in tears, go, song of mine, To break the hardness of the heart of man :

Say how his life began

From dust, and in that dust doth sink supine . Yet, say, the unerring spirit of grief shall guide

His soul, being purified, To seek its Maker at the heavenly shrine.

CINO DA PISTOIA.

I.

TO DANTE ALIGHIERL

SONNET.

He interprets Da fife's Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova.*

EACH lover's longing leads him naturally Unto his lady's heart his heart to show ; And this it is that Love would have thee know

By the strange vision which he sent to thee.

With thy heart therefore, flaming outwardly, In humble guise he fed thy lady so, Who long had lain in slumber, from all woe

Folded within a mantle silently.

Also, in coming, Love might not repress His joy, to yield thee thy desire achieved,

Whence heart should unto heart true service bring.

But understanding the great love-sickness Which in thy lady's bosom was conceived, He pitied her, and wept in vanishing.

* See ante, page 33.

i64

CINO DA P1STOIA.

II.

TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

CANZONE. On the Death of Beatrice Portinari.

ALBEIT my prayers have not so long delay'd,

But craved for thee, ere this, that Pity and Love Which only bring our heavy life some rest ; Yet is not now the time so much o'erstay*d

But that these words of mine which tow'rds thee move Must find thee still with spirit dispossess'd, And say to thee : " In Heaven she now is bless'd, Even as the blessed name men called her by;"

While thou dost ever cry, " Alas ! the blessing of mine eyes is flown I"

Behold, these words set down Are needed still, for still thou sorrowest. Then hearken ; I would yield advisedly Some comfort : Stay these sighs ; give ear to me.

We know for certain that in this blind world Each man's subsistence is of grief and pain,

Still trailed by fortune through all bitterness. Blessed the soul which, when its flesh is furl'd Within a shroud, rejoicing doth attain

To Heaven itself, made free of earthly stress. Then wherefore sighs thy heart in abjectness, Which for her triumph should exult aloud ? For He the Lord our God

CINO DA PISTOIA. 165

Hath called her, hearkening what her Angel said,

To have Heaven perfected. Each saint for a new thing beholds her face, And she the face of our Redemption sees, Conversing with immortal substances.

Why now do pangs of torment clutch thy heart Which with thy love should make thee overjoy'd, As him whose intellect hath passed the skies ? Behold, the spirits of thy life depart

Daily to Heaven with her, they so are buoy'd With their desire, and Love so bids them rise. O God ! and thou, a man whom God made wise, To nurse a charge of care, and love the same 1

I bid thee in His Name From sin of sighing grief to hold thy breath,

Nor let thy heart to death, Nor harbour death's resemblance in thine eyes. God hath her with Himself eternally, Yet she inhabits every hour with thee.

Be comforted, Love cries, be comforted !

Devotion pleads, Peace, for the love of God I O yield thyself to prayers so full of grace ; And make thee naked now of this dull weed Which 'neath thy foot were better to be trod ; For man through grief despairs and ends his days. How ever should^t thou see the lovely face If any desperate death should once be thine ?

From justice so condign Withdraw thyself even now ; that in the end

Thy heart may not offend Against thy soul, which in the holy place, In Heaven, still hopes to see her and to be Within her arms. Let this hope comfort thee.

Look thou into the pleasure wherein dwells Thy lovely lady who is in Heaven crown'd,

166 CINO DA PISTOIA.

Who is herself thy hope in Heaven, the while To make thy memory hallowed she avails ; Being a soul within the deep Heaven bound, A face on thy heart painted, to beguile Thy heart of grief which else should turn it vile. Even as she seemed a wonder here below,

On high she seemeth so, — Yea, better known, is there more wondrous yet

And even as she was met First by the angels with sweet song and smile, Thy spirit bears her back upon the wing, Which often in those ways is journeying.

Of thee she entertains the blessed throngs,

And says to them : " While yet my body thrave On earth, I gat much honour which he gave,

Commending me in his commended songs." Also she asks alway of God our Lord To give thee peace according to His word.

C1NO DA PIS TO J A. 167

SONNET. He conceives of some Compensation in Death.*

DANTE, whenever this thing happeneth, — . That Love's desire is quite bereft of Hope, (Seeking in vain at ladies' eyes some scope

Of joy, through what the heart for ever saith,) —

I ask thee, can amends be made by Death ? Is such sad pass the last extremity ? — Or may the Soul that never feared to die

Then in another body draw new breath ?

Lo ! thus it is through her who governs all Below, — that I, who entered at her door,

Now at her dreadful window must fare forth.

Yea, and I think through her it doth befall That even ere yet the road is travelled o'er My bones are weary and life is nothing worth.

* Among Dante's Epistles there is a Latin letter to Cino, which I should judge was written in reply to this Sonnet.

I6S CINO DA PISTOIA.

IV.

MADRIGAL.

To his Lady Selvaggia Vergiolesi , likening his Love to a Search for Gold.

I AM all bent to glean the golden ore Little by little from the river-bed ;

Hoping the day to see

When Croasus shall be conquered in my store. Therefore, still sifting where the sands are spread,

I labour patiently :

Till, thus intent on this thing and no more, — If to a vein of silver I were led,

It scarce could gladden me. And, seeing that no joy's so warm i' the core As this whereby the heart is comforted

And the desire set free, — Therefore thy bitter love is still my scope,

Lady, from whom it is my life's sore theme More painfully to sift the grains of hope Than gold out of that stream.

CINO DA PISTOIA. 169

V.

SONNET. To Love, in great Bitterness,

0 LOVE, O thou that, for my fealty,

Only in torment dost thy power employ, Give me, for God's sake, something of thy joy,

That I may learn what good there is in thee.

Yea, for, if thou art glad with grieving me, Surely my very life thou shalt destroy When thou renew'st my pain, because the joy

Must then be wept for with the misery.

He that had never sense of good, nor sight, Esteems his ill estate but natural, Which so is lightlier borne : his case is mine. But, if thou wouldst uplift me for a sign, Bidding me drain the curse and know it all,

1 must a little taste its opposite.

170 CINO DA PIST01A

VI.

SONNET. Death is not without but within him.

THIS fairest lady, who, as well I wot,

Found entrance by her beauty to my soul, Pierced through mine eyes my heart, which erst was whole,

Sorely, yet makes as though she knew it not ;

Nay turns upon me now, to anger wrought ; Dealing me harshness for my pain's best dole, And is so changed by her own wrath's control,

That I go thence, in my distracted thought

Content to die ; and, mourning, cry abroad On Death, as upon one afar from me ;

But Death makes answer from within my heart. Then, hearing her so hard at hand to be,

I do commend my spirit unto God ;

Saying to her too, "Ease and peace thou art."

CINO DA PISTOIA. VJ\

VII. SONNET.

A Trance of Love.

VANQUISHED and weary was my soul in me, And my heart gasped after its much lament, When sleep at length the painful languor sent. And, as I slept (and wept incessantly), — Through the keen fixedness of memory

Which I had cherished ere my tears were spent, I passed to a new trance of wonderment ; Wherein a visible spirit I could see, Which caught me up, and bore me to a place Where my most gentle lady was alone ;

And still before us a fire seemed to move, Out of the which methought there came a moan Uttering, " Grace, a little season, grace !

I am of one that hath the wings of Love."

17* CINO DA PISTOIA.

VIII.

SONNET. Of the Grave of Selvaggia, on the Monte detta Sunbuca.

I WAS upon the high and blessed mound,

And kissed, long worshiping, the stones and grass, There on the hard stones prostrate, where, alas I

That pure one laid her forehead in the ground.

Then were the springs of gladness sealed and bound, The day that unto Death's most bitter pass My sick heart's lady turned her feet, who was

Already in her gracious life renown'd.

So in that place I spake to Love, and cried :

" O sweet my god, I am one whom Death may claim Hence to be his ; for lo ! my heart lies here." Anon, because my Master lent no ear, Departing, still I called Selvaggia's name.

So with my moan I left the mountain-side.

CINO DA PISTOIA. 173

IX

CANZONE. fit's Lament for Selvaggia.

A v me, alas ! the beautiful bright hair That shed reflected gold

O'er the green growths on either side the way Ay me ! the lovely look, open and fair, Which my heart's core doth hold

With all else of that best-remembered day ; Ay me ! the face made gay With joy that Love confers ; Ay me ! that smile of hers

Where whiteness as of snow was visible Among the roses at all seasons red I

Ay me ! and was this well, O Death, to let me live when she is dead ?

Ay me ! the calm, erect, dignified walk; Ay me ! the sweet salute, —

The thoughtful mind, — the wit discreetly worn ; Ay me ! the clearness of her noble talk, Which made the good take root

In me, and for the evil woke my scorn ; Ay me ! the longing bom Of so much loveliness, — The hope, whose eager stress

Made other hopes fall back to let it pass, Even till my load of love grew light thereby 1

These thou hast broken, as glass, O Death, who makest me, alive, to die I

174 CINO DA PISTOIA.

Ay me I Lady, the lady of all worth ; — Saint, for whose single shrine

All other shrines I left, even as Love will'd ; — Ay me ! what precious stone in the whole earth, For that pure fame of thine

Worthy the marble statue's base to yield ? Ay me ! fair vase fulfill'd With more than this world's good, — By cruel chance and rude

Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains Where Death has shut thee in between hard stones !

Ay me ! two languid fountains Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns.

Ay me, sharp Death I till what I ask is done And my whole life is ended utterly, —

Answer — must I weep on

Even thus, and never cease to moan Ay me ?

CINO DA PISTOIA. 175

X.

TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.

SONNET. He owes nothing to Guido as a Poet.

WHAT rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thee,

Thou Guido, that thou ever say'st I thieve ? *

'Tis true, fine fancies gladly I receive, But when was aught found beautiful in thee ? Nay, I have searched my pages diligently,

And tell the truth, and lie not, by your leave.

From whose rich store my web of songs I weave Love knoweth well, well knowing them and me. No artist I, — all men may gather it ;

Nor do I work in ignorance of pride,

(Though the world reach alone the coarser sense ;) But am a certain man of humble wit

Who journeys with his sorrow at his side, For a heart's sake, alas I that is gone hence.

* I have not examined Cino's poetry with special reference to this accusation ; but there is a Canzone of his in which he speaks of having conceived an affection for another lady from her resem- blance to Selvaggia. Perhaps Guido considered this as a sort of plagiarism de facto on his own change of love through Mandetta's likeness to Giovanna.

1 76 CINO D.4 PISTOIA.

XL

SONNET.

He impugns the verdicts of Dante's Cotnmedia*

THIS book of Dante's, very sooth to say,

Is just a poet's lovely heresy,

Which by a lure as sweet as sweet can be Draws other men's concerns beneath its sway ; While, among stars' and comets' dazzling play,

It beats the right down, lets the wrong go free,

Shows some abased, and others in great glee, Much as with lovers is Love's ancient way. Therefore his vain decrees, wherein he lied,

Fixing folks' nearness to the Fiend their foe, Must be like empty nutshells flung aside.

Yet through the rash false witness set to grow, French and Italian vengeance on such pride

May fall, like Antony's on Cicero.

CINO DA PISTOIA.

»77

XII.

SONNET.

He condemns Dante fornot naming, in the Commedia, his friend Onesto di Boncima, and his Lady Selvaggia.

AMONG the faults we in that book descry

Which has crowned Dante lord of rhyme and thought,

Are two so grave that some attaint is brought Unto the greatness of his soul thereby. One is, that holding with Sordello high

Discourse, and with the rest who sang and taught,

He of Onesto di Boncima * nought Has said, who was to Arnauld Daniel t nigh. The other is, that when he says he came

To see, at summit of the sacred stair,

His Beatrice among the heavenly signs, — He, looking in the bosom of Abraham,

Saw not that highest of all women there Who joined Mount Sion to the Apennines. J

* Between this poet and Cino various friendly sonnets were interchanged, which may be found in the Italian collections. There is also one sonnet by Onesto to Cino, with his answer, both of which are far from being affectionate or respectful. They are very obscure, however, and not specially interesting.

•f The Proven9al poet, mentioned in C. xxvi. of the Purgatory.

I That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on the Monte dclla Sambuca.

VOL. II.

12

DANTE DA MAIANO.

i.

SONNET.

He interprets Dante Alighierfs Dream, related in the first Sonnet of tlie Vita Nuova.*

OF that wherein thou art a questioner Considering, I make answer briefly thus, Good friend, in wit but little prosperous :

And from my words the truth thou shalt infer, —

So hearken to thy dream's interpreter.

If, sound of frame, thou soundly canst discuss In reason, — then, to expel this overplus

Of vapours which hath made thy speech to err,

See that thou lave and purge thy stomach soon. But if thou art afflicted with disease, Know that I count it mere delirium. Thus of my thought I write thee back the sum : Nor my conclusions can be changed from these

Till to the leach thy water I have shown.

* See ante, page 33.

DANTE DA MAIANO.

179

II.

SONNET. He craves interpreting of a Dream of his.

THOU that art wise, let wisdom minister

Unto my dream, that it be understood. To wit : A lady, of her body fair,

And whom my heart approves in womanhood,

Bestowed on me a wreath of flowers, fair-hued And green in leaf, with gentle loving air ;

After the which, meseemed I was stark nude Save for a smock of hers that I did wear. Whereat, good friend, my courage gat such growth

That to mine arms I took her tenderly : With no rebuke the beauty laughed unloth,

And as she laughed I kissed continually. I say no more, for that I pledged mine oath,

And that my mother, who is dead, was by.

I8o CUIDO ORLANDI.

GUIDO ORLANDI TO DANTE DA MAIANO.

SONNET. He interprets the Dream * related in the foregoing Sonnet.

ON the last words of what you write to me

I give you my opinion at the first,

To see the dead must prove corruption nursed Within you, by your heart's own vanity. The soul should bend the flesh to its decree :

Then rule it, friend, as fish by line amerced.

As to the smock, your lady's gift, the worst Of words were not too bad for speech so free. It is a thing unseemly to declare

The love of gracious dame or damozel,

And therewith for excuse to say, I dream'd. Tell us no more of this, but think who seem'd

To call you : mother came to whip you well. Love close, and of Love's joy you'll have your share.

* There exist no fewer than six answers by different poets, interpreting Dante da Maiano's dream. I have chosen Guido Orlandi's, much the most matter-of-fact of the six, because it is diverting to find the writer again in his antagonistic mood. Among the five remaining answers, in all of which the vision is treated as a very mysterious matter, one is attributed to Dante Alighicri, but seems so doubtful that I have not translated it. Indeed, it would do the greater Dante, if he really wrote it, little credit as a lucid interpreter of dreams; though it might have some interest, as giving him (when compared with the sonnet at page 178) a decided advantage over his lesser namesake in point of courtesy.

DANTE DA MA1ANO. t8i

III.

SONNET. To his Lady Nina, of Sicily.

So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me, Gentle my lady, from the first of all, That counting every other blessing small

I gave myself up wholly to know thee :

And since I was made thine, thy courtesy And worth, more than of earth, celestial, I learned, and from its freedom did enthrall

My heart, the servant of thy grace to be.

Wherefore I pray thee, joyful countenance, Humbly, that it incense or irk thee not,

If I, being thine, do wait upon thy glance.

More to solicit, I am all afraid :

Yet, lady, twofold is the gift, we wot,

Given to the needy unsolicited.

i8a DANTE DA MA1ANO.

IV.

SONNET. He thanks his Lady for the Joy he has had from her.

WONDERFUL countenance and royal neck,

I have not found your beauty's parallel !

Nor at her birth might any yet prevail The likeness of these features to partake. Wisdom is theirs, and mildness : for whose sake

AH grace seems stol'n, such perfect grace to swell ;

Fashioned of God beyond delight to dwell Exalted. And herein my pride I take Who of this garden have possession,

So that all worth subsists for my behoof And bears itself according to my will. Lady, in thee such pleasaunce hath its fill That whoso is content to rest thereon

Knows not of grief, and holds all pain aloof.

CECCO ANGIOLIERI, DA SIENA.

L

TO DANTE ALIGHIERL

SONNET. On the last Sonnet of the Vita Nuova*

DANTE ALIGHIERI, Cecco, your good friend And servant, gives you greeting as his lord, And prays you for the sake of Love's accord,

'Love being the Master before whom you bend,)

That you will pardon him if he offend, Even as your gentle heart can well afford. All that he wants to say is just one word

Which partly chides your sonnet at the end.

For where the measure changes, first you say You do not understand the gentle speech A spirit made touching your Beatrice :

And next you tell your ladies how, straightway, You understand it Wherefore (look you) each Of these your words the other's sense denies.

* See ante, page 94.

184 CECCO ANG10LIERL

n.

SONNET. He will not be too deeply in Love.

I AM enamoured, and yet not so much

But that I'd do without it easily ;

And my own mind thinks all the more of me That Love has not quite penned me in his hutch. Enough if for his sake I dance and touch

The lute, and serve his servants cheerfully :

An overdose is worse than none would be : Love is no lord of mine, I'm proud to vouch. So let no woman who is born conceive

That I'll be her liege slave, as I see some,

Be she as fair and dainty as she will. Too much of love makes idiots, I believe :

I like not any fashion that turns glum

The heart, and makes the visage sick and ill.

CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 185

HI.

SONNET, Of Love in Men and Devils.

THE man who feels not, more or less, somewhat Of love in all the years his life goes round Should be denied a grave in holy ground

Except with usurers who will bate no groat :

Nor he himself should count himself a jot

Less wretched than the meanest beggar found. Also the man who in Love's robe is gown'd

May say that Fortune smiles upon his lot.

Seeing how love has such nobility That if it entered in the lord of Hell

'Twould rule him more than his fire's ancient sting;

He should be glorified to eternity,

And all his life be always glad and well As is a wanton woman in the spring.

186 CECCO ANGIOLIEK*;

IV.

SONNET. Of Love, in honour of his mistress Becchina.

WHATEVER good is naturally done

Is born of Love as fruit is born of flower : By Love all good is brought to its full power : Yea, Love does more than this ; for he finds none So coarse but from his touch some grace is won, And the poor wretch is altered in an hour. So let it be decreed that Death devour The beast who says that Love's a thing to shun. A man's just worth the good that he can hold, And where no love is found, no good is there ;

On that there's nothing that I would not stake. So now, my Sonnet, go as you are told

To lovers and their sweethearts everywhere, And say I made you for Becchina's sake.

CECCO ANGIOL1ER1. 187

V.

SONNET. Of Becchina, the SJioemaker's Daughter.

WHY, if Becchina's heart were diamond, And all the other parts of her were steel, As cold to love as snows when they congeal In lands to which the sun may not get round ; And if her father were a giant crown'd And not a donkey born to stitching shoes,

Or I were but an ass myself; — to use Such harshness, scarce could to her praise redound. Yet if she'd only lor a minute hear, And I could speak if only pretty well,

I'd let her know that I'm her happiness ; That I'm her life should also be made clear, With other things that I've no need to tell ; And then I feel quite sure she'd answer Yes.

i88 CECCO ANCIOL1ER1.

VI.

SONNET. To Messer Angiolieri, his Father.

IF I'd a sack of florins, and all new,

(Packed tight together, freshly coined and fine,)

And Arcidosso and Montegiovi mine,* And quite a glut of eagle-pieces too, — It were but as three farthings to my view

Without Becchina. Why then all these plots

To whip me, daddy ? Nay, but tell me — what's My sin, or all the sins of Turks, to you ? For I protest (or may I be struck dead !)

My love's so firmly planted in its place,

Whipping nor hanging now could change the grain. And if you want my reason on this head,

It is that whoso looks her in the face,

Though he were old, gets back his youth again.

* Perhaps the names of his father's estates.

CECCO ANGIOL1ERL 189

VII.

SONNET. Of the zvthjune 1291.

I'M full of everything I do not want,

And have not that wherein I should find ease ; For alway till Becchina brings me peace

The heavy heart I bear must toil and pant ;

That so all written paper would prove scant

(Though in its space the Bible you might squeeze,) To say how like the flames of furnaces

I burn, remembering what she used to grant.

Because the stars are fewer in heaven's span Than all those kisses wherewith I kept tune All in an instant (I who now have none !)

Upon her mouth (I and no other man !) So sweetly on the twentieth day of June

In the new year * twelve hundred ninety-one.

* The year, according to the calendar of those days, began on the 25th March. The alteration to 1st January was made in 1582 by the Pope, and immediately adopted by all Catholic countries, but by England not till 1752. There is some added vividness in remembering that Cecco's unplatonic love-encounter dates eleven days after the first death-anniversary of Beatrice (gth of June 1291), when Dante tells us that he " drew the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets." (See ante, p. 84.)

190 CECCO ANGIOLIERI

VIII.

SONNET. //; absence from Becchina

MY heart's so heavy with a hundred things

That I feel dead a hundred times a-day ; Yet death would be the least of sufferings,

For life's all suffering save what's slept away ; Though even in sleep there is no dream but brings

From dream-land such dull torture as it may. And yet one moment would pluck out these stings,

If for one moment she were mine to-day Who gives my heart the anguish that it has.

Each thought that seeks my heart for its abode

Becomes a wan and sorrow-stricken guest : Sorrow has brought me to so sad a pass

That men look sad to meet me on the road ; Nor any road is mine that leads to rest.

CECCO ANGIOLIER1. 191

IX.

SONNET. Of Becchina in a rage.

WHEN I behold Becchina in a rage, Just like a little lad I trembling stand Whose master tells him to hold out his hand

Had I a lion's heart, the sight would wage

Such war against it, that in that sad stage

I'd wish my birth might never have been plann'd, And curse the day and hour that I was bann'd

With such a plague for my life's heritage.

Yet even if I should sell me to the Fiend, I must so manage matters in some way That for her rage I may not care a fig ;

Or else from death I cannot long be screen'd. So I'll not blink the fact, but plainly say It's time I got my valour to grow big.

iga CECCO ANGIOLIER1.

X.

•

SONNET.

He rails against Dante, who had censured his homage to Becchina.

DANTE ALIGHIERI in Becchina's praise

Won't have me sing, and bears him like my lord.

He's but a pinchbeck florin, on my word ; Sugar he seems, but salt's in all his ways ; He looks like wheaten bread, who's bread of maize ;

He's but a sty, though like a tower in height ;

A falcon, till you find that he's a kite ; Call him a cock ! — a hen's more like his case. Go now to Florence, Sonnet of my own,

And there with dames and maids hold pretty paries,

And say that all- he is doth only seem. And I meanwhile will make him better known

Unto the Count of Provence, good King Charles ; * And in this way we'll singe his skin for him.

* This may be either Charles II., King of Naples and Count of Provence, or more probably his son Charles Martel, King of Hun- gary. We know from Dante that a friendship subsisted between himself and the latter prince, who visited Florence in 1295, and died in the same year, in his father's lifetime (Paradise, C, viii.)

CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 193

XI.

SONNET. Of his four Tormentors.

I'M caught, like any thrush the nets surprise,

By Daddy and Becchina, Mammy and Love. As to the first-named, let thus much suffice, —

Each day he damns me, and each hour thereof; Becchina wants so much of all that's nice,

Not Mahomet himself could yield enough : And Love still sets me doting in a trice

On trulls who'd seem the Ghetto's proper stuff. My mother don't do much because she can't,

But I may count it just as good as done, Knowing the way and not the will's her want.

To-day I tried a kiss with her — just one — To see if I could make her sulks, avaunt :

She said, " The devil rip you up, my son 1**

VOL. H. 13

194 CECCO ANG10LIER1.

XII.

SONNET. Concerning his Father.

THE dreadful and the desperate hate I bear My father (to my praise, not to my shame,) Will make him live more than Methusalem ;

Of this I've long ago been made aware.

Now tell me, Nature, if my hate's not fair. A glass of some thin wine not worth a name One day I begged (he has whole butts o' the same,)

And he had almost killed me, I declare.

" Good Lord, if I had asked for vernage-wine I " Said I ; for if he'd spit into my face I wished to see for reasons of my own.

Now say that I mayn't hate this plague of mine I Why, if you knew what I know of his ways, You'd tell me that I ought to knock him down.*

* I have thought it necessary to soften one or two expressions in this sonnet.

CECCO ANG10LIERL

XIII.

SONNET. Of all he would do.

IF I were fire, I'd burn the world away ; If I were wind, I'd turn my storms thereon ; If I were water, I'd soon let it drown ; If I were God, I'd sink it from the day ; If I were Pope, I'd never feel quite gay Until there was no peace beneath the sun ;

If I were Emperor, what would I have done ?- I'd lop men's heads all round in my own way. If I were Death, I'd look my father up ; If I were Life, I'd run away from him ;

And treat my mother to like calls and runs. If I were Cecco (and that's all my hope), I'd pick the nicest girls to suit my whim, And other folk should get the ugly ones.

I96

CECCO ANGWL1ERL

XIV

SONNET. lie is past all Help.

FOR a thing done, repentance is no good,

Nor to say after, Thus would I have done : In life, what's left behind is vainly rued ;

So let a man get used his hurt to shun ; For on his legs he hardly may be stood

Again, if once his fall be well begun. But to show wisdom's what I never could ;

So where I itch I scratch now, and all's one. I'm down, and cannot rise in any way ;

For not a creature of my nearest kin

Would hold me out a hand that I could reach. I pray you do not mock at what I say ;

For so my love's good grace may I not win If ever sonnet held so true a speech !

CECCO ANGIOLIER1. 197

XV.

SONNET. Of why he is unhanged.

WHOEVER without money is in love

Had better build a gallows and go hang; He dies not once, but oftener feels the pang

Than he who was cast down from Heaven above.

And certes, for my sins, it's plain enough, If Love's alive on earth, that he's myself, Who would not be so cursed with want of pelf

If others paid my proper dues thereof.

Then why am I not hanged by my own hands ? I answer : for this empty narrow chink Of hope ; — that I've a father old and rich,

And that if once he dies I'll get his lands ; And die he must, when the sea's dry, I think.

Meanwhile God keeps him whole and me i' the ditch.

CECCO ANGIOLIER1.

XVI.

SONNET. Of why he would be a Scullion.

I AM so out of love through poverty That if I see my mistress in the street I hardly can be certain whom I meet,

And of her name do scarce remember me.

Also my courage it has made to be

So cold, that if I suffered some foul cheat,

Even from the meanest wretch that one could beat,

Save for the sin I think he should go free.

Ay, and it plays me a still nastier trick ;

For, meeting some who erewhile with me took Delight, I seem to them a roaring fire.

So here's a truth whereat I need not stick ; — That if one could turn scullion to a cook, It were a thing to which one might aspire.

CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 199

XVII.

PROLONGED SONNET. When his ClotJies were gone.

NEVER so bare and naked was church-stone As is my clean-stripped doublet in my grasp ; Also I wear a shirt without a clasp,

Which is a dismal thing to look upon.

Ah ! had I still but the sweet coins I won That time I sold my nag and staked the pay, I'd not lie hid beneath the roof to-day

And eke out sonnets with this moping moan.

Daily a thousand times stark mad am I At my dad's meanness who won't clothe me now,

For " How about the horse ? " is still his cry. Till one thing strikes me as clear anyhow, —

No rag I'll get. The wretch has sworn, I see,

Not to invest another doit in me.

And all because of the fine doublet's price

He gave me, when I vowed to throw no dice,

And for his damned nag's sake ! Well, this is nice !

200 CECCO ANGWL1EX1.

XVill.

SONNET. lie argues his case with Death.

GRAMERCY, Death, as you've my love to win,

Just be impartial in your next assault ;

And that you may not find yourself in fault, Whate'er you do, be quick now and begin. As oft may I be pounded flat and thin

As in Grosseto there are grains of salt,

If now to kill us both you be not call'd, — Both me and him who sticks so in his skin. Or better still, look here ; for if I'm slain

Alone, — his wealth, .it's true, I'll never have, Yet death is life to one who lives in pain :

But if you only kill Saldagno's knave, I'm left in Siena (don't you see your gain ?)

Like a rich man who's made a galley-slave.*

* He means, possibly, that he should be more than ever tor- mented by his creditors, on account of their knowing his ability to pay them ; but the meaning seems very uncertain.

CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 201

XIX

SONNET. Of Becchina, and of her Husband.

I WOULD like better in the grace to be

Of the dear mistress whom I bear in mind (As once I was) than I should like to find

A stream that washed up gold continually :

Because no language could report of me

The joys that round my heart would then be twin'd, Who now, without her love, do seem resign'd

To death that bends my life to its decree.

And one thing makes the matter still more rad : For all the while I know the fault's my own, That on her husband I take no revenge,

Who's worse to her than is to me my dad.

God send grief has not pulled my courage down, That hearing this I laugh ; for it seems strange.

202 CECCO ANGIOLIERL

XX.

SONNET. To Becchincts rich Husband. *

As thou wert loth to see, before thy feet,

The dear broad coin roll all the hill-slope down, Till, gathering it from rifted clods, some clown

Should rub it oft and scarcely render it ; —

Tell me, I charge thee, if by generous heat

Or clutching frost the fruits of earth be grown, And by what wind the blight is o'er them strovvn,

And with what gloom the tempest is replete.

Yet daily, in good sooth, as morn by morn

Thou hear'st the voice of thy poor husbandman And those loud herds, his other family, —

I know, as surely as Becchina's born

With a kind heart, she does the best she can

To filch at least one new-bought prize from thee.

* This puzzling sonnet is printed in Italian collections with the name of Guido Cavalcanti. It must evidently belong to Angiolieri, and it has certain fine points which make me unwilling to omit it ; though partly as to rendering, and wholly as to application, I have been driven on conjecture.

CECCO ANG10LIERL 203

XXI.

SONNET On tJie Death of his Father.

LET not the inhabitants of Hell despair,

For one's got out who seemed to be locked in; And Cecco's the poor devil that I mean,

Who thought for ever and ever to be there.

But the leaf's turned at last, and I declare That now my state of glory doth begin : For Messer Angiolieri's slipped his skin,

Who plagued me, summer and winter, many a year.

Make haste to Cecco, Sonnet, with a will, To him who no more at the Abbey dwells ; Tell him that Brother Henry's half dried up.*

He'll never more be down-at-mouth, but fill His beak at his own beck,t till his life swells To more than Enoch's or Elijah's scope.

* It would almost seem as if Cecco, in his poverty, had at last taken refuge in a religious house under the name of Brother Henry (Frate Arrigo), and as if he here meant that Brother Henry was now decayed, so to speak, through the resuscitation of Cecco. (See Introduction to Part I., p 23.)

f In the original words, " Ma di tal cibo imbecchi lo suo becco," a play upon the name of Becchina seems intended, which I have conveyed as well as I could.

204 CECCO ANGIOL1ERL

XXII.

SONNET. ffe would slay all who hate their Fathers.

Wno utters of his father aught but praise,

'Twere well to cut his tongue out of his mouth ; Because the Deadly Sins are seven, yet doth

No one provoke such ire as this must raise.

Were I a priest, or monk in anyways,

Unto the Pope my first respects were paid, Saying, " Holy Father, let a just crusade

Scourge each man who his sire's good name gainsa3*s."

And if by chance a handful of such rogues At any time should come into our clutch,

I'd have them cooked and eaten then and there,

If not by men, at least by wolves and dogs. The Lord forgive me ! for I fear me much

Some words of mine were rather foul than tair.

CECCO ANGIOLIER1.

205

XXIII. TO DANTE ALIGHT ERI.

SONNET.

He writes to Dante, then in exile at Verona, defying him as no better than himself.

DANTE ALIGHIERI, if I jest and lie,

You in such lists might run a tilt with me :

I get my dinner, you your supper, free ; And if I bite the fat, you suck the fry ; I shear the cloth and you the teazle ply ;

If I've a strut, who's prouder than you are ?

If I'm foul-mouthed, you're not particular ; And you're turned Lombard, even if Roman I. So that, 'fore Heaven 1 if either of us flings

Much dirt at the other, he must be a fool : For lack of luck and wit we do these things.

Yet if you want more lessons at my school, Just say so, and you'll find the next touch stings —

For, Dante, I'm the goad and you're the bull.

206 GUIDO ORLANDI.

GUIDO ORLANDI.*

SONNET. Against the " White " Ghibellines.

Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites ; And they go following now after the kind Of creatures we call crabs, which, as some find

Will only seek their natural food o' nights.

All day they hide ; their flesh has such sore frights Lest Death be come for them on every wind, Lest now the Lion'sf wrath be so inclined

That they may never set their sin to rights.

Guelf were they once, and now are Ghibelline : Nothing but rebels henceforth be they named, — State-foes, as are the Uberti, every one.

Behold, against the Whites all men must sign Some judgment whence no pardon can be claim'd Excepting they were offered to Saint John.+

* Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Guido Caval- canti and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their poems.

t I.e. Florence.

j That is, presented at the high altar on the feast-day of SL John the Baptist ; a ceremony attending the release of criminals, a cer- tain number of whom were annually pardoned on that day in Florence. This was the disgraceful condition annexed to that recall to Florence which Dante received when in exile at the court of Verona; which others accepted, but which was refused by him in a memorable epistle still preserved.

LAPO GIANMI. 207

LAPO GIANNI.

MADRIGAL. What Love shall provide for him.

LOVE, I. demand to have my lady in fee.

Fine balm let Arno be ; The walls of Florence all of silver rear'd, And crystal pavements in the public way.

With castles make me fear'd, Till every Latin soul have owned my sway.

Be the world peaceful ; safe throughout each path ;

No neighbour to breed wrath ; The air, summer and winter, temperate.

A thousand dames and damsels richly clad

Upon my choice to wait, Singing by day and night to make me glad.

Let me have fruitful gardens of great girth,

Filled with the strife of birds, With water-springs, and beasts that house i' the earth.

Let me seem Solomon for lore of words, Samson for strength, for beauty Absalom.

Knights as my serfs be given ; And as I will, let music go and come ; Till at the last thou bring me into Heaven.

LAPO GIANNI.

II.

BALLATA. A Message in charge for his Lady Lagia.

BALLAD, since Love himself hath fashioned thee Within my mind where he doth make abode, Hie thee to her who through mine eyes bestow'd

Her blessing on my heart, which stays with me.

Since thou wast born a handmaiden of Love, With every grace thou should'st be perfected,

And everywhere seem gentle, wise, and sweet And for that thine aspect gives sign thereof,

I do not tell thee, " Thus much must be said : " — Hoping, if thou inheritest my wit, And com'st on her when speech may ill befit, That thou wilt say no words of any kind: But when her ear is graciously inclin'd, Address her without dread submissively.

Afterward, when thy courteous speech is done, (Ended with fair obeisance and salute

To that chief forehead of serenest good,) Wait thou the answer which, in heavenly tone, Shall haply stir between her lips, nigh mute For gentleness and virtuous womanhood. And mark that, if my homage please her mood, No rose shall be incarnate in her cheek, But her soft eyes shall seem subdued and meek, And almost pale her face for delicacy.

LAPO GIANNI. 209

For, when at last thine amorous discourse Shall have possessed her spirit with that fear

Of thoughtful recollection which in love Comes first, — then say thou that my heart implores Only without an end to honour her,

Till by God's will my living soul remove : That I take counsel oftentimes with Love ; For he first made my hope thus strong and rife, Through whom my heart, my mind, and all my life, Are given in bondage to her seigniory.

Then shalt thou find the blessed refuge girt I' the circle of her arms, where pity and grace

Have sojourn, with all human excellence : Then shalt thou feel her gentleness exert

Its rule (unless, alack ! she deem thee base) : Then shalt thou know her sweet intelligence : Then shalt thou see — O marvel most intense ! — What thing the beauty of the angels is, And what are the miraculous harmonies

Whereon Love rears the heights of sovereignty.

Move, Ballad, so that none take note of thee, Until thou set thy footsteps in Love's road. Having arrived, speak with thy visage bow'd,

And bring no false doubt back, or jealousy.

VOL. H. 14

aio DINO FRESCOBALDI.

DINO FRESCOBALDI.

SONNET. Of what his Lady is.

THIS is the damsel by whom love is brought

To enter at his eyes that looks on her ;

This is the righteous maid, the comforter, Whom every virtue honours unbesought. Love, journeying with her, unto smiles is wrought,

Showing the glory which surrounds her there ;

Who, when a lowly heart prefers its prayer, Can make that its transgression come to nought. And, when she giveth greeting, by Love's rule,

With sweet reserve she somewhat lifts her eyes, Bestowing that desire which speaks to us. Alone on what is noble looks she thus,

Its opposite rejecting in like wise, This pitiful young maiden beautiful.

DINO FRESCOBALD1. 211

II.

SONNET. Of the Star of his Love.

THAT star the highest seen in heaven's expanse Not yet forsakes me with its lovely light : It gave me her who from her heaven's pure height

Gives all the grace mine intellect demands.

Thence a new arrow of strength is in my hands Which bears good will whereso it may alight ; So barbed, that no man's body or soul its flight

Has wounded yet, nor shall wound any man's.

Glad am I therefore that her grace should fall Not otherwise than thus; whose rich increase Is such a power as evil cannot dim.

My sins within an instant perished all

When I inhaled the light of so much peace. And this Love knows ; for I have told it him.

212 GIOTTO Dl BONDONE.

GIOTTO DI BONDONE.

CANZONE. Of the Doctrine of Voluntary Poverty.

MANY there are, praisers of Poverty ; The which as man's best state is register'd

When by free choice preferr'd, With strict observance having nothing here. For this they find certain authority Wrought of an over-nice interpreting.

Now as concerns such thing, A hard extreme it doth to me appear,

Which to commend I fear, For seldom are extremes without some vice.

Let every edifice, Of work or word, secure foundation find ;

Against the potent wind, And all things perilous, so well prepar'd That it need no correction afterward.

Of poverty which is against the will, It never can be doubted that therein

Lies broad the way to sin. For oftentimes it makes the judge unjust ; In dames and damsels doth their honour kill ; And begets violence and villanies,

And theft and wicked lies, And casts a good man from his fellows' trust.

And for a little dust Of gold that lacks, wit seems a lacking too.

GIOTTO. 213

If once the coat give view Of the real back, farewell all dignity.

Each therefore strives that he Should by no means admit her to his sight, Who, only thought on, makes his face turn white.

Of poverty which seems by choice elect, I may pronounce from plain experience, —

Not of mine own pretence, — That 'tis observed or unobserved at will. Nor its observance asks our full respect : For no discernment, nor integrity,

Nor lore of life, nor plea Oi virtue, can her cold regard instil.

I call it shame and ill To name as virtue that which stifles good.

I call it grossly rude, On a thing bestial to make consequent

Virtue's inspired advent To understanding hearts acceptable : For the most wise most love with her to dwell.

Here mayst thou find some issue of demur : For lo ! our Lord commendeth poverty.

Nay, what His meaning be Search well : His words are wonderfully deep, Oft doubly sensed, asking interpreter. The state for each most saving, is His will

For each. Thine eyes unseal, And look within, the inmost truth to reap.

Behold what concord keep His holy words with His most holy life.

In Him the power was rife Which to all things apportions time and place.

On earth He chose such case ; And why ? 'Twas His to point a higher life.

214 GIOTTO.

But here, on earth, our senses show us still

How they who preach this thing are least at peace,

And evermore increase

Much thought how from this thing they should escape. For if one such a lofty station fill, He shall assert his strength like a wild wolf,

Or daily mask himself Afresh, until his will be brought to shape ;

Ay, and so wear the cape That direst wolf shall seem like sweetest lamb

Beneath the constant sham. Hence, by their art, this doctrine plagues the world

And hence, till they be hurl'd From where they sit in high hypocrisy, No corner of the world seems safe to me.

Go, Song, to some sworn owls that we have know* And on their folly bring them to reflect :

But if they be stiff-neck'd, Belabour them until their heads are down.

S1MONE DALV ANTELLA. 215

SIMONE DALL* ANTELLA.

PROLONGED SONNET. In the last Days of the Emperor Henry VI L

ALONG the road all shapes must travel by, How swiftly, to my thinking, now doth fare The wanderer who built his watchtower there

Where wind is torn with wind continually I

Lo ! from the world and its dull pain to fly, Unto such pinnacle did he repair, And of her presence was not made aware,

Whose face, that looks like Peace, is Death's own lie*

Alas, Ambition, thou his enemy,

Who lurest the poor wanderer on his way,

But never bring'st him where his rest may be, — O leave him now, for he is gone astray

Himself out of his very self through thee, Till now the broken stems his feet betray,

And, caught with boughs before and boughs behind,

Deep in thy tangled wood he sinks entwin'd.

Sl6 GIOVANNI QU2RJNO.

GIOVANNI QUIRING TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

SONNET.

He commends the work of Dante's life, then drawing to its dose ; and deplores his own deficiencies.

GLORY to God and to God's Mother chaste, Dear friend, is all the labour of thy days : Thou art as he who evermore uplays

That heavenly wealth which the worm cannot waste :

So shalt thou render back with interest

The precious talent given thee by God's grace : While I, for my part, follow in their ways

Who by the cares of this world are possess'd.

For, as the shadow of the earth doth make The moon's globe dark, when so she is debarr'd From the bright rays which lit her in the sky, —

So now, since thou my sun didst me forsake, (Being distant from me), I grow dull and hard, Even as a beast of Epicurus' sty.

DANTE AL1GH1ERL 217

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GIOVANNI QUIRING.

SONNET.

He answers the foregoing Sonnet ; saying what hcjeels at the approach of Death.

THE King by whose rich grace His servants be With plenty beyond measure set to dwell Ordains that I my bitter wrath dispel

And lift mine eyes to the great consistory ;

Till, noting how in glorious quires agree The citizens of that fair citadel, To the Creator I His creature swell

Their song, and all their love possesses me.

So, when I contemplate the great reward

To which our God has called the Christian seed, I long for nothing else but only this.

And then my soul is grieved in thy regard,

Dear friend, who reck'st not of thy nearest need, Renouncing for slight joys the perfect bliss.

218

APPENDIX TO PART I.

FORESE DONATI.

WHAT follows relates to the very filmiest of all the will-o'-the-wisps which have beset me in making this book. I should be glad to let it lose itself in its own quagmire, but am perhaps bound to follow it as far as i nay be.

Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, (published in 1640, and already several times referred to here,) has a rather startling entry under the word Vendetta.

After describing this " custom of the country," he says : —

" To leave a vengeance unaccomplished was con- sidered very shameful ; and on this account Forese de' Donati sneers at Dante, who did not avenge his father Alighieri : saying to him ironically, —

1 Ben s6 che fosti figliuol d* Alighieri J Ed accorgomen pure alia vendetta Che facesti di lui si bella e netta ; *

and hence perhaps Dante is menaced in Hell by the Spirit of one of his race."

Now there is no hint to be found anywhere that Dante's father, who died about 1270, in the poet's child- hood, came by his death in any violent way. The spirit met in Hell (C. xxix.) is Geri son of Bello Alighieri, and Dante's great-uncle ; and he is there represented as

APPENDIX TO PART L 119

passing his kinsman in contemptuous silence on account of his own death by the hand of one of the Sacchetti, which remained till then unavenged, and so continued till after Dante's death, when Cione Alighieri fulfilled the vendetta by slaying a Sacchetti at the door of his house. If Dante is really the person addressed in the sonnet quoted by Ubaldini, I think it probable (as I shall show presently when I give the whole sonnet) that the ironical allusion is to the death of Geri Alighieri. But indeed the real writer, the real subject, and the real object of this clumsy piece of satire, seem about equally puzzling.

Forese Donati, to whom this Sonnet and another I shall quote are attributed, was the brother of Gemma Donati, Dante's wife, and of Corso and Piccarda Donati. Dante introduces him in the Purgatory (C. xxin.) as expiating the sin of gluttony. From what is there said, he seems to have been well known in youth to Dante, who speaks also of having wept his death ; but at the same time he hints that the life they led together was disorderly and a subject for regret. This can hardly account for such violence as is shown in these sonnets, said to have been written from one to the other; but it is not impossible, of course, that a rancour, perhaps temporary, may have existed at some time between them, especially as Forese probably adhered with the rest of his family to the party hostile to Dante. At any rate, Ubaldini, Crescimbeni, Quadrio, and other writers on Italian Poetry, seem to have derived this impression from the poems which they had seen in MS. attributed to Forese. They all combine in stigmatizing Forese's supposed productions as very bad poetry, and in fact this seems the only point concerning them which is beyond a doubt. The four sonnets of which I now proceed to give such translations as I have found possible were first published together in 1812 by Fiacchi, who states that he had seen two separate ancient MSS. in both of which they were attributed to Dante and Forese.

220 APPENDIX TO PART L

In rendering them, I have no choice but to adopt In a positive form my conjectures as to their meaning ; but that I view these only as conjectures will appear after- wards.

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO FORESE DON ATI. He taunts Forese^ by the nickname of Bicci.

O BICCI, pretty son of who knows whom Unless thy mother Lady Tessa tell, — Thy gullet is already crammed too well,

Yet others' food thou needs must now consume.

Lo I he that wears a purse makes ample room When thou goest by in any public place, Saying, " This fellow with the branded face

Is thief apparent from his mother's womb."

And I know one who's fain to keep his bed

Lest thou shouldst filch it, at whose birth he stood Like Joseph when the world its Christmas saw.

Of Bicci and his brothers it is said

That with the heat of misbegotten blood

Among their wives they are nice brothers-in-law.

II.

FORESE DONATI TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. He taunts Dante ironically for not avenging Geri Alighieri.

RIGHT well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son ; Nay, that revenge alone might warrant it,

APPENDIX TO PART I. 221

Which thou didst take, so clever and complete, For thy great-uncle who awhile agone Paid scores in full. Why, if thou hadst hewn one

In bits for it, 'twere early still for peace !

But then thy head's so heaped with things like these That they would weigh two sumpter-horses down. Thou hast taught us a fair fashion, sooth to say, —

That whoso lays a stick well to thy back,

Thy comrade and thy brother he shall be. As for their names who've shown thee this good play,

I'll tell thee, so thou'lt tell me all the lack Thou hast of help, that I may stand by thee.

III.

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO FORESE DONATI. He taunts him concerning his Wife.

To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough,

(Bicci, — Forese as he's called, you know, — ) You'd fancy she had wintered, sure enough,

Where icebergs rear themselves in constant snow :

And Lord ! if in mid-August it is so, How in the frozen months must she come off?

To wear her socks abed avails not, — no, Nor quilting from Cortona, warm and tough. Her cough, her cold, and all her other ills,

Do not afflict her through the rheum of age,

But through some want within her nest, poor spouse ! This grief, with other griefs, her mother feels,

Who says, " Without much trouble, I'll engage, She might have married in Count Guido's house ! "

222 APPENDIX IO PART /.

IV.

FORESE DONATI TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.

He taunts him concerning the unavenged Spirit of Geri Alighieri.

THE other night I had a dreadful cough

Because I'd got no bed-clothes over me ; And so, when the day broke, I hurried off

To seek some gain whatever it might be. And such luck as I had I tell you of.

For lo 1 no jewels hidden in a tree I find, nor buried gold, nor suchlike stuff,

But Alighieri among the graves I see, Bound by some spell, I know not at whose 'hest, —

At Solomon's, or what sage's who shall say ? Therefore I crossed myself towards the east ;

And he cried out : " For Dante's love I pray Thou loose me ! " But I knew not in the least

How this were done, so turned and went my way

Now all this may be pronounced little better than scurrilous doggrel, and I would not have introduced any of it, had I not wished to include everything which could possibly belong to my subject.

Even supposing that the authorship is correctly attri- buted in each case, the insults heaped on Dante have of course no weight, as coming from one who shows every sign of being both foul-mouthed and a fool. That then even the observance of the vendetta had its opponents among the laity, is evident from a passage in Barberino's Document! d' Amore. The two sonnets bearing Dante's name, if not less oSensive than the others, are rather

APPENDIX TO PART I, 223

more pointed ; but seem still very unworthy even of his least exalted mood.

Accordingly Fraticelli (in his Minor Works of Dante) settles to his own satisfaction that these four sonnets are not by Dante and Forese ; but I do not think his argu- ments conclusive enough to set the matter quite at rest. He first states positively that Sonnet I. (as above) is by Burchiello, the Florentine barber-poet of the fifteenth century. However, it is only to be found in one edition of Burchiello, and that a late one, of 1757, where it is placed among the pieces which are very doubtfully his. It becomes all the more doubtful when we find it there followed by Sonnet II. (as above), which would seem by all evidence to be at any rate written by a different person from the first, whoever the writers of both may be. Of this sonnet Fraticelli seems to state that he has seen it attributed in one MS. to a certain Bicci Novello ; and adds (but without giving any authority) that it was addressed to some descendant of the great poet, also bearing the name of Dante. Sonnet III. is pronounced by Fraticelli to be of uncertain authorship, though if the first is by Burchiello, so must this be. He also decides that the designation, " Bicci, vocati Forese," shows that Forese was the nickname and Bicci the real name ; but this is surely quite futile, as the way in which the name is put is to the full as likely to be meant in ridicule as in earnest. Lastly, of Sonnet IV. Fraticelli says nothing.

It is now necessary to explain that Sonnet II., as I tianslate it, is made up from two versions, the one printed by Fiacchi and the one given among Burchiello's poems ; while in one respect I have adopted a reading of my own. I would make the first four lines say —

Ben s6 che fosti figliuol d'Alighieri : Ed accorgomen pure alia vendetta Che facesti di lui, si bella e netta,

Dell' avolin che difc cambio 1'altriep

224 APPENDIX TO PART I.

Of the two printed texts one says, in the fourth line —

Dell' aguglin ched ei cambid raltrieri ; and the other,

Degli auguglin che dife cambio 1'altrieri.

"Aguglino" would be "eaglet," and with this, the whole sense of the line seems quite unfathomable : whereas at the same time " aguglino " would not be an unlikely corrupt transcription, or even corrupt version, of "avolino," which again (according to the often con- fused distinctions of Italian relationships,) might well be a modification of "avolo" (grandfather), meaning great- uncle. The reading would thus be, " La vendetta che facesti di lui (i.e.) dell' avolino che die cambio 1'altrier ; " translated literally, "The vengeance which you took for him, — for your great-uncle who gave change the other day." Geri Alighieri might indeed have been said to " give change " or " pay scores in full " by his death, as he himself had been the aggressor in the first instance, having slain one of the Sacchetti, and been afterwards slain himself by another.

I should add that I do not think the possibility, how- ever questionable, of these sonnets being authentically by Dante and Forese, depends solely on the admission of this word " avolino."

The rapacity attributed to the " Bicci " of Sonnet I. seems a tendency somewhat akin to the insatiable gluttony which Forese is represented as expiating in Dante's Purgatory. Mention is also there made of Forese's wife, though certainly in a very different strain from that of Sonnet III. ; but it is not impossible that the poet might have intended to make amends to her as well as in some degree to her husband's memory. 1 am really more than half ashamed of so many " possi- bles " and " not impossibles " ; but perhaps, having been led into the subject, am a little inclined that the reader should be worried with it like myself.

APPENDIX TO PART 1. 225

At any rate, considering that these Sonnets are attri- buted by various old manuscripts to Dante and Forese Donati ; — that various writers (beginning with Ubaldini, who seems to have ransacked libraries more than almost any one) have spoken of these and other sonnets by Forese against Dante, — that the feud between the Alighieri and Sacchetti, and the death of Geri, were certainly matters of unabated bitterness in Dante's life- time, as we find the vendetta accomplished even after his death, — and lastly, that the sonnets attributed to Forese seem to be plausibly referable to this subject, — I have thought it pardonable towards myself and my readers to devote to these ill-natured and not very refined productions this very long and tiresome note.

Crescimbeni (Storia della Volgar Poesia) gives another sonnet against Dante as being written by Forese Donati, and it certainly resembles these in style. I should add that their obscurity of mere language is excessive, and that my translations therefore are necessarily guesswork here and there ; though as to this I may spare particulars except in what affects the question at issue. In conclu- sion, I hope I need hardly protest against the inference that my translations and statements might be shown to abound in dubious makeshifts and whimsical conjec- tures ; though it would be admitted, on going over the ground I have traversed, that it presents a difficulty of some kind at almost every step.

1L

CECCO D'Ascou.

THERE is one more versifier, contemporary with Dante, to whom I might be expected to refer. This is the ill- fated Francesco Stabili, better known as Cecco d'Ascoli, VOL. ii. 15

226 APPENDIX TO PART I.

who was burnt by the Inquisition at Florence in 1327, as a heretic, though the exact nature of his offence is involved in some mystery. He was a narrow, discon- tented, and self-sufficient writer; and his incongruous poem in sesta rima, called L'Acerba, contains various references to the poetry of Dante (whom he knew per- sonally) as well as to that of Guido Cavalcanti, made chiefly in a supercilious spirit. These allusions have no poetical or biographical value whatever, so I need say no more of them or their author. And indeed perhaps the " Bicci " sonnets are quite enough of themselves in the way of absolute trash.

m.

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO.

SEVERAL of the little-known sonnets of Boccaccio have reference to Dante, but, being written in the generation which followed his, do not belong to the body of my first division. I therefore place three of them here, together with a few more specimens from the same poet.

There is nothing which gives Boccaccio a greater claim to our regard than the enthusiastic reverence with which he loved to dwell on the Commedia and on the memory of Dante, who died when he was seven years old. This is amply proved by his Life of the Poet and Commentary on the Poem, as well as by other passages in his writings both in prose and poetry. The first of the three follow- ing sonnets relates to his public reading and elucidation of Dante, which took place at Florence, by a decree of the State, in 1373. The second sonnet shows how the greatest minds of the generation which immediately sue-

APPENDIX TO PART I. 227

ceeded Dante already paid unhesitating tribute to his political as well as poetical greatness. In the third sonnet, it is interesting to note the personal love and confidence with which Boccaccio could address the spirit of his mighty master, unknown to him in the flesh.

To one who had censured his public Exposition of Dante.

IF Dante mourns, there wheresoe'er he be, That such high fancies of a soul so proud Should be laid open to the vulgar crowd,

(As, touching my Discourse, I'm told by thee,)

This were my grievous pain ; and certainly My proper blame should not be disavow'd ; Though hereof somewhat, I declare aloud

Were due to others, not alone to me.

False hopes, true poverty, and therewithal The blinded judgment of a host of friends, And their entreaties, made that I did thus.

But of all this there is no gain at all

Unto the thankless souls with whose base ends Nothing agrees that's great or generous.

II.

Inscription for a portrait of Dante,

DANTE ALIGHIERI, a dark oracle

Of wisdom and of art, I am ; whose mind Has to my country such great gifts assign'

That men account my powers a miracle.

228 AWENDIX TO PART L

My lofty fancy passed as low as Hell,

As high as Heaven, secure and unconfin'd ;

And in my noble book doth every kind Of earthly lore and heavenly doctrine dwell. Renowned Florence was my mother, — nay,

Stepmother unto me her piteous son,

Through sin of cursed slander's tongue and tooth. Ravenna sheltered me so cast away ;

My body is with her, — my soul with One For whom no envy can make dim the truth.

III.

To Dante in Paradise, after Fiammetta! s death.

DANTE, if thou within the sphere of Love, As I believe, remain'st contemplating Beautiful Beatrice, whom thou didst sing

Erewhile, and so wast drawn to her above ; —

Unless from false life true life thee remove So far that Love's forgotten, let me bring One orayer before thee : for an easy thing

This were, to thee whom I do ask it of.

I know that where all joy doth most abound In the Third Heaven, my own Fiammetta sees The grief which I have borne since she is dead.

0 pray her (if mine image be not drown'd

In Lethe) that her prayers may never cease Until I reach her and am comforted.

1 add three further examples of Boccaccio's poetry, chosen for their beauty alone. Two of these relate to Maria d'Aquino, if she indeed be the lady whom, in his writings, he calls Fiammetta. The third as a playful charm very characteristic of the author of the Decameron ;

APPENDIX TO PART 1. 229

while its beauty of colour (to our modern minds, privi- leged to review the whole pageant of Italian Art,) might recall the painted pastorals of Giorgione.

IV.

Of ' JFiammetta singing.

LOVE steered my course, while yet the sun rode high, On Scylla's waters to a myrtle-grove : The heaven was still and the sea did not move;

Yet now and then a little breeze went by

Stirring the tops of trees against the sky : And then I heard a song as glad as love, So sweet that never yet the like thereof

Was heard in any mortal company.

" A nymph, a goddess, or an angel sings Unto herself, within this chosen place,

Of ancient loves ; " so said I at that sound.

And there my lady, 'mid the shadowings

Of myrtle-trees, 'mid flowers and grassy space, Singing I saw, with others who sat round.

* V.

Of his last sight of Fiammetta*

ROUND her red garland and her golden hair I saw a fire about Fiammetta's head ; Thence to a little cloud I watched it fade,

Than silver or than gold more brightly fair ;

And like a pearl that a gold ring doth bear, Even so an angel sat therein, who sped Alone and glorious throughout heaven, array'd

230 APPENDIX TO PART 2.

In sapphires and in gold that lit the air. Then I rejoiced as hoping happy things,

Who rather should have then discerned how God

Had haste to make my lady all His own, Even as it came to pass. And with these stings Of sorrow, and with life's most weary load I dwell, who fain would be where she is gone.

VI. Of three Girls and of their Talk.

BY a clear well, within a little field

Full of green grass and flowers of every hue, Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew)

Their loves. And each had twined a bough to shield

Her lovely face ; and the green leaves did yield The golden hair their shadow ; while the two Sweet colours mingled, both blown lightly through

With a soft wind for ever stirred and still'd.

After a little while one of them said,

(I heard her,) " Think I If, ere the next hour struck, Each of our lovers should come here to-day,

Think you that we should fly or feel afraid ? " To whom the others answered, " From such luck A girl would be a fool to run away."

END OF PART I.

PART II. POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE.

233

TABLE OF POETS IN PART II.

I. CIULLO D'ALCAMO, 1172 — 78.

Ciullo is a popular form of the name Vincenzo, and Alcamo an Arab fortress some miles from Palermo. The Dialogue, which is the only known production of this poet, holds here the place generally accorded to it as the earliest Italian poem (exclusive of one or two dubious inscriptions) which has been preserved to our day. Ar- guments have sometimes been brought to prove that it must be assigned to a later date than the poem by Folca- chiero, which follows it in this volume ; thus ascribing the first honours of Italian poetry to Tuscany, and not to Sicily, as is commonly supposed. Trucchi, however, (in the preface to his valuable collection,) states his belief that the two poems are about contemporaneous, fixing the date of that by Ciullo between 1172 and 1178, — chiefly from the fact that the fame of Saladin, to whom this poet alludes, was most in men's mouths during that interval. At first sight, any casual reader of the original would suppose that this poem must be unquestionably the earliest of all, as its language is far the most un- formed and difficult ; but much of this might, of course, be dependent on the inferior dialect of Sicily, mixed however in this instance (as far as I can judge) with mere nondescript patois.

II. FOLCACHIERO DE* FoLCACHIERI, KNIGHT OF SlENA, 1177.

The above date has been assigned with probability to

234 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II.

Folcachiero's Canzone, on account of its first line, where the whole world is said to be " living without war " ; an assertion which seems to refer its production to the period of the celebrated peace concluded at Venice be- tween Frederick Barbarossa and Pope Alexander IIL

III. LODOVICO DELLA VERNACCIA, I2OO.

IV. SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSIST; BORN, 1182; DIED, 1226.

His baptismal name was Giovanni, and his father was Bernardone Moriconi, whose mercantile pursuits he shared till the age of twenty-five ; after which his life underwent the extraordinary change which resulted in his canonisation, by Gregory IX., three years after his death, and in the formation of the Religious Order called Franciscans.

V. FREDERICK II., EMPEROR; BORN, 1194; DIED, 1250.

The life of Frederick II., and his excommunication and deposition from the Empire by Innocent IV., to whom, however, he did not succumb, are matters of history which need no repetition. Intellectually, he was in all ways a highly-gifted and accomplished prince ; and lov- ingly cultivated the Italian language, in preference to the many others with which he was familiar. The poem of his which I give has great passionate beauty ; yet I believe that an allegorical interpretation may here probably be admissible ; and that the lady of the poem may be the Empire, or perhaps the Church herself, held in bondage by the Pope.

VI. ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA; BORN, 1225; DIED, 1272

The unfortunate Enzo was a natural son of Frederick II., and was born at Palermo. By his own warlike enter- prise, at an early age (it is said at fifteen I) he subju- gated the Island of Sardinia, and was made King of it by his father. Afterwards he joined Frederick in his war against the Church, and displayed the highest pro- mise as a leader ; but at the age of twenty-five was taken

TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 235

prisoner by the Bolognese, whom no threats or promises from the Emperor could induce to set him at liberty. He died in prison at Bologna, after a confinement of nearly twenty-three years. A hard fate indeed for one who, while moving among men, excited their hopes and homage, still on record, by his great military genius and brilliant gifts of mind and person.

VII. GUIDO GUINICELLI, I22O.

This poet, certainly the greatest of his time, belonged to a noble and even princely Bolognese family. Nothing seems known of his life, except that he was married to a lady named Beatrice, and that in 1274, having adhered to the Imperial cause, he was sent into exile, but whither cannot be learned. He died two years afterwards. The highest praise has been bestowed by Dante on Guinicelli, in the Commedia (Purg. C. xxvi.), in the Convito, and in the De Vulgari Eloquio ; and many instances might be cited in which the works of the great Florentine contain reminiscences of his Bolognese predecessor; especially the third canzone of Dante's Convito may be compared with Guide's most famous one "On the Gentle Heart"

VIII. GUERZO DI MONTECANTI, I22O.

IX. INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO, 1220.

X. RINALDO D' AQUINO, 1250.

I have placed this poet, belonging to a Neapolitan family, under the date usually assigned to him ; but Trucchi states his belief that he flourished much earlier, and was a contemporary of Folcachiero ; partly on account of two lines in one of his poems which say, —

" Lo Imperadore con pace Tutto il mondo mantene."

If so, the mistake would be easily accounted for, as there seem to have been various members of the family named Rinaldo, at different dates.

236 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II

XI. JACOPO DA LENTINO, 1250.

This Sicilian poet is generally called " the Notary of Lentino." The low estimate expressed of him, as well as of Bonaggiunta and Guittone, by Dante (Purg.C.xxiv.), must be understood as referring in great measure to their want of grammatical purity and nobility of style, as we may judge when the passage is taken in conjunc- tion with the principles of the De Vulgari Eloquio. However, Dante also attributes his own superiority to the fact of his writing only when love (or natural im- pulse) really prompted him, — the highest certainly of all laws relating to art : —

" Io mi son un che quando Amor mi spira, noto, ed in quel modo Ch' ei delta dentro, vo significando."

A translation does not suffer from such offences of dia- lect as may exist in its original ; and I think my readers will agree that, chargeable as he is with some conven- tionality of sentiment, the Notary of Lentino is often not without his claims to beauty and feeling. There is a peculiar charm in the sonnet which stands first among my specimens.

XII. MAZZEO DI Ricco, DA MESSINA, 1250.

XIII. PANNUCCIODAL BAGNO, PISANO, 1250.

XIV. GlACOMINO PUGLIESI, KNIGHT OF PRATO, 1250.

Of this poet there seems nothing to be learnt ; but he deserves special notice as possessing rather more poetic individuality than usual, and also as furnishing the only instance, among Dante's predecessors, of a poem (and a very beautiful one) written on a lady's death.

XV. FRA GUITTONE D'AREZZO, 1250.

Guittone was not a monk, but derived the prefix to his name from the fact of his belonging to the religious and military order of Cavalieri di Santa Maria. He seems

TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 237

to have enjoyed a greater literary reputation than almost any writer of his day ; but certainly his poems, of which many have been preserved, cannot be said to possess merit of a prominent kind ; and Dante shows I y various allusions that he considered them much over-rated. The sonnet I have given is somewhat remarkable, from Pe- trarch's having transplanted its last line into his Trionfi d'Amore (cap. HI.). Guittone is the author of a series of Italian letters to various eminent persons, which are the earliest known epistolary writings in the language.

XVI. BARTOLOMEO DI SANT' ANGELO, 1250.

XVII. SALADINO DA PAVIA, 1250.

XVIII. BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI, DA LUCCA, 1250.

XIX. MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA, DA PISTOIA, 1250.

XX. UBALDO DI MARCO, 1250.

XXI. SlMBUONO GlUDICE, 1250.

XXII. MASOLINO DA TODI, 1250.

XXIII. ONESTO DI BONCIMA, BOLOGNESE, 1250.

Onesto was a doctor of laws, and an early friend of Cino da Pistoia. He was living as late as 1301, though his career as a poet may be fixed somewhat further back.

XXIV. TERINO DA CASTEL FIORENTINO, 1250.

XXV. MAESTRO MIGLIORE, DA FIORENZA, 1250.

XXVI. DELLO DA SIGNA, 1250.

XXVII. FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO, 1250.

XXVIII. GUIDO DELLE COLONNE, 1250.

This Sicilian poet has few equals among his contempo- raries, and is ranked high by Dante in his treatise De Vulgari Eloquio. He visited England, and wrote in Latin a Historia de regibus et rebus Anglia, as well as a Historia destructionis Trojx.

338 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II.

XXIX. PIER MORONELLI, BI FIORENZA, 1250.

XXX. ClUNCIO FlORENTINO, 1250.

XXXI. RUGGIERI DI AMICI, SlCILIANO, 1250.

XXXII. CARNINO GHIBERTI, DA FIORENZA, 1250.

XXXIII. PRINZIVALLE DORIA, 1250.

Prinzivalle commenced by writing Italian poetry, but afterwards composed verses entirely in Proven9al, for the love of Beatrice, Countess of Provence. He wrote also, in Proven9al prose, a treatise " On the dainty Mad- ness of Love," and another " On the War of Charles, King of Naples, against the tyrant Manfredi." He held various high offices, and died at Naples in 1276.

XXXIV. RUSTICO DI FILIPPO; BORN ABOUT 1200;

DIED, 1270.

The writings of this Tuscan poet (called also Rustico Barbuto) show signs of more vigour and versatility than was common in his day, and he probably began writing in Italian verse even before many of those already men- tioned. In his old age, he, though a Ghibelline, received the dedication of the Tesorelto from the Guelf Brunette Latini, who there pays him unqualified homage for sur- passing worth in peace and war. It is strange that more should not be known regarding this doubtless remarkable man. His compositions have sometimes much humour, and on the whole convey the impression of an active and energetic nature. Moreover, Trucchi pronounces some of them to be as pure in language as the poems of Dante or Guido Cavalcanti, though written thirty or forty years earlier.

XXXV. PUCCIARELLO DI FlORENZA, 1 260.

XXXVI. ALBERTUCCIO DELLA VIOLA, 1260.

XXXVII. TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA, 1 280.

XXXVIII. NOFFO BONAGUIDA, 1280.

TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 239

XXXIX. LIPPO PASCHI DE' BARDI, 1280. XL. SER PACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA, 1280.

XLI. NiccoLb DEGLI ALBIZZI, 1300.

The noble Florentine family of Albizzi produced writers of poetry in more than one generation. The vivid and admirable sonnet which I have translated is the only one I have met with by Niccolo. I must con- fess my inability to trace the circumstances which gave rise to it.

XLII. FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO ; BORN, 1264; DIED, 1348.

With the exception of Brunetto Latini, (whose poems are neither very poetical nor well adapted for extract,) Francesco da Barberino shows by far the most sustained productiveness among the poets who preceded Dante, or were contemporaries of his youth. Though born only one year in advance of Dante, Barberino seems to have undertaken, if not completed, his two long poetic trea- tises, some years before the commencement of the Corn- media.

This poet was born at Barberino di Valdelsa, of a noble family, his father being Neri di Rinuccio da Barberino. Up to the year of his father's death, 1296, he pursued the study of law chiefly in Bologna and Padua ; but afterwards removed to Florence for the same purpose, and seems to have been there, even earlier, one of the many distinguished disciples of Brunetto Latini, who probably had more influence than any other one man in forming the youth of his time to the great things they accomplished. After this he travelled in France and elsewhere; and on his return to Italy in 1313, was the first who, by special favour of Pope Clement V., received the grade of Doctor of Laws in Florence. Both as lawyer and as citizen, he held great trusts and discharged them honourably. He was twice married, the name of his second wife being Barna di Tano, and had several chil-

240 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II.

dren. At the age of eighty-four he died in the great Plague of Florence. Of the two works which Barberino has left, one bears the title of Documenti d ' } Amore, lite- rally " Documents of Love," but perhaps more properly rendered as " Laws of Courtesy " ; while the other is called Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle Donne, — " Of the Government and Conduct of Women." They may be described, in the main, as manuals of good breeding, or social chivalry, the one for men and the other for women. Mixed with vagueness, tediousness, and not seldom with artless absurdity, they contain much simple wisdom, much curious record of manners, and (as my specimens show) occasional poetic sweetness or power, though these last are far from being their most promi- nent merits. The first-named treatise, however, has much more of such qualities than the second ; and con- tains, moreover, passages of homely humour which startle by their truth as if written yesterday. At the same time, the second book is quite as well worth reading, for the sake of its authoritative minuteness in matters which ladies, now-a-days, would probably consider their own undisputed region ; and also for the quaint gravity of certain surprising prose anecdotes of real life, with which it is interspersed. Both these works remained long un- printed, the first edition of the Documenti d' Amore being that edited by Ubaldini in 1640, at which time he reports the Reggimento, etc., to be only possessed by his age " in name and in desire." This treatise was afterwards brought to light, but never printed till 1815. I should not forget to state that Barberino attained some know- ledge of drawing, and that Ubaldini had seen his original MS. of the Documenti, containing, as he says, skilful miniatures by fhe author.

Barberino never appears to have taken a very active part in politics, but he inclined to the Imperial and Ghibel- line party. This contributes with other things to render it rather singular that we find no poetic correspond- ence or apparent communication of any kind between

TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 241

him and his many great countrymen, contemporaries of his long life, and with whom he had more than one bond of sympathy. His career stretched from Dante, Guido Cavalcanti, and Cino da Pistoia, to Petrarca and Boccaccio ; yet only in one respectful but not enthusiastic notice of him by the last-named writer (Genealogia degli Dei), do we ever meet with an allusion to him by any of the greatest men of his time. Nor in his own writings, as far as I remember, are they ever referred to. His epitaph is said to have been written by Boccaccio, but this is doubtful.

For some interesting notices of, and translations from, Barberino, I may refer the reader to the tract on " Italian Courtesy Books," by my brother W. M. Rossetti, issued by the Early English Text Society.

XLIII. FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI, 1326 — 60.

The dates of this poet's birth and death are not ascer- tainable, but I have set against his name two dates which result from his writings as belonging to his lifetime. He was a member of that great house of the Uberti which was driven from Florence on the expulsion of the Ghibel- lines in 1267, and which was ever afterwards specially excluded by name from the various amnesties offered from time to time to the exiled Florentines. His grand- father was Farinata degli Uberti, whose stern nature, unyielding even amid penal fires, has been recorded by Dante in the tenth canto of the Inferno. Farinata's son Lapc, himself a poet, was the father of Fazio (i.e. Boni- fazio), who was no doubt born in the lifetime of Dante, and in some place of exile, but where is not known. In his youth he was enamoured of a certain Veronese lady named Angiola, and was afterwards married, but whether to her or not is again among the uncertainties. Certain it is that he had a son named Leopardo, who, after his father's death at Verona, settled in Venice, where his de- scendants maintained an honourable rank for the space of two succeeding centuries. Though Fazio appears to

VOL. II. 1<>

242 TABLE OF POETS IN PART IL

have suffered sometimes from poverty, he enjoyed high reputation as a poet, and is even said, on the authority of various early writers, to have publicly received the laurel crown ; but in what city of Italy this took place we do not learn.

There is much beauty in several of Fazio's lyrical poems, of which, however, no great number have been preserved. The finest of all is the Canzone which I have translated ; whose excellence is such as to have procured it the high honour of being attributed to Dante, so that it is to be found in most editions of the Can- zoniere; and as far as poetic beauty is concerned, it must be allowed to hold even there an eminent place. Its style, however, (as Monti was the first to point out in our- own day, though Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barbe- rino, had already quoted it as the work of Fazio,) is more particularizing than accords with the practice of Dante ; while, though certainly more perfect than any other poem by Fazio, its manner is quite his ; bearing especially a strong resemblance throughout in structure to one can- zone, where he speaks of his love with minute reference to the seasons of the year. Moreover, Fraticelli tells us that it is not attributed to Dante in any one of the many ancient MSS. he had seen, but has been fathered on him solely on the authority of a printed collection of 1518. This contested Canzone is well worth fighting for; and the victor would deserve to receive his prize at the hands of a peerless Queen of Beauty, for never was beauty better described. I believe we may decide that the triumph belongs by right to Fazio.

An exile by inheritance, Fazio seems to have acquired restless tastes ; and in the latter years of his life (which was prolonged to old age), he travelled over a great part of Europe, and composed his long poem entitled // Dittamondo, — " The Song of the World." This work, though by no means contemptible in point of execution certainly falls far short of its conception, which is a grand one ; the topics of which it treats in great mea-

TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 243

sure, — geography and natural history, — rendering it in those days the native home of all credulities and mon- strosities. In scheme it was intended as an earthly parallel to Dante's Sacred Poem, doing for this world what he did for the other. At Fazio's death it remained unfinished, but I should think by very little ; the plan of the work seeming in the main accomplished. The whole earth (or rather all that was then known of it) is tra- versed,— its surface and its history, — ending with the Holy Land, and thus bringing Man's world as near as may be to God's ; that is, to the point at which Dante's office begins. No conception could well be nobler, or worthier even now of being dealt with by a great master. To the work of such a man, Fazio's work might afford such first materials as have usually been furnished be- forehand to the greatest poets by some unconscious steward.

XLIV. FRANCO SACCHETTI; BORN, 1335; WED,

SHORTLY AFTER 1400.

This excellent writer is the only member of my gather- ing who was born after the death of Dante, which event (in 1321) preceded Franco's birth by some fourteen years. I have introduced a few specimens of his poetry, partly because their attraction was irresistible, but also because he is the earliest Italian poet with whom playfulness is the chief characteristic ; for even with Boccaccio, in his poetry, this is hardly the case, and we can but ill accept as playfulness the cynical humour of Cecco Angiolieri : perhaps Rustico di Filippo alone might put in claims to priority in this respect. However, Franco Sacchetti wrote poems also on political subjects ; and had he be- longed more strictly to the period of which I treat, there is no one who would better have deserved abundant selection. Besides his poetry, he is the author of a well- known series of three hundred stories; and Trucchi gives a list of prose works by him which are still in MS., and whose subjects are genealogical, historical, natural-

244 TABLE OF POETS IN PART If.

historical, and even theological. He was a prolific writer, and one who well merits complete and careful publica- tion. The pieces which I have translated, like many others of his, are written for music.

Franco Sacchetti was a Florentine noble by birth, and was the son of Benci di Uguccione Sacchetti. Between this family and the Alighieri there had been a vendetta of long standing (spoken of here in the Appendix to Part /.), but which was probably set at rest before Franco's time, by the deaths of at least one Alighieri and two Sacchetti. After some years passed in study, Franco devoted himself to commerce, like many nobles of the republic, and for that purpose spent some time in Sclavonia, whose uncongenial influences he has recorded in an amusing poem. As his literary fame increased, he was called to many important offices ; was one of the Priori in 1383, and for some time was deputed to the government of Faenza, in the absence of its lord, Astorre Manfredi. He was three times married ; to Felice degli Strozzi, to Ghita Gherardini, and to Nannina di Santi Bruni.

XLV. ANONYMOUS POEMS.

245

CIULLO D' ALCAMO.

DIALOGUE.

Lover and Lady.

HE.

THOU sweetly-smelling fresh red rose

That near thy summer art, Of whom each damsel and each dame

Would fain be counterpart ; Oh ! from this fire to draw me forth

Be it in thy good heart : For night or day there is no rest with me, Thinking of none, my lady, but of thee.

SHE.

If thou hast set thy thoughts on me,

Thou hast done a foolish thing. Yea, all the pine-wood of this world

Together might'st thou bring, And make thee ships, and plough the sea

Therewith for corn-sowing, Ere any way to win me could be found : For I am going to shear my locks all round.

HE.

Lady, before thou shear thy locks

I hope I may be dead : For I should lose such joy thereby

And gain such grief instead.

246 CIULLO D* ALCAMO.

Merely to pass and look at thee,

Rose of the garden-bed, Has comforted me much, once and again. Oh ! if thou wouldst but love, what were it then !

SHE.

Nay, though my heart were prone to love,

I would not grant it leave. Hark ! should my father or his kin

But find thee here this eve, Thy loving body and lost breath

Our moat may well receive. Whatever path to come here thou dost know, By the same path I counsel thee to go.

HE.

And if thy kinsfolk find me here,

Shall I be drowned then ? Marry, I'll set, for price against my head,

Two thousand agostari. I think thy father would not do't

For all his lands in Bari.

Long life to the Emperor I Be God's the praise 1 Thou hear'st, my beauty, what thy servant says.

SHE.

And am I then to have no peace

Morning or evening ? I have strong coffers of my own And much good gold therein ; So that if thou couldst offer me

The wealth of Saladin, And add to that the Soldan's money-hoard, Thy suit would not be anything toward.

CIULLO U ALCAMO. 247

HE.

I have known many women, love,

Whose thoughts were high and proud, And yet have been made gentle by

Man's speech not over-loud. If we but press ye long enough,

At length ye will be bow'd ; For still a woman's weaker than a man. When the end comes, recall how this began.

SHE.

God grant that I may die before

Any such end do come, — Before the sight of a chaste maid

Seem to me troublesome ! I marked thee here all yestereve

Lurking about my home, And now I say, Leave climbing, lest thou fall, For these thy words delight me not at all.

HE.

How many are the cunning chains

Thou hast wound round my heart I Only to think upon thy voice

Sometimes I groan apart. For I did never love a maid Of this world, as thou art, So much as I love thee, thou crimson rose. Thou wilt be mine at last : this my soul knows.

SHE.

If I could think it would be so,

Small pride it were of mine That all my beauty should be meant

But to make thee to shine.

248 CWLLO V ALCAMO.

Sooner than stoop to that, I'd shear

These golden tresses fine, And make one of some holy sisterhood ; Escaping so thy love, which is not good,

HE.

If thou unto the cloister fly,

Thou cruel lady and cold,

Unto the cloister I will come

And by the cloister hold ;

For such a conquest liketh me

Much better than much gold ; At matins and at vespers I shall be Still where thou art. Have I not conquered thee ?

SHE.

Out and alack ! wherefore am I

Tormented in suchwise ? Lord Jesus Christ the Saviour,

In whom my best hope lies,

0 give me strength that I may hush This vain man's blasphemies !

Let him seek through the earth ; 'tis long and broad He will find fairer damsels, O my God I

HE.

1 have sought through Calabria,

Lombardy, and Tuscany, Rome, Pisa, Lucca, Genoa,

All between sea and sea : Yea, even to Babylon I went

And distant Barbary : But not a woman found I anywhere Equal to thee, who art indeed most fair.

CIULLO Z)' ALCAMO. 249

SHE.

If thou have all this love for me,

Thou canst no better do Than ask me of my father dear

And my dear mother too : They willing, to the abbey-church

We will together go,

And, before Advent, thou and I will wed ; After the which, I'll do as thou hast said.

HE.

These thy conditions, lady mine,

Are altogether nought : Despite of them, I'll make a net Wherein thou shalt be caught. What, wilt thou put on wings to fly ? Nay, but of wax they're wrought, — They'll let thee fall to earth, not rise with thee : So, if thou canst, then keep thyself from me.

SHE.

Think not to fright me with thy nets

And suchlike childish gear ; I am safe pent within the walls

Of this strong castle here ; A boy before he is a man

Could give me as much fear. If suddenly thou get not hence again, It is my prayer thou mayst be found and slain,

HE.

Wouldst thou in very truth that I

Were slain, and for thy sake ? Then let them hew me to such mince

As a man's limbs may make !

250 CIULLO £>' ALCAMO.

But meanwhile I shall not stir hence

Till of that fruit I take

Which thou hast in thy garden, ripe enough : All day and night I thirst to think thereof.

SHE.

None have partaken of that fruit,

Not Counts nor Cavaliers : Though many have reached up for it,

Barons and great Seigneurs, They all went hence in wrath because

They could not make it theirs. Then how canst thou think to succeed alone Who hast not a thousand ounces of thine own ?

HE.

How many nosegays I have sent

Unto thy house, sweet soul ! At least till I am put to proof, This scorn of thine control. For if the wind, so fair for thee,

Turn ever and wax foul, Be sure that thou shalt say when all is done, " Now is my heart heavy for him that's gone."

SHE.

If by my grief thou couldst be grieved,

God send me a grief soon ! I tell thee that though all my friends

Prayed me as for a boon, Saying, " Even for the love of us, Love thou this worthless loon," Thou shouldst not have the thing that thou dost hope. No, verily ; not for the realm o' the Pope.

CIULLO Cf ALCAMO. a$i

HE.

Now could I wish that I in truth Were dead here in thy house : My soul would get its vengeance then ; Once known, the thing would rouse A rabble, and they'd point and say, —

" Lo ! she that breaks her vows, And, in her dainty chamber, stabs ! " Love, see : One strikes just thus : it is soon done, pardie 1

SHE.

If now thou do not hasten hence,

(My curse companioning,) That my stout friends will find thee here

Is a most certain thing : After the which, my gallant sir,

Thy points of reasoning

May chance, I think, to stand thee in small stead, Thou hast no friend, sweet friend, to bring thee aid.

HE.

Thou sayest truly, saying that

I have not any friend : A landless stranger, lady mine,

None but his sword defend. One year ago, my love began,

And now, is this the end ? Oh ! the rich dress thou worest on that day Since when thou art walking at my side alway f

SHE.

So 'twas my dress enamoured thee I

What marvel ? I did wear A cloth of samite silver-flowered,

And gems within my hair.

253 CIULLO If ALCAMO.

But one more word ; if on Christ's Book

To wed me thou didst swear, There's nothing now could win me to be thine : I had rather make my bed in the sea-brine.

HE.

And if thou make thy bed therein,, Most courteous lady and bland, I'll follow all among the waves, Paddling with foot and hand ; Then, when the sea hath done with thee,

I'll seek thee on the sand. For I will not be conquered in this strife : I'll wait, but win ; or losing, lose my life.

SHE.

For Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

Three times I cross myself. Thou art no godless heretic,

Nor Jew, whose God's his pelf :

Even as I know it then, meseems,

Thou needs must know thyself

That woman, when the breath in her doth cease,

Loseth all savour and all loveliness.

HE.

Woe's me ! Perforce it must be said

No craft could then avail : So that if thou be thus resolved,

I know my suit must fail. Then have some pity, of thy grace !

Thou mayst, love, very well ; For though thou love not me, my love is such That 'tis enough for both — yea overmuch.

CWLLO & ALCAMO. 353

SHE.

Is it even so ? Learn then that I

Do love thee from my heart. To-morrow, early in the day,

Come here, but now depart. By thine obedience in this thing

I shall know what thou art, And if thy love be real or nothing worth ; Do but go now, and I am thine henceforth.

HE.

Nay, for such promise, my own life,

I will not stir a foot. I've said, if thou wouldst tear away

My love even from its root, I have a dagger at my side

Which thou mayst take to do't : But as for going hence, it will not be. O hate me not I my heart is burning me.

SHE.

Think'st thou I know not that thy heart

Is hot and burns to death ? Of all that thou or I can say, But one word succoureth. Till thou upon the Holy Book Give me thy bounden faith, God is my witness that I will not yield : For with thy sword 'twere better to be kill'd.

HE.

Then on Christ's Book, borne with me still

To read from and to pray, (I took it, fairest, in a church,

The priest being gone away,)

254 CIULLO D' ALCAMO.

I swear that my whole self shall be

Thine always from this day. And now at once give joy for all my grief, Lest my soul fly, that's thinner than a leaf.

SHE.

Now that this oath is sworn, sweet lord,

There is no need to speak : My heart, that was so strong before,

Now feels itself grow weak. If any of my words were harsh,

Thy pardon : I am meek Now, and will give thee entrance presently. It is best so, sith so it was to be.

fOLCACHlERO DE' FOLCACHIERI. 355

FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERI, KNIGHT OF SIENA.

CANZONE. He speaks of his condition through Love.

ALL the whole world is living without war, And yet I cannot find out any peace.

0 God ! that this should be !

O God ! what does the earth sustain me for ? My life seems made for other lives' ill-ease :

All men look strange to me ;

Nor are the wood-flowers now

As once, when up above

The happy birds in love Made such sweet verses, going from bough to bough.

And if I come where other gentlemen

Bear arms, or say of love some joyful thing —

Then is my grief most sore, And all my soul turns round upon me then : Folk also gaze upon me, whispering,

Because I am not what I was before.

1 know not what I am. I know how wearisome My life is now become,

And that the days I pass seem all the same.

256 FOLCACHIERO DE> FOLCACIUERL

I think that I shall die ; yea, death begins ; Though 'tis no set-down sickness that I have,

Nor are my pains set down.

But to wear raiment seems a burden since

This came, nor ever any food I crave;

Not any cure is known

To me, nor unto whom

I might commend my case .

This evil therefore stays Still where it is, and hope can find no room.

I know that it must certainly be Love : No other Lord, being thus set over me,

Had judged me to this curse , With such high hand he rules, sitting above That of myself he takes two parts in fee,

Only the third being hers.

Yet if through service I

Be justified with God,

He shall remove this load, Because my heart with inmost love doth sigh.

Gentle my lady, after I am gone,

There will not come another, it may be,

To show thee love like mine : For nothing can I do, neither have done, Except what proves that I belong to thee

And am a thing of thine.

Be it not said that I

Despaired and perished, then ;

But pour thy grace, like rain, On him who is burned up, yea, visibly.

LODOVICO DELLA VERNACCIA. 257

LODOVICO DELLA VERNACCIA. SONNET.

He exhorts the State to vigilance.

THINK a brief while on the most marvellous arts Of our high-purposed labour, citizens ; And having thought, draw clear conclusion thence ;

And say, do not ours seem but childish parts ?

Also on these intestine sores and smarts Ponder advisedly ; and the deep sense Thereof shall bow your heads in penitence,

And like a thorn shall grow into your hearts.

If, of our foreign foes, some prince or lord

Is now, perchance, some whit less troublesome, Shall the sword therefore drop into the sheath ? Nay, grasp it as the friend that warranteth : For unto this vile rout, our foes at home,

Nothing is high or awful save the sword.

VOL. II.

258 SAIN T FRANCIS OF ASSISL

SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISL

CANTICA. Our Lord Christ: of Order*

SET LOVE in order, thou that lovest Me. Never was virtue out of order found ; And though I fill thy heart desirously,

By thine own virtue I must keep My ground : When to My love thou dost bring charity,

Even she must come with order girt and gown'd. Look how the trees are bound To order, bearing fruit ; And by one thing compute, In all things earthly, order's grace or gain.

All earthly things I had the making of

Were numbered and were measured then by Me; And each was ordered to its end by Love,

Each kept, through order, clean for ministry. Charity most of all, when known enough, Is of her very nature orderly. Lo, now I what heat in thee, Soul, can have bred this rout ? Thou putt'st all order out. Even this love's heat must be its curb and rein.

* This speech occurs in a long poem on Divine Love, half ecstatic, half scholastic, and hardly appreciable now. The passage stands well by itself, and is the only one spoken by our Lord.

FREDERICK II.

359

FREDERICK II. EMPEROR.

CANZONE. Of his Lady in bondage.

FOR grief I am about to sing, Even as another would for joy ; Mine eyes which the hot tears destroy

Are scarce enough for sorrowing : To speak of such a grievous thing Also my tongue I must employ,

Saying : Woe's me, who am full of woes ! Not while I live shall my sighs cease For her in whom my heart found peace

I am become like unto those That cannot sleep for weariness,

Now I have lost my crimson rose.

And yet I will not call her lost ;

She is not gone out of the earth j

She is but girded with a girth Of hate, that clips her in like frost. Thus says she every hour almost : —

" When I was born, 'twas an ill birth J O that I never had been born.

If I am still to fall asleep

Weeping, and when I wake to weep ;

260 FREDERICK II.

If he whom I most loathe and scorn

Is still to have me his, and keep

Smiling about me night and morn I

" O that I never had been born A woman I a poor, helpless fool, Who can but stoop beneath the rule

Of him she needs must loathe an<? scorn !

If ever I feel less forlorn,

I stand all day in fear and dule,

Lest he discern it, and with rough Speech mock at me, or with his smile So hard you scarce could call it guile :

No man is there to say, ' Enough.' O, but if God waits a long while,

Death cannot always stand aloof I

" Thou, God the Lord, dost know all this : Give me a little comfort then, Him who is worst among bad men

Smite thou for me. Those limbs of his

Once hidden where the sharp worm is, Perhaps I might see hope again.

Yet for a certain period

Would I seem like as one that saith Strange things for grief, and murmnreth

With smitten palms and hair abroad : Still whispering under my held breath,

' Shall I not praise Thy name, O God 1 '

" Thou, God the Lord, dost know all this : It is a very weary thing Thus to be always trembling :

And till the breath of his life cease,

The hate in him will but increase, And with his hate my suffering.

Each morn I hear his voice bid them

FREDERICK 21. 261

That watch me, to be faithful spies

Lest I go forth and see the skies ; Each night, to each, he saith the same : —

And in my soul and in mine eyes There is a burning heat like flame."

Thus grieves she now : but she shall wear This love of mine, whereof I spoke, About her body for a cloak,

And for a garland in her hair,

Even yet : because I mean to prove,

Not to speak only, this my love.

a6a ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA.

ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA.

SONNET. On the Fitness of Seasons.

THERE is a time to mount ; to humble thee A time ; a time to talk, and hold thy peace ; A time to labour, and a time to cease ;

A time to take thy measures patiently ;

A time to watch what Time's next step may be ; A time to make light count of menaces, And to think over them a time there is ;

There is a time when to seem not to see.

Wherefore I hold him well-advised and sage Who evermore keeps prudence facing him, And lets his life slide with occasion ;

And so comports himself, through youth to age, That never any man at any time

Can say, Not thus, but thus thou shouldst have done.

GUIDO GUINICELLI.

GUIDO GUINICELLI. I.

SONNET. Concerning Lucy.

WHEN Lucy draws her mantle round her face, So sweeter than all else she is to see, That hence unto the hills there lives not he

Whose whole soul would not love her for her grace.

Then seems she like a daughter of some race That holds high rule in France or Germany : And a snake's head stricken off suddenly

Throbs never as then throbs my heart to embrace

Her body in these arms, even were she loth ; — To kiss her lips, to kiss her cheeks, to kiss

The lids of her two eyes which are two flames. Yet what my heart so longs for, my heart blames For surely sorrow might be bred from this

Where some man's patient love abides its growth.

264 CU1DO CUIN1CELLI.

n.

CANZONE. Of the Gentle Heart.

WITHIN the gentle heart Love shelters him

As birds within the green shade of the grove. Before the gentle heart, in nature's scheme, Love was not, nor the gentle heart ere Love.

For with the sun, at once, So sprang the light immediately ; nor was

Its birth before the sun's. And Love hath his effect in gentleness

Of very self; even as Within the middle fire the heat's excess.

The fire of Love comes to the gentle heart

Like as its virtue to a precious stone ; To which no star its influence can impart Till it is made a pure thing by the sun :

For when the sun hath smit From out its essence that which there was vile,

The star endoweth it. And so the heart created by God's breath

Pure, true, and clean from guile, A woman, like a star, enamoureth.

In gentle heart Love for like reason is

For which the lamp's high flame is fanned and bow'd : Clear, piercing bright, it shines for its own bliss ;

Nor would it burn there else, it is so proud.

For evil natures meet With Love as it were water met with fire,

CUIDO GUINICELLI. 265

As cold abhorring heat. Through gentle heart Love doth a track divine, —

Like knowing like ; the same As diamond runs through iron in the mine.

The sun strikes full upon the mud all day :

It remains vile, nor the sun's worth is less. " By race I am gentle," the proud man doth say : He is the mud, the sun is gentleness.

Let no man predicate That aught the name of gentleness should have,

Even in a king's estate, Except the heart there be a gentle man's.

The star-beam lights the wave, — Heaven holds the star and the star's radiance.

God, in the understanding of high Heaven,

Burns more than in our sight the living sun : There to behold His Face unveiled is given ; And Heaven, whose will is homage paid to One

Fulfils the things which live In God, from the beginning excellent.

So should my lady give That truth which in her eyes is glorified,

On which her heart is bent, To me whose service waiteth at her side.

My lady, God shall ask, " What daredst thou ?

(When my soul stands with all her acts review'd ;) " Thou passedst Heaven, into My sight, as now, To make Me of vain love similitude.

To me doth praise belong, And to the Queen of all the realm of grace

Who slayeth fraud and wrong." Then may I plead : "As though from Thee he came,

Love wore an angel's face : Lord, if I loved her, count it not my shame."

266 GUIDO GUIN1CELLI

IIL

SONNET. He wilt praise his Lady.

YEA, let me, praise my lady whom I love :

Likening her unto the lily and rose :

Brighter than morning star her visage glows ; She is beneath even as her Saint above ; She is as the air in summer which God wove

Of purple and of vermilion glorious ;

As gold and jewels richer than man knows. Love's self, being love for her, must holier prove. Ever as she walks she hath a sober grace,

Making bold men abashed and good men glad ;

If she delight thee not, thy heart must err. No man dare look on her, his thoughts being base :

Nay, let me say even more than I have said ; —

No man could think base thoughts who looked on her.

CUIDO GUIN1CELLI. *67

IV.

CANZONE. He perctives his Rashness in Love, but has no choice.

I HOLD him, verily, of mean emprise,

Whose rashness tempts a strength too great to bear ; As I have done, alas ! who turned mine eyes Upon those perilous eyes of the most fair.

Unto her eyes I bow'd ; No need her other beauties in that hour

Should aid them, cold and proud : As when the vassals of a mighty lord,

What time he needs his power, Are all girt round him to make strong his sword.

With such exceeding force the stroke was dealt

That by mine eyes its path might not be stay'd ; But deep into the heart it pierced, which felt

The pang of the sharp wound, and waxed afraid ;

Then rested in strange wise, As when some creature utterly outworn

Sinks into bed and lies. And she the while doth in no manner care,

But goes her way in scorn, Beholding herself alway proud and fair.

268 GU1DO GUINICELLL

And she may be as proud as she shall please,

For she is still the fairest woman found : A sun she seems among the rest ; and these

Have all their beauties in her splendour drown'd.

In her is every grace, — Simplicity of wisdom, noble speech, Accomplished loveliness ; All earthly beauty is her diadem,

This truth my song would teach, — My lady is of ladies chosen gem.

Love to my lady's service yieldeth me, — Will I, or will I not, the thing is so, — Nor other reason can I say or see,

Except that where it lists the wind doth blow.

He rules and gives no sign ; Nor once from her did show of love upbuoy

This passion which is mine. It is because her virtue's strength and stir

So fill her full of joy That I am glad to die for love of her.

CU1DO GLIN1CELLI. 269

V.

SONNET. Of Moderation and Tolerance.

HE that has grown to wisdom hurries not,

But thinks and weighs what Reason bids him do And after thinking he retains his thought

Until as he conceived the fact ensue. Let no man to o'erweening pride be wrought,

But count his state as Fortune's gift and due. He is a fool who deems that none has sought

The truth, save he alone, or knows it true. Many strange birds are on the air abroad,

Nor all are of one flight or of one force,

But each after his kind dissimilar : To each was portioned of the breath of God,

Who gave them divers instincts from one source. Then judge not thou thy fellows what they are.

270 GUIDO GUINICELLI.

VI.

»

SONNET. Of Human Presumption.

AMONG my thoughts I count it wonderful, How foolishness in man should be so rife That masterly he takes the world to wife

As though no end were set unto his rule :

In labour alway that his ease be full,

As though there never were another life ; Till Death throws all his order into strife,

And round his head his purposes doth pull.

And evermore one sees the other die,

And sees how all conditions turn to change,

Yet in no wise may the blind wretch be heal'd. I therefore say, that sin can even estrange

Man's very sight, and his heart satisfy

To live as lives a sheep upon the field

GUERZO DI MONTECANTL 271

GUERZO DI MONTECANTI.

SONNET. He is out of heart with his Time.

IF any man would know the very cause

Which makes me to forget my speech in rhyme, All the sweet songs I sang in other time, —

I'll tell it in a sonnet's simple clause.

I hourly have beheld how good withdraws To nothing, and how evil mounts the while : Until my heart is gnawed as with a file,

Nor aught of this world's worth is what it was.

At last there is no other remedy But to behold the universal end ;

And so upon this hope my thoughts are urged

To whom, since truth is sunk and dead at sea, There has no other part or prayer remain'd, Except of seeing the world's self submerged.

272 INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO,

INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO.

CANZONE. He rebukes the Evil of that Time.

HARD is it for a man to please all men : I therefore speak in doubt,

And as one may that looketh to be chid. But who can hold his peace in these days? — when Guilt cunningly slips out,

And Innocence atones for what he did ;

When worth is crushed, even if it be not hid ; When on crushed worth, guile sets his foot to rise ; And when the things wise men have counted wise

Make fools to smile and stare and lift the lid.

Let none who have not wisdom govern you : For he that was a fool

At first shall scarce grow wise under the sun. And as it is, my whole heart bleeds anew To think how hard a school

Young hope grows old at, as these seasons run.

Behold, sirs, we have reached this thing for one The lord before his servant bends the knee, And service puts on lordship suddenly.

Ye speak o' the end ? Ye have not yet begun.

I would not have ye without counsel ta'en Follow my words ; nor meant,

If one should talk and act not, to praise him But who, being much opposed, speaks not again,

INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO. 273

Confesseth himself shent

And put to silence, — by some loud-mouthed mime, Perchance, for whom I speak not in this rhyme.

Strive what ye can ; and if ye cannot all,

Yet should not your hearts fall :

The fruit commends the flower in God's good time.

(For without fruit, the flower delights not God :) Wherefore let him whom Hope

Puts off, remember time is not gone by. Let him say calmly : " Thus far on this road A foolish trust buoyed up

My soul, and made it like the summer fly

Burned in the flame it seeks : even so was I : But now I'll aid myself : for still this trust, I find, falleth to dust :

The fish gapes for the bait-hook, and doth die."

And yet myself, who bid ye do this thing, — Am I not also spurn'd

By the proud feet of Hope continually ; Till that which gave me such good comforting Is altogether turn'd

Unto a fire whose heat consumeth me?

I am so girt with grief that my thoughts be Tired of themselves, and from my soul I loathe Silence and converse both ;

And my own face is what I hate to see.

Because no act is meet now nor unmeet.

He that does evil, men applaud his name, And the well-doer must put up with shame .

Yea, and the worst man sits in the best seat

VOL. II.

274 RINALDO D'AQUINO.

RINALDO D'AQUINO. I.

CANZONE.

He is resolved to be joyful in Lave,

A THING is in my mind, —

To have my joy again, Which I had almost put away from me. It were in foolish kind

For ever to refrain

From song, and renounce gladness utterly. Seeing that I am given into the rule

Of Love, whom only pleasure makes alive,

Whom pleasure nourishes and brings to growth :

The wherefore sullen sloth Will he not suffer in those serving him ;

But pleasant they must seem, That good folk love them and their service thrive ; Nor even their pain must make them sorrowful.

So bear he him that thence

The praise of men be gain'd, — He that would put his hope in noble Love ; For by great excellence Alone can be attain'd

That amorous joy which wisdom may approve. The way of Love is this, righteous and just;

RINALDO D' AQUINO. 275

Then whoso would be held of good account, To seek the way of Love must him befit, —

Pleasure, to wit. Through pleasure, man attains his worthiness :

For he must please

All men, so bearing him that Love may mount In their esteem ; Love's self being in his trust

Trustful in servitude

I have been and will be, And loyal unto Love my whole life through A hundred-fold of good

Hath he not guerdoned me For what I have endured of grief and woe ? Since he hath given me unto one of whom

Thus much he said, — thou mightest seek for aye Another of such worth so beauteous.

Joy therefore may keep house In this my heart, that it hath loved so well.

Meseems I scarce could dwell Ever in weary life or in dismay If to true service still my heart gave room

Serving at her pleasaunce

Whose service pleasureth, I am enriched with all the wealth of Love. Song hath no utterance

For my life's joyful breath Since in this lady's grace my homage throve. Yea, for I think it would be difficult

One should conceive my former abject case : — Therefore have knowledge of me from this rhyme.

My penance-time Is all accomplished now, and all forgot,

So that no jot

Do I remember of mine evil days. It is my lady's will that I exult.

276 RINALDO V AQUINO.

Exulting let me take

My joyful comfort, then,

Seeing myself in so much blessedness.

Mine ease even as mine ache

Accepting, let me gain

No pride towards Love ; but with all humbleness, Even still, my pleasurable service pay. For a good servant ne'er was left to pine : Great shall his guerdon be who greatly bears.

But, because he that fears To speak too much, by his own silence shent,

Hath sometimes made lament, — I am thus boastful, lady ; being thine For homage and obedience night and day.

RINALDO D'AQUINO. 277

IL

CANZONE.

A Lady, in Spring, repents of her Coldness.

Now, when it flowcreth,

And when the banks and fields

Are greener every day,

And sweet is each bird's breath,

In the tree where he builds

Singing after his way, —

Spring comes to us with hasty step and brief,

Everywhere in leaf, And everywhere makes people laugh and play.

Love is brought unto me In the scent of the flower

And in the bird's blithe noise. When day begins to be, 1 hear in every bower

New verses finding voice : From every branch around me and above,

A minstrels' court of love, The birds contend in song about love's joys.

What time I hear the lark And nightingale keep Spring,

My heart will pant and yearn For love. (Ye all may mark

278 RINALDO

The unkindly comforting Of fire that will not burn.)

And, being in the shadow of the fresh wood, How excellently good

A thing love is, I cannot choose but learn.

Let me ask grace ; for I,

Being loved, loved not again.

Now springtime makes me love, And bids me satisfy

The lover whose fierce pain

I thought too lightly of : For that the pain is fierce I do feel now.

And yet this pride is slow To free my heart, which pity would fain move.

Wherefore I pray thee, Love, That thy breath turn me o'er,

Even as the wind a leaf; And I will set thee above

This heart of mine, that's sore

Perplexed, to be its chief. Let also the dear youth, whose passion must

Henceforward have good trust, Be happy without words ; for words bring grief.

JACOPO DA LENTINO.

279

JACOPO DA LENTINO.

SONNET. Of his Lady in Heaven.

I HAVE it in my heart to serve God so That into Paradise I shall repair, — The holy place through the which everywhere I have heard say that joy and solace flow. Without my lady I were loth to go, —

She who has the bright face and the bright hair Because if she were absent, I being there, My pleasure would be less than nought, I know- Look you, I say not this to such intent As that I there would deal in any sin : I only would behold her gracious mien, And beautiful soft eyes, and lovely face, That so it should be my complete content To see my lady joyful in her place.

2So fACOPO DA LENT1NO.

II.

CANZONETTA. Of his Lady, and of her Portrait.

MARVELLOUSLY elate,

Love makes my spirit warm

With noble sympathies : As one whose mind is set Upon some glorious form,

To paint it as it is ; — I verily who bear Thy face at heart, most fair, Am like to him in this.

Not outwardly declared,

Within me dwells enclosed

Thine image as thou art.

Ah ! strangely hath it fared J

I know not if thou know'st

The love within my heart. Exceedingly afraid, My hope I have not said,

But gazed on thee apart.

Because desire was strong, I made a portraiture In thine own likeness, love :

DA LENTINO. a5Jl

When absence has grown long, I gaze, till I am sure

That I behold thee move ; As one who purposeth To save himself by faith,

Yet sees not, nor can prove.

Then comes the burning pain : As with the man that hath

A fire within his breast,— When most he struggles, then Most boils the flame in wrath,

And will not let him rest. So still I burned and shook, To pass, and not to look In thy face, loveliest.

For where thou art I pass, And do not lift mine eyes,

Lady, to look on thee : But, as I go, alas !

With bitterness of sighs I mourn exceedingly. Alas I the constant woe 1 Myself I do not know,

So sore it troubles me.

And I have sung thy praise, Lady, and many times

Have told thy beauties o'er. Hast heard in anyways,

Perchance, that these my rhymes

Are song -craft and no more ? Nay, rather deem, when thou Shalt see me pass and bow, These words I sicken for.

282 /ACOPO DA LENT/NO.

Delicate song of mine,

Go sing thou a new strain :

Seek, with the first sunshine,

Our lady, mine and thine, — The rose of Love's domain,

Than red gold comelier.

" Lady, in Love's name hark To Jacopo the clerk,

Born in Lentino here."

JACOPO DA LENTJNO. 283

III.

SONNET. No Jewel is worth his Lady.

SAPPHIRE, nor diamond, nor emerald,

Nor other precious stones past reckoning, Topaz, nor pearl, nor ruby like a king,

Nor that most virtuous jewel, jasper call'd,

Nor amethyst, nor onyx, nor basalt,

Each counted for a very marvellous thing, Is half so excellently gladdening

As is my lady's head uncoronall'd.

All beauty by her beauty is made dim ; Like to the stars she is for loftiness ;

And with her voice she taketh away grief. She is fairer than a bud, or than a leaf. Christ have her well in keeping, of His grace,

And make her holy and beloved, like Him !

284 JA COPO DA LENTINO.

IV.

CANZONETTA. He will neither boast nor lament to his Lady.

LOVE will not have me cry

For grace, as others do ; Nor as they vaunt, that I

Should vaunt my love to you. For service, such as all Can pay, is counted small ; Nor is it much to praise

The thing which all must know; —

Such pittance to bestow On you my love gainsays.

Love lets me not turn shape As chance or use may strike ;

As one may see an ape Counterfeit all alike

Then, lady, unto you

Be it not mine to sue,

For grace or pitying. Many the lovers be That of such suit are free,—

It is a common thing.

JACOPO DA LENT! NO. 285

A gem, the more 'tis rare,

The more its cost will mount : And, be it not so fair,

It is of more account. So, coming from the East, The sapphire is increased In worth, though scarce so bright ;

I therefore seek thy face

Not to solicit grace, Being cheapened and made slight

So is the colosmine

Now cheapened, which in fame Was once so brave and fine,

But now is a mean gem. So be such prayers for grace Not heard in any place ; Would they indeed hold fast

Their worth, be they not said,

Nor by true lovers made Before nine years be past.

Lady, sans sigh or groan,

My longing thou canst see ; Much better am I known

Than to myself, to thee. And is there nothing else That in my heart avails For love but groan and sigh ?

And wilt thou have it thus,

This love betwixen us ? — Much rather let me die.

JACOPO DA LENT1NO.

V.

CANZONETTA. Of his Lady, and of his making her Likeness.

MY Lady mine,* I send These sighs in joy to thee

Though, loving till the end, There were no hope for me

That I should speak my love ; And I have loved indeed, Though, having fearful heed,

It was not spoken of.

Thou art so high and great That whom I love I fear ;

Which thing to circumstate I have no messenger :

Wherefore to Love I pray, On whom each lover cries, That these my tears and sighs

Find unto thee a way.

Well have I wished, when I

At heart with sighs have ach'd, That there were in each sigh

Spirit and intellect, The which, where thou dost sit,

Should kneel and sue for aid,

Since I am thus afraid And have no strength for it.

* Madonna mia.

JACOPO DA LENTINO. 287

Thou, lady, killest me,

Yet keepest me in pain, For thou must surely see

How, fearing, I am fain. Ah ! why not send me still

Some solace, small and slight,

So that I should not quite Despair of thy good will '

Thy grace, all else above, Even now while I implore,

Enamoureth my love

To love thee still the more.

Yet scarce should I know well- A greater love to gain, Even if a greater pain,

Lady, were possible.

Joy did that day relax

My griefs continual stress,

When I essayed in wax Thy beauty's life-likeness.

Ah ! much more beautiful

Than golden-haired Yseult, — Who mak'st all men exult,

Who bring'st all women dule.

And certes without blame Thy love might fall to me,

Though it should chance my name Were never heard of thee.

Yea, for thy love, in fine, Lentino gave me birth, Who am not nothing worth

If worthy to be thine.

288 JACOFO DA LENTINO.

VI.

SONNET. Of his Lady's face.

HER face has made my life most proud and glad ;

Her face has made my life quite wearisome ;

It comforts me when other troubles come, And amid other joys it strikes me sad. Truly I think her face can drive me mad ;

For now I am too loud, and anon dumb.

There is no second face in Christendom Has a like power, nor shall have, nor has had. What man in living face has seen such eyes,

Or such a lovely bending of the head,

Or mouth that opens to so sweet a smile ? In speech, my heart before her faints and dies,

And into Heaven seems to be spirited ; So that I count me blest a certain while.

fACOPO DA LENTINO. 289

VII.

CANZONE. At the end of his Hope.

REMEMBERING this — how Love

Mocks me, and bids me hoard Mine ill reward that k< eps me nigh to death,— How it doth still behove

I suffer the keen sword,

Whence undeplor'd I may not draw my breath In memory of this thing Sighing and sorrowing, I am languid at the heart

For her to whom I bow,

Craving her pity now, And who still turns apart.

I am dying, and through her —

This flower, from paradise Sent in some wise, that I might have no rest. Truly she did not err

To come before his eyes

Who fails and dies, by her sweet smile possess'd ; For, through her countenance (Fair brows and lofty glance !) I live in constant dule.

Of lovers' hearts the chief For sorrow and much grief, My heart is sorrowful.

'9

290 JA COPO DA L E NT I NO.

For Love has made me weep

With sighs that do him wrong, Since, when most strong my joy, he gave this woe. I am broken, as a ship

Perishing of the song,

Sweet, sweet and long, the songs the sirens know. The mariner forgets, Voyaging in those straits, And dies assuredly.

Yea, from her pride perverse, Who hath my heart as hers, Even such my death must be.

I deemed her not so fell

And hard but she would greet, From her high seat, at length, the love I bring ; For I have loved her well ; — Nor that her face so sweet In so much heat would keep me languishing; Seeing that she I serve All honour doth deserve For worth unparallel'd. Yet what availeth moan But for more grief alone ? O God 1 that it avail'd !

Thou, my new song, shalt pray

To her, who for no end

Each day doth tend her virtues that they grow, — Since she to love saith nay ; —

(More charms she had attain'd Than sea hath sand, and wisdom even so) ; — Pray thou to her that she For my love pity me, Since with my love I burn, —

That of the fruit of love,

While help may come thereof, She give to me in turn.

A1AZZEO DI RICCO. 291

MAZZEO DI RICCO, DA MESSINA. I.

CANZONE. He solicits his Lady's Pity.

THE lofty worth and lovely excellence,

Dear lady, that thou hast, Hold me consuming in the fire of love : That I am much afeared and wildered thence,

As who, being meanly plac'd, Would win unto some height he dreameth ol

Yet, if it be decreed, After the multiplying of vain thought, By Fortune's favour he at last is brought To his far hope, the mighty bliss indeed.

Thus, in considering thy loveliness,

Love maketh me afear'd, — So high art thou, joyful, and full of good ; — And all the more, thy scorn being never less.

Yet is this comfort heard, — That underneath the water fire doth brood,

Which thing would seem unfit By law of nature. So may thy scorn prove Changed at the last, through pity into love If favourable Fortune should permit

292 MAZZEO DI RICCO.

Lady, though I do love past utterance,

Let it not seem amiss, Neither rebuke thou the enamoured eyes. Look thou thyself on thine own countenance,

From that charm unto this, All thy perfections of sufficiencies.

So shalt thou rest assured That thine exceeding beauty lures me on Perforce, as by the passive magnet-stone The needle, of its nature's self, is lured.

Certes, it was of Love's dispiteousness

That I must set my life On thee, proud lady, who accept'st it not. And how should I attain unto thy grace,

That falter, thus at strife To speak to thee the thing which is my thought ?

. Thou, lovely as thou art, I pray for God, when thou dost pass me by, Look upon me : so shalt thou certify, By my cheek's ailing, that which ails my heart.

So thoroughly my love doth tend toward

Thy love its lofty scope, That I may never think to ease my pain ; Because the ice, when it is frozen hard

May have no further hope That it should ever become snow again.

But, since Love bids me bend

Unto thy seigniory,

Have pity thou on me, That so upon thyself all grace descend.

MAZZEO DI RICCO. 293

II.

CANZONE. After Six Years' service Jte renounces his Lady.

I LABOURED these six years

For thee, thou bitter sweet ;

Yea, more than it is meet That speech should now rehearse

Or song should rhyme to thec ; But love gains never aught

From thee, by depth or length ;

Unto thine eyes such strength And calmness thou hast taught,

That I say wearily : —

" The child is most like me, Who thinks in the clear stream

To catch the round flat moon And draw it all a-dripping unto him, — Who fancies he can take into his hand

The flame o' the lamp, but soon

Screams and is nigh to swoon At the sharp heat his flesh may not withstand."

Though it be late to learn

How sore I was posses t,

Yet do I count me blest, Because I still can spurn

This thrall which is so mean.

294 MAZZEO DI RICCO.

For when a man, once sick, Has got his health anew, The fever which boiled through His veins, and made him weak, Is as it had not been. For all that I had seen, Thy spirit, like thy face, More excellently shone Than precious crystals in an untrod place. Go to : thy worth is but as glass, the cheat, Which, to gaze thereupon, Seems crystal, even as one, But only is a cunning counterfeit

Foiled hope has made me mad, As one who, playing high, Thought to grow rich thereby, And loses what he had.

Yet I can now perceive How true the saying is

That says : " If one turn back Out of an evil track Through loss which has been his, He gains, and need not grieve." To me now, by your leave, It chances as to him

Who of his purse is free To one whose memory for such debts is dim. Long time he speaks no word thereof, being loth But having asked, when he Is answered slightingly, Then shall he lose his patience and be wroth.

MAZZEO DI RICCO. 295

III.

SONNET.

Of Self -seeing.

IF any his own foolishness might see As he can see his fellow's foolishness, His evil speakings could not but prove less,

For his own fault would vex him inwardly.

But, by old custom, each man deems that he Has to himself all this world's worthiness ; And thou, perchance, in blind contentedness,

Scorn'st him, yet know'st not what 7 think of tliee.

Wherefore I wish it were so ordered

That each of us might know the good that's his, And also the ill, — his honour and his shame.

For oft a man has on his proper head

Such weight of sins, that, did he know but this, He could not for his life give others blame

296 PANNUCC10 DAL BAGNO*

PANNUCCIO DAL BAGNO, PISANO.

CANZONE. Of his Change through Love.

MY lady, thy delightful high command,

Thy wisdom's great intent, The worth which ever rules thee in thy sway, (Whose righteousness of strength hath ta'en in hand

Such full accomplishment

As height makes worthy of more height alway,) Have granted to thy servant some poor due

Of thy perfection ; who From them has gained a proper will so fix'd,

With other thought unmix'd, That nothing save thy service now impels His life, and his heart longs for nothing else.

Beneath thy pleasure, lady mine, I am :

The circuit of my will, The force of all my life, to serve thee so : Never but only this I think or name,

Nor ever can I fill

My heart with other joy that man may know. And hence a sovereign blessedness I draw,

Who soon most clearly saw That not alone my perfect pleasure is

In this mv life- service :

PANNUCC10 DAL BAGNO. 297

But Love has made my soul with thine to touch Till my heart feels unworthy of so much.

For all that I could strive, it were not worth

That I should be uplift Into thy love, as certainly I know : Since one to thy deserving should stretch forth

His love for a free gift, And be full fain to serve and sit below. And forasmuch as this is verity,

It came to pass with thec That seeing how my love was not loud-tongued

Yet for thy service long'd — As only thy pure wisdom brought to pass, — Thou knew'st my heart for only what it was.

Also because thou thus at once didst learn

This heart of mine and thine, With all its love for thee, which was and is ; Thy lofty sense that could so well discern

Wrought even in me some sign Of thee, and of itself some emphasis, Which evermore might hold my purpose fast.

For lo ! thy law is pass'd That this my love should manifestly be

To serve and honour thee : And so I do : and my delight is full, Accepted for the servant of thy rule.

Without almost, I am all rapturous,

Since thus my will was set To serve, thou flower of joy, thine excellence: Nor ever seems it anything could rouse

A pain or a regret,

But on thee dwells mine every thought and sense ; Considering that from thee all virtues spread As from a fountain-head, —

298 PANNUCCIO DAL DAGNO.

That in thy gift is wisdom's best avail

And honour without fail ;

With whom each sovereign good dwells separate, Fulfilling the perfection of thy state.

Lady, since I conceived Thy pleasurable aspect in my heart,

My life has been apart In shining brightness and the place of truth ;

Which till that time, good sooth, Groped among shadows in a darken'd place

Where many hours ?oO days It hardly ever had rememoered good.

But now my servitude Is thine, and I am full of joy and rest.

A man from a wild beast Thou madest me, since for thy love I lived.

GIACOMINO PUGLIESI. 299

GIACOMINO PUGLIESI, KNIGHT OF PRATO.

L

CANZONETTA. Of his Lady in Absence.

THE sweetly-favoured face She has, and her good cheer,

Have filled me full of grace When I have walked with her.

They did upon that day : And everything that pass'd Comes back from first to last

Now that I am away.

There went from her meek mouth

A poor low sigh which made My heart sink down for drouth.

She stooped, and sobbed, and said, " Sir, I entreat of you

Make little tarrying :

It is not a good thing To leave one's love and go."

But when I turned about

Saying, " God keep you well I *

As she look'd up, I thought Her lips that were quite pale

300 GIACOMINO PUGLIPlSl.

Strove much to speak, but she Had not half strength enough : My own dear graceful love

Would not let go of me.

I am not so far, sweet maid, That now the old love's unfelt

1 believe Tristram had No such love for Yseult :

And when I see your eyes And feel your breath again, I shall forget this pain

And my whole heart will rise.

CI AGO Ml NO FUGUES I, 301

II.

CANZONETTA. To his Lady, in Spring.

To see the green returning

To stream-side, garden, and meadow, - To hear the birds give warning,

(The laughter of sun and shadow Awaking them full of revel,)

It puts me in strength to carol A music measured and level,

This grief in joy to apparel ; For the deaths of lovers are evil.

Love is a foolish riot,

And to be loved is a burden ; Who loves and is loved in quiet

Has all the world for his guerdon. Ladies on him take pity

Who for their sake hath trouble : Yet, if any heart be a city

From love embarred double, Thereof is a joyful ditty.

That heart shall be always joyful ; —

But I in the heart, my lady, Have jealous doubts unlawful,

And stubborn pride stands ready. Yet love is not with a measure.

302 GIACOMINO PUGLIESI.

But still is willing to suffer Service at his good pleasure :

The whole Love hath to offer Tends to his perfect treasure.

Thine be this prelude-music That was of thy commanding ;

Thy gaze was not delusive, —

Of my heart thou hadst understanding.

Lady, by thine attemp'rance

Thou heldst my life from pining :

This tress thou gav*st, in semblance Like gold of the third refining,

Which I do keep for remembrance.

GIACOMINO PUGLIESL 3°3

III.

CANZONE.

Of his dead Lady.

DEATH, why hast thou made life so hard to bear, Taking my lady hence ? Hast thou no whit

Of shame ? The youngest flower and the most fair Thou hast plucked away, and the world wanteth it.

O leaden Death, hast thou no pitying ?

Our warm love's very spring

Thou stopp'st, and endest what was holy and meet ;

And of my gladdening

Mak'st a most woful thing,

And in my heart dost bid the bird not sing That sang so sweet.

Once the great joy and solace that I had Was more than is with other gentlemen : —

Now is my love gone hence, who made me glad. With her that hope I lived in she hath ta'en

And left me nothing but these sighs and tears, —

Nothing of the old years That come not back again,

Wherein I was so happy, being hers.

Now to mine eyes her face no more appears,

Nor doth her voice make music in mine ears, As it did then.

304 CIACOMINO PUG LIE SI.

O God, why hast thou made my grief so deep ?

Why set me in the dark to grope and pine ? Why parted me from her companionship,

And crushed the hope which was a gift of thine ? To think, dear, that I never any more Can see thee as before !

Who is it shuts thee in?

Who hides that smile for whi:h my heart is sore, And drowns those words that I am longing for, Lady of mine ?

Where is my lady, and the lovely face

She had, and the sweet motion when she walk'd ? — Her chaste, mild favour — her so delicate grace —

Her eyes, her mouth, and the dear way she talk'd ? — Her courteous bending — her most noble air — The soft fall of her hair? .... My lady — she to whom my soul

A gladness brought ! Now I do never see her anywhere, And may not, looking in her eyes, gain there

The blessing which I sought.

So if I had the realm of Hungary,

With Greece, and all the Almayn even to France, Or Saint Sophia's treasure-hoard, you see

All could not give me back her countenance. For since the day when my dear lady died From us, (with God being born and glorified,)

No more pleasaunce Her image bringeth, seated at my side, But only tears. Ay me ! the strength and pride Which it brought once.

Had I my will, beloved, I would say To God, unto whose bidding all things bow,

GIACOM1NO PUGLIES1. 305

That we were still together night and day : Yet be it done as His behests allow, do remember that while she remain'd With me, she often called me her sweet friend ;

But does not now,

Because God drew her towards Him, in the end. Lady, that peace which none but Ke can send Be thine. Even so.

VOL. II. 2°

306

FRA GUITTONE &AREZZO.

FRA GUITTONE D'AREZZG. SONNET,

To the Blessed Virgin Mary.

LADY of Heaven, the mother glorified

Of glory, which is Jesus, — He whose death

Us from the gates of Hell delivereth And our first parents' error sets aside : — Behold this earthly Love, how his darts glide —

How sharpened — to what fate — throughout this earth 1

Pitiful Mother, partner of our birth, Win these from following where his flight doth guide. And O, inspire in me that holy love

Which leads the soul back to its origin, Till of all other love the link do fail. This water only can this fire reprove, —

Only such cure suffice for suchlike sin ; As nail from out a plank is struck by nail.

BARTOLOMEO DI SANT' ANGELO. 307

BARTOLOMEO DI SANT ANGELO.

SONNET. He jests concerning his Poverty.

I AM so passing rich in poverty

That I could furnish forth Paris and Rome,

Pisa and Padua and Byzantium, Venice and Lucca, Florence and Foril ; For I possess in actual specie,

Of nihil and of nothing a great sum ;

And unto this my hoard whole shiploads come, What between nought and zero, annually. In gold and precious jewels I have got

A hundred ciphers' worth, all roundly writ ; And therewithal am free to feast my friend. Because I need not be afraid to spend,

Nor doubt the safety of my wealth a whit : — No thief will ever steal thereof, God wot.

3o8 SALADINO DA PAVIA

SALADINO DA PAVIA.

DIALOGUE. Lover and Lady.

SHE.

FAIR sir, this love of ours,

In joy begun so well, I see at length to fail upon thy part : Wherefore my heart sinks very heavily.

Fair sir, this love of ours Began with amorous longing, well I ween : Yea, of one mind, yea, of one heart and will

This love of ours hath been.

Now these are sad and still ; For on thy part at length it fails, I see.

And now thou art gone from me,

Quite lost to me thou art ; Wherefore my heart in this pain languisheth, Which sinks it unto death thus heavily.

HE.

Lady, for will of mine Our love had never changed in anywise,

Had not the choice been thine With so much scorn my homage to despise.

I swore not to yield sign Of holding 'gainst all hope my heart-service.

• SALADINO DA PAVfA. 309

Nay, let thus much suffice : —

From thee whom I have serv'd, All undeserved contempt is my reward, — Rich prize prepar'd to guerdon fealty 1

SHE.

Fair sir, it oft is found That ladies who would try their lovers so,

Have for a season frown'd, Not from their heart but in mere outward show.

Then chide not on such ground, Since ladies oft have tried their lovers so.

Alas, but I will go,

If now it be thy will. Yet turn thee still, alas ! for I do fear Thou lov'st elsewhere, and therefore fly'st from me.

HE.

Lady, there needs no doubt Of my good faith, nor any nice suspense

Lest love be elsewhere sought. For thine did yield me no such recompense,—

Rest thou assured in thought, — That now, within my life's circumference,

I should not quite dispense

My heart from woman's laws, Which for no cause give pain and sore annoy, And for one joy a world of misery.

3io

BONAGGWNTA

BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI, DA LUCCA.

CANZONE. Of the true End of Love ; with a Prayer to his Lady,

NEVER was joy or good that did not soothe

And beget glorying, Neither a glorying without perfect love. Wherefore, if one would compass of a truth

The flight of his soul's wing, To bear a loving heart must him behove. Since from the flower man still expects the fruit, And, out of love, that he desireth ;

Seeing that by good faith Alone hath love its comfort and its joy ; For, suffering falsehood, love were at the root Dead of all worth, which living must aspire ;

Nor could it breed desire If its reward were less than its annoy.

Even such the joy, the triumph, and pleasaunce,

Whose issue honour is,

And grace, and the most delicate teaching sent To amorous knowledge, its inheritance ;

Because Love's properties Alter not by a true accomplishment;

BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI. 311

But it were scarcely well if one should gain, Without much pain so great a blessedness ;

He errs, when all things bless, Whose heart had else been humbled to implore. He gets not joy who gives no joy again ; Nor can win love whose love hath little scope ;

Nor fully can know hope Who leaves not of the thing most languished for.

Wherefore his choice must err immeasurably

Who seeks the image when He might behold the thing substantial. I at the noon have seen dark night to be,

Against earth's natural plan, And what was good to worst abasement fall Then be thus much sufficient, lady mine ; If of thy mildness pity may be born, Count thou my grief outworn, And turn into sweet joy this bitter ill ; Lest I might change, if left too long to pine : As one who, journeying, in mid path should stay,

And not pursue his way, But should go back against his proper will.

Natheless I hope, yea trust, to make an end

Of the beginning made, Even by this sign — that yet I triumph not. And if in truth, against my will constraint,

To turn my steps essay'd, No courage have I, neither strength, God wot Such is Love's rule, who thus subdueth me By thy sweet face, lovely and delicate ;

Through which I live elate, But in such longing that I die for love. Ah ! and these words as nothing seem to be : For love to such a constant fear has chid

My heart that I keep hid Much more than I have dared to tell thee of

312 BONAGGIUNTA URBICIAN1.

II.

CANZONETTA. How he dreams of his Lady.

LADY, my wedded thought, When to thy shape 'tis wrought, Can think of nothing else

But only of thy grace,

And of those gentle ways Wherein thy life excels. For ever, sweet one, dwells Thine image on my sight,

(Even as it were the gem

Whose name is as thy name)* And fills the sense with light.

Continual ponderings

That brood upon these things

Yield constant agony :

Yea, the same thoughts have crept

About me as I slept. My spirit looks at me, And asks, " Is sleep for thee ? Nay, mourner, do not sleep,

But fix thine eyes, for lo !

Love's fulness thou shalt know By steadfast gaze and deep."

* The lady was probably called Diamante, Margherita, or some similar name. (Note to Flor. Ed. 1816).

BON AGG JUNTA URB1CIANI. 313

Then, burning, I awake, Sore tempted to partake Of dreams that seek thy sight :

Until, being greatly stirr'd,

I turn to where I heard That whisper in the night ; And there a breath of light Shines like a silver star.

The same is mine own soul,

Which lures me to the goal Of dreams that gaze afar.

But now my sleep is lost ; And through this uttermost Sharp longing for thine eyes

At length it may be said

That I indeed am mad With love's extremities. Yet when in such sweet wise Thou passest and dost smile,

My heart so fondly burns,

That unto sweetness turns Its bitter pang the while.

Even so Love rends apart My spirit and my heart, Lady, in loving thee ;

Till when I see thee now,

Life beats within my brow And would be gone from me. £o hear I ceaselessly, Love's whisper well fulfill'd —

Even I am he, even so,

Whose flame thy heart doth know : And while I strive I yield.

3M BONAGGIUNTA VRBICIANL

III.

SONNET. Of Wisdom and Foresight.

SUCH wisdom as a little child displays

Were not amiss in certain lords of fame : For where he fell, thenceforth he shuns the place,

And having suffered blows, he feareth them. Who knows not this may forfeit all he sways

At length, and find his friends go as they came. O therefore on the past time turn thy face,

And, if thy will do err, forget the same. Because repentance brings not back the past :

Better thy will should bend than thy life break : Who owns not this, by him shall it appear.

And, because even from fools the wise may make Wisdom, the first should count himself the last,

Since a dog scourged can bid the lion fear.

BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANL

3*5

IV.

SONNET. Of Conjunct in Speech.

WHOSO abandons peace for war-seeking,

'Tis of all reason he should bear the smart. Whoso hath evil speech, his medicine

Is silence, lest it seem a hateful art. To vex the wasps' nest is not a wise thing ;

Yet who rebukes his neighbour in good part, A hundred years shall show his right therein.

Too prone to fear, one wrongs another's heart. If ye but knew what may be known to me,

Ye would fall sorry sick, nor be thus bold

To cry among your fellows your ill thought. Wherefore I would that every one of ye

Who thinketh ill, his ill thought should withhold If that ye would not hear it, speak it not.

3i6 MEO ABBRACC1AVACCA.

MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA, DA PISTOIA.

I.

CANZOJ*.

lie will be silent and watchful in his Love.

YOUR joyful understanding, lady mine,

Those honours of fair life Which all in you agree to pleasantness, Long since to service did my heart assign ;

That never it has strife, Nor once remembers other means of grace ; But this desire alone gives light to it.

Behold, my pleasure, by your favour, drew

Me, lady, unto you, All beauty's and all joy's reflection here :

From whom good women also have thought fit To take their life's example every day ;

Whom also to obey My wish and will have wrought, with love and fear.

With love and fear to yield obedience, I

Might never half deserve : Yet you must know, merely to look on me, How my heart holds its love and lives thereby ;

Though, well intent to serve, It can accept Love's arrow silently.

MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA. 317

'Twere late to wait, ere I would render plain My heart, (thus much I tell you, as I should,)

Which, to be understood,

Craves therefore the fine quickness of your glance. So shall you know my love of such high strain As never yet was shown by its own will ;

Whose proffer is so still, That love in heart hates love in countenance.

In countenance oft the heart is evident

Full clad in mirth's attire, Wherein at times it overweens to waste : Which yet of selfish joy or foul intent

Doth hide the deep desire, And is, of heavy surety, double-faced ; Upon things double therefore look ye twice. O ye that love ! not what is fair alone

Desire to make your own, But a wise woman, fair in purity ; Nor think that any, without sacrifice Of his own nature, suffers service still;

But out of high free-will ; In honour propped, though bowed in dignity.

In dignity as best I may, must I

The guerdon very grand, The whole of it, secured in purpose, sing ? Lndy, whom all my heart doth magnify,

You took me in your hand, Ah ! not ungraced with other guerdoning : For you of your sweet reason gave me rest From yearning, from desire, from potent pain ;

Till, now, if Death should gain Me to his kingdom, it would pleasure me, Having obeyed the whole of your behest.

Since you have drawn, and I am yours by lot,

I pray you doubt me not Lest my faith swerve, for this could never be.

318 MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA.

Could never be ; because the natural heart

Will absolutely build

Her dwelling-place within the gates of truth ; And, if it be no grief to bear her part,

Why, then by change were fill'd The measure of her shame beyond all truth. And therefore no delay shall once disturb My bounden service, nor bring grief to it ;

Nor unto you deceit. True virtue her provision first affords, Ere she yield grace, lest afterward some curb Or check should come, and evil enter ir

For alway shame and sin Stand covered, ready, full of faithful won*

MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA.

II.

BALLATA. His Life is by Contraries.

BY the long sojourning

That I have made with grief, I am quite changed, you see ; — If I weep, 'tis for glee ; I smile at a sad thing ; Despair is my relief.

Good hap makes me afraid ; Ruin seems rest and shade ;

In May the year is old ; With friends I am ill at ease ; Among foes I find peace ;

At noonday I feel cold.

The thing that strengthens others, frightens me.

If I am grieved, I sing ;

I chafe at comforting ; 111 fortune makes me smile exultingly.

And yet, though all my days are thus, — despite

A shaken mind, and eyes

Which see by contraries, — I know that without wings is an ill flight

320 UBALDO Dl MARCO.

UBALDO DI MARCO.

tg

SONNET. Of a Lady's Love for him.

MY body resting in a haunt of mine,

I ranged among alternate memories ;

What while an unseen noble lady's eycj Were fixed upon me, yet she gave no sign ; To stay and go she sweetly did incline,

Always afraid lest there were any spies ;

Then reached to me, — and smelt it in sweet wise, And reached to me — some sprig of bloom or bine. Conscious of perfume, on my side I leant,

And rose upon my feet, and gazed around

To see the plant whose flower could so beguile. Finding it not, I sought it by the scent ;

And by the scent, in truth, the plant I found And rested in its shadow a great while

SIMBUONO CWDICE. 321

SIMBUONO GIUDICE. CANZONE.

He finds that Love has beguiled him, but will trust in his Lady.

OFTEN the day had a most joyful morn

That bringeth grief at last Unto the human heart which deemed all well : Of a sweet seed the fruit was often born ,

That hath a bitter taste : Of mine own knowledge, oft it thus befell. I say it for myself, who, foolishly Expectant of all joy,

Triumphing undertook To love a lady proud and beautiful, For one poor glance vouchsafed in mirth to me : Wherefrom sprang all annoy :

For, since the day Love shook My heart, she ever hath been cold and cruel.

Well thought I to possess my joy complete

When that sweet look of hers I felt upon me, amorous and kind : Now is my hope even underneath my feet.

And still the arrow stirs

Within my heart — (oh hurt no skill can bind !)— Which through mine eyes found entrance cunningly i VOL. ii. 21

322 SIMBUONO GIUDICE.

In manner as through glass

Light pierces from the sun, And breaks it not, but wins its way beyond, — As into an unaltered mirror, free

And still, some shape may pass

Yet has my heart begun To break, methinks, for I on death grow fond.

But, even though death were longed for, the sharp wound

I have might yet be heal'd, And I not altogether sink to death. In mine own foolishness the curse I found,

Who foolish faith did yield Unto mine eyes, in hope that sickeneth. Yet might love still exult and not be sad — (For some such utterance

Is at my secret heart) — If from herself the cure it could obtain, — Who hath indeed the power Achilles had, To wit, that of his lance

The wound could by no art Be closed till it were touched therewith again.

So must I needs appeal for pity now

From her on her own fault, And in my prayer put meek humility : For certes her much worth will not allow

That anything be call'd Treacherousness in such an one as she, In whom is judgment and true excellence. Wherefore I cry for grace ;

Not doubting that all good, Joy, wisdom, pity, must from her be shed ; For scarcely should it deal in death's offence, The so-beloved face

So watched for ; rather should All death and ill be thereby subjected.

SIMBUONO GIUDICE. 323

And since, in hope of mercy, I have bent

Unto her ordinance

Humbly my heart, my body, and my life, Giving her perfect power acknowledgment, —

I think some kinder glance

She'll deign, and, in mere pity, pause from strife. She surely shall enact the good lord's part : When one whom force compels

Doth yield, he is pacified, Forgiving him therein where he did err. Ah I well I know she hath the noble heart Which in the lion quells

Obduracy of pride ; Whose nobleness is for a crown on her.

324 MASOL1NO DA TODI.

MASOLINO DA TODI.

SONNET. Of Work and Wealth.

A MAN should hold in very dear esteem

The first possession that his labours gain'd ;

For, though great riches be at length attain'd, From that first mite they were increased to him. Who followeth after his own wilful whim

Shall see himself outwitted in the end ;

Wherefore I still would have him apprehend His fall, who toils not being once supreme. Thou seldom shalt find folly, of the worst,

Holding companionship with poverty,

Because it is distracted of much care. Howbeit, if one that hath been poor at first

Is brought at last to wealth and dignity, Still the worst folly thou shalt find it there.

ONES TO DI BONCIMA. 32 <{

ONESTO DI BONCIMA, BOLOGNESE. I.

SONNET. Of the Last Judgment*

UPON that cruel season when our Lord

Shall come to judge the world eternally; When to no man shall anything afford

Peace in the heart, how pure soe'er it be ; When heaven shall break asunder at His word,

With a great trembling of the earth and sea ; When even the just shall fear the dreadful sword, -

The wicked crying, "Where shall I cover me?"- When no one angel in His presence stands

That shall not be affrighted of that wrath,

Except the Virgin Lady, she our guide ;— How shall I then escape, whom sin commands ?

Out and alas on me ! There is no path, If in her prayers I be not justified.

326 O&ESTO £>J BONC1MA.

II.

SONNET. He wishes that he could meet his Lady alone.

WHETHER all grace have failed I scarce may scan, Be it of mere mischance, or art's ill sway, That this-wise, Monday, Tuesday, every day,

Afflicts me, through her means, with bale and ban.

Now are my days but as a painful span ;

Nor once " Take heed of dying " did she say. I thank thee for my life thus cast away,

Thou who hast wearied out a living man.

Yet, oh I my Lord, if I were blest no more Than thus much, — clothed with thy humility, To find her for a single hour alone, —

Such perfectness of joy would triumph o'er This grief wherein I waste, that I should be As a new image of Love to look upon.

TERINO DA CASTEL FIORENT1NO. 327

TERINO DA CASTEL FIORENTINO.

SONNET. To Onesto di Boneima, in Answer to the foregoing.

IF, as thou say'st, thy love tormenteth thee,

That thou thereby wast in the fear of death, Messer Onesto, couldst thou bear to be

Far from Love's self, and breathing other breath ? Nay, thou wouldst pass beyond the greater sea

(I do not speak of the Alps, an easy path), For thy life's gladdening ; if so to see

That light which for my life no comfort hath, But rather makes my grief the bitterer :

For I have neither ford nor bridge — no course To reach my lady, or send word to her. And there is not a greater pain, I think,

Than to see waters at the limpid source, And to be much athirst, and not to drink.

323 MAESTRO MIGL20RE.

MAESTRO MIGLIORE, DA FIORENZA.

SONNET. He declares all Love to be Grief.

LOVE taking leave, my heart then leaveth me, And is enamour'd even while it would shun ; For I have looked so long upon the sun

That the sun's glory is now in all I see.

To its first will unwilling may not be

This heart (though by its will its death be won), Having remembrance of the joy forerun :

Yea, all life else seems dying constantly.

Ay and alas ! in love is no relief,

For any man who loveth in full heart, That is not rather grief than gratefulness.

Whoso desires it, the beginning is grief; Also the end is grief, most grievous smart ; And grief is in the middle, and is call'd grace.

DELLO DA S1GNA. 329

DELLO DA SIGNA.

BALL ATA. His Creed of Ideal Love.

PROHIBITING all hope Of the fulfilment of the joy of love, My lady chose me for her lover still.

So am I lifted up

To trust her heart which piteous pulses move, Her face which is her joy made visible.

Nor have I any fear

Lest love and service should be met with scorn, Nor doubt that thus I shall rejoice the more.

For ruth is born of prayer ; Also, of ruth delicious love is born ;

And service wrought makes glad the servitor.

Behold, I, serving more than others, love

One lovely more than all : And, singing and exulting, look for joy There where my homage is for ever paid.

And, for I know she does not disapprove

If on her grace I call,

My soul's good trust I will not yet destroy, Though Love's fulfilment stand prohibited.

330 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. I.

SONNET. To the Guelf Faction.

BECAUSE ye made your backs your shields, it came To pass, ye Guelfs, that these your enemies From hares grew lions : and because your eyes

Turned homeward, and your spurs e'en did the same,

Full many an one who still might win the game In fevered tracts of exile pines and dies. Ye blew your bubbles as the falcon flies,

And the wind broke them up and scattered them.

This counsel, therefore. Shape your high resolves In good King Robert's humour,* and afresh Accept your shames, forgive, and go your way. And so her peace is made with Pisa ! Yea, What cares she for the miserable flesh

That in the wilderness has fed the wolves ?

* See what is said in allusion to his government of Florence by Dante (Parad. C. vin.).

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 33*

II.

SONNET. To the Same.

WERE ye but constant, Guelfs, in war or peace,

As in divisions ye are constant still !

There is no wisdom in your stubborn will, Wherein all good things wane, all harms increase. But each upon his fellow looks, and sees

And looks again, and likes his favour ill ;

And traitors rule ye ; and on his own sill Each stirs the fire of household enmities. What, Guelfs ! and is Monte Catini * quite

Forgot, — where still the mothers and sad wives Keep widowhood, and curse the Ghibellins ? O fathers, brothers, yea, all dearest kins !

Those men of ye that cherish kindred lives Even once again must set their teeth and fight.

* The battle of Monte Catini was fought and won by the Ghibelline leader, Uguccione della Faggiola, against the Floren- tines, August 29, 1315. This would seem to date Folgore's career further on than the period usually assigned to him (about 1260), and the question arises whether the above sonnet be really his.

33» FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINI A NO.

III.

SONNET. Of Virtue.

THE flower of Virtue is the heart's content ;

And fame is Virtue's fruit that she doth bear ;

And Virtue's vase is fair without and fair Within ; and Virtue's mirror brooks no taint ; And Virtue by her names is sage and saint ;

And Virtue hath a steadfast front and clear ;

And Love is Virtue's constant minister ; And Virtue's gift of gifts is pure descent. And Virtue dwells with knowledge, and therein

Her cherished home of rest is real love ;

And Virtue's strength is in a suffering will ; And Virtue's work is life exempt from sin,

With arms that aid ; and in the sum hereof, All Virtue is to render good for ill.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 333

OF THE MONTHS.

TWELVE SONNETS. Addressed to a Fellowship of Sienese Nobles.*

DEDICATION.

UNTO the blithe and lordly Fellowship,

(I know not where, but wheresoe'er, I know, Lordly and blithe,) be greeting ; and thereto,

Dogs, hawks, and a full purse wherein to dip ;

Quails struck i' the flight ; nags mettled to the whip ; Hart-hounds, hare-hounds, and blood-hounds even so ; And o'er that realm, a crown for Niccolo,

Whose praise in Siena springs from lip to lip.

* This fellowship or club (Brigata), so highly approved and encouraged by our Folgore, is the same to which, and to some of its members by name, scornful allusion is made by Dante (Inferno, C. xxix. 1. 130), where he speaks of the hare-brained character of the Sienese. Mr. Cayley, in his valuable notes on Dante, says of it: "A dozen extravagant youths of Siena had put together by equal contributions 216,000 florins to spend in pleasuring; they were reduced in about a twelvemonth to the extremes of poverty. It was their practice to give mutual entertainments twice a-month ; at each of which, three tables having been sumptuously covered they would feast at one, wash their hands on another, and throw the last out of window."

There exists a second curious series of sonnets for the months, addressed also to this club, by Cene della Chitarra d'Arezzo. Hero, however, all sorts of disasters and discomforts, in the same

334 FOLCORE DA SAN GEM INI A NO.

Tingoccio, Atuin di Togno, and Ancaian,

Bartolo and Mugaro and Fae"not, Who well might pass for children of King Ban,

Courteous and valiant more than Lancelot, — To each, God speed ! how worthy every man

To hold high tournament in Camelot.

pursuits of which Folgore treats, are imagined for the prodigals ; each sonnet, too, being composed with the same terminations in its rhymes as the corresponding one among his. They would seem to have been written after the ruin of the club, as a satirical prophecy of the year to succeed the golden one. But this second series, though sometimes laughable, not having the poetical meric of the first, I have not included it.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 335

JANUARY.

FOR January I give you vests of skins,

And mighty fires in hall, and torches lit ;

Chambers and happy beds with all things fit ; Smooth silken sheets, rough furry counterpanes ; And sweetmeats baked ; and one that deftly spins

Warm arras ; and Douay cloth, and store of it ;

And on this merry manner still to twit The wind, when most his mastery the wind wins. Or issuing forth at seasons in the day,

Ye'll fling soft handfuls of the fair white snow Among the damsels standing round, in play :

And when you all are tired and all aglow, Indoors again the court shall hold its sway,

And the free Fellowship continue so.

FEBRUARY.

IN February I give you gallant sport

Of harts and hinds and great wild boars ; and all Your company good foresters and tall,

With buskins strong, with jerkins close and short ;

And in your leashes, hounds of brave report ; And from your purses, plenteous money-fall, In very spleen of misers' starveling gall,

Who at your generous customs snarl and snort.

At dusk wend homeward, ye and all your folk, All laden from the wilds, to your carouse, With merriment and songs accompanied :

And so draw wine and let the kitchen smoke ; And so be till the first watch glorious ;

Then sound sleep to you till the day be wide.

336 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.

MARCH.

IN March I give you plenteous fisheries Of lamprey and of salmon, eel and trout, Dental and dolphin, sturgeon, all the rout

Of fish in all the streams that fill the seas.

With fishermen and fishing-boats at ease,

Sail-barques and arrow-barques, and galleons stout, To bear you, while the season lasts, far out,

And back, through spring, to any port you please.

But with fair mansions see that it be fill'd, With everything exactly to your mind, And every sort of comfortable folk.

No convent suffer there, nor priestly guild :

Leave the mad monks to preach after their kind Their scanty truth, their lies beyond a joke.

APRIL.

I GIVE you meadow-lands in April, fair

With over-growth of beautiful green grass ;

There among fountains the glad hours shall pass, And pleasant ladies bring you solace there. With steeds of Spain and ambling palfreys rani ;

Provencal songs and dances that surpass ;

And quaint French mummings ; and through hollow

brass

A sound of German music on the air. And gardens ye shall have, that every one

May lie at ease about the fragrant place ; And each with fitting reverence shall bow down Unto that youth to whom I gave a crown

Of precious jewels like to those that grace The Babylonian Kaiser, Prester John.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINI A NO. 33;

MAY.

I GIVE you horses for your games in May, And all of them well trained unto the course, — Each docile, swift, erect, a goodly horse ; With armour on their chests, and bells at play Between their brows, and pennons fair and gay ; Fine nets, and housings meet for warriors, Emblazoned with the shields ye claim for yours ; Gules, argent, or, all dizzy at noonday. And spears shall split, and fruit go flying up In merry counterchange for wreaths that drop

From balconies and casements far above ; And tender damsels with young men and youths Shall kiss together on the cheeks and mouths; And every day be glad with joyful love.

JUNE.

IN June I give you a close- wooded fell,

With crowns of thicket coiled about its head, With thirty villas twelve times turreted,

All girdling round a little citadel ;

And in the midst a springhead and fair well

With thousand conduits branched and shining speed, Wounding the garden and the tender mead,

Yet to the freshened grass acceptable.

And lemons, citrons, dates, and oranges, And all the fruits whose savour is most rare,

Shall shine within the shadow of your trees ; And every one shall be a lover there ;

Until your life, so filled with courtesies, Throughout the world be counted debonair.

VOL. II. 23

338 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANQ.

JULY.

FOR July, in Siena, by the willow-tree, I give you barrels of white Tuscan wine In ice far down your cellars stored supine ;

And morn and eve to eat in company

Of those vast jellies dear to you and me ;

Of partridges and youngling pheasants sweet, Boiled capons, sovereign kids : and let their treat

Be veal and garlic, with whom these agree.

Let time slip by, till by-and-by, all day ; And never swelter through the heat at all,

But move at ease at home, sound, cool, and gay ; And wear sweet-coloured robes that lightly fall ;

And keep your tables set in fresh array, Not coaxing spleen to be your seneschal.

AUGUST.

FOR August, be your dwelling thirty towers Within an Alpine valley mountainous, Where never the sea-wind may vex your house,

But clear life separate, like a star, be yours.

There horses shall wait saddled at all hours, That ye may mount at morning or at eve : On each hand either ridge ye shall perceive,

A mile apart, which soon a good beast scours.

So alway, drawing homewards, ye shall tread Your valley parted by a rivulet

Which day and night shall flow sedate and smooth.

There all through noon ye may possess the shade, And there your open purses shall entreat The best of Tuscan cheer to feed your youth.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINI ANO. 339

SEPTEMBER.

AND in September, O what keen delight !

Falcons and astors, merlins, sparrowhawks ;

Decoy-birds that shall lure your game in flocks ; And hounds with bells : and gauntlets stout and tight ; Wide pouches ; crossbows shooting out of sight ;

Arblasts and javelins ; balls and ball-cases ;

All birds the best to fly at ; moulting these. Those reared by hand ; with finches mean and slight ; And for their chase, all birds the best to fly ;

And each to each of you be lavish still

In gifts ; and robbery find no gainsaying ; And if you meet with travellers going by,

Their purses from your purse's flow shall fill ; And avarice be the only outcast thing.

OCTOBER.

NExt, for October, to some sheltered coign

Flouting the winds, I'll hope to find you slunk ; Though in bird-shooting (lest all sport be sunk),

Your foot still press the turf, the horse your groin.

At night with sweethearts in the dance you'll join, And drink the blessed must, and get quite drunk, There's no such life for any human trunk ;

And that's a truth that rings like golden coin 1

Then, out of bed again when morning's come, Let your hands drench your face refreshingly, And take your physic roast, with flask and knife.

Sounder and snugger you shall feel at home Than lake-fish, river-fish, or fish at sea, Inheriting the cream of Christian life.

34° FOLGORE DA SAN GEMIN1ANO.

NOVEMBER.

LET baths and wine-butts be November's due,

With thirty mule-loads of broad gold-pieces ;

And canopy with silk the streets that freeze ; And keep your drink-horns steadily in view. Let every trader have his gain of you :

Clareta shall your lamps and torches send, —

CaeHa, citron-candies without end ; And each shall drink, and help his neighbour to. And let the cold be great, and the fire grand :

And still for fowls, and pastries sweetly wrought,

For hares and kids, for roast and boiled, be sure You always have your appetites at hand ;

And then let night howl and heaven fall, so nought Be missed that makes a man's bed-furniture.

DECEMBER.

LAST, for December, houses on the plain,

Ground-floors to live in, logs heaped mountain-high, And carpets stretched, and newest games to try,

And torches lit, and gifts from man to man :

(Your host, a drunkard and a Catalan ;)

And whole dead pigs, and cunning cooks to ply Each throat with tit-bits that shall satisfy ;

And wine-butts of Saint Galganus' brave span.

And be your coats well-lined and tightly bound,

And wrap yourselves in cloaks of strength and weight, With gallant hoods to put your faces through.

And make your game of abject vagabond Abandoned miserable reprobate

Misers ; don't let them have a chance with you.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMIN1ANO. 341

CONCLUSION.

AND now take thought, my sonnet, who is he

That most is full of every gentleness ;

And say to him (for thou shalt quickly guess His name) that all his 'hests are law to me. For if I held fair Paris town in fee,

And were not called his friend, 'twere surely less.

Ah ! had he but the emperor's wealth, my place Were fitted in his love more steadily Than is Siint Francis at Assisi. Alway

Commend him unto me and his, — not least

To Caian, held so dear in the blithe band. M Folgore da San Geminiano" (say,)

" Has sent me, charging me to travel fast,

Because his heart went with you in your hand

342 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.

OF THE WEEK. SEVEN SONNETS.

DEDICATION.

THERE is among my thoughts the joyous plan To fashion a bright-jewelled carcanet, Which I upon such worthy brows would set.

To say, it suits them fairly as it can.

And now I have newly found a gentleman, Of courtesies and birth commensurate, Who better would become the imperial state

Than fits the gem within the signet's span.

Carlo di Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli,*

Of him I speak, — brave, wise, of just award

And generous service, let who list command And lithelier limbed than ounce or leopard.

He holds not money-bags, as children, holy ; For Lombard Este hath no freer hand.

* That is, according to early Tuscan nomenclature, Carlo, the son of Messer Guerra Ovicciuoli.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMIN1ANO. 343

MONDAY. The Day of Songs and Love.

Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer Departs, and night is gone at last, and day Brings, making all men's spirits strong and gay,

A gentle wind to gladden the new air.

Lo ! this is Monday, the week's harbinger ; Let music breathe her softest matin-lay, And let the loving damsels sing to-day,

And the sun wound with heat at noontide here.

And thou, young lord, arise and do not sleep, For now the amorous day inviteth thee

The harvest of thy lady's youth to reap.

Let coursers round the door, and palfreys, be, With squires and pages clad delightfully ;

And I^ove's commandments have thou heed to keep.

TUESDAY. The Day of Battles.

To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song,

Where beat of drum is heard, and trumpet-blast ;

Where footmen armed and horsemen armed go past, And bells say ding to bells that answer dong ; Where he the first and after him the throng,

Armed all of them with coats and hoods of steel,

Shall see their foes and make their foes to feel, And so in wrack and rout drive them along. Then hither, thither, dragging on the field

His master, empty-seated goes the horse, 'Mid entrails strown abroad of soldiers kill'd ;

Till blow to camp those trumpeters of yours Who noise awhile your triumph and are still'd,

And to your tents you come back conquerors.

344 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.

WEDNESDAY. The Day of Feasts.

AND every Wednesday, as the swift days move,

Pheasant and peacock-shooting out of doors

You'll have, and multitude of hares to course, And after you come home, good cheer enough ; And sweetest ladies at the board above,

Children of kings and counts and senators ;

And comely- favoured youthful bachelors To serve them, bearing garlands, for true love.

And still let cups of gold and silver ware, Runlets of vernage-wine and wine of Greece,

Comfits and cakes be found at bidding there ; And let your gifts of birds and game increase :

And let all those who in your banquet share Sit with bright faces perfectly at ease.

THURSDAY. The Day of Jousts and Tournaments.

FOR Thursday be the tournament prepaid, And gentlemen in lordly jousts compete : First man with man, together let them meet,—

By fifties and by hundreds afterward.

Let arms with housings each be fitly pair'd, And fitly hold your battle to its heat From the third hour to vespers, after meat ;

Till the best-winded be at last declared.

Then back unto your beauties, as ye came : Where upon sovereign beds, with wise control Of leaches, shall your hurts be swathed in bands. The ladies shall assist with their own hands,

And each be so well paid in seeing them That on the morrow he be sound and whole.

FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 3'.5

FRIDAY. The Day of Hunting.

LET Friday be your highest hunting-tide, —

No hound nor brach nor mastiff absent thence, — Through a low wood, by many miles of dens,

All covert, where the cunning beasts abide :

Which now driven forth, at first you scatter wide, — Then close on them, and rip out blood and breath : Till all your huntsmen's horns wind at the death,

And you count up how many beasts have died.

Then, men and dogs together brought, you'll say : Go fairly greet from us this friend and that, Bid each make haste to blithest wassailings. Might not one vow that the whole pack had wings? What ! hither, Beauty, Dian, Dragon, what 1

I think we held a royal hunt to-day.

SATURDAY.

The Day of Hawking.

I'VE jolliest merriment for Saturday : —

The very choicest of all hawks to fly

That crane or heron could be stricken by, As up and down you course the steep highway. So shall the wild geese, in your deadly play,

Lose at each stroke a wing, a tail, a thigh ;

And man with man and horse with horse shall vie, Till you all shout for glory and holiday. Then, going home, you'll closely charge the cook :

" All this is for to-morrow's roast and stew. Skin, lop, and truss : hang pots on every hook.

And we must have fine wine and white bread too, Because this time we mean to feast : so look

We do not think your kitchens lost on you."

346 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMIN2ANO.

SUNDAY. The Day of Balls and Deeds of Arms in Florence.

AND on the morrow, at first peep o' the day

Which follows, and which men as Sunday spell, —

Whom most him liketh, dame or damozel, Your chief shall choose out of the sweet array. So in the palace painted and made gay

Shall he converse with her whom he loves best ;

And what he wishes, his desire express'd Shall bring to presence there, without gainsay. And youths shall dance, and men do feats of arms,

And Florence be sought out on every side From orchards and from vineyards and from farms :

That they who fill her streets from far and wide In your fine temper may discern such charms

As shall from day to day be magnified.

GUIDO DELLE COLONNE. 347

GUIDO DELLE COLONNE.

CANZONE. To Love and to his Lady.

0 LOVE, who all this while hast urged me on, Shaking the reins, with never any rest,— Slacken for pity somewhat of thy haste ;

1 am oppress'd with languor and foredone, — Having outrun the power of sufferance, —

Having much more endured than who, through faith That his heart holds, makes no account of death.

Love is assuredly a fair mischance,

And well may it be called a happy ill : Yet thou, my lady, on this constant sting,

So sharp a thing, have thou some pity still, —

Howbeit a sweet thing too, unless it kill.

O comely-favoured, whose soft eyes prevail, More fair than is another on this ground, — Lift now my mournful heart out of its stour.d,

Which thus is bound for thee in great travail :

For a high gale a little rain may end. Also, my lady, be not angered thou That Love should thee enforce, to whom all bow.

There is but little shame to apprehend

If to a higher strength the conquest be ;

And all the more to Love who conquers all.

Why then appal my heart with doubts of thee ?

Courage and patience triumph certainly.

348 GUIDO DELLE COLONNE.

I do not say that with such loveliness

Such pride may not beseem ; it suits thee well , For in a lovely lady pride may dwell,

Lest homage fail and high esteem grow less :

Yet pride's excess is not a thing to praise. Therefore, my lady, let thy harshness gain Some touch of pity which may still restrain

Thy hand, ere Death cut short these hours and days.

The sun is very high and full of light,

And the more bright the higher he doth ride :

So let thy pride, my lady, and thy height,

Stand me in stead and turn to my delight

Still inmostly I love thee, labouring still

That others may not know my secret smart Oh 1 what a pain it is for the grieved heart

To hold apart and not to show its ill !

Yet by no will the face can hide the soul ; And ever with the eyes the heart has need To be in all things willingly agreed.

It were a mighty strength that should control

The heart's fierce beat, and never speak a word : It were a mighty strength, I say again,

To hide such pain, and to be sovran lord

Of any heart that had such love to hoard.

For Love can make the wisest turn astray ;

Love, at its most, of measure still has least ;

He is the maddest man who loves the best ; It is Love's jest, to make men's hearts alway So hot that they by coldness cannot cool.

The eyes unto the heart bear messages

Of the beginnings of all pain and ease : And thou, my lady, in thy hand dost rule Mine eyes and heart which thou hast made thine own

Love rocks my life with tempests on the deep, Even as a ship round which the winds are blown : Thou art my pennon that, will not go down.

PIER MORONELLl. 349

PIER MORONELLl, DI FIORENZA.

CANZONETTA. A bitter Song to his Lady.

O LADY amorous,

Merciless lady,

Full blithely play'd ye

These your beguilings.

So with an urchin

A man makes merry, —

In mirth grows clamorous,

Laughs and rejoices,—

But when his choice is

To fall aweary,

Cheats him with silence.

This is Love's portion :• —

In much wayfaring

With many burdens

He loads his servants,

But at the sharing,

The underservice

And overservice

Are alike barren.

As my disaster Your jest I cherish, And well may perish, Even so a falcon

350 PIER MORONELLi.

Is sometimes taken And scantly cautell'd ; Till when his master At length to loose him, To train and use him, Is after all gone, — The creature's throttled And will not waken. Wherefore, my lady, If you will own me, O look upon me ! If I'm not thought on, At least perceive me !

0 do not leave me So much forgotten !

If, lady, truly You wish my profit, What follows of it Though still you say so ? — For all your well-wishes /still am waiting.

1 grow unruly,

And deem at last I'm Only your pastime. A child will play so, Who greatly relishes Sporting and petting With a little wild bird : Unaware he kills it, — Then turns it, feels it, Calls it with a mild word, Is angry after, — Then again in laughter Loud is the child heard.

O my delightful My own my lady,

PIER MORONELLI. 35 1

Upon the Mayday Which brought me to you Was all my haste then But a fool's venture ? To have my sight full Of you propitious Truly my wish was, And to pursue you And let love chasten My heart to the centre. But warming, lady, May end in burning. Of all this yearning What comes, I beg you ? In all your glances What is't a man sees ?• — Fever and ague.

352 CIUNCIO FIORENTINO.

CIUNCIO FIORENTINO.

CANZONE.

Of his Love ; with the Figures of a Stag, oj Water, and of an Eagle.

LADY, with all the pains that I can take, I'll sing my love renewed, if I may, well,

And only in your praise. The stag in his old age seeks out a snake

And eats it, and then drinks, (I have heard tell,)

Fearing the hidden ways Of the snake's poison, and renews his youth.

Even such a draught, in truth, Was your sweet welcome, which cast out of me,

With whole cure instantly, Whatever pain I felt, for my own good, When first we met that I might be renew'd.

A thing that has its proper essence changed By virtue of some powerful influence,

As water has by fire, Returns to be itself, no more estranged,

So soon as that has ceased which gave offence :

Yea, now will more aspire Than ever, as the thing it first was made.

Thine advent long delay'd Even thus had almost worn me out of love,

Biding so far above :

But now that thou hast brought love back for me, It mounts too much, — O lady, up to thee.

C1UNCIO FIORENTINO. 353

I have heard tell, and can esteem it true, How that an eagle looking on the sun,

Rejoicing for his part

And bringing oft his young to look there too, — If one gaze longer than another one,

On him will set his heart. So I am made aware that Love doth lead

All lovers, by their need, To gaze upon the brightness of their loves ;

And whosoever moves His eyes the least from gazing upon her, The same shall be Love's inward minister.

VOL. ii. £5

354

RUGGIERI DI AMJCL

CANZONETTA. For a Renewal of Favours.

I PLAY this sweet prelude

For the best heart, and queen Of gentle womanhood,

From here unto Messene ; Of flowers the fairest one ; The star that's next the sun ;

The brightest star of all. What time I look at her, My thoughts do crowd and stir

And are made musical.

Sweetest my lady, then

Wilt thou not just permit, As once I spoke, again

That I should speak of it ? My heart is burning me Within, though outwardly

I seem so brave and gay. Ah ! dost thou not sometimes Remember the sweet rhymes

Our lips made on that day ? —

When I her heart did move By kisses and by vows,

Whom I then called my love, Fair-haired, with silver brows •

RUGGIERI DI AM1CI. 355

She sang there as we sat ; Nor then withheld she aught

Which it were right to give ; But said, " Indeed I will Be thine through good and ill

As long as I may live."

And while I live, dear love,

In gladness and in need Myself I will approve

To be thine own indeed. If any man dare blame Our loves, — bring him to shame,

O God ! and of this year Let him not see the May. Is't not a vile thing, say,

To freeze at Midsummer ?

356 CARNINO GHIBERTI.

CARNINO GHIBERTI, DA FIORENZA.

CANZONE. Being absent from his Lady, he fears Death.

I AM afar, but near thee is my heart ;

Only soliciting

That this long absence seem not ill to thee : For, if thou knew'st what pain and evil smart

The lack of thy sweet countenance can bring, Thou wouldst remember me compassionately. Even as my case, the stag's is wont to be,

Which, thinking to escape His death, escaping whence the pack gives cry,

Is wounded and doth die. So, in my spirit imagining thy shape,

I would fly Death, and Death o'ermasters me.

I am o'erpower'd of Death when, telling o'er Thy beauties in my thought,

I seem to have that which I have not : then I am as he who in each meteor, Dazzled and wildered, sees the thing he sought.

In suchwise Love deals with me among men •-—

Thee whom I have not, yet who dost sustain My life, he bringeth in his arms to me Full oft, — yet I approach not unto thee. Ah ! if we be not joined i' the very flesh,

It cannot last but I indeed shall die

By burden of this love that weigheth so.

CARNINO GHIBEKTI. 357

As an o'erladen bough, while yet 'tis fresh,

Breaks, and itself and fruit are lost thereby, —

So shall I, love, be lost, alas for woe ! And, if this slay indeed that thus doth rive My heart, how then shall I be comforted ? Thou, as a lioness Her cub, in sore distress Might'st toil to bring me out of death alive : But couldst thou raise me up, if I were dead ?

Oh ! but an' if thou wouldst, I were more glad

Of death than life, — thus kept From thee and the true life thy face can bring. So in nowise could death be harsh or bad ; But it should seem to me that I had slept And was awakened with thy summoning. Yet, sith the hope thereof is a vain thing, I, in fast fealty, Can like the Assassin * be, Who, to be subject to his lord in all,

Goes and accepts his death and has no heed : Even as he doth so could I do indeed. Nevertheless, this one memorial — The last — I send thee, for Love orders it. He, this last once, wills that thus much be writ In prayer that it may fall 'twixt thee and me After the manner of Two birds that feast their love Even unto anguish, till, if neither quit The other, one must perish utterly.

* Alluding to the Syrian tribe of Assassins, whose chief was the Old Man of the Mountain.

358 PRINZ2VALLE DORIA.

PRINZ1VALLE DORIA.

CANZONE. Of his Love, with the Figure of a sudden Storm.

EVEN as the day when it is yet at dawning Seems mild and kind, being fair to look upon,

While the birds carol underneath their awning Of leaves, as if they never would have done ; Which on a sudden changes, just at noon,

And the broad light is broken into rain That stops and comes again ;

Even as the traveller, who had held his way Hopeful and glad because of the bright weather, Forgetteth then his gladness altogether;

Even so am I, through Love, alas the day 1

It plainly is through Love that I am so.

At first, he let me still grow happier Each day, and made her kindness seem to grow ;

But now he has quite changed her heart in her.

And I, whose hopes throbbed and were all astir For times when I should call her mine aloud,

And in her pride be proud Who is more fair than gems are, ye may say,

Having that fairness which holds hearts in rule ; —

I have learnt now to count him but a fool Who before evening says, A goodly day.

PRINZIVALLE DORIA. 359

It had been better not to have begun,

Since, having known my error, 'tis too late. This thing from which I suffer, thou hast done,

Lady : canst thou restore me my first state ?

The wound thou gavest canst thou medicate ? Not thou, forsooth : thou hast not any art

To keep death from my heart.

0 lady ! where is now my life's full meed

Of peace, — mine once, and which thou took'st away ? Surely it cannot now be far from day : Night is already very long indeed.

The sea is much more beautiful at rest

Than when the storm is trampling over it. Wherefore, to see the smile which has so bless'd

This heart of mine, deem'st thou these eyes unfit ?

There is no maid so lovely, it is writ, That by such stern unwomanly regard

Her face may not be marr'd.

1 therefore pray of thee, my own soul's wife,

That thou remember me who am forgot. How shall I stand without thee ? Art thou not The pillar of the building cf my life ?

360 RUSTICO DI FILIPPO.

RUSTICO DI FILIPPO I.

SONNET.

Of the making of Master Messerin.

WHEN God had finished Master Messerin,

He really thought it something to have done : Bird, man, and beast had got a chance in one,

And each felt flattered, it was hoped, therein.

For he is like a goose i' the windpipe thin, And like a cameleopard high i' the loins ; To which, for manhood, you'll be told, he joins

Some kinds of flesh-hues and a callow chin.

As to his singing, he affects the crow ; As to his learning, beasts in general ;

And sets all square by dressing like a man.

God made him, having nothing else to do ; And proved there is not anything at all He cannot make, if that's a thing He can.

RUSTICO DI FILIPPO. 361

II.

SONNET. Of the Safety of Messer Fazio.*

MASTI u BERTUCCIO, you are called to account That you guard Fazio's life from poison ill : And every man in Florence tells me still

He has no horse that he can safely mount.

A mighty war-horse worth a thousand pound Stands in Cremona stabled at his will ; Which for his honoured person should fulfil

Its use. Nay, sir, I pray you be not found

So poor a steward. For all fame of yours Is cared for best, believe me, when I say : — Our Florence gives Bertuccio charge of one

Who rides her own proud spirit like a horse ; Whom Cocciolo himself must needs obey ;

And whom she loves best, being her strongest son.

* I have not been able to trace the Fazio to whom this sonnet refers.

RUST1CO Dl FILIffO.

III.

SONNET. Of ' Messer Ugolino.*

IF any one had anything to say

To the Lord Ugolino, because he's

Not staunch, and never minds his promises, Twere hardly courteous, for it is his way. Courteous it were to say such sayings nay :

As thus : He's true, sir, only takes his ease

And don't care merely if it plague or please, And has good thoughts, no doubt, if they would stay. Now I know he's so loyal every whit

And altogether worth such a good word As worst would best and best would worst befit.

He'd love his party with a dear accord If only he could once quite care for it,

But can't run post for any Law or Lord.

* The character here drawn certainly suggests Count Ugolino de' Gherardeschi, though it would seem that Rustico died nearly twenty years before the tragedy of the Tower of Famine.

PUCC1ARELLO DI FIORENZA. 363

PUCCIARELLO DI FIORENZA.

SONNET. Of Expediency.

PAS'S and let pass, — this counsel I would give, — And wrap thy cloak what way the wind may blow ; Who cannot raise himself were wise to know

How best, by dint of stooping, he may thrive.

Take for ensample this : when the winds drive Against it, how the sapling tree bends low, And, once being prone, abideth even so

Till the hard harsh wind cease to rend and rive.

Wherefore, when thou behold'st thyself abased, Be blind, deaf, dumb ; yet therewith none the less Note thou in peace what thou shalt hear and see,

Till from such state by Fortune thou be raised. Then hack, lop, buffet, thrust, and so redress Thine ill that it may not return on thee.

364 ALBERTUCC10 DELLA VIOLA.

ALBERTUCCIO DELLA VIOLA.

CANZONE. Of his Lady dancing.

AMONG the dancers I beheld her dance, Her who alone is my heart's sustenance.

So, as she danced, I took this wound of her ;

Alas ! the flower of flowers, she did not fail. Woe's me 1 I will be Jew and blasphemer

If the good god of Love do not prevail To bring me to thy grace, oh ! thou most fair.

My lady and my lord ! alas for wail ! How many days and how much sufferance ?

Oh ! would to God that I had never seen Her face, nor had beheld her dancing so !

Then had I missed this wound which is so keen — Yea, mortal — for I think not to win through

Unless her love be my sweet medicine ; Whereof I am in doubt, alas for woe 1

Fearing therein but such a little chance.

She was apparelled in a Syrian cloth,

My lady : — oh I but she did grace the same,

Gladdening all folk, that they were nowise loth At sight of her to put their ills from them.

ALBERTUCCIO DELL A VIOLA. 365

But upon me her power hath had such growth

That nought of joy thenceforth, but a live flame, Stirs at my heart, — which is her countenance.

Sweet-smelling rose, sweet, sweet to smell and see, Great solace had she in her eyes for all ;

But heavy woe is mine ; for upon me

Her eyes, as they were wont, did never fall.

Which thing if it were done advisedly,

I would choose death, that could no more appal,

Not caring for my life's continuance.

366 TOMMASO BUZZUOLA.

TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA.

SONNET. He is in awe of his Lady.

EVEN as the moon amid the stars doth shed

Her lovelier splendour of exceeding light, — Even so my lady seems the queen and head

Among all other ladies in my sight. Her human visage, like an angel's made,

Is glorious even to beauty's perfect height ; And with her simple bearing soft and staid

All secret modesties of soul unite. I therefore feel a dread in loving her ;

Because of thinking on her excellence,

The wisdom and the beauty which she has. I pray her for the sake of God, — whereas

I am her servant, yet in sore suspense Have held my peace, — to have me in her care.

NOFFO BONAGUIDA. 367

NOFFO BONAGUIDA.

SONNET. He is enjoined to pure Love.

A SPIRIT of Love, with Love's intelligence, Maketh his sojourn alway in my breast, Maintaining me in perfect joy and rest ;

Nor could I live an hour, were he gone thence :

Through whom my love hath such full permanence That thereby other loves seem dispossess'd. I have no pain, nor am with sighs oppress'd,

So calm is the benignant influence.

Because this spirit of Love, who speaks to me Of my dear lady's tenderness and worth,

Says : " More than thus to love her seek thou not, Even as she loves thee in her wedded thought ;

But honour her in thy heart delicately : For this is the most blessed joy on earth."

368 LIPrO PASCHI DE BARDL

LIPPO PASCHI DE' BARDl.

SONNET. He solicits a Lady's Favours.

WERT thou as prone to yield unto my prayer

The thing, sweet virgin, which I ask of thee,

As to repeat, with all humility, 4 ' Pray you go hence, and of your speech forbear ; Then unto joy might I my heart prepare,

Having my fellows in subserviency ;

But, for that thou contemn'st and mockest me, Whether of life or death I take no care. Because my heart may not assuage its drouth

Nor ever may again rejoice at all

Till the sweet face bend to be felt of man, — Till tenderly the beautiful soft mouth

I kiss by thy good leave ; thenceforth to call Blessing and triumph Love's extremes! ban.

SER PACE, NOTA10 DA FIORENZA. 369

SER PACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA.

SONNET. A Return to I

A FRESH content of fresh enamouring

Yields me afresh, at length, the sense of song, Who had well-nigh forgotten Love so long :

But now my homage he will have me bring.

So that my life is now a joyful thing,

Having new-found desire, elate and strong, In her to whom all grace and worth belong,

On whom I now attend for ministering.

The countenance remembering, with the limbs, She was all imaged on my heart at once Suddenly by a single look at her :

Whom when I now behold, a heat there seems Within, as of a subtle fire that runs

Unto my heai t; and remains burning there.

VOL. n. 24

370 NICCOLQ DEGLI ALD1ZZL

NICCOLO DEGLI ALBIZZI.

PROLONGED SONNET.

WJien the Troops were returning from Milan.

IF you could see, fair brother, how dead beat

The fellows look who come through Rome to-day, —

Black yellow smoke-dried visages, — you'd say They thought their haste at going all too fleet. Their empty victual-waggons up the street

Over the bridge dreadfully sound and sway ;

Their eyes, as hanged men's, turning the wrong way ; And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet. One sees the ribs and all the skeletons

Of their gaunt horses ; and a sorry sight Are the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones.

They are ashamed, and march throughout the night ; Stumbling, for hunger, on their marrowbones;

Like barrels rolling, jolting, in this plight. Their arms all gone, not even their swords are saved ; And each as silent as a man being shaved.

fRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 371

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. I.

BLANK VERSE.* A Virgin declares her Beauties.

Do not conceive that I shall here recount All my own beauty : yet I promise you That you, by what I tell, shall understand All that befits and that is well to know.

My bosom, which is very softly made,

Of a white even colour without stain,

Bears two fair apples, fragrant, sweetly-savoured,

Gathered together from the Tree of Life

The which is in the midst of Paradise.

And these no person ever yet has touched ;

For out of nurse's and of mother's hands

I was, when God in secret gave them me.

These ere I yield I must know well to whom ;

And for that I would not be robbed of them,

I speak not all the virtue that they have ;

Yet thus far speaking : — blessed were the man

Who once should touch them, were it but a little ; —

See them I say not, for that might not be.

* Extracted from his long treatise, in unrhymed verse and in prose, " Of the Government and Conduct of Women " , ( mento e dei Costumi delle Donne)

372 FRANCESCO DA BARBERtNO.

My girdle, clipping pleasure round about,

Over my clear dress even unto my knees

Hangs down with sweet precision tenderly;

And under it Virginity abides.

Faithful and simple and of plain belief

She is, with her fair garland bright like gold ;

And very fearful if she overhears

Speech of herself; the wherefore ye perceive

That I speak soft lest she be made ashamed.

Lo ! this is she who hath for company

The Son of God and Mother of the Son ;

Lo I this is she who sits with many in heaven ;

Lo I this is she with whom are few on earth.

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 373

II,

SENTENZE.*

Of Sloth against Sin.

THERE is a vice which oft

I've heard men praise ; and divers forms it has ,

And it is this. Whereas Some, by their wisdom, lordship, or repute,

When tumults are afoot,

Might stifle them, or at the least allay, —

These certain ones will say, " The wise man bids thee fly the noise of men."

One says, " Wouldst thou maintain

Worship, — avoid where thou mayst not avail ; And do not breed worse ail

By adding one more voice to strife begun."

Another, with this one,

Avers, " I could but bear a small expense,

Or yield a slight defence." A third says this, " I could but offer words."

* This and the three following pieces are extracted from his '•' Documents of Love " (Docutnrnti d Amoti .

374 FRANCESCO DA BARBER1NO.

Or one, whose tongue records

Unwillingly his own base heart, will say, " Til not be led astray

To bear a hand in others' life or death."

They have it in their teeth !

For unto this each man is pledged and bound;

And this thing shall be found Entered against him at the Judgment Day.

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 375

III.

SENTENZE.

Of Sins in Speech.

Now these four things, if thou

Consider, are so bad that none are worse.

First, — among counsellors To thrust thyself, when not called absolutely.

And in the other three

Many offend by their own evil wit.

When men in council sit, One talks because he loves not to be still ;

And one to have his will ;

And one for nothing else but only show.

These rules were well to know, First for the first, for the others afterward.

Where many are repaired

And met together, never go with them

Unless thou'rt called by name. This for the first : now for the other three.

What truly thou dost see

Turn in thy mind, and faithfully report ;

And in the plainest sort Thy wisdom may, proffer thy counselling.

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO.

There is another thing

Belongs hereto, the which is on this wise.

If one should ask advice Of thine for his own need whate'er it be, —

This is my word to thee : —

Deny it if it be not clearly of use : Or turn to some excuse

That may avail, and thou shalt have done well.

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 377

IV.

SENTENZK. Of Importunities and Troublesome Persons.

THERE is a vice prevails

Concerning which I'll set you on your guard ;

And other four, which hard It were (as may be thought) that I should blame.

Some think that still oft/urn —

Whate'er is said — some ill speech lies beneath)

And this to them is death : Whereby we plainly may perceive their sins.

And now let others wince.

One sort there is, who, thinking that they please,

(Because no wit's in these,) Where'er you go, will stick to you all day,

And answer, (when you say,

" Don't let me tire you out!") "Oh never mind —

Say nothing of the kind, — It's quite a pleasure to be where you are 1 "

A second, — when, as far

As he could follow you, the whole day long

He's sung you his dull song, And you for courtesy have borne with it, —

378 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO.

Will think you've had a treat.

A third will take his special snug delight,—

Some day you've come in sight Of some great thought and got it well in view, —

Just then to drop on you.

A fourth, for any insult you've received

Will say he is so grieved, And daily bring the subject up again.

So now I would be fain

To show you }rour best course at all such times ;

And counsel you in rhymes That you yourself offend not in likewise.

In these four cases lies

This help : — to think upon your own affair,

Just showing here and there By just a word that you are listening ;

And still to the last thing

That's said to you attend in your reply,

And let the rest go by, — It's quite a chance if he remembers them.

Yet do not, all the same,

Deny your ear to any speech of weight.

But if importunate The speaker is, and will not be denied,

Just turn the speech aside

When you can find some plausible pretence ;

For if you have the sense, By a quick question or a sudden doubt

You may so put him out

That he shall not remember where he was,

And by such means you'll pass Upon your way and be well rid of him.

FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 379

And now it may beseem

I give you the advice I promised you.

Before you have to do With men whom you must meet continually,

Take notice what they be ;

And so you shall find readily enough

If you can win their love, And give yourself for answer Yes or No.

And finding Yes, do so

That still the love between you may increase.

Yet if they be of these Whom sometimes it is hard to understand,

Let some slight cause be plann'd,

And seem to go, — so you shall learn their will :

And if but one sit still As 'twere in thought, — then go, unless he call.

Lastly, if insult gall

Your friend, this is the course that you should take.

At first 'tis well you make As much lament thereof as you think fit, —

Then speak no more of it,

Unless himself should bring it up again ;

And then no more refrain From full discourse, but say his grief is yours.

330 FKAACESCO DA BARBERINO.

V.

SENTENZE. Of Caution.

SAY, wouldst thou guard thy son,

That sorrow he may shun ?

Begin at the beginning

And let him keep from sinning.

Wouldst guard thy house ? One door

Make to it, and no more.

Wouldst guard thine orchard-wall ?

Be free of fruit to all.

J'AZIO DECLI VBERT1. 381

FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. I.

CANZONE. His Portrait of his Lady, Angiola of Verona.

I LOOK at the crisp golden-threaded hair

Whereof, to thrall my heart, Love twists a net ;

Using at times a string of pearls for bait,

And sometimes with a single rose therein. I look into her eyes which unaware

Through mine own eyes to my heart penetrate ,

Their splendour, that is excellently great, To the sun's radiance seeming near akin, Yet from herself a sweeter light to win. So that I, gazing on that lovely one,

Discourse in this wise with my secret thought j— .

" Woe's me ! why am I not, Even as my wish, alone with her alone, —

That hair of hers, so heavily uplaid,

To shed down braid by braid, And make myself two mirrors of her eyes Within whose light all other glory dies ? "

I look at the amorous beautiful mouth,

The spacious forehead which her locks enclose, The small white teeth, the straight and shapely nose, And the clear brows of a sweet pencilling.

382 FAZIO DEGL1 UBERT1.

And then the thought within me gains full growth,

Saying, " Be careful that thy glance now goes

Between her lips, red as an open rose,

Quite full of every dear and precious thing ; And listen to her gracious answering, Born of the gentle mind that in her dwells,

Which from all things can glean the nobler half.

Look thou when she doth laugh How much her laugh is sweeter than aught else."

Thus evermore my spirit makes avow

Touching her mouth ; till now I would give anything that I possess, Only to hear her mouth say frankly, "Yes."

I look at her white easy neck, so well

From shoulders and from bosom lifted out ;

And at her round cleft chin, which beyond doubt

No fancy in the world could have design'd. And then, with longing grown more voluble,

" Were it not pleasant now," pursues my thought,

" To have that neck within thy two arms caught And kiss it till the mark were left behind ? " Then, urgently : " The eyelids of thy mind Open thou : if such loveliness be given

To sight here, — what of that which she doth hide ?

Only the wondrous ride Of sun and planets through the visible heaven

Tells us that there beyond is Paradise.

Thus, if thou fix thine eyes, Of a truth certainly thou must infer That every earthly joy abides in her."

I look at the large arms, so lithe and round, — At the hands, which are white and rosy too, — At the long fingers, clasped and woven through, Bright with the ring which one of them doth wear.

Then my thought whispers : " Were thy body wound Within those arms, as loving women's do,

FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 383

In all thy veins were born a life made new

Which thou couldst find no language to declare. Behold if any picture can compare With her just limbs, each fit in shape and size,

Or match her angel's colour like a pearl.

She is a gentle girl To see ; yet when it needs, her scorn can rise.

Meek, bashful, and in all things temperate,

Her virtue holds its state; In whose least act there is that gift express'd Which of all reverence makes her worthiest."

Soft as a peacock steps she, or as a stork

Straight on herself, taller and statelier :

'Tis a good sight how every limb doth stir

For ever in a womanly sweet way. " Open thy soul to see God's perfect work,"

(My thought begins afresh,) "and look at her

When with some lady-friend exceeding fair She bends and mingles arms and locks in play. Even as all lesser lights vanish away, When the sun moves, before his dazzling face,

So is this lady brighter than all these.

How should she fail to please, — Love's self being no more than her loveliness ?

In all her ways some beauty springs to view ;

All that she loves to do Fends alway to her honour's single scope ; And only from good deeds she draws her hope."

Song, thou canst surely say, without pretence, That since the first fair woman ever made, Not one can have display'd

More power upon all hearts than this one doth ; Because in her are both Loveliness and the soul's true excellence : — And yet (woe's me !) is pity absent thence ?

384 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL

H.

EXTRACT FROM THE " DITTAMONDO." *

(Lie. iv. CAP. 23.) Of England, and of its Marvels.

Now to Great Britain we must make our way, Unto which kingdom Brutus gave its name What time he won it from the giants' rule. 'Tis thought at first its name was Albion, And Anglia, from a damsel, afterwards. The island is so great and rich and fair, It conquers others that in Europe be, Even as the sun surpasses other stars.

* I am quite sorry (after the foregoing love-song, the original of which is not perhaps surpassed by any poem of its class in existence) to endanger the English reader's respect for Fazio by these extracts from the Diltamondo, or "Song of the World," in which he will find his own country endowed with some astounding properties. However, there are a few fine characteristic sentences, and the rest is no more absurd than other travellers' tales of that day ; while the table of our Norman line of kings is not without some historical interest. It must be remembered that the love- song was the work cf Fazio's youth, and the Dittamondo that of his old age, when we may suppose his powers to have been no longer at their best. Besides what I have given relating to Great Britain, there is a table of the Saxon dynasty, and some surprising facts about Scotland and Ireland ; as well as a curious passage written in French, and purporting to be an account, given by a royal courier, of Edward the Third's invasion of France. I felt

FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 385

Many and great sheep-pastures bountifully Nature has set there, and herein more bless'd, That they can hold themselves secure from wolves. Jet also doth the hollow land enrich, (Whose properties my guide Solinus here Told me, and how its colour comes to it ;) And pearls are found in great abundance too. The people are as white and comely-faced As they of Ethiop land are black and foul. Many hot springs and limpid lountain-heads We found about this land, and spacious plains, And divers beasts that dwell within thick woods. Plentiful orchards too and fertile fields It has, and castle-forts, and cities fair With palaces and girth of lofty walls. And proud wide rivers without any fords We saw, and flesh, and fish, and crops enough. Justice is strong throughout those provinces.

Now this I saw not ; but so strange a thing

It was to hear, and by all men confirm'd,

That it is fit to note it as I heard ; —

To wit, there is a certain islet here

Among the rest, where folk are born with tails,

Short, as are found in stags and such-like beasts.*

half disposed to include these, but was afraid of overloading with such matter a selection made chiefly for the sake of poetic beauty. I should mention that the Dittamondo, like Dante's great poem, is written in tersa rinta ; but as perfect literality was of primary importance in the above extracts, I have departed for once from my rule of fidelity to the original metre.

* Mediaeval Britons would seem really to have been credited with this slight peculiarity. At the siege of Damietta, Coeur-de- Lion's bastard brother is said to have pointed out the prudence of deferring the assault, and to have received for rejoinder from the French crusaders, " See now these faint-hearted English with the tails ! " To which the Englishman replied, " You will need stout hearts to keep near our tails when the assault is made."

VOL. II. 25

386 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL

For this I vouch, — that when a child is freed From swaddling bands, the mother without stay Passes elsewhere, and 'scapes the care of it.

I put no faith herein ; but it is said

Among them, how such marvellous trees are there

That they grow birds, and this is their sole fruit*

Forty times eighty is the circuit ta'en, With ten times fifteen, if I do not err, By our miles reckoning its circumference. Here every metal may be dug ; and here I found the people to be given to God, Steadfast, and strong, and restive to constraint. Nor is this strange, when one considereth ; For courage, beauty, and large-heartedness, Were there, as it is said, in ancient days.

North Wales, and Orkney, and the banks of Thames, Strangoure and Listenois and Northumberland, I chose with my companion to behold.f We went to London, and I saw the Tower

* This is the Barnacle-tree, often described in old books of travels and natural history, and which Sir Thomas Browne classes gravely among his " Vulgar Errors."

•)• What follows relates to the Romances of the Round Table. The only allusion here which I cannot trace to the Mart d' Arthur is one where "Rech" and "Nida" are spoken of: it seems how- ever that, by a perversion hardly too corrupt for Fazio, these might be the Geraint and Enid whose story occurs in the Mabinogion, and has been used by Tennyson in his Idylls of the King. Why Fazio should have "joyed to see" Merlin's stone " for another's love " seems inscrutable ; unless indeed the words "per amor altrui" are a mere idiom, and Merlin himself is meant; and even then Merlin, in his compulsory niche under the stone, may hardly have been grateful for such friendly interest

I should not omit, in this second edition, to acknowledge several obligations, as regards the above extract from the Dittamondo, to the unknown author c.f «=.n acute and kindly article in the Spectator for January iSth, 1862.

FAZIO DF.GLI UBERTL 387

Where Guenevere her honour did defend,

With the Thames river which runs close to it.

I saw the castle which by force was ta'en

With the three shields by gallant Lancelot,

The second year that he did deeds of arms.

I beheld Camelot despoiled and waste ;

And was where one and the other had her birth,

The maids of Corbonek and Astolat.

Also I saw the castle where Geraint

Lay with his Enid ; likewise Merlin's stone,

Which for another's love I joyed to see.

I found the tract where is the pine-tree well,

And where of old the knight of the black shield

With weeping and with laughter kept the pass,

What time the pitiless and bitter dwarf

Before Sir Gawaine's eyes discourteously

With many heavy stripes led him away.

I saw the valley which Sir Tristram won

When having slain the giant hand to hand

He set the stranger knights from prison free.

And last I viewed the field, at Salisbury,

Of that great martyrdom which left the world

Empty of honour, valour, and delight.

So, compassing that Island round and round, I saw and hearkened many things and more Which might be fair to tell but which I hide.

388 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL

III.

EXTRACT FROM THE " DITTAMONDO." (LIB. iv. CAP. 25.)

Of tJie Dukes of Normandy, and thence of the Kings of England, from William the First to Edward the Third.

THOU well hast heard that Rollo had two sons,

One William Longsword, and the other Richard,

Whom thou now know'st to the marrow, as I do.*

Daring and watchful, as a leopard is,

Was William, fair in body and in face,

Ready at all times, never slow to act.

He fought great battles, but at last was slain

By the earl of Flanders ; so that in his place

Richard his son was o'er the people set.

And next in order, lit with blessed flame

Of the Holy Spirit, his son followed him,

Who justly lived 'twixt more and less midway, —

His father's likeness, as in shape in name.

So unto him succeeded as his heir

Robert the Frank, high-counselled and august :

And thereon following, I proceed to tell

How William, who was Robert's son, did make

The realm of England his co-heritage.

* The speaker here is the poet's guide Solinus (a historical and geographical writer of the third century,) who bears the same relation to him which Virgil bears to Dante in the Comnicdia.

FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI 389

The same was brave and courteous certainly, Generous and gracious, humble before God, Master in war and versed in counsel too. He with great following came from Normandy And fought with Harold, and so left him slain, And took the realm, and held it at his will. Thus did this kingdom change its signiory ; And know that all the kings it since has had Only from this man take their origin. Therefore, that thou mayst quite forget its past, I say this happened when, since our Lord's Love, Some thousand years and sixty were gone by.

While the fourth Henry ruled as emperor,

This king of England fought in /nany wars,

And waxed through all in honour and account,

And William Rufus next succeeded him ;

Tall, strong, and comely-limbed, but therewith proud

And grasping, and a killer of his kind.

In body he was like his father much,

But was in nature more his contrary

Than fire and water when they come together ;

Yet so far good that he won fame in arms,

And by himself risked many an enterprise,

All which he brought with honour to an end,

Also if he were bad, he gat great ill ;

For, chasing once the deer within a wood,

And having wandered from his company,

Him by mischance a servant of his own

Hit with an arrow, that he fell and died.

And after him Henry the First was king,

His brother, but therewith the father's like,

Being well with God and just in peace and war.

Next Stephen, on his death, the kingdom seized,

But with sore strife ; of whom thus much be said,

That he was frank and good is told of him.

And after him another Henry reigned,

Who, when the war in France was waged and done.

J90 FAZIO DEC LI UBERTI.

Passed beyond seas with the first Frederick. Then Richard came, who, after heavy toil At sea, was captive made in Germany, Leaving the Sepulchre to join his host. Who being dead, full heavy was the wrath Of John his brother ; and so well he took Revenge, that still a moan is made of it. This John in kingly largesse and in war Delighted, when the kingdom fell to him ; Hunting and riding ever in hot haste.

Handsome in body and most poor in heart,

Henry his son and heir succeeded him,

Of whom to speak I count it wretchedness.

Yet there's some good to say of him, I grant ;

Because of him was the good Edward born,

Whose valour still is famous in the world.

The same was he who, being without dread

Of the Old Man's Assassins, captured them,

And who repaid the jester if he lied.*

The same was he who over seas wrought scathe

So many times to Malekdar, and bent

Unto the Christian rule whole provinces.

He was a giant of his body, and great

And proud to view, and of such strength of soul

As never saddens with adversity.

His reign was long; and when his death befell, The second Edward mounted to the throne, Who was of one kind with his grandfather. I say from what report still says of him, That he was evil, of base intellect, And would not be advised by any man^ Conceive, good heart ! that how to thatch a root With straw, — conceive ! — he held himself expert,

* This may either refer to some special incident or merely mean generally that he would not suffer lying even in a jester.

FAZIO D£GL1 UBERTL 391

And therein constantly would take delight I By fraud he seized the Earl of Lancaster, And what he did with him I say not here, But that he left him neither town nor tower. And thiswise, step by step, thou mayst perceive That I to the third Edward have advanced, Who now lives strong and full of enterprise, And who already has grown manifest For the best Christian known of in the world. Thus I have told, as thou wouldst have me tell, The race of William even unto the end.

392 FRANCO SACCHETTL

FRANCO SACCHETTL I.

BALLATA. His Talk with certain Peasant-girh.

" YE graceful peasant-girls and mountain-maids, Whence come ye homeward through these evening shades ? "

" We come from where the forest skirts the hill ;

A very little cottage is our home, Where with our father and our mother still

We live, and love our life, nor wish to roam.

Back every evening from the field we come And bring with us our sheep from pasturing there."

" Where, tell me, is the hamlet of your birth, Whose fruitage is the sweetest by so much ?

Ye seem to me as creatures worship-worth, The shining of your countenance is such. No gold about your clothes, coarse to the touch,

Nor silver ; yet with such an angel's air !

" I think your beauties might make great complaint Of being thus shown over mount and dell ;

Because no city is so excellent

But that your stay therein were honourable. In very truth, now, does it like ye well

To live so poorly on the hill-side here ? "

FRANCO SACCHETTL 393

" Better it liketh one of us, pardie,

Behind her flock to seek the pasture-stance,

Far better than it liketh one of ye To ride unto your curtained rooms and dance. We seek no riches, neither golden chance

Save wealth of flowers to weave into our hair."

Ballad, if I were now as once I was,

I'd make myself a shepherd on some hill,

And, without telling any one, would pass

Where these girls went, and follow at their will ; And " Mary " and " Martin " we would murmur still,

And I would be for ever where they were.

39* f£ANCO SACCUETTL

II.

CATCH. On a Fine Day.

* BE stirring, girls ! we ought to have a ruu :

Look, did you ever see so fine a day ?

Fling spindles right away,

And rocks and reels and wools : Now don't be fools, — To-day your spinning's done. Up with you, up with you ! " So, one by one,

They caught hands, catch who can,

Then singing, singing, to the river they ran,

They ran, they ran To the river, the river ;

And the merry-go-round

Carries them at a bound To the mill o'er the river. " Miller, miller, miller, Weigh me this lady And this other. Now, steady t * " You weigh a hundred, you, And this one weighs two." " Why, dear, you do get stout 1 " " You think so, dear, no doubt : Are you in a decline ? " " Keep your temper, and I'll keep mine.

Ff.ANCO SACCHETTI.

395

Come, girls," ("O thank you, miller 1") " We'll go home when you will." So, as we crossed the hill, A clown came in great grief Crying, " Stop thief ! stop thief !

0 what a wretch I am ! " "Well, fellow, here's a clatter I Well, whaf s the matter ? "

" O Lord, O Lord, the wolf has got my lamb ! " Now at that word of woe, The beauties came and clung about me so

That if wolf had but shown himself, maybe

1 too had caught a lamb that fled to me.

39« FRANCO SACCHETTL

IIL

CATCH.

On a Wet Day.

As I walked thinking through a little grove,

Some girls that gathered flowers came passing me, Saying, " Look here ! look there I " delightedly.

" O here it is ! " " What's that ? " "A lily, love."

" And there are violets ! "

" Further for roses ! Oh the lovely pets —

The darling beauties I Oh the nasty thorn !

Look here, my hand's all torn I "

" What's that that jumps ? " " Oh don't 1 it's a grass- hopper 1 "

" Come run, come run,

Here's bluebells ! " " Oh what fun I "

" Not that way ! Stop her ! "

" Yes, this way ! " " Pluck them, then ! "

" Oh, I've found mushrooms ! Oh look here ! " " Oh, I'm

Quite sure that further on we'll get wild thyme."

" Oh we shall stay too long, it's going to rain !

There's lightning, oh there's thunder 1 "

" Oh shan't we hear the vesper-bell, 1 wonder ? "

" Why, it's not nones, you silly little thing ;

And don't you hear the nightingales that sing

Fly away O die away ? "

" O I hear something ! Hush 1"

FRANCO SACCHETTI. -397

"Why, where? what is it then ?" "Ah! in that bush!"

So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it,

Till with the stir they make

Out skurries a great snake.

" O Lord ! O me ! Alack ! Ah me ! alack ! "

They scream, and then all run and scream again,

And then in heavy drops down comes the rain.

Each running at the other in a fright,

Each trying to get before the other, and crying,

And flying, stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right ;

One sets her knee

There where her foot should be ;

One has her hands and dress

All smothered up with mud in a fine mess ;

And one ge*s trampled on by two or three.

What's gatnered is let fall

About the wood and not picked up at all.

The wreaths of flowers -ire scattered on the ground ,

And still as screaming hustling without rest

They run this way and that and round and round,

She thinks herself in luck who runs the best. \|

I stool* quite still to have a perfect view, And never noticed till I got wet through.

393 ANONYMOUS POEMS.

ANONYMOUS POEMS.

SONNET.

A Lady laments for her lost Lover, by similitude of a Falcon.

ALAS for me, who loved a falcon well !

So well I loved him, I was nearly dead :

Ever at my low call he bent his head, And ate of mine, not much, but all that fell. Now he has fled, how high I cannot tell,

Much higher now than ever he has fled,

And is in a fair garden housed and fed ; Another lady, alas ! shall love him well. O my own falcon whom I taught and rear'd !

Sweet bells of shining gold I gave to thee That in the chase thou shouldst not be afeard.

Now thou hast risen like the risen sea, Broken thy jesses loose, and disappeared,

As soon as thou wast skilled in falconry.

ANONYMOUS POEMS.

399

II.

BAI.LATA. One speaks of the Beginning of his Love.

THIS fairest one of all the stars, whose flame, For ever lit, my inner spirit fills, Came to me first one day between the hills. I wondered very much ; but God the Lord Said, " From Our Virtue, lo ! this light is pour'd." So in a dream it seemed that I was led By a great Master to a garden spread With lilies underfoot and overhead.

III.

BALLATA. One speaks of his False Lady.

WHEN the last greyness dwells throughout the air,

And the first star appears, Appeared to me a lady very fair. I seemed to know her well by her sweet air ;

And, gazing, I was hers.

To honour her, I followed her : and then «... Ah ! what thou givest, God give thee again, Whenever thou remain'st as I remain.

400 ANONYMOUS POEMS.

IV.

BALLATA.

One speaks of his Feigned and Real Love.

FOR no love borne by me, Neither because I care To find that thou art fair,-— To give another pain I gaze on thee.

And now, lest such as thought that thou couldst move

My heart, should read this verse, I will say here, another has my love.

An angel of the spheres

She seems, and I am hers ;

Who has more gentleness

And owns a fairer face Than any woman else, — at least, to me.

Sweeter than any, more in all at ease,

Lighter and lovelier. Not to disparage thee ; for whoso sees

May like thee more than her.

This vest will one prefer

And one another vest.

To me she seems the best, And I am hers, and let what will be, be,

For no love borne by me, Neither because I care To find that thou art fair, — To give another pain, I gaze on thee.

ANONYMOUS POEMS.

V.

BALLATA. Of True and False Singing.

A LITTLE wild bird sometimes at my ear Sings his own verses very clear :

Others sing louder that I do not hear.

For singing loudly is not singing well ; But ever by the song that's soft and low

The master-singer's voice is plain to tell. Few have it and yet all are masters now,

And each of them can trill out what he calls

His ballads, canzonets, and madrigals.

The world with masters is so covered o'er,

There is no room for pupils any more.

END OF DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

VOL. II. 26

TRANSLATIONS

FROM THE

ITALIAN, GERMAN, FRENCH, AND GREEK.

405

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

DANTE.

WHEN I made answer, I began : " Alas !

How many sweet thoughts and how much desire Led these two onward to the dolorous pass ! "

Then turned to them, as who would fain inquire, And said : " Francesca, these thine agonies

Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire : But tell me, — in the season of sweet sighs,

When and what way did Love instruct you so That he in your vague longings made you wise ? "

Then she to me : " There is no greater woe Than the remembrance brings of happy days

In misery ; and this thy guide doth know. But if the first beginnings to retrace

Of our sad love can yield thee solace here, So will I be as one that weeps and says.

One day we read, for pastime and sweet cheer, Of Lancelot, how he found Love tyrannous :

We were alone and without any fear. Our eyes were drawn together, reading thus,

Full oft, and still our cheeks would pale and glow ; But one sole point it was that conquered us.

For when we read of that great lover, how He kissed the smile which he had longed to win,

Then he whom nought can sever from me now For ever, kissed my mouth, all quivering.

A Galahalt was the book, and he that writ : Upon that day we read no more therein."

406 LA P1A.

At the tale told, while one soul uttered it, The other wept : a pang so pitiable

That I was seized, like death, in swooning-fit, And even as a dead body falls, I fell.

LA PIA,

DANTE.

" AH when on earth thy voice again is heard, And thou from the long road hast rested thee,"

After the second spirit said the third, " Remember me who am La Pia. Me

Siena, me Maremma, made, unmade.

He knoweth this thing in his heart — even he

With whose fair jewel I was ringed and wed."

407

CAPITOLO :

A. M. SALVINI TO FRANCESCO REDI, l6 — .

KNOW then, dear Redi, (sith thy gentle heart

Would read my riddle and my mystery,) — That I am thinking from men's thoughts apart ;

And that I learn deeper theology While my soul travails over Dante's page,

Than with long study in the schools might be. Many and many things, holy and sage,

To the dim mind his mighty words unveil, Thralling it with a welcome vassalage :

Nor doth his glorious lamp flicker or fail By reason of that vapoury shrouding strange,

Which in like argument may much prevail. Through old and trodden paths he scorned to range ;

He took the leap of Chaos ; — high, and low, And to the middle region's state of change.

Bright things, and dubious things, and things of woe, Thence to the mind he spake with pictured speech,

Making the tongue cry out, "They must be sol" The how and wherefore will be told of each ;

And that his soul might take its flight and roam, Beatrice gave him wings of boundless reach.

O hallowed breast, the Muses' chosen home, Blest be the working of thy steadfast aim,

And blest thy fancy through all tim-e to come, Which whispers now, and now with words of flame

Like sudden thunder makes the heart to pause ; Whence laurel to thy brow and myrtle came.

For in love-speaking, so to love's sweet laws Thy verse is subject, that no truer truth

From passion's store the stricken spirit draws.

408 SALVINIS CAPITOLO.

But pent in Hell's huge coil, for pity and ruth

Thy voice is slow and broken and profound, To the harsh echoes singing sorrowful sooth ;

And thy steps stumble in the weary bound ; — Of that dim maze where nothing is that shines

Stalking the desolate circles round and round. Then through the prisoned air which sobs and pines

With Purgatorial grief, up dost thou soar To Paradise, on the sun's dazzling lines.

There all the wonders thou dost reckon o'er Of that great Joy that never waxeth old, —

A mighty hearing seldom heard before. To us by thee pleasures and woes are told,

What path to fly from, in whose steps to tread, That from man's mind the veil may be unrolled.

But oh ! thine angry tones, awful and dread, What time God puts the thunder in thy mouth,

Upon His foes the righteous wrath to shed ! Then, then thy thoughts are of a mighty growth ; —

Then does the terror of His holy curse Hurtle from East to West, from North to South ; —

Then heavy sorrow 'ginn'st thou to rehearse ; — Then Priests and Princes tremble and are pale,

More than with ague shaken at thy verse. Though in thy praise all human praises fail,

Even of the few who love thee and who bless, — The scoffing of the herd shall not prevail.

Thy words are weights, under whose mighty stress Tyrants and evil men shall shrink and quail ;

True seeds of an undying perfectness.

THE LEAF.

LEOPARDI.

" TORN from your parent bough, Poor leaf all withered now,

Where go you ? " "I cannot tell. Storm-stricken is the oak-tree

Where I grew, whence I fell. Changeful continually,

The zephyr and hurricane Since that day bid me flee From deepest woods to the lea,

From highest hills to the plain. Where the wind carries me

I go without fear or grief: I go whither each one goes, — Thither the leaf of the rose

And thither the laurel-leaf."

4io

FROM NICCOLt) TOMMASEO. I.— THE YOUNG GIRL.

EVEN as a child that weeps, Lulled by the love it keeps, My grief lies back and sleeps.

Yes, it is Love bears up

My soul on his spread wings,

Which the days would else chafe out With their infinite harassings. To quicken it, he brings

The inward look and mild

That thy face wears, my child.

As in a gilded room

Shines 'mid the braveries Some wild-flower, by the bloom

Of its delicate quietness

Recalling the forest-trees In whose shadow it was, And the water and the green grass : —

Even so, 'mid the stale loves

The city prisoneth, Thou touchest me gratefully,

Like Nature's wholesome breath :

Thy heart nor hardeneth In pride, nor putteth on Obeisance not its own.

THE YOUNG GIRL. 411

Not thine the skill to shut

The love up in thine heart, Neither to seem more tender,

Less tender than thou art.

Thou dost not hold apart In silence when thy joys Most long to find a voice.

Let the proud river-course,

That shakes its mane and champs,

Run between marble shores By the light of many lamps, While all the ooze and the damps

Of the city's choked-up ways

Make it their draining-place.

Rather the little stream

For me ; which, hardly heard, Unto the flower, its friend,

Whispers as with a word.

The timid journeying bird Of the pure drink that flows Takes but one drop, and goes.

412

II.— A FAREWELL.

I SOOTHED and pitied thee : and for thy lips, — A smile, a word (sure guide To love that's ill to hide !) Was all I had thereof.

Even as an orphan boy, whom, sore distress'd,

A gentle woman meets beside the road And takes him home with her, — so to thy breast Thou didst take home my image : pure abode ! 'Twas but a virgin's dream. This heart bestow'd Respect and piety And friendliness on thee : But it is poor in love.

No, I am not for thee. Thou art too new,

I am too old, to the old beaten way. The griefs are not the same which grieve us two : Thy thought and mine lie far apart to-day. Less than I wish, more than I hope, alway Are heart and soul in thee. Thou art too much for me, Sister, and not enough.

A better and a fresher heart than mine

Perchance may meet thee ere thy youth be told ; Or, cheated by the longing that is thine,

Waiting for life perchance thou shalt wax old. Perchance the time may come when I may hold It had been best for me To have had thy ministry On the steep path and rough.

4«3

POEMS BY FRANCESCO AND GAETANO POLIDORI.

// Losario : Poema Eroico Romanesco, di Ser FRANCESCO POLIDORI. Messo in luce, coll' aggiunta di Tre Canti, da GAETANO POLIDORI, suo nipote. Firenze e Londra. [Losario: a Poetic Romance. By Ser FRANCESCO POLIDORI. Now first published, with the addition of Three Cantos, by his nephew, GAETANO POLIDORI. Florence and London.]

IT is so rarely that the reviewer nowadays has to cope with anything even remotely resembling an epic, that when such a work does happen to fall in his way he is apt to consider the perusal of it as an achievement almost worthy to form the subject of a poem of equal pretensions. Nor is it in all moods that he would so much as attempt the task ; for indeed we fear it might almost be said of Homer himself that only when that great man is found nodding could he count safely upon the " used-up " energies of a modern critic as being in perfectly sympathetic relation with him.

The poem whose title and genealogy head our present article is not, however, a direct descendant from the great epic stock, but rather belonging to that illegitimate line which claims Ariosto for its ancestor — a bastard, for the matter of that, with a dash of the Falconbridge humour in him, and not at all disposed to yield the hereditary lion's skin to any that has not strength to keep it. Or perhaps, on some accounts, the author of Losario would have preferred to trace the pedigree of his work through Tasso's branch of the heroic family, which, if more legitimate, has yet always seemed to us to be less akin to the parent stock in vigour than is the misbegotten

4i4 POEMS BY F. AND G. POLIDORL

fire of Ariosto ; and, indeed, almost liable now and then to that irreverent imputation of being " got betwixt sleep and wake." Au reste, we can assure the reader that, whatever may have been the balance of our author's pre- dilections, his poem of Losario is a perfect cornucopia of marvellous adventure ; where kings' sons are dethroned and reinstated ; where usurpers, in the hour of triumph, find themselves cloven to the chine ; where the unjustifi- able lives of dragons are held on the most perilous tenure ; where the gods themselves are the " medium " of pro- phecy ; and where the valour of the hero is unsurpassed, except perhaps by that of his lady — the love here being not only platonic, but generally having Mars for a Cupid.

Before proceeding to give a translated extract from the poem, we need merely premise regarding its author, Ser Francesco Polidori (the Ser being a legal title), that he was born in the year 1720, at Ponledera, in Tuscany ; that he followed the profession of the law, in which, however, his natural goodness of heart appears to have interfered with his success; and that he died in 1773. Losario, which seems to have been his only considerable work, after remaining in the limbo of manuscript for about a century, now at length sees the light under the auspices of a nonagenarian descendant ; for such, as may be gathered from the preface, is now the venerable age of its editor, of whom we shall have more to say anon.

The following extract is taken from a passage of the poem where Prince Losario and his friend Antasete are informed by a river-nymph of the means whereby they may succeed in destroying a dragon which troubles her dominion : —

Silent, she lifted softly through the wave All her divine white bosom ; seeming there

As when Aurora, freed from night's dull cave, Fills full of roses the sweet morning air ;

Then, with a hand more white than snows which pave The Alps, upon their brows that water clear

She shook ; and, to the immediate summons sent,

The monster's presence stirr'd the element.

POEMS BY F. AND G. POLIDOKI. 415

And the banks shudder*d, and the sky grew dark, As the dark river heaved with that obscene

Infamous bulk : the while each knight, to mark His 'vantage, hover'd, stout in heart and mien,

Around it. Watchful were their eyes, and stark Losario's onset ; and yet weak, I ween,

Against the constant spray of fire and smoke,

Which from the dragon's lips and nostrils broke.

Blinded and baffled by the hideous rain,

And stunn'd with gnashing fangs and scourged with claws, Still brave Losario toils, but spends in vain

His strength against the dragon without pause ; Till at the last, one mighty stroke amain

Within the nether rack of those foul jaws He dealt. Then fume and flame together ceased At once ; and on the palpitating beast

The champion fell with his strong naked hands ;

And right and left such iron blows struck he On that hard front, that far across the sands

The deep woods utter'd echoes heavily ; A noise like that when some broad roof withstands

The hail-clouds under which the cattle flee. But when at length those open jaws emit A flickering tongue, the prince lays hold on it.

Then Antasete, who by the creature's flank

Still watch'd, obedient to the nymph, did rouse

His strength, and up the rugged loins that stank Clomb on its neck, and bit it in the brows.

Straight as his teeth within the forehead sank, Those execrable limbs fell ponderous ;

And from the wound such spilth of gore was shed,

That lips, and chin, and fingers, were all red.

(Canto 3, st. 28, et seq.)

There is movement in the above description, and the bloody work is done with an appropriately savage relish. Nor is this, perhaps, the best passage which we could have taken from the poem ; but its episodical character recommended it to extract.

Having said thus much of Losario and its author, we shall add, before we conclude, some little regarding its editor, whose own poetical works (and he has written much) we have been looking over at the same time with

4i6 POEMS BY F. AND G. POLIDORI.

this his last publication ; which, moreover, as its title-page indicates, owes its concluding cantos to his hand.

We have said above that Mr. Polidori is now in his ninetieth year ; and we find, by the preface to his collected poems, that sixty of these years have been spent in England. Nor has his sojourn here been without results : having led apparently to an extensive acquaintance with our literature, and induced him probably to undertake his excellent translation of Milton's works, whose value has been acknowledged both here and in his own country. Among his other labours as a translator, the version of Lucan's Pharsalia deserves high praise, and has obtained it in many quarters. To him also the student of Milton is indebted for the modern republication of that very rare work the Angeleida of Valvasoni ; accompanied by a valuable dissertation regarding its claims to have sug- gested in any degree the structure of the Paradise Lost. We may add that Mr. Polidori was the father of the late Dr. Polidori, who wrote the Vampyre, erroneously attri- buted to Lord Byron ; and that he is the father-in-law of Professor Rossctti, celebrated among the patriotic poets of his country, and in the selva oscura of Dantesque criticism.

We gather from the preface to Mr. Polidori's original poems, that during four years of his youth he was secretary to that Byron of the classic school, or Racine of romanticism, " rejected by both," — the great Alfieri ; a strange kind of prodigal-ascetic, suggesting fantastic com- binations ; of whom one might say that he seemed bent on carrying on simultaneously the two phases of Timon's career, and "throwing in" Shakspeare paretrenne. In this preface are many most curious anecdotes, exhibiting the stoical pretensions and childish self-will, the republican- ism and brutal arrogance, the euphuistic woman-worship and private unmanliness (for none of these terms are too harsh), which were among the contradictions that made up this unchivalrous troubadour. Some of these scraps from the unacted biography of one who was seldom

POEMS BY F. AND G. POLIDORI. 417

behind the scenes, we would willingly extract for our readers ; but, indeed, they should rightly be read to- gether. We, therefore prefer translating a couple of specimens from the poems in Mr. Polidori's volume.

The following passage occurs in the second of two poems entitled "La Fantasia" and "II Disinganno;" which may be translated "Fantasy" and "Disenchantment," or perhaps more properly, "Illusion" and "Experience." The joint theme seems to us admirably chosen, and its execution highly successful.

WINTER.

In this dead winter season now, Whose rigid sky is like a corpse, Awhile beneath some naked bough Here let me stand, beholding how The frost all earthly life absorbs.

Yet fair the sky with clouds o'erspread,

As in grey mantle garmented ;

While hastily or placidly

The snow's white flakes descend to clothe

The pleasant world and all its growth.

And passing fair it is to see

How hills and multitudinous woods,

And trees alone in solitudes,

Accept the white shroud silently;

And I have watch'd and deem'd it fair,

While myrtle, laurel, juniper,

Slowly were hidden ; while each spring,

Each river, crept, an unknown thing,

Beneath its crystal covering.

Then shall thou see, beside the wan Changed surface of his watery home, Stand lean and cold the famish'd swan, — One foot within his ruffled plumes Upgather'd, while his eyes will roam Around, till from the wintry glooms Beneath the wing they hopelessly Take shelter, that they may not see. And though sad thoughts within her rise At the drear sight, yet it shall soothe Thy soul to look in any guise Upon the teaching face of truth.

VOL. II. 27

418 POEMS BY F. AND G, POLIDORI.

Or shall no beauty fill the mind,

No lesson — when the flocks stand fast,

Their backs all set against the blast,

Labouring immovable, combined,

Till they with their weak feet have burst

The frost-bound treasure of the stream,

And now at length may quench their thirst?

And O 1 how beautiful doth seem

That evening journey when the herd

Troop homeward by accustom'd ways,

All night in paddock there to graze,

And know the joy of rest deferr"d.

Or if the crow, the sullen bird,

Upon some leafless branch in view,

Thrusts forth his neck, and flaps the bleak

Dry wind, and grates his ravenous beak,

That sight may feed thy musings too.

And grand it is, 'mid forest boughs,

In darkness, awfully forlorn,

At night to hear the wind carouse,

Within whose breath the strong trees quake

Or stand with naked limbs all torn ;

While such unwonted clamours wake

Around, that over all the plain

Fear walks abroad, and tremble then

The flocks, the herds, the husbandmen.

But most sublime of all, most holy, The unfathomable melancholy When winds are silent in their cells ; When underneath the moon's calm light, And in the unalter'd snow with veils All height and depth — to look thereon, It seems throughout the solemn night As if the earth and sky were one.

We doubt not that many of our readers will enjoy with us, in the above beautiful passage, both the close observation of nature, and the under-current of suggestive thought. In our second extract, which closes this notice, it seems to us that the beauty of Mr. Polidori's images is sufficient to disprove their modest application to his own poetic powers.

POEMS BY F. AND G. POLIDOR1. 419

SONNET TO THE LAUREL.

Approaching thee, thou growth of mystic spell,

That wast of old a virgin fair and wise,

I fix upon thee my devoted eyes And stand a little while immovable. Then if in the low breeze thy branches quail —

" What, so afraid ? " I say ; " not I, poor tree,

Apollo ; though my heart hath cherish'd thee Because thou crovvn'st his children's foreheads well." Then half-incensed, abasing mine own brow —

" These leaves," I muse, " how many crave — with these How few at length the flattering gods endow !

I hoped — ah ! shall I hope again ? Nay, cease. Too much, alas ! the world's rude clamours now

Bewilder mine accorded cadences."

420

HENRY THE LEPER.

A Swabian Miracle-Rhyme : BY HARTMANN VON AUE, (A.D. IIOO — I2OO).

Hartmann von A ue, the fame went,

Was a good knight, and well acquent

With books in every character.

Having sought this many a year,

He found at length a record fit,

As far as he apprehendcth {t,

To smoothe the rugged paths uneven,

To glorify God which is in Heaven,

And gain kind thoughts from each true heart

For himself as also for his art.

Unto your ears this song sings he, And begs, an you hear it patiently, That his reward be held in store ; And that whoso, wfien his days are o'er, Shall read and understand this book, For the writer unto God may look, Praying that God may be his goal And the place of rest to his poor soul. That man his proper shrift shall win Who pray eth for his brother's sin.

PART I.

ONCE on a time, rhymeth the rhyme, In Swabia-land once on a time, There was a nobleman sojourning, Unto whose nobleness everything Of virtue and high-hearted excellence Worthy his line and his large pretence

HENRY THE LEPER. 421

With plentiful measure was meted out : The land rejoiced in him round about. He was like a prince in his governing — • In his wealth he was like a king; But most of all by the fame far-flown Of his great knightliness was he known, North and south, upon land and sea. By his name he was Henry of the Lea. All things whereby the truth grew dim Were held as hateful foes with him : By solemn oath was he bounden fast To shun them while his life should last. In honour all his days went by : Therefore his soul might look up high To honourable authority.

A paragon of all graciousness,

A blossoming branch of youthfulness,

A looking-glass to the world around,

A stainless and priceless diamond,

Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,

A home when the tyrant menaceth,

A buckler to the breast of his friend,

And courteous without measure or end ;

Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell ;

Of precious wisdom a limpid well,

A singer of ladies every one,

And very lordly to look upon

In feature and bearing and countenance :—

Say, failed he in anything, perchance,

The summit of all glory to gain

And the lasting honour of all men ?

Alack ! the soul that was up so high Dropped down into pitiful misery; The lofty courage was stricken low, The steady triumph stumbled in woe, And the world-joy was hidden in the dust, Even as all such shall be and must.

HENRY THE LEPER.

He whose life in the senses centreth

Is already in the shadow of death.

The joys, called great, of this under-state

Burn up the bosom early and late ;

And their shining is altogether vain,

For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain.

The torch that flames for men to see

And wasteth to ashes inwardly

Is verily but an imaging

Of man's own life, the piteous thing.

The whole is brittleness and mishap :

We sit and dally in Fortune's lap

Till tears break in our smiles betwixt,

And the shallow honey-draught be mix'd

With sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep.

Oh ! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep : —

In the blossoming of thy flower-crown

A sword is raised to smite thee down.

Even with Earl Henry it was thus :

Though gladsome and very glorious

Was the manner of his life, yet God

Upon his spirit's fulness trod.

The curse that fell was heavy and deep —

A thunderbolt in the hour of sleep.

His body, whose beauty was so much,

Was turned unto loathing and reproach, —

Full of foul sores, increasing fast,

Which grew into leprosy at last.

Ages ago the Lord even so

Ordained that Job should be brought low,

To prove him if in such distress

He would hold fast his righteousness.

The great rich Earl, who otherwhile

Met but man's praise and woman's smile,

Was now no less than out-thrust quite.

The day of the world hath a dark night

HENRY THE LEPER. 423

What time Lord Henry wholly knew

The stound that he was come into,

And saw folk shun him as he went,

And his pains food for merriment,

Then did he, as often it is done

By those whom sorrow falleth on —

Me wrapped not round him as a robe

The patience that was found in Job.

For holy Job meet semblance took,

And bowed him under God's rebuke,

Which had given to him the world's reverse,

And the shame, and the anguish, and the curse,

Only to snatch away his soul

From emptiness and earth's control :

Therefore his soul had triumphing

Inmostly at the troublous thing.

In such wise Henry bore him not ;

Its duteousness his heart forgot ;

His pride waxed hard and kept its place,

But the glory departed from his face,

And that which was his strength grew weak.

The hand that smote him on the cheek

Was all too heavy. It was night

Now, and his sun withdrew its light.

To the pride of his uplifted thought

Much woe the weary knowledge brought

That the pleasant way his feet did wend

Was all passed o'er and had an end.

The day wherein his years had begun

Went in his mouth with a malison.

As the ill grew stronger and more strong,

There was but hope bore him along :

Even yet to hope he was full fain

That gold might help him back again

Thither whence God had cast him out.

Ah ! weak to strive and little stout

'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possess'd.

HENRY THE LEPER.

North and south, and east and west,

Far and wide from every side,

Mediciners well proved and tried

Came to him at the voice of his woe ;

But, mused and pondered they everso,

They could but say, for all their care,

That he must be content to bear

The burthen of the anger of God :

For him there was none other road.

Already was his heart nigh down,

When yet to him one chance was shown ;

For in Salerno dwelt, folk said,

A leach who still might lend him aid,

Albeit unto his body's cure

All such had been as nought before.

Up rose fresh-hearted the sick man,

And sought the great physician,

And told him all, and prayed him hard,

With the proffer of a rich reward,

To take away his griefs foul cause.

Then said the leach without a pause,

" There is one means might healing yield,

Yet will you ever be unheal'd."

And Henry said, " Say on ; define

Your thoughts ; your words are as thick wine.

Some means may bring recovery ? —

I will recover ! Verily,

Unto your will my will shall bend,

So this mine anguish pass and end."

Then said the leach, "Give ear to me :

Thus stands it with your misery.

Albeit there be a means of health,

From no man shall you win such wealth ;

Many have it, yet none will give ;

You shall lack it all the days you shall live ; —

HENRY THE LEPER. 425

Strength gets it not ; valour gains it not ; Nor with gold nor with silver is it bought. Then, since God heedeth not your plaint, Accept God's will and be content."

" Woe's me 1 " did Henry's speech begin ; " Your pastime do you take herein, To snatch the last hope from my sight ? Riches are mine, and mine is might, — Why Ci~st away such golden chance As waiteth on my deliverance ? You shall grow rich in succouring me : Tell me the means, what they may be."

Quoth the leach, " Then know them, what

they are ;

Yet still all hope must stand afar. Truly if the cure for your care Might be gotten anyway anywhere, Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth, This-wise I had not sent you forth. But all my knowledge hath none avail ; There is but one thing would not fail : — An innocent virgin for to find, Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind, Who, to save you from death, might choose Her own young body's life to lose : The heart's blood of the excellent maid — That and nought else can be your aid. But there is none will be won thereby For the love of another's life to die."

'Twas then poor Henry knew indeed

That from his ill he might not be freed,

Sith that no woman he might win

Of her own will to act herein.

Thus gat he but an ill return

For the journey he made unto Salerne,

426 HENRY THE LEPER,

And the hope he had upon that day

Was snatched from him and rent away.

Homeward he hied him back : full fain

With limbs in the dust he would have lain.

Ol his substance — lands and riches both —

He rid himself; even as one doth

Who the breath of the last life of his hope

Once and for ever hath rendered up.

To his friends he gave, and to the poor ;

Unto God praying evermore

The spirit that was in him to save,

And make his bed soft in the grave.

What still remained, aside he set

For Holy Church's benefit.

Of all that heretofore was his

Nought held he for himself, I wis,

Save one small house, with byre and field :

There from the world he lived conceal'd, —

There lived he and awaited Death,

Who, being awaited, lingereth.

Pity and ruth his troubles found

Alway through all the country round.

Who heard him named, had sorrow deep,

And for his piteous sake would weep.

PART II.

The little farm, with herd and field, Now, as it had been erst, was till'd By a poor man of simple make Whose heart right seldom had the ache. A happy soul, and well content With every chance that fortune sent, Being equal in fortune's pitch Even unto him that is rich, — For that his master's kindly wili Set limit to his labour still,

HENRY THE LEPER. 427

And without cumbrance and in peace He lived upon the field's increase. With him poor Henry, trouble-press'd, Dwelt, and to dwell with him was rest. In grateful wise, neglecting nought, Still was the peasant's service wrought : Cheerily, both in heart and look, The trouble and the toil he took, Which, new as each day dawned anew, For Henry he must bear and do.

With favour which to blessings ran,

God looked upon the worthy man :

He gave him strength to aid his life,

A sturdy heart, an honest wife,

And children such as bring to be

That a man's breast is brimmed with glee.

Among them was a. little maid,

Red-cheeked, in yellow locks arrayed,

Whose tenth year was just passing her ;

With eyes most innocently clear,

Sweet smiles that soothe, sweet tones that lull ;

Of gracious semblance wonderful.

For her sick lord the dear good child

Was full of tender thoughts and mild.

Rarely from sitting at his feet

She rose ; because his speech was sweet,

To serve him she was proud and glad.

Great fear her little playmates had

At the sight of the loathly wight ;

But she, as often as she might,

Went to him and with him would stay;

And her heart unto him alway

Clave as a child's heart cleaves : his pain

And grief that ever must remain,

With childish grace she soothed the while,

And sat her at his feet with a smile.

4z8 HENRY THE LEPER.

And Henry loved the little one Who had such thought his woes upon, And he would buy her baubles bright Such as to children give delight : Nought else to peace his heart could lift Like her innocent gladness at the gift. A riband sometimes, broad and fair, To twine with the tresses of her hair, Or a looking-glass, or a little ring, Or a girdle-clasp ; — at anything She was so thankful, was so pleased, That in some sort his pain was eased, And he would even say jestingly, His own good little wife was she. Seldom she left him long alone, Winning him from his inward moan With love and childish trustfulness ; Her joyous seeming ne'er grew less ; She was a balm unto his breast, — Unto his eyes she was shade and rest

Already were three years outwrung, And still his torment o'er him hung, And still in death ceased not his life.

It chanced the peasant and his wife,

And his two little daughters, sate

Together when the day was late.

Their talk was all upon their lord,

And how the help they could afford

Was joy to them, and of the woe

They suffered for his sake, — yet how

His death, they feared, might bring them worse.

They thought that in the universe

No lord could be so good as he,

And if but once they lived to see

Another inherit of their friend,

That all their welfare needs must end.

T#E LEPER.

Then to his lord the peasant spake. " Question, dear master, I would make, So you permit me, of the cause Wherefore thus long you have made pause From seeking help from such as win Worship by lore of medicine, And famous are both near and far. One such might yet break down the bar That shuts you from your health's estate. Wherefore, dear master, should you wait ? "

Then sighs from the soul of the sick man Pressed outward, and his tears began ; They were so sore, that when he spake It seemed as though his heart would break.

" From God this woful curse," he said,

" Wofully have I merited,

Whose mind but to world-vanity

Looked, and but thought how best to be

Wondrous in the thinking of men :

Worship I laboured to attain

By wealth, which God in His great views

Had given me for another use.

God's self I had well-nigh forgot,

The moulder of my human lot,

Whose gifts, ill ta'en, though well bestow'd,

Hindered me from the heaven-road ;

Till I at length, lost here as there,

Am chosen unto shame and despair.

His wrath's insufferable weight

Made me to know Him — but too late.

From bad to worse, from worse to worst,

At length I am cast forth and curs'd :

The whole world from my side doth flee ;

The wretchedest insulteth me ;

Looking on me, each ruffian

Accounts himself the better man,

430 HENRY THE LEPER.

And turns his visage from the sight,

As though I brought him bane and blight.

Therefore may God reward thee, thou

Who dost bear with me even now,

Not scorning him whose sore distress

No more may guerdon faithfulness.

And yet, however kind and true

The deeds thy goodness bids thee do, —

Still, spite of all, it must at heart

Rejoice thee when my breath shall part.

How am I outcast and forlorn! —

That I, who as thy lord was born,

Must now beseech thee of thy grace

To suffer me in mine evil case.

With a great blessing verily

Thou shalt be blest of God through me,

Because to me, whom God thus tries,

Pity thou grantest, Christian-wise.

The thing thou askest thou shalt know :—

All the physicians long ago

Who might bring help in any kind

I sought ; — but, woe is me ! to find

That all the help in all the earth

Avails not and is nothing worth.

One means there is indeed, and yet

That means nor gold nor prayers may get : —

A leach who is full of lore hath said

How it needeth that a virtuous maid

For my sake with her life should part,

And feel the steel cut to her heart :

Only in the blood of such an one

My curse may cease beneath the sun.

But such an one what hope can show,

Who her own life would thus forego

To save my life ? Then let despair

Bow down within my soul to bear

The wrath God's justice doth up-pile.

When will death come ? Woe, woe the while 1 '

HENRY THE LEPER. 43i

Of these, poor Henry's words, each word The little maiden likewise heard Who at his feet would always sit ; And forgot it not, but remember'd it. In the hid shrine, her heart's recess, She held his words in silentness. As the mind of an angel was her mind, Grave and holy and Christ-inclin'd.

When in their chamber, day being past, Her parents, after toil, slept fast, — Then always with the self-same stir The sighs of her grief troubled her. At the foot of her parents' bed Lying, so many tears she shed (Bitter and many) as to make That they woke up and kept awake.

Her secret grieving once perceived,

They made much marvel why she grieved,

And questioned her of the evil chance

To which she gave sorrowful utterance

In her sobbings and in her under-cries :

But nothing answered she anywise,

Until her father bade her tell

Openly and truly and well

Why night by night within her bed

So many bitter tears she shed.

" Alack ! " quoth she, " what should it be

But our kind master's misery —

With thoughts how soon we now must miss

Both him and all our happiness ?

Our solace shall be ours no more :

There is no lord alive, be sure,

Who, like unto him and of his worth,

Shall bless our days with peace thenceforth."

They answering said : " Right words and rare Thou speak'st ; but it booteth not an hair

HENRY THE LEPER.

That we should make outcry and lament : Brood thou no longer thereanent. Unto us it is pain, as unto thee, Perchance even more ; yet what can we That may avail for succouring ? Truly the Lord hath done this thing."

Thus silenced they her speaking ; but

Her soul's complaint they silenced not.

Grief lay with her from hour to hour

Through the long night; nor dawn had power

To rid her of it ; all beside

That near and about her might betide

Seemed nought. And when sleep covered men,

Again and again, and yet again,

Wakeful and faithful, she would crouch

Wearily on her little couch,

Tossing in trouble without sign :

And from her eyes the scalding brine

Flowed through sick grief that wept apart ;

As steadfastly within her heart

She pondered on her heart's sore ache

And on those words Earl Henry spake.

Long with herself communing so,

Her tears were softened in their flow ;

Because at length her will was fix'd

To stand his fate and him betwixt.

Where now should such a child be sought, Thinking even as this one thought, Who, rather than her lord should die, Chose her own death and held thereby ?

But once her purpose settled fast,

All woe went forth from her and pass'd ;

Her heart sat lightly in her breast,

And one thing only gave unrest.

Her lord's own hand, she feared, might stay

Her footsteps from the terrible way, —

HENRY THE LEPER. 433

She feared her parents strength might lack, And, through much loving, hold her back. By reason of such fears, she fell Into new grief unspeakable, And that night, as the past nights, wept, Waking her father where he slept. "Thou foolish child," thus did he say, " Why wilt thou weep thine eyes away For what no help thou hast can mend ? Is not this moan thou mak'st to end ? We would sleep ; let us sleep in peace." Thus chidingly he bade her cease, Because his thought conceived in nought The thing she had laid up in her thought.

Answered him the excellent maid : " Truly my own dear lord hath said That by one means he may be heal'd. So ye but your consenting yield, It is my blood that he shall have. I, being virgin -pure, to save His days, do choose the edge o' the knife, And my death rather than my life."

The young girl's parents lay and heard, And had sore grief of her spoken word ; And thus her father said : " How now ? What silly wish, child, wishest thou ? Thou durst not do it in very truth. What knows a child of these things, forsooth ? Ugly Death thou hast never seen : Were he once to near thee, I ween — Didst thou view the pit of the sepulchre — Thy face would change and thy flesh fear, And thy soul within thee would shake, And thy weak hands would toil to break The grasp of the monster foul and grim, Drawing thee from thyself to him. VOL. ii. 28

434 ITENRY THE LEPER,

Leave thy words and thy weeping too ; What cannot be done, seek not to do."

" Najr, father mine," replied the child,

" Though my words may be counted wild,

Well I know that the body's death

Is a torture and tortureth.

Yet truly this is truth no less :

He who is plagued with sharp distress,

Who hates his life, having but woe, —

To him the end cometh, even so,

When for all the curses that he hath pass'd,

He scapes not the curse of death at last.

What booteth it him a long-drawn life

To have traversed in trouble and in strife,

If nothing after all he can win,

Except, being old, to enter in

At the self-same door which years ago

He might more firmly have passed through ?

But scantly may the soul see good, —

So rough is world-driving and so rude ;

And, good once ended, hope once lorn,

Best it were I had not been born.

Therefore my lips give praise to God,

Who this great blessing hath bestow'd

On me, — by loss of body and limb

To have the life that lives with Him.

'Twere ill done, did ye make me loth

From what unto me and unto both

Bringeth joy and prosperity,

Gaining the crown of Christ for me ;

And you, from every troublous thing

That threateneth you, delivering.

The generous master ye shall keep

Who leaves you undisturbed to reap,

The fruits our little field doth grow,

Earn'd, father, in the sweat of thy brow.

HENRY THE LEPER. 435

With you, while he liveth, it shall stay ; He is good ; he will not drive you away. But if we now should let him die, Our ruining hasteneth thereby : The thought whereof doth make me give My own young life that he may live. To such a choice, which profits all, Meseems your chiding should be small."

Then the mother broke forth at last,

Finding her daughter's purpose fast.

" Think, my own child, — daughter mine, think

Of the bitter cup that I had to drink,

Of the pain that I suifered once for thee ;

And, thinking, turn thyself unto me.

Is this the guerdon thou dost give

Even to the womb that bade thee live ?

Her in pain must I lose again

Whom I bore and brought forth in pain ?

Wouldst leave thy parents for thy lord ?

This were hatred of God and of His word.

Clean from thy mind is the word gone

Which God pronounced ? Ponder thereon :

' Listen,' it is written, ' to their command,

That thy days may be long in the land.'

Lo ! how corrupt must be thine heart ! —

It hath striven the will of God to thwart.

And sayest thou, if thou losest thus

Thy life, good hap shall come to us ?

Oh no ! in us thou wilt give birth

To weariness and to scorn of earth.

In the whole world thou art alone

That which our joy is set upon.

Yes, little daughter, always dear,

'Tis thou shouldst make our gladness here;

Thou shouldst be a lamp to our life,

Our aim in the troublesome hard strife,

436 HENRY THE LEPER.

And a staff our falling step« to save : In place whereof, thine own black grave With thine own hand thou digg'st, and sad Grow the hope and the comfort that we had, And I must weep at thy tomb all day Till in plague and torment I pass away. Yet oh ! whate'er our ills may be, So much and more shall God do to thee."

Then the pious maid answered and said : —

" O mother, that in my soul art laid,

How should I not at all times here

See the path of my duty clear,

When at all times my thankful mind

Meeteth thy love, tender and kind,

That kindly and tenderly ministers ?

Of a verity I am young in years ;

Yet this I know : what is mine, to wit,

Is mine but since thou gavest it.

And if the people grant me praise,

And look with favour in my face,

Yet my heart's tale is continual —

That only thee must I thank for all

Which it pleaseth them to perceive in me ;

And that ne'er a thing should be brought to be

By myself on myself, save such

As thou wouldst permit without reproach.

Mother, it was thou that didst give

These limbs and the life wherewith I live, —

And is it thou wouldst grudge my soul

Its white robe ana its aureole ?

The knowledge of evil in my breast

Hath not yet been, nor sin's unrest ;

Therefore, the road being overtrod,

I know I shall have portion with God.

Say not that this is foolishness ;

No hand but God's hand is in this :

HENRY THE LEPER. 437

Him must thou thank, whose grace doth cleanse

My heart from earth's desire, till hence

It longs with a mighty will to go

Ere sin be known that's yet to know.

Well it needs that the joys of earth

(Deemed oftentimes of a priceless worth)

By man should be counted excellent :

How otherwise might he rest content

With anything but Christ's perfecting ?

Oh ! to such reeds let me not cling !

God knows how vain seem to my sight

The bliss of this world and the delight ;

For the delight turneth amiss,

And soul's tribulation hath the bliss.

What is their life ? — a gasp for breath ;

And their guerdon ? — but the burthen of death.

One thing alone is sure : — should peace

Come to-day, with to-morrow it shall cease ;

Till the last evil thing at last

Shall find us out, and our days be past.

Nor birth nor wealth succoureth then,

Nor strength, nor the courage of strong men,

Nor honour, nor fealty, nor truth.

Out arid alack ! our life, our youth,

Are but dust only and empty smoke :

We are laden branches that the winds rock.

Woe to the fool who layeth hold

On earth's vain shadows manifold I

The marsh-fire gleam, as it hath shone,

Still shines, luring his footsteps on :

But he is dead ere he reach the goal,

And with his flesh dieth his soul.

Therefore, dear mother, be at rest,

And labour not to make manifest

That for my sake thou hold'st me here ;

But let one silence make it clear

That my father's will is joined with thine.

Alas ! though I kept this life of mine,

438 HENRY THE LEPER.

Tis verily but a little while

That ye may smile, or that I may smile.

Two years perchance, perchance even three,

In happiness I shall keep with ye :

Then must our lord be surely dead,

And sorrow and sighing find us instead ;

And your want shall your will withhold

From giving me any dowry-gold,

And no man will take me for his wife ;

And my life shall be trouble-rife,

And very hateful, and worse than death.

Or though this thing that threateneth

Were 'scaped, and ere our good lord died

Some bridegroom chose me for his bride, —

Though then, ye think, all is made smooth,

Yet the bad is but made worse, forsooth ;

For even with love, woes should not cease,

And not to love were the end of peace.

Thus through ill and grief I struggle still,

What to attain ? Even grief and ill.

In this strait, One would set me free,

My soul and my body asking of me,

That I may be with Him where He is.

Hold me not ; I would make myself His.

He only is the true Husbandman ;

The labour ends well which He began ;

Ever His plough goeth aright ;

His barns fill ; for His fields there is no blight ;

In His lands life dies not anywhere ;

Never a child sorroweth there ;

There heat is not, neither is cold ;

There the lapse of years maketh not old ;

But peace hath its dwelling there for aye,

And abideth, and shall not pass away.

Thither, yea, thither let me go,

And be rid of this shadoow-place below, —

This place laid waste like a waste plain,

Where nothing is but torment and pain,

HENRY THE LEPER. 439

Where a day's blight falleth upon

The work of a year, and it is gone ;

Where ruinous thunder lifts its voice,

And where the harvest may not rejoice.

You love me ? Oh let your love be seen,

And labour no more to circumvene

My heart's desire for the happy place 1

To the Lord let me lift my face, —

Even unto Jesus Christ my Friend,

Whose gracious mercies have no end,

In whose name Love is the world's dear Lord,

And by whom not the vilest is abhorr'd.

Alike with Him is man's estate, —

As the rich the poor, the small as the great :

Were I a queen, be sure that He

With more joy could not welcome me.

Yet from your hearts do I turn my heart?

Nay, from your love I will not part,

But rejoice to be subject unto you.

Then count not my thought to be untrue

Because I deem, if I do this thing,

It is your weal I am furthering.

Whoso, men say, another's pelf

Heaping, pulls want upon himself, —

Whoso his neighbour's fame would crown

By bringing ruin upon his own, —

His friendship is surely overmuch.

But this my purpose is none such :

For though ye too shall gain relief,

It is myself I would serve in chief.

O mother dear, weep not, nor mourn :

My duty is this ; let it be borne.

Take heart, — thou hast other children left ;

In theirs thy life shall be less bereft ;

They shall comfort thee for the loss of me :

Then my own gain let me bring to be,

And my lord's ; for to him upon the earth

This only can be of any worth.

440 HENRY THE LEPER.

Nor think that thou shall look on my grave ;

That pain, at least, thou canst never have ;

Very far away is the land

Where that must be done which I have plann'd.

God guerdoneth ; in God is my faith ;

He shall loosen me from the bonds of Death."

PART III.

All trembling had the parents heard

Death by their daughter thus preferr'd

With a language so very marvellous

(Surely no child reasoneth thus),

Whose words between her lips made stir,

As though the Spirit were poured on her

Which giveth knowledge of tongues unknown.

So strange was every word and tone,

They knew not how they might answer it,

Except by striving to submit

To Him Who had made the child's heart rife

With the love of death and the scorn of life.

Therefore they said, silently still,

"All-perfect One, it is Thy will."

With fear and doubt's most bitter ban

They were a-cold ; so the poor man

And the poor woman sat alway

In their bed, without yea or nay.

Ever alack ! they had no speech

The new dawn of their thought to reach.

With a wild sorrow unrepress'd

The mother caught the child to her breast ;

But the father after long interval

Said, though his soul smote him withal,

" Daughter, if God is in thine heart,

Heed not our grieving, but depart."

HENRY THE LEPER. 441

Then the sweet maid smiled quietly ; And soon i' the morning hastened she To the room where the sick man slept. Up to his bed she softly stepp'd, Saying, " Do you sleep, my dear lord ? "

" No, little wife," was his first word, " But why art thou so early to-day ? "

" Grief made that I could not keep away — The great grief that I have for you."

" God be with thee, faithful and true ! Often to ease my suffering Thou hast done many a gracious thing. But it lasteth ; it shall be always so."

Then said the girl : " On my troth, no !

Take courage and comfort ; it will turn.

The fire that in your flesh doth burn,

One means, you know, would quench at once.

My mind climbs to conclusions.

Not a day will I make delay,

Now I am 'ware of the one way.

Dear lord, I have heard yourself expound

How, if only a maiden could be found

To lose her life for you willingly,

From all your pains you might yet be free.

God He knoweth, I will do this :

My worth is not as yours, I wis."

Wondering and sore astonied, The poor sick man looked at the maid, Whose face smiled down unto his face, While the tears gave each other chase Over his cheeks from his weary eyes, Till he made answer in this wise : — " Trust me, this death is not, my child, So tender a trouble and so mild

442 HENRY THE LEPER.

As thou, in thy reckoning, reckonest.

Thou didst keep madness from my breast,

And help me when other help was none :

I thank thee for all that thou hast done.

(May God unto thee be merciful

For thy tenderness in the day of dule ! )

I know thy mind, childlike and chaste,

And the innocent spirit that thou hast ;

But nothing more will I ask of thee

Than thou without wrong mayst do for me.

Long ago have I given up

The strife for deliverance and the hope j

So that now in thy faithfulness

I pleasure me with a soul at peace,

Wishing not thy sweet life withdrawn

Sith my own life I have foregone.

Too suddenly, little wife, beside,

Like a child's, doth thine heart decide

On this which hath entered into it, —

Unsure if thou shalt have benefit.

In little space sore were thy case

If once with Death thou wert face to face ;

And heavy and dark would the thing seem

Which thou hast desired in thy dream.

Therefore, good child, go in again :

Soon, I know, thou wilt count as vain

This thing to which thy mind is wrought,

When once thou hast ponder'd in thy thought

How hard a thing it is to remove

From the world and from the home of one's love.

And think too what a grievous smart

Hereby must come to thy parents' heart,

And how bitter to them would be the stroke.

Shall I bring this thing on the honest folk

By whose pity my woes have been beguiled ?

To thy parents' counselling, my child,

For evermore look that thou incline :

So sorrow of heart shall not be thine."

HENRY THE LEPER. 443

When thus he had answer'd tenderly, Forth came the parents, who hard by Had hearken'd to the speech that he spake.

Albeit his heart was nigh to break

With the load under which it bow'd,

The father spake these words aloud :

" God knows," said he, " we do willingly,

Dear master, aught that may vantage thee

Who hast been so good to us and so kind.

If God have in very truth design'd

That this young child should for thee atone, —

Then, being God's will, let it be done.

Yea, through His power she hath been brought

To count the years of her youth for nought ;

And by no childish whim is she led

To her grave, as thou hast imagined.

To-day, alack ! is the third day

That with prayers we might not put away

She hath sorely entreated us that we

Would grant her the grace to die for thee.

By her words exceeding wonderful,

Our sharp resistance hath waxed dull,

Till now we may no longer dare

To pause from the granting of her prayer."

When the sick man thus found that each Spoke with good faith the selfsame speech, And that in earnest the young maid Proffered her life for his body's aid, — There rose, the little room within, Of sobbing and sorrow a great din, And a strange dispute, that side and this, In manner as there seldom is. The Earl, at length winning unto The means of health, raised much ado, Loudly lamenting that his cure From sickness should be thus made sure.

444 HENRY THE LEPER.

The parents grieved with a bitter woe That their dear child should leave them so, While yet they pray'd of him constantly To grant her prayer that she should die. And she meanwhile whose life-long years It was to cost, shed sorrowful tears For dread lest he whom she would save Should deny to her the boon of the grave.

Thus they who, in pure faith's control And in the strength of a godly soul, Vied one with the other, sat there now, Their eyes all wet with the bitter flow, Each urging of what he had to say, None yielding at all, nor giving way. The sick man sat in thought a space, Between his hands bowing his face, While the others, with supplicating tone, Softly besought him one by one. Then his head at last he lifted up, And let his tears fall without stop, And said finally : " So let it be. Shall I, who am one, stand against three ? Now know I surely that God's word, Which speaks in silence, ye have heard ; And that this thing must be very fit, And even as God hath appointed it. He, seeing my heart, doth read thereon That I yield but to Him alone, — Not to the wish that for my sake Her grave this gracious child should make."

Then the maid sprang to him full fain, As though she had gotten a great gain ; And both his feet clasp'd and would kiss, — Not for sorrow sobbing now, but for bliss : The while her sorrowing parents went Forth from that room to make lament,

HENRY THE LEPER. 445

And weep apart for the heavy load Which yet they knew was the will of God.

Then a kirtle was given unto the maid, Broider'd all with the silken braid, Such as never before she had put on ; With sables the border was bedone, And with jewels bound about and around : On her so fair they were fairer found Than song of mine can make discourse. And they mounted her on a goodly horse : That horse was to carry her very far, — Even to the place where the dead are.

In the taking of these gifts she smil'd.

Not any longer a silly child

She seemed, but a worshipful damozel,

Well begotten and nurtured well.

And her face had a quiet earnestness ;

And while she made ready, none the less

Did she comfort the trouble-stricken pair,

Who in awestruck wise looked on her there,

As a saintly being superior

And no daughter unto them any more.

Yet when the bitter moment came Wherein their child must depart from them, In sooth it was hard to separate. The mother's grief was heavy and great, Seeing that child lost to her, whom, Years since, she had carried in her womb. And the father was sorely shaken too, Now nought remained but to bid adieu To that young life, full of the spring, Which must wither before the blossoming.

What made the twain more strong at length Was the young girl's wonderful strength, Whose calm look and whose gentle word Blunted the sharp point of the sword.

446 HENRY THE LEPER.

With her mouth she was eloquent, As if to her ear an angel bent, Whispering her that she might say The word which wipes all tears away. Thus, with her parents' benison Upon her head, forth is she gone : — She is gone forth like to a bride, Lifted and inwardly glorified ; She seemed not as one that journeyeth To the door of the house of death.

So they rode without stop or turn

By the paths that take unto Salerne.

Lo ! he is riding to new life

Whose countenance is laden and rife

With sorrow and care and great dismay.

But for her who rides the charnel-way —

Oh ! up in her eyes sits the bright look

Which tells of a joy without rebuke.

With friendly speech, with cheerful jest,

She toils to give his sorrow rest,

To lighten the heavy time for him,

And shorten the road that was long and grim.

Thus on their way they still did wend Till they were come to their journey's end. Then prayed she of him that they might reach That day the dwelling of the wise leach Who had shown how his ill might be allay'd.

And it was done even as she said.

His arm in hers, went the sick man

Unto the great physician,

And brought again to his mind the thing

Whereof they had erst made questioning.

" This maid, " he said, " holds purpose now

To work my cure, as thy speech did show."

But the leach held silence, as one doth WThose heart to believe is well-nigh loth,

HENRY THE LEPER. 447

Even though his eyes witness a thing.

At length he said : " By whose counselling

Conies this, my child ? Hast thou thought well

On that whereof this lord doth tell,

Or art thou led perforce thereto ? "

" Nay," quoth the maid, " that which I do, I do willingly ; none persuadeth me ; It is, because I choose it should be."

He took her hand, silently all,

And led her through a door in the wall

Into another room that was there,

Wherein he was quite alone with her.

Then thus : " Thou poor ill-guided child,

What is it that maketh thee so wild,

Thy short life and thy little breath

Suddenly to yield up to death ?

An thou art constraint, e'en say 'tis so,

And I swear to thee thou art free to go.

Remember this — how that thy blood

Unto the Earl can bring no good

If thou sheddest it with an inward strife.

Vain it were to bleed out thy life,

If still, when the whole hath come to pass,

Thy lord should be even as he was.

Bethink thee — and consider thereof —

How the pains thou tempt'st are hard and rough

First, with thy limbs naked and bare

Before mine eyes thou must appear, —

So needs shall thy maiden shame be sore :

Yet still must the woe be more and more,

What time thou art bound by heel and arm,

And with sharp hurt and with grievous harm

I cut from out thy breast the part

That is most alive — even thine heart.

With thine eyes thou shalt surely see

The knife ere it enter into thee, —

HENRY THE LEPER.

Thou shall feel worse than death's worst sting

Ere the heart be drawn forth quivering.

How deemest thou ? Canst thou suffer this ?

Alack, poor wretch ! there is dreadfulness

Even in the thought. If only once

Thou do blench or shrink when the blood runs —

If thou do repent but by an hair, —

It is bootless all, — in vain the care,

In vain the scathe, in vain the death.

Now what is the word thy free choice saith ? "

She look'd at him as at a friend,

And answer'd : " Sir, unto that end —

To wit, my choice — I had ponder'd hard

Long ere I was borne hitherward.

I thank you, sir, that of your heart's ruth

You have warn'd me thus ; and of a truth,

By all the words that you have said

I well might feel dispirited, —

The more that even yourself, mcseems,

Are frightened by these idle dreams

From the work you should perform for the EaiL

Oh ! it might hardly grace a girl

Such cowardly reasoning to use !

Pardon me, sir ; I cannot choose

But laugh, that you, with your mastership,

Should have a courage less firm and deep

Than a pitiful maiden without lore

Whose life even now ends and is o'er.

The part that is yours dare but to do, —

As for me, I have trust to undergo.

Methinks the dule and the drearihead

You tell me of, must be sharp indeed,

Sith the mere thought is so troublesome.

Believe me, I never should have come,

Had I not known of myself alone

What the thing was to be undergone, —

HENRY THE LEPER. 449

Were I not sure that, abash'd no whit, This soul of mine could be through with it. Yea, verily, by your sorrowing, My poor heart's courage you can bring Just to such sorrowful circumstance As though I were going to the dance. Worshipful sir, there nothing is That can last alway without cease, — Nought that one day's remitted doom Can save the feeble body from. Thus then, you see, it is cheerfully That I do all this ; and that while he My lord, you willing, shall not die, The endless life shall be mine thereby. Resolve you, and so it shall be said That the fame you have is well merited. This brings me joy that I undertake, Even for my dear kind master's sake, And for what we two shall gain also, — I, there above, — and you, here below. Sir, inasmuch as the work is hard, So much the more is our great reward.

Then the leach said nothing, but was dumb ; And, marvelling much, he sought the room Where the sick man sat in expectancy.

" New courage may be yours," quoth he ;

" For your sake she casts her life behind,

Not from empty fantasy of the mind ;

And the parting of her body and soul

Shall cleanse your limbs and make you whole."

But Henry was full of troublous thought ;

Peradventure he hearken'd not,

For he answer'd not that which was sain.

So the leach turn'd, and went out again.

Again to the maid did he repair,

And straightway lock'd the doors with care,

VOL. H. 29

4$o HENRY THE LEPER.

That Henry might not see or know What she for his sake must undergo. And the leach said, "Take thy raiment off." Then was her heart joyous enough, And she obey'd, and in little space Stood up before the old man's face As naked as God had fashion'd her : Only her innocence clothed her : She fear'd not, and was not asham'd, In the sight of God standing unblamed, To whom her dear life without price She offered up for a sacrifice.

When thus she was beheld of the leach,

His soul spake with an inward speech,

Saying that beauty so excellent

Had scarce been known since the world went.

And he conceived for the poor thing

Such an unspeakable pitying,

And such a fear on his purpose lit,

That he scarce dared to accomplish it.

Slowly he gave her his command

To lie down on a table hard at hand,

To the which he bound her with strong cords :

Then he reach'd his hand forth afterwards,

And took a broad long knife, and tried

The edge of the same on either side.

It was sharp, yet not as it should be

(He looked to its sharpness heedfully, —

Having sore grief for the piteous scathe,

And desiring to shorten her death).

Therefore it was he took a stone,

And ground the knife finely thereon.

Earl Henry heard in bitterest woe The blade, a- whetting, come and go. Forward he sprang ; a sudden start Of grief for the maid struck to his heart.

HENRY THE LEPER. 451

He thought what a peerless soul she bore, —

And made a great haste unto the door,

And would have gone in, but it was shut.

Then his eyes burn'd, as he stood without,

In scalding tears ; transfigured

He felt himself; and in the stead

Of his feebleness there was mightiness.

" Shall she," he thought, " who my life doth

bless, —

The gracious, righteous, virtuous maid, — To this end be thrust down to the shade ? Wilt thou, thou fool, force the Most High, That thy desire may come thereby ? Deem'st thou that any, for good or ill, Can live but a day against His will ? And if by His will thou yet shalt live, What more of help can her dying give ? Sith all then is as God ordereth, Rest evermore in the hand of faith. As in past time, anger not now The All-powerful ; seeing that thou Canst anger Him only. 'Tis the ways Of penitence lead unto grace."

He was determined immediately, And smote on the door powerfully, And cried to the leach, " Open to me I "

But the leach answer'd, " It may not be : I have something of weight that I must do."

Then Henry urged back upon him, " No ! Come quickly, and open, and give o'er."

Quoth the other, " Say your say through the door.

" Not so, not so ; let me enter in : It is my soul's rest I would win."

453 HENRY THE LEPER.

Then the door drew back, widely and well ; And Henry look'd on the damozel, Where she lay bound, body and limb, Waiting Death's stroke, to conquer him.

" Hear me," said he, " worshipful sir ; It is horrible thus to look on her : Rather the burthen of God's might I choose to suffer, than this sight. What I have said, that will I give ; But let thou the brave maiden live."

PART IV.

When the maiden learn'd assuredly

That by that death she was not to die,

And when she was loosed from the strong bands,

A sore moan made she. With her hands

She rent her hair ; and such were her tears

That it seem'd a great wrong had been hers.

" Woe worth the weary time ! " she cried ;

" There is no pity on any side.

Woe is me I It fades from my view —

The recompense I was chosen to, —

The magnificent heaven-crown

I hoped with such a hope to put on.

Now it is I am truly dead, —

Now it is I am truly ruined.

Oh ! shame and sorrowing on me,

And shame and sorrowing on thee,

Who the guerdon from my spirit hast riven,

And by whose hands I am snatch'd from Heaven !

Lo ! he chooseth his own calamity,

That so my crown may be reft from me ! "

Then with sharp prayer she pray'd them there That still the death might be given her

HENRY THE LEPER. 453

For the which she had journey'd many a mile.

But being assured in a brief while

That the thing she sought would be denied,

She gazed with a piteous mien, and cried,

Rebuking her heart-beloved lord —

" Is all then lost that my soul implor'd ?

How faint art thou, how little brave,

To load me with this load that I have !

How have I been cheated with lies,

And cozen'd with fair-seeming falsities !

They told me thou wast honest, and good,

And valiant, and full of noble blood, —

The which, so help me God I was false.

Thou art one the world strangely miscalls.

Thou art but a weak timorous man,

Whose soul, affrighted, fails to scan

The strength of a woman's sufferance.

Have I injured thee anyway, perchance ?

Say, how didst thou hear, sitting without ?

And yet meseems the wall was stout

Betwixt us. Nay, but thou must know

That it is to be — that it will be so.

Take heed — there is no second one

Who yet for thy life will lose her own.

Oh ! turn to me and be pitiful,

And grudge not death to my poor soul I "

But though her sueing was hard and hot,

His firmness never fail'd him a jot ;

So that at length, against her will,

She needs must end her cries and be still, — •

Yielding her to the loath'd decree

That made her life a necessity.

Lord Henry to one will was wrought,

Fast settled in his steadfast thought :

He clothed her again with his own hand,

And again set forth to his native land,

Having given large reward to the leach.

454 IIENRV THE LEPER.

He knew the shame and the evil speech And the insult he must bear, — yet bow'd Meekly thereto ; knowing that God Had will'd, in his regard, each thing That wrought for him weal or suffering.

Thus by the damsel's help indeed

From a foul sickness he was freed, —

Not from his body's sore and smart,

But from hardness and stubbornness of heart.

Then first was all that pride of his

Quite overthrown ; a better bliss

Came to his soul and dwelt with him

Than the bliss he had in the first time, —

To wit, a blithe heart's priceless gain

That looks to God through the tears of pain.

But as they rode, the righteous maid Mourn'd and might not be comforted. Her soul was aghast, her heart was waste, Her wits were all confused and displac'd : Herseem'd that the leaning on God's might Was turn'd for her to shame and despite : So her pure heart ceased not to pray That the woe she had might be ta'en away.

Thus came the girl and the sick wight

To an hostel at the fall of the night.

Each in a little chamber alone,

They watch'd till many hours were gone.

The nobleman gave thanks to God

Who had turn'd him from the profitless road,

And cleansed him, by care and suffering,

From his loftiness and vain-glorying.

The damsel went down on her knees

And spake to God such words as these, —

Why thus He had put aside, and left

Out of His grace, her and her gift, —

HENRY THE LEPER. 455

Seeing how she had nothing more

To give but her one life bare and poor.

She prayed : " Am I not good enough,

Thou Holy One, to partake thereof?

Then, O my God ! cleanse Thou mine heart;

Let me not thus cease and depart :

Give me a sign, Father of mine,

That the absolving grace divine

By seeking may at length be found

While yet this earth shall hold me round."

And God, who lifts souls from the dust,

Nor turns from the spirit that hath trust,

The same look'd down with looks unloth

On the troublesome sorrow of them both,

Both whose hearts and whose life-long days

He had won to Him for glory and praise, —

Who had passed through the fire and come forth

And proved themselves salvation-worth.

The Father — He who comforteth

His patient children that have faith —

At length released these steadfast ones

From their manifold tribulations.

In wondrous wise the Earl was stripp'd

Of all his sickness while he slept ;

And when, as the sunrise smote his e'en,

He found him once more whole and clean,

He rose from his couch and sought the maid.

On the sight for which she long had pray'd, She gazed and gazed some speechless space And then knelt down with lifted face And said, "The Lord God hath done this: His was the deed — the praise be His. With solemn thinking let me take The life \\hich He hath given me back."

456 tiENRY THE LEPER.

PART V.

The Earl return'd in joylul case Unto his fathers' dwelling-place. Every day brought back to him A part of his joy, which had waxed dim ; And he grew now, of face and mien, More comely than ever he had been. And unto all who in former years Had been his friends and his comforters, He told how God's all-mercifulness Had deliver'd him out of his distress. And they rejoiced, giving the praise To God and His unsearchable ways.

Then thitherward full many a road Men came, a gladsome multitude ; They came in haste, they rode and they ran, To welcome the gallant gentleman ; Their own eyes they could scarce believe, Beholding him in health and alive. A strange sight, it may well be said, When one revives that was counted dead.

The worthy peasant who so long

Had tended him when the curse was strong,

In the good time stay'd not away,

Nor his wife could be brought to stay.

'Twas then that after long suspense

Their labour gat its recompense.

They who had hoped no other thing

Than the sight of their lord, on entering

Saw the sweet damsel by his side,

In perfect measure satisfied,

Who caught them round with either arm,

And clave to them closely and warm.

THE LEPER. 457

Long time they kissed her, in good sooth — They kissed her on her cheeks and mouth. Within their breasts their hearts were light ; And eyes which first laughed and were bright Soon overbrimmed with many tears, The tokens of the joy that was theirs.

Then the good honest Swabians

Who erst had shared the inheritance

Of the sick lord, gave back the land,

Unasked, which they had ta'en at his hand.

Him did they wholly reinstate

In every title and estate

That heretofore he had possess'd.

But ever he pondered in his breast

Upon those wondrous things which once

God wrought on his flesh and in his bones.

Nor did he in anywise forget

The friendly pair whose help, ere yet

His hours of pain were overpast,

Had stood him in such stead. The tas'e

Of bitter grief he had brought on them

Found such reward as best became —

He gave the little farm and the field,

With the cattle whereby they were till'd,

With servants eke, to the honest twain ;

So that no fears plagued them again

Lest any other lord should come

At length and turn them from their home.

Also his thankful favour stay'd

Evermore with the pious maid :

Many a day with her he spent,

And gave her many an ornament,

Because of what is said in my rhyme

And the love he bore her from old time.

Thus, it may be, a year went o'er : Then all his kinsfolk urged him sore

458 HENRY THE LEPER.

Some worthy woman for to woo, And bring her as his wife thereto. And he answer'd, " Truly as I live, This is good counsel that ye give."

So he summoned every lord his friend, That to this matter they might bend Such help as honest friends can bring. And they all came at his summoning, Everywhence, both far and near ; And eke his whole vassalage was there, — Not a single man but was come : It made, good sooth, a mighty sum. And the earl stepp'd forward in their sight, Saying, " Sirs, my mind is fixed aright To wed even as your wills decide : Take counsel then, and choose me a bride.' So they got together and began ; But there was a mind for every man. Both ways they wrangled, aye and no, As counsellors are sure to do.

Then again he spake to them and cried ; " Dear friends, now let alone the bride, And rede me a thing. All of ye know, Doubtless, that I, a while ago, With a most loathsome ill was cross'd, And appear'd to be altogether lost, So that all people avoided me With cursings and cruel mockery. And yet no man scorn eth me now, Nor woman either ; seeing how God's mercy hath made me whole again. Then tell me, I pray of ye full fain, What I may do to His honouring Who to mine aid hath done this thing."

And they all answered immediately : " By word and deed it behoveth thcc

HENRY THE LEPER, 459

To offer thyself to the Most High, And work for Him good works thereby, That the life He spared may be made His."

" Then," quoth the Earl, " hearken me this.

The damozel who standeth here, —

And whom I embrace, being most dear, —

She it is unto whom I owe

The grace it hath pleased God to bestow.

He saw the simple-spirited

Earnestness of the holy maid,

And even in guerdon of her truth

Gave back to me the joys of my youth,

Which seem'd to be lost beyond all doubt

And therefore I have chosen her out

To wed with me, knowing her free.

I think that God will let this be.

But now if I fail, and not obtain,

I will never embrace woman again ;

For all I am, and all I have,

Is but a gift, sirs, that she gave.

Lo 1 I enjoin ye, with God's will,

That this my longing ye fulfil :

I pray ye all, have but one voice,

And let your choice go with my choice."

Then the cries ceased, and the counter-cries, And all the battle of advice, And every lord, being content With Henry's choice, granted assent.

Then the priests came, to bind as one Two lives in bridal unison. Into his hand they folded hers, Not to be loosed in coming years, And utter'd between man and wife God's blessing on the road of their life.

460 HENRY THE LEPER.

Many a bright and pleasant day The twain pursued their steadfast way, Till, hand in hand, at length they trod Upward to the kingdom of God. Even as it was with them, even thus, And quickly, it must be with us. To such reward as theirs was then, God help us in His hour. Amen.

THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES.

FRANCOIS VILLON, I45O.

TELL me now in what hidden way is

Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, ,

Neither of them the fairer woman ?

Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere, —

She whose beauty was more than human ? But where are the snows of yester-year ?

Where's Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,

Lost manhood and put priesthood on ? (From Love he won such dule and teen !) And where, I pray you, is the Queen

Who willed that Buridan should steer

Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ? .

But where are the snows of yester-year ?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden, —

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,

And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — And that good Joan whom Englishmen

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — Mother of God, where are they then ? . . .

But where are the snows of yester-year ?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,

Where they are gone, nor yet this year,

Save with thus much for an overword, — But where are the snows of yester-year ?

462

TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY.

FRANCOIS VILLON.

DEATH, of thee do I make my moan, Who hadst my lady away from me, Nor wilt assuage thine enmity Till with her life thou hast mine own : For since that hour my strength has flown. Lo ! what wrong was her life to thee,

Death ?

Two we were, and the heart was one ;

Which now being dead, dead I must be,

Or seem alive as lifelessly As in the choir the painted stone,

Death 1

463

HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY.

FRAN9OIS VILLON.

LADY of Heaven and Earth, and therewithal

Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell, — I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,

Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,

Albeit in nought I be commendable. But all mine undeserving may not mar Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are;

Without the which (as true words testify) No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.

Even in this faith I choose to liye and die.

Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, And to me graceless make Him gracious.

Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss, Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus

Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.

Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby !)

The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. Even in this faith I choose to live and die.

A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.

Within my parish-cloister I behold

A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore :

464 HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY.

One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.

That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,-

Thou of whom all must ask it even as I ; And that which faith desires, that let it see.

For in this faith I choose to live and die.

O excellent Virgin Princess ! thou didst bear King Jesus, the most excellent comforter, Who even of this our weakness craved a share,

And for our sake stooped to us from on high, Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare,

And in this faith I choose to live and die.

465

JOHN OF TOURS.

OLD FRENCH.

JOHN OF TOURS is back with peace, But he comes home ill at ease.

"Good-morrow, mother." "Good-morrow, son; Your wife has borne you a little one."

" Go now, mother, go before, Make me a bed upon the floor ;

" Very low your foot must fall, That my wife hear not at all."

As it neared the midnight toll, John of Tours gave up his soul.

" Tell me now, my mother my dear, What's the crying that I hear ? "

"Daughter, it's the children wake, Crying with their teeth that ache."

" Tell me though, my mother my dear, What's the knocking that I hear ? "

" Daughter, it's the carpenter Mending planks upon the stair."

" Tell me too, my mother my dear, What's the singing that I hear ? " VOL. n. 30

466 JOHN OF TOURS*

" Daughter, it's the priests in rows Going round about our house."

" Daughter, any reds or blues, But the black is most in use."

" Nay, but say, my mother my dear, Why do you fall weeping here?''

" Oh ! the truth must be said, — It's that John of Tours is dead."

" Mother, let the sexton know That the grave must be for two ;

" Aye, and still have room to spare, For you must shut the baby there."

MY FATHER'S CLOSE.

OLD FRENCH.

INSIDE my father's close,

(Fly away O my heart away !) Sweet apple-blossom blows So sweet.

Three kings' daughters fair,

(Fly away O my heart away !) They lie below it there So sweet.

" Ah 1 " says the eldest one,

(Fly away O my heart away !) " i think the day's begun So sweet."

" Ah ! " says the second one,

(Fly away O my heart away !) " Far off I hear the drum So sweet."

" Ah ! " says the youngest one,

(Fly away O my heart away !) tl It's my true love, my own, So sweet.

" Oh ! if he fight and win,"

(Fly away O my heart away !) " I keep my love for him,

So sweet : Oh ! let him lose or win,

He hath it still complete."

463

TWO SONGS FROM VICTOR HUGO'S "BURGRAVES."

I.

THROUGH the long winter the rough wind tears ; With their white garment the hills look wan. Love on : who cares ? Who cares ? Love on. My mother is dead ; God's patience wears ; It seems my chaplain will not have done. Love on : who cares ? Who cares ? Love on. The Devil, hobbling up the stairs, Comes for me with his ugly throng. Love on : who cares ? Who cares ? Love on.

II.

IN the time of the civil broils Our swords are stubborn things.

A fig for all the cities I A fig for all the kings !

The Burgrave prospereth : Men fear him more and more.

Barons, a fig for his Holiness I A fig for the Emperor !

Right well we hold our own

With the brand and the iron rod.

A fig for Satan, Burgraves I Burgraves, a fig for God !

4*9

LILITH.

FROM GOTHE.

HOLD thou thy heart against her shining hair, If, by thy fate, she spread it once for thee ;

For, when she nets a young man in that snare, So twines she him he never may be free.

BEAUTY.

£ COMBINATION FROM SAPPHO, U

LIKE the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost

bough, A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot

somehow, — Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it

till now.

n.

Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is

found, Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear

and wound, Until the purple blossom is trodden into the grouncj,

PROSE. IV.— NOTICES OF FINE ART.

473

EXHIBITION OF MODERN BRITISH ART AT THE OLD WATER-COLOUR GALLERY, 1850.

THE principal claim to support made by the promoters of this new Winter Exhibition rests on its being entirely free of expense to the artists exhibiting, even in the event of sale ; no charge being made for space, as at the Portland Gallery, nor any percentage levied on pur- chases, as at all other exhibitions with the exception of the Royal Academy. Its principal object appears to be to place before the public a collection of drawings and sketches (several of them the first studies for pic- tures already well known), a class of productions not of very frequent occurrence in our annual picture shows. Its principal exhibitors are of course the same whose works fill the other galleries, and among them may be especially noticed a considerable sprinkling of Associates from the Royal Academy. Of late years, the Associate- ship has come to present a somewhat anomalous aspect, viewed as a position in art. Originally instituted as a preliminary step to the highest honours, it now musters a body of young artists so much resembling each other in style, in choice of subjects, and even in the minutiae of execution, that it is difficult to suppose, at each new accession to their number, that the young man so elevated is any nearer than before to the full membership of the Academy ; since all can scarcely be at any time received into the Forty, nor is selection among them an easy matter. The Associateship has thus grown to be looked upon almost as a limit of achievement, at least by a certain class of artists ; some of whom would, we

474 -NOTICES OF FINE ART.

suspect, be actually scared, could they contemplate, when signing their names as aspirants for the minor grade, that they were ever to be called on to discharge the duties of a Professorship, for which neither nature nor study has fitted them ; utterly lacking as do certain among them education, in the first place, and, in the second place, the capacity to educate themselves. Thus it happens that year after year the corner-places and outposts of the "line" at the Academy are occupied, in a great measure, by pictures so closely resembling each other (though from different hands) as hardly to establish a separate recollection. Meanwhile, year after year, the works of other young artists continue to be ill placed and comparatively unnoticed ; one or other of whom, however, in some year or other, finds himself at last on the line, in a little while to be an Associate, and in yet a little while an Academician. Then it is that the question comes to be asked, why he, now suddenly found worthy to take the head of the board, should so long have sat beneath so many over whom he is now at once advanced. And the answer, whether spoken or not, is, that this man was marked by the Academy for an Academician, and not, as these, for Associates ; and that verily they have their reward.

These preliminary remarks will not be considered out of place when we see how many of the young men in this Exhibition are evidently striving to do exactly the same thing which others, also exhibitors here, have done, — making use of exactly the same means as those who have gone before them, in hope of the same result and no more.

We have said that the collection consists principally of sketches, and indeed rests its chief claim on bringing together for the first time any considerable gathering of such productions. We will not dispute the plea as a matter of fact, although our memory presents to us certain feet of wall in Trafalgar Square which have been covered annually for the most part, from time im-

THE OLD WATER-COLOUR GALLERY, 1850. 475

memorial, with works little differing from these sketches except in size. Let us, however, allow that we are here for the first time presented with sketches by British artists ; and still we must needs confess a degree of obtuseness as to the benefit, and a certain reluctance of gratitude. It has long been cause of complaint that our organs of veneration are called upon to be influenced by the I.O.U.'s and washing-bills of great men. But has it come to this now — that even mediocrity shall not have its dressing-room ? For our part, we have ventured to suspect that the slightest and most trifling productions of some British artists — say Mr. Hollins or Mr. Brooks — might, for any public demand, as well have been held sacred to that moderate enthusiasm which may be supposed to have given them birth. Nay, it has been suggested to us by an unguarded acquaintance that even Mr. Frith, Mr. Goodall, or Mr. Frank Stone, may be conjectured at some time, in moments of unusual languor, to have produced works (say of the size of three half- crowns) which might almost be regarded as inconsider- able, and the like of which Heaven permits the average Briton to execute, so he be only supplied with a given quantity of hogshair and pigment.

Having said thus much in the way of introduction, called for no less by the recent establishment than by the character of the Exhibition, we shall proceed in our next to an examination of the several performances.

476 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

THE MODERN PICTURES OF ALL COUNTRIES, AT LICHFIELD HOUSE, 1851.

PERHAPS the best service we can render the directors of this Exhibition is to record, at the outset of our criticisms, their assurance to the public, that other pictures besides those now on the walls are to reach them shortly from the Continent. There is hope here at least, albeit de- ferred; and, seeing that their collection is a veritable Pandora's casket, whence every ill quality of art is let forth to the light of day, it was certainly desirable that Hope should remain at the bottom.

It would not be much to the purpose to inquire which school of painting shows most creditably here ; nor, if a decision were to be arrived at, need any one set of artists feel much flattered by the preference. The only school whose merits, such as they are, are adequately repre- sented in this gathering, is that of Belgium ; which, we fear, would scarcely call for many representatives in a place where nothing should be exhibited that was not worth exhibiting.

After this opening, it will suggest itself at once that the great mass of these pictures is such as we shall not attempt to criticize ; belonging as they do to that class where examination and silence are the sum of criticism.

Let us begin with the French works ; among which are some of the few good things of the collection. If again we decimate these elect, (supposing such a course to be arithmetically possible,) we shall find that the best work in the place, upon the whole, is Mademoiselle Rosa Bonheur's " Charcoal-burners in Auvergne crossing a Moor." We are rejoiced to be able to lay our homage, $t last, at the feet of one lady who has really done some-

LICHFIELD HOUSE, 1851. 477

thing in some one branch of art which may be considered quite of the first class. Sky, landscape, and cattle, are all admirable; and must have been, though the picture is a small one, the result of no little time and labour. The sentiment, too, is most charming : you see at once that the lumbering conveyances are moving

" Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame."

The only fault of the picture consists in some slight appearance of that polished surface which always inter- feres with the truth of a French painting where any finish has been aimed at. This, however, detracts but slightly from the pleasure of the general impression. Mademoiselle Rosa Bonheur was previously known to us only by a few small lithographs from some of her works : these had always seemed to us to give proofs of the highest power, and her picture more than fulfils our expectations.

Other French landscapes of some merit are those of Rousseau, somewhat resembling Linnell ; Ziem, bearing a strong likeness to Holland, though scarcely so good ; and Troyon, much akin to the feeling and execution of Kennedy. These, however, have mostly been hung out of the reach of anything like scrutiny.

Turning to the French figure subjects, we shall find much that is excellent in the contributions of Biard, though he has sent no work of prominent importance. The best is "A Performance of Mesmerism in a Parisian Drawing-room." Here the variety of actions and expres- sions under the same drowsy influence are very diverting ; and there is even a rude grace in the colour, in spite of its sketchy and almost "scrubby" character: but per- haps this is only a study for a larger picture. The same artist's " Henry IV. and Fleurette " has a good deal of pastoral freshness and beauty; though the landscape lacks brilliancy and variety of tints, and the monarch is little better than a ballet-lover. There is great humour in the "Arraying of the ' Virgins' for the Fete of Agriculture,"

478 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

a scene from the last Revolution ; as well as in the " Review of the National Guard." The pair entitled " Before the Night " and " After the Night " are, how- ever, very vulgar and unpleasant, and must be, we should think, early productions.

The humorous sketches of Adolphe Leleux, relating to the Garde Mobile, have strong character, but are both unfinished and unskilful.

The most remarkable among the productions of Henri Lehmann in this gallery are his "Hamlet" and "Ophelia," a pair of small copies from the larger works, probably made for the purpose of being lithographed. The " Hamlet " especially gives proof of thought and intention, — the brooding eyes and suspended movement of the hand suggesting indecision of character. The " Ophelia " is much less good, and is little more, indeed, than a posture-figure with a sort of reminiscence of Rachel : the proportions of the face, too, betray a very unnatural mannerism. The execution of both figures, though careful, is not satisfactory, and reminds us in this respect of Mr. Frank Stone ; having the same laborious endeavour at finish, and th« same inability, apparently, to set about it in the right way. " The Virgin at the foot of the Cross " is an utter mistake, of that kind which makes the heart sink to look at it.

In the " St. Anne and the Virgin " of Goyet, there is a pretty arrangement of the background ; but the Virgin is mere waxwork, and St. Anne sits listening like one of the Fates in a tableau vivant.

" The Woman taken in Adultery," by Signol, is the companion to the well-known picture in the Luxembourg, and one of the couple which have been published. We never much admired these works, though they are not without delicacy and even sentiment of their kind. That at the Luxembourg is decidedly the better picture; though the action of the woman in this other, crouching, and raising her arm as if she feared that the first stone were about indeed to be cast, is certainly the best thing in either

LlCHFIELD HOUSE, 1861. 479

of them. The colour is very dull and flat, and the hands of the Saviour much too small. The picture by the same artist, from the " Bride of Lammermoor," (where Lucy Ashton, stricken with insanity, is discovered crouching in the recess of the fireplace,) displays much dramatic power in the principal figure, which is also finely drawn. The subject, however, is a repulsive one, unredeemed by any lesson or sympathetic beauty. And there is a stationary look, so to speak, in the figures, and a general want of characteristic accessory, together with that peculiar French commonness in the colour and handling which is so especially displeasing in this country, where, whatever qualities in art may be neglected, an attempt is almost always made to obtain some harmony and transparency of colour. A word of high praise is due to Mademoiselle Nina Bianchi, for her pastel of "An Italian Lady " : it is really well drawn, and shows re- markable vigour. Mademoiselle Bianchi should practise oil-painting, and leave her present insufficient material.

There are few better things in the gallery than a very small picture by Gerdme, bearing the singular title of " The humble Troubadour in a Workshop." It is poetical in subject and arrangement, and dainty in execution, though the tone of colour is not pleasing. Something of the same qualities, but with a want of expression and a servile Dutch look, may be found in the u Interior of an Artist's Studio," by Alphonse Roehn. The picture by Beaume of " The Brothers Hubert and John Van Eyck " is a subject of the same class, but in treatment resembling rather the works of Robert-Fleury. John Van Eyck is apparently engaged on his picture of the " Marriage of Cana," now in the Louvre : and we would remind M. Beaume that that work is not, as he has represented it, of the colour of treacle, but rather distinguished by a certain delicacy and distinctness which might not be without their lesson to any modern artist who should be sufficiently "poor in heart" to receive the promised blessing.

480 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

Summing up in one sentence of condemnation the platitudes or pretentious mediocrities of Ziegler, Cibot, Henry Scheffer, and Etex, and the execrable Astley's- Martyrology of Felix Leullier, we come lastly to the most important in size and character of all the French works — the Nicean duplicate of " Cromwell at the Coffin of Charles I.," by Delaroche; a picture on whose merits we should dwell at some length, had it not been already exhibited last year at the Royal Academy. Admirable it is in every respect, always taken for granted the artist's view of the subject and personage. We think, however, that it might prove of some benefit to M. Delaroche, supposing Mr. Carlyle could be persuaded to go for once to an exhibition, to stand behind that gentleman, and hear his remarks on the present picture. We fear the painter would find that this is not exactly the " lion-face and hero-face " which our great historian has told us is " to him royal enough."

Proceeding next to the Belgian school, we find another English hero presumptuously maltreated by a foreigner, in Ernest Slingeneyer's monstrous " Death of Nelson." Is it possible that this abortive mammoth is to take its place on the walls of Greenwich Hospital, for which pur- pose a subscription has actually been set afloat ? For our part, we believe that the old grampuses there have enough fire left in them to resent such an indignity; in which case, one would gladly let them have thier own way with the daub for an hour or so, if it once got within their walls. Of greatly superior pretensions is Baron Wappers' picture of " Boccaccio Reading his Tales to Queen Jeanne of Naples and Princess Mary." It is far, however, from being a work of a high standard, though a good enough painting in all artistic respects. The face of the Queen, if not very expressive, is beautiful, and the Princess is a handsome wench ; but the conception of Boccaccio is commonplace; neither is there anything in the work that demanded a life-size treatment. The other two productions of this painter — "Genevieve of Brabant"

UC11F1ELD HOUSE, 1851. 481

and " Louis XVII. when apprenticed to Simon the Shoe- maker " — are mawkish, ill-drawn, and ill-coloured in the highest degree. The cattle-pieces of Eugene Verboeck- hoven, of which there are two or three here, appear to us extremely overrated. They are very coarsely painted, very loosely grouped, and supremely uninteresting.

The only other Belgian work which has anything to claim attention in it is "Brigands Gambling for the Booty," by Henri Leys. There is some merit here, both of colour and arrangement. We may notice the absence of any paintings by Gallait, perhaps the best of the Belgian artists.

The German schools can scarcely be said to be at all represented here. Perhaps the most striking picture is that of " Pagan Conjurors foretelling his Death to Ivan the Terrible," by Buhr of Dresden. Indeed, there is pro- bably no picture in the gallery displaying more couleur locale and characteristic accessory. There is expression, too, here and there; but in many of the figures this is sadly exaggerated, and the whole has a somewhat theatrical appearance. The two little pictures from the life of St. Boniface, by Schraudolf of Munich, are very excellent, especially the latter. They are the work of an artist who thoroughly knows his art. In a collection like the present one, such productions, though the sub- jects have no dramatic interest, are an indescribable relief. Still more so are the "Subjects on Porcelain," chiefly from the Italian masters, by Pragers of Munich.

The " Young Girl at a Window," by Herman Schultz of Berlin, has a very sweet German face, but is flatly painted ; the " Nymphs of the Grotto," by Steinbruck of Dusscldorf, is pretty and fanciful ; the " Monk de- manding Gretchen's Jewels," from Faust, by Bendixen, is a well-found subject entirely spoilt ; the " Deputation before the Magistrates," by Hascnclever of Dusseldorf, has some character, but no art ; the " Recollection of Italy, Procida," by Rudolf Lehmann of Hamburg, is a contemptible and vexatious piece of affectation ; and the

3'

482 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

pair of half-figures entitled " Tasting " and " Smelling," by Schlesinger of Vienna, are not such as we should have expected from the author of various popular prints, which, in spite of their sometimes questionable subjects, give proof of much sense of beauty and even poetical feeling.

Of the English pictures we shall have but little to say, since nearly all of them have been exhibited before. The biggest is G. F. Watts's piece of dirty Titianism, entitled " The Ostracism of Aristides." It has some- thing in it, however, which somehow proves what was certainly the one thing most difficult of proof, considering the general treatment of the picture, — namely, that the painter is not a fool. The "Lake of Killarney," by II. M. Anthony, is a picture with a wonderful sky, and two highly poetical brackets ; but as it has been exhibited before, our space will not permit us to speak of it at length. The same may be said of E. M. Ward's dramatic but somewhat coarsely painted " Fall of Clarendon."

Redgrave's " Quintin Matsys " assimilates in execution to the Belgian pictures, of which it is in every respect a fitting companion. " The Tower of Babel," by Edgar Papworth, is ill placed, but seems to display no small imaginative power, and is further remarkable as an evidence of considerable proficiency in painting on the part of one whose merit as a sculptor is acknowledged. " Preparation," by Lance, is a bright but scarcely natural- looking picture, with an absurd title. "Titania and the Fairies " is an imbecile attempt by the son of an Academician : it would seem almost incredible that this thing should have occupied a place on the line two years back at the Royal Academy, and its author been nearly elected to an Associateship. " Petrarch's first Interview with Laura," by H. O'Neil, is very ill executed, though rather less commonplace in general aspect than most of the painter's works.

H. Stanley, the author of "Angelico da Fiesole Painting in the Convent," is one of the artists lately

LICHFIELD HOUSE, 185*. 483

selected by the Royal Commission to execute works for the Palace at Westminster. His present picture is hard in outline and monotonous in colour : Angelico is on his knees, with his back to the spectator, so that even his full profile is scarcely seen ; and the treatment seems to us altogether somewhat tasteless and wanting in interest ; the best incident, perhaps, being that of a second monk who is seen playing on the organ in a dark anteroom. Another artist commissioned lately by Government is W. Cave Thomas ; whose picture here, " Alfred sharing his Loaf with the Pilgrim," we shall not dwell upon, as it has been seen at the Royal Academy. It is only fair that the same excuse should come to the rescue of the picture from the life of Beatrice Cenci, by Willes Maddox ; on which, both as regards subject and artistic qualities, we should otherwise have a very decided opinion to express.

By young and unknown English artists, there seems to be scarcely anything. Some prettiness and rather nice painting, though without much expression or senti- ment, will be found in " Cinderella," by M. S. Burton. There appears to be a feeling for colour in a rather in- comprehensible performance by W. D. Telfer, entitled "The Baron's Hand," which is hung nearly out of sight. We may mention, however, that our notice was attracted to it by the recollection of a far superior picture in the same name, which we saw lately, happening to pay a visit to that now somewhat renovated sarcophagus of art, the Pantheon, in Oxford Street. The subject of the picture in question is " Ariel on the Bat's back " ; and it possesses undoubted evidence of the qualities of a colourist, though as yet hardly developed, as well as a kind of fantastic unearthliness in conception. In the catalogue of the present exhibition occur the titles of two other paintings by the same artist, but we looked for them in vain on the walls.

We have now concluded what we have to say of this gallery. To argue, from its contents, anything as

484 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

regards the relative position of the different schools, would of course be out of the question, since among the specimens contributed are scarcely any from artists who enjoy a decided celebrity in their respective countries. For our part, we have sufficient reliance on the sound qualities of a few of our own best painters to entertain some regret that on their part, as well as that of foreign schools, no attempt has been made in the present in- stance to enter into anything which deserves to be called a competition.

485

EXHIBITION OF SKETCHES AND DRAWINGS IN PALL MALL EAST, 1851.

THIS is the second year of an experiment which promises to prove a successful one. The sketches exhibited num- ber about an equal proportion of oil and water-colour, and include contributions from members of all our artistic bodies. Among those from Suffolk Street, how- ever, we are sorry to miss Mr. Anthony ; who, we trust, does not intend to withdraw his co-operation from this annual gathering.

In productions like sketches, where success in the general result depends almost entirely on dexterous handling of the material, the real superiority is, of course, more than ever to be argued chiefly from the presence of something like intellectual purpose in choice of subject and arrangement. We shall therefore en- deavour, in the first place, to determine where, in the present collection, this quality is to be found.

This brings us at once to Mr. Cope, Mr. Madox Brown, Mr. Cave Thomas, Mr. Cross, and Mr. Armitage ; in whose contributions may be summed up the amount of thought or meaning contained in the gallery. We do not recollect to have seen any work in which all the essentials of a subject were more nobly discerned and concentrated than they are in Mr. Cope's " Griselda separated from her Child," of which a sketch is exhibited here. Mr. Madox Brown's " Composition illustrative of English Poetry " shows that his large picture of " Chaucer at the Court of Edward III.," seen this year at the Royal Academy Exhibition, was in fact only the central com- partment of a very extensive work, embodying, in its

486 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

side-pieces, personations of our greatest succeeding poets, and other symbolical adjuncts. As regards pic- torial effect, it is to be regretted that these were not added to the exhibited picture, since, in the sketch, their chaste and sober tone completely does away with that somewhat confused appearance, resulting from a re- dundancy of draperies and conflicting colours, which was noticed in the "Chaucer." The design is admirable, both in conception and carrying-out. The symbolical subject by Mr. Cave Thomas, where the last watchers of the earth are gathered together in a chamber, while outside the Son of Man is seen, habited as a pilgrim, coming noiselessly through the moonlight, may without exaggeration be said to rank, as regards its aim, among the loftiest embodiments which art has yet attempted from Scripture. The mere selection of the glorious words of the text (Mark, ch. xiii. v. 34) is in itself a proof of a fine and penetrative mind. Mr Thomas exhibited a drawing for this work last year at the Royal Academy, and he now gives us a sketch in oils. We are fully aware of the importance of consideration to an artist who really has an idea to wrork upon ; but we hope the picture is to come at some time or other. At present it seems to us that much of the costume and accessories would be susceptible of improvement ; being too de- cidedly Teutonic for so abstract a theme. Mr. Thomas exhibits here also " The Fruit-Bearer " and " Sketch for the Compartment of Justice, House of Lords." The two other artists we have named above, Mr. Cross and Mr. Armitage, have sent, the former, two studies for " The Burial of the Princes in the Tower" — of which we prefer the less finished one, which, though perhaps almost too slight for exhibition, shows the greater share of dramatic faculty ; and the latter, a sketch for " Samson Grinding Corn for the Philistines " — not very well executed, nor by any means representing the merits of the fine picture for which it was a preparation.

In the second order of figure-pieces, the best are the

PALL MALL EAST, 1851, 487

contributions of Messrs. Hook, Egg, and Lewis. Mr. Hook's study for the " Dream of Venice " is. among the most charming things of the kind we know, and certainly superior in various respects to the picture. The finest among the drawings sent by Mr. Lewis (the painter of that talisman of art " The Harem ") is the " Lord Viscount Castlereagh," represented in Eastern costume. In Mr. Egg's " Anticipation " — a young lady glancing over an opera-bill — the features are perhaps slightly out of draw- ing, but the colour is most gorgeous ; in this respect, in- deed, it exhibits more unmistakeable power than anything here. Mr. Frith, an artist whose name is generally associated with that of Mr. Egg (while in fact there are no two painters whose chief characteristics are much more different), sends a half-length figure of a lady in an opera box — very loose as to arrangement, wherein the principal value of such things should consist. He has also here the " Original Sketch for the Picture of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme " — which is a fair specimen of his usual style of painting, the picture having been among his happiest efforts ; and the " Squire Relating his Adven- tures " — which is not a fair specimen of him, nor would be indeed of most other artists.

Of Mr. E. M. Ward's couple — one, a study for a figure in his last picture, and the other, a sketch for " La Fleur's Departure from Montreuil " — the latter is the more inter- esting. Perhaps nothing can well be more repulsive than the prurient physiognomy of Mr.O'Neil's "Novel-Reader" : there is no name on the cover of the book, so that the fancy is free to choose between " Sofie," " Justine," and " Faublas." Several studies of flowers here, by the same artist, are so good as to leave us a hope that he deserves to be ashamed of himself for his notion of female beauty. Regarding Mr. F. R. Pickersgill's large sketch for "Rinaldo destroying the Enchanted Forest," the only point admit- ting of argument is as to whether the sketch or the picture be the more meretricious in style ; unless indeed we were disposed to discuss which of the female figures is the

488 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

most unlike a woman. Much better, however, and in their way displaying a high sense of colour, are Mr. Pickers- gill's slighter sketches, in which the beauties of his present system of painting are more apparent than in his pictures. Indeed, the one of the " Contest for the Girdle of Florimel " is exceedingly brilliant and delightful. Mr. Kenny Meadows's drawing entitled "Which is the taller?" has much grace and spirit; but we had far rather meet him in the more intellectual class of subjects, where, when he chooses, no one can show to greater advantage. Mr. Hine's " Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries " might belong also to the " Odd Fellows " as regards his appearance, which is very quaint and humoristic. Mr. Gilbert's "Sancho Panza " is a clever pen-and-ink drawing ; but it has, in common with the artist's other productions here, a disagreeable air of " book-keeping " dexterity with the pen. Mr. Webster's contributions are of that utterly uninteresting class which can only be redeemed by the highest artistic finish. Mr. Cattermole has several very effective draw- ings in his well-known and peculiar style. Everything about Mr. Uwins's sketches here is of a very obvious description ; especially the intimation that the picture of " Sir Guyon at the Boure of Blisse " is " in the artist's own possession ; " — we should think so. The mild-drawn do- mesticities of Mr. Marshall, the frozen " Frosts " of Mr. Rolt, and that omnipresent " Gleaner " by the relentless Mr. Brooks, are only not worse than it was possible for them to be : a boundary which has almost been triumph- antly annihilated by Mr. Eddis, in the puny and puling production entitled " The Sisters." We were amused with Mr. Templeton's " Study of a Head," the " idea " of which is pompously said to have been " suggested by a passage in the life of Galileo " ; whereas it is very evident that the only " suggestion " consisted in the good looks of a model well enough known among artists, and whose portrait has been exhibited scores of times.

Of the landscapes etc, we shall have but little to say ;

PALL MALL EAST, 1851. 489

since, notwithstanding the excellence of many among them, they scarcely require comment, the styles of their respective authors being so universally known. Mr. Lucy's " Windermere" calls, however, for particular men- tion, as showing how serviceable in landscape-painting is the severer study of historical art : this sketch is of great excellence in colour, and replete with poetic beauty. There is a sketch here, unprovided with any name, by Mr. Turner ; and specimens, all very good and some unusually fine, by Messrs. Roberts, Stanfield, Linnell, Prcut, A. W. Williams, Cooke, Clint, Holland, Linton, Lake Price, Davidson, Pidgeon, Vacher, and Hardy. The " Sketch, North Wales," by Mr. Branwhite— chiefly known hitherto for his frost-scenes — is really astonishing in depth and gorgeousness of colour : the same qualities are perhaps rather excessive in his other two contributions. In Mr. Hunt's " Winter " we cannot but think that the crude and spotty execution detracts from the reality of aspect ; but the same artist's " Bird's Nest and Primroses" is absolutely enchanting in truth and freshness.

In the class of animal-painting, we should not omit to notice Mr. Newton Fielding's "Woodcocks" — very deli- cately and conscientiously painted, and reminding us in some degree of Mr. Wolfs inimitable "Woodcocks taking Shelter " exhibited Uvo years ago at the Royal Academy.

490

NOTICES OF PAINTERS, ETC.

FRANK STONE: "Sympathy" (1850). — Whether the sympathy of the gazer with the painter, or of the painter with his subject, or indeed of the young lady in faded yellow with the young lady in washed-out red, or vice versa-, be the sympathy here symbolized, there is no precise clue to determine. But a conjecture may be hazarded that the distress of the fair ones is occasioned by a " distress " for rent ; since under no other circum- stances could we expect to meet with a blue satin sofa in a place which, from its utter nakedness, can be intended for no part of a modern dwelling-house except the passage leading to the street. These premises, however, are merely, as we have said, conjectural — knocked up at random on the appearance of the premises represented. All we can know for certain from the picture is, that on some occasion or other, somewhere, a mild young lady threw her arms (with as much of abandon as a lay-figure may permit itself) round another sorrowful but very mild young lady ; that the faces of these young ladies were made of wax, their hair of Berlin wool, and their hands of scented soap. There is one other piece of knowledge distinctly communicated, viz., that such pictures as this will not sustain Mr. Stone's reputation.

J. C. HOOK : " The Departure of the Chevalier Bayard from Brescia. As he quitted his chamber to take horse, the two fair damsels met him, each bearing a little offering which she had worked during his sickness" (1850). — The general arrangement of colour in this picture is

ANTHONY. 491

very brilliant and delightful, and its first aspect will be highly satisfactory ; as indeed it could scarcely fail to be when the work of a very accomplished young artist, as Mr. Hook incontestably is, is surrounded by the in- competence which predominates among the figure-pieces here. But we question whether it would not be wise to carry away the first impression of pleasure, without endangering it by any stricter examination. There is a flimsy holiday-look about the picture, when considered, at variance not only with the simplicity of the subject, but also with truth to nature. One figure, however, — that of the foremost lady — is of exquisite grace and beauty ; the head and bosom perfectly charming. As for the good Bayard himself, we suspect that, could he have had any preknowledge of the carpet-knight (with something, too, of the dashing outlaw) Mr. Hook was to make of him, he would not at that moment have been altogether sans peur ; and that, could he now look at the picture and speak his mind of it, the artist would not find him to be, in an active sense, sans reproche. The present work, though not of the same dimensions, may be considered, in subject, as a companion to one which Mr. Hook had last year at the Royal Academy.

ANTHONY : " The Rival's Wedding" (1850). — This pic- ture, the only one contributed by Mr. Anthony, needs but a little more of finish to have secured to it that prominent position on the walls to which its merits, even as it is, undoubtedly entitled it. The subject, as indicated in the catalogue, is not, perhaps, very clearly developed ; but such pictures as this are independent of any cata- logue. To some, the first aspect of the work will be more singular than engaging; indeed, it is perhaps necessary that the eye should gaze long enough to be isolated from all the surrounding canvases, before the mind can be fully impressed by the secret beauty of this picture. Every object and every part of the colour

492 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

contribute to the feeling : there is something strangely impressive even in the curious dog, who is looking up at that sad, slow-footed, mysterious couple in the shadow ; there is something mournful, that he has to do with, in the sunlight upon the grass behind him. After con- templating the picture for some while, it will gradually produce that indefinable sense of rest and wonder which, when childhood is once gone, poetry alone can recall. And assuredly, before he knew that colour was laid on. with brushes, or that oil-painting was done upon canvas, this painter was a pcet.

BRANWHITE. — But perhaps the most admirable work in any class upon these walls is Mr. Branwhite's " Environs of an Ancient Garden," grand, and full of melancholy silence. It calls to mind Hood's Haunted House, and may, we fancy, have been suggested by that poem ; or Mrs. Browning's readers may think of her wondrous Deserted Garden. But here the work of desolation has been more complete. Many years must have passed before it became thus ; and since then it has scarcely changed for many years. All that could quite go is gone ; and now, for a long long while, it shall stand on into the years as it is. The water possesses the scene within its depths, as calm as a picture ; the white statue almost appears to listen ; there is a peacock still about the place, to stalk and hush out his plumage when the sun lies there at noon ; the pines conceal the rocky mountains till at a great height, and the mountains shut the horizon out. The encroachment of moss and grass and green mildew is everywhere; the growths of the garden cling together on all hands.

Long years ago it might befall,

When all the garden flowers were trim,

The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all ;

493

And lady, stately overmuch,

Who moved with a silken noise,

Blushed near them, dreaming of the voice That likened her to such.

LUCY (1850). — There can now no longer remain a doubt that Mr. C. Lucy is one of the elect of art destined to contribute to his epoch. In no painter whose works we can remember is there to be found more of resolute truth, while in none is it accompanied by less of the mere parade of truthfulness. The increased solidity of thought and manner in Mr. Lucy's pictures of last year is confirmed in this exhibition ; it is evidently a permanent advance in power. His present subject, " The Parting of Charles I. from his two youngest Children the day previous to his Execu- tion," is one of those hitherto left for second or third rate artists to work their will upon. Truly none such has here been at work. The arrangement adopted by Mr. Lucy is simple and suggestive. Bishop Juxon, holding the young prince's hand, leads him out into the antechamber where the sentry is posted, and where Vandyck's portrait of the king has been left hanging ; the princess, now on the threshold, looks back at her father for once more ; while the quiet head and pattering shoes of the little boy, who is evidently trying to walk faster than he is able, and the delicate manner in which he is being led by the good bishop, are peculiarly happy in their sympathetic appeal. Charles, standing, raises one hand to his brow ; his face is bewildered with anguish. He is turning unconsciously against the window, and the hand which has just held those of his children for the last time, is quivering helpless to his side. At first, the action of the figure strikes, however, as incomplete ; and indeed, perhaps, something better might have been done with the limbs ; but the feeling in the head and in the children, assisted by the quietness

494 NOTICES OF FINE ARt.

of the room into which they pass, is not the less real for being perfectly unobtrusive.

F. R. PICKERSGILL (1850).— Mr. F. R. Pickersgill's Nymphs differ from Mr. Frost's by something of the same space as might exist between a doll which, having put on humanity, has grown to the size of a woman, and a high-art wax-work. The latter are more firm and consistent ; the former retain the pulpiness of infancy, and stare with the glass eyes of their primitive status. We may refer, for confirmation, to Mr. Pickersgill's " Pluto carrying away Proserpine, opposed by the Nymph Cyane;" observing further that, whereas Mr. Frost brings his pictures up to the point he is capable of desiring them to reach, in Mr. Pickersgill, when on his present tack, there is more of wilful imbecility, clearly conceived, boldly aimed at, and worked out with an uncompromising contempt for his real self. Last week we likened this gentleman to an amalgam of the Venetian colourists, Mr. Etty, and Mr. Frost ; in the work now under review we are struck by the resemblance in Pluto and Cupid to the late Mr. Howard ; while the plagiarism from the artist of the Mr. Skelt dear to our childish days is too evident in the horses to escape detection. As regards Mr. Pickersgill's third picture, " A Scene during the Invasion of Italy by Charles VIII.," it is painful to be compelled in truth to say that the artist, who was originally Mr. Hook's model of style, is here something very like an imitator of that same Mr. Hook. We turn with a degree of pleasure to Mr. Pickersgill's watercolour " Sketches from the Story of Imelda." If these are recent works, the artist is evidently still capable of his own style, still retains some feeling for purity of form and sentiment. The story is told in three compartments. The first is not in any way remarkable; the second, where Imelda sees her lover's blood trickling through from under the closed door, is vividly imagined ; there is poetry in the last.

LEAR. KENNEDY. 49$

Imelda is dead in her efforts to suck the poison from the wounds of her lover, and the two lie together : a thin leafless tree in the shadow of the wall bends outside into the moonlight which makes the stone steps deathly cold.

C. H. LEAR. — Mr. C. H. Lear has this year taken the subject of his single small picture from Keats : —

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter : therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone :" —

or rather, he, working from his own poetical resources, has found a sympathetic echo in the words of a brother poet. The heard melody is indeed sweet, so sweet that the unheard may scarcely exceed it : but the parallel is unnecessary ; they are like voice and instru- ment. This picture should hang in the room of a poet : we will dare to say that Keats himself might have lain dreaming before it, and found it minister to his inspira- tion. Here we will not stand to discuss trivial short- comings in execution, believing that, when Mr. Lear undertakes — as we hope he will not long defer doing — a subject combining varied character, and whose poetry shall be of the real as well as the abstract, he will see the necessity of not denying to his wonderful sentiment, which has already more than once accomplished so much by itself, the toilsome but indispensable adjunct of a rigid completeness.

KENNEDY. — While we are still within the magic circle of the poetic — the truly and irresponsibly pleasurable in art — let us turn to Mr. Kennedy's "L'Allegro." Mr. Kennedy lounges (no less than Mr. Frost picks his way) in his own footsteps year after year ; and his pictures have much less to do with nature than with his own nature. Mr. Frost is self-conscious — timorously so ; Mr. Kennedy

496 ttOTlCES OF FINE A tit.

is less alive to his identity than to his ideal, but lazy enough in all things. His picture of this year, like those of former years, does not seem to deal in any way with critical requirements : it simply affords great delight. The landscapes we- have all known in our dreams ; only Mr. Kennedy remembers his, and can paint them. The figures are of that elect order which Boccaccio fashioned in his own likeness : they will play out the rest of the sunlight, no doubt, in that garden : in the evening their wine will be brought them, and the music will be played less sluggishly in the cool air, and those white-throated ladies will not be too languid to sing. Surely they are magic creatures ; they shall stay all night there. Surely it shall be high noon when they wake : there shall be no soil on their silks and velvets, and their hair shall not need the comb, and the love-making shall go on again in the shadow that lies again green and distinct ; and all shall be as no doubt it has been in that Florentine sanc- tuary (if we could only find the place) any ten days these five-hundred years. From time to time, however, a poet or a painter has caught the music, and strayed in through the close stems : the spell is on his hand and his lips like the sleep of the Lotos-eaters, and his record shall be vague and fitful ; yet will we be in waiting, and open our eyes and our ears, for the broken song has snatches of an enchanted harmony, and the glimpses are glimpses of Eden.

COPE (1850). — The subject of Mr. Cope's principal picture is from the 4th Act of King Lear : —

"Oh! my dear father ! Restoration, hang Thy medicine on my lips: and may this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made ! '

Nearly identical, it may be remembered, was the theme of Mr. F. M. Brown's work of last year, the most remark-

LANDSEER. 497

able contribution to the then " Free Exhibition ; " and a comparison of the two renderings may help us to some conclusions. Firstly, Mr. Cope .has assigned a more prominent place to the music, and has attempted more of physical beauty and of differences of age and position in his singers, the chief of whom, we submit, is man or woman, at option of the spectator. The other picture had a background of music; but its subject was emphatically the filial love. There lay the potential influence; and to this the resources appealing to sense were but a ministration. Yet the subordination of the persons doing did not detract from the full presentment of the thing done, to which the ostensible action was referred by the waiting and listening heads of Kent and of the Fool — a character not introduced by Mr. Cope. The latter, in keeping strictly to the text, — " In the heaviness of sleep we put fresh garments on him," — has, we think, acted well, though the result is necessarily a less obvious and immediate realization ; but, in all that relates to the characters of Lear and Cordelia, considered as either individual or Shakspearian, Mr. Brown shows a far higher apprehension ; nor must his adherence to appro- priateness (as far as possible) in costume and accessory be overlooked, as contrasted with the unknown chro- nology of Mr. Cope. The colour of both is strong. Mr. Cope's, however, while specially noticeable for modelling and relief, has a degree of inkiness, as though a tone of colour naturally hot had been reduced by means of corresponding violence.

LANDSEER (1850). — Mr. Landseer's chief work of the present year is " A Dialogue at Waterloo." This is, in the truest sense of the word, a historical picture ; — not merely an embodiment of conceptions, however acute and valuable, founded on the records left us from past ages ; this, on the contrary, is itself a record, a part of

VOL. u. 32

498 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

the time, to remain chronicled ; an emphatic personal testimony. It belongs to a class of art but too little followed in our day, which leaves its own annals, for the most part, to the caricaturist and the newspaper draughtsman; a class which is more "historical" than Mr. Cross's picture, or than Mr. Lucy's, or than M. Delaroche's, as not being painted from history, but itself history painted. Let us consider Mr. Landseer's work. It is now thirty-five years since the day of Waterloo, and Europe is another Europe since then because ot that day : and here, in the picture, we have that day's* Master riding in peace after these many years over the field whose name is now less the name of a field than of a battle which he fought. A woman of his house is with him, and to her he is recounting those matters as one who was there and of them. Since then, his labour has been his country's no less than on that day ; but it has been wrought out in the comparative calm and silence of a peace which, but for him, she might not have enjoyed ; and now, how must his memories crowd upon him as he recalls those events in which he was not an actor only, but the mind and master-spirit of action ! Nothing about him but what has felt his in- fluence ; — the peasantry, whose native soil has become famous and prospered because of his deeds ; the very soil itself, which the blood of his battle has fertilized and increased yearly to a plentiful harvest. All this is here, and much more, both presentment and suggestion. On the execution of the picture, its truthfulness in colour and daylight, we have left ourselves no room to dwell; we may mention, however, that the action of the Duke is, we believe, one habitual to him, and here admirably appropriate. Still less can we devote space to the discussion, in how far a subject of this class is available to the tendencies of the age. The painter's highest duty is to record, in a manner sufficiently com- plete for after deduction : and surely here, if anywhere, thus much is accomplished.

MADOX BROWN. 499

MAROCHETTI (1850). — The name of Baron Marochetti, well known, we believe, in Italian art, is here repre- sented by a small statue of "Sappho," of exquisite though peculiar character. The first impression of eccentricity .will not be favourable : but manage to look beyond this, and there is a grace and charm in the work which will arrest not the eye merely, but the mind. Sappho sits in abject languor, her feet hanging over the rock, her hands left in her lap, where her harp has sunk ; its strings have made music assuredly for the last time. The poetry of the figure is like a pang of life in the stone ; the sea is in her ears, and that desolate look in her eyes is upon the sea; and her countenance has fallen. The style of the work is of an equally high class with its sentiment — pure and chaste, yet individualized. This is especially noticeable in the drapery, which is no unmeaning sheet tossed anyhow for effect, but a real piece of antique costume, full of beauty and character. We may venture to suggest, however, that the extreme tension of the skirt across the knees gives a certain appearance of formality to the lower portion of the figure.

MADOX BROWN. (1851). — We come next to a work ot very prominent importance by a gentleman who has hitherto been a stranger to the walls of the Royal Academy, Mr. F. Madox Brown's large picture "Geoffrey Chaucer reading the Legend of Custance to Edward III. and his Court at the Palace of Sheen, on the Black Prince's forty -fifth birthday." This work cannot fail of establish- ing at once for Mr. Brown a reputation of the first class ; which, indeed, he might have secured before now had he contributed more regularly to our annual exhibitions. And we confess to some feeling of self-satisfaction in believing that, while we watched with interest in various exhibitions the sure-footed and unprecipitate career of this artist, we belonged to a comparatively select band. His works have, as we have said, been few in number,

500 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

and of a different class from those which, to judge from the circle of their admirers, would seem to possess a talisman somewhat akin to the enigmatic ducdame of Jaques. Yet there must doubtless be many who have not forgotten, and will not easily forget, the solemn beauty of "The Bedside of Lear." And we will even hope that some few have received, like ourselves, a potent and lasting impression from his cartoon of "The Dead Harold brought to William the Conqueror on the Field of Hastings ; " the only real work we have yet seen in connection with that now dead-ridden subject, a very knacker of artistic hobby-horses, for here alone was present the naked devil of Victory as he is, gnashing and awful. We believe that there is no one individual in our younger generation of art whose influence has been more felt among his fellow-aspirants, whose hand has been more in the leavening of the mass, than Mr. Madox Brown's. Of his present picture our space will not permit a detailed description, which is fully supplied in the catalogue. The subject is a noble one, illustrating the first perfect utterance of English poetry. The fountain whose clear jet rises in the foreground, as well as the sower scattering seed in the wake of the plough at the furthest distance, have probably a symbolical allusion. Amongst the happiest embodiments of character we would particularize the languid and wasted figure of the Black Prince, propped up in the cushions of his litter ; that of his wife, full of a beauty saddened to tenderness, as she sustains in her lap the arm that shall no more be heavy upon France ; the foreign troubadour who looks up at Chaucer, his feeling of rivalry absorbed in admira- tion; and the capitally'conceived jester, lost to the ministry of his mystery, spell-bound and open-mouthed. For the figure of Chaucer, whose action, and the appearance of speaking conveyed in his features, are excellent, Mr. Brown has chosen to adopt a portraiture less familiar than the one which he followed when he had occasion to introduce the poet in his picture of "Wycliffe." In

POOLE. 501

effect, the work aims at representing broad sunlight, a task perhaps the most difficult which a painter can undertake. Mr. Brown has been unusually successful ; and the colour throughout is also brilliant and delicate. It may be said indeed that, owing to the great variety of hues in the draperies, the picture has at first sight a rather confusing appearance. This might perhaps have been lessened by restricting each figure, as far as possible, to a single prevailing colour, and by a more sparing admission of ornament and minute detail of costume. Yet this degree of indistinctness may be mainly caused by the light in which the picture is hung, causing a kind of glare over the entire surface, and rendering it im- practicable to obtain anything like a good view of it except by retreating laterally to as great a distance as possible. These, however, are but slight or questionable drawbacks. Upon the whole we have to congratulate Mr. Brown on a striking success — a success not to be won, as he must know well, without much doubt and vexation, and many fluctuating phases of study, and whose chief value in his case, however worthy the immediate result, consists in the attainment of that clear- sightedness which can still look forward.

POOLE (1851). — Mr. Poole is an artist to whom, in virtue of our sincere conviction of his genius, we would claim the privilege of venturing a few words of remon- strance. He has now for several years been in the habit of exhibiting pictures which have placed his admirers in the painful position of being unable to uphold them, on grounds of strict art, against those who are dead to their poetic beauty. Year after year, the idea upon which he works is sure to be among the finest in modern painting ; and yearly he is content that, in all but colour, the execution should be left unworthy of the idea. And we would notice particularly that there is nearly always in his pictures some one personage so

502 NOTICES OF FINE ART,

unhappily independent of drawing as to reflect discredit on the whole company in which he is found, even if no other were at all chargeable on the same count. Last year, in Mr. Poole's subject from Job, this " bad eminence" belonged to the boy pouring wine in the centre ; this year, in " The Goths in Italy," it has been bestowed, as though in reward of unobtrusive merit, upon the figure of the girl to the left who watches, in harrowing suspense, the overtures which a brutal Goth is making to her childish sister. Surely Mr. Poole must know himself that this figure is too small for the rest, and in every way unsatisfactory : neither will we believe, though he does his best to convince us, that he really thinks hair should be painted like that of the man tying his sandal, or an arm drawn like the right arm of his principal female figure. Not less unaccountable are the folds of his draperies ; being moreover, of the two, rather more like water than his sea, which is represented in something of that artless simplicity (whatever may be allowed for poetic effect) in which it exalts the mind on the transparency-blinds of cheap coffee-houses. Mr. Poole's personages, too, seem, like the company of a theatre, to do duty in all parts and on all occasions. One barbarian we especially noticed, lying on the upper bank, whose identity and recumbent tastes Mr. Poole has traced, we suppose on the Pythagorean system, from the surrender of Rome to the surrender of Calais, thence to the shipwreck of Alonzo King of Naples, and so on to the plague of London; only that he has chosen to give us the process of transmigration in an inverse order. Even the atmosphere in his works, beautiful as it is to the eye, would appear equally suited to all seasons and countries ; each new Poole, like the pool in Mr. Patmore's poem, seeming eternally to " reflect the scarlet West." But enough : we have said our say, and assuredly much more for the artist's sake than our own ; since we can assure Mr. Poole that as long as he paints pictures whose merit is of the same order and degree as

HOLM AN tiUNT. $03

in those which we have seen — even though they should continue to fall short in the respects touched upon — we shall take up our station before them regularly, as here- tofore, nor be able to move away until we shall have followed out all the points of thought and intellectual study brought in aid of the development of his idea ; and we can trust him that these will be sufficient for pro- longed contemplation.

HOLMAN HUNT (1851). — Among the works embodying the principles referred to, that on which its size and sub- ject confer the greatest importance is Mr. W. H. Hunt's " Valentine rescuing Sylvia from Proteus." This pic- ture is certainly the finest we have seen from its painter ; it is as minutely finished as his " Rienzi," with more powerful colour ; and as scrupulously drawn as his " Christian Priests escaping from the Druids," with a more perfect proportion of parts. The scene is the Mantuan forest, deep in dead red leaves, on a sunny day of autumn. Valentine has but just arrived, and draws Sylvia towards his side, from where she has been struggling on her knees with Proteus, whose unnerved hand he puts from him with speech and countenance of sorrowful rebuke. Sylvia nestles to her strong knight, rescued and secure ; while poor Julia leans, sick to swooning, against a tree, and tries with a trembling hand to draw the ring from her finger. Both these figures are truly creations, for the very reason that they are appropriate individualities, and not self-seeking idealisms. Mr. Hunt's hangers may claim to have prevented the public from judging of Sylvia much beyond her general tenderness of senti- ment ; the exquisite loveliness of the Julia there was no concealing. The outlaws are approaching from the distance, leading the captive Duke. The glory of sun- light is conveyed in the picture with a truth scarcely to be matched ; and its colour renders it a most un- desirable neighbour. It might have been well, however,

504 NOTICES Of FIttE ART.

to avoid adding to the already great diffusion of hues by the richly embroidered robe of Sylvia. We are tempted to dwell further on the position assigned to Mr. Hunt on the walls of the Academy, in connection with the importunate mediocrity displayed at so many points of the " line " ; but, in speaking of the work, we recall the solemn human soul which seems to vibrate through it, like a bell in the forest, drawing us, as it were, within the quiet superiority which the artist must himself feel ; and we would rather aim at following him into that por- tion of the subject which is his domain only.

SAMUEL PALMER (1875-81). — There is an inevitable sense of presumption on the part of a junior like myself (though certainly a ripe one enough) in venturing to say thus cursorily what remains in my mind as the result of our conversation relating to Samuel Palmer's genius. Such a manifestation of spiritual force absolutely present — though not isolated as in Blake — has certainly never been united with native landscape-power in the same degree as Palmer's works display ; while, when his glorious colouring is abandoned for the practice of etching, the same exceptional unity of soul and sense appears again, with the same rare use of manipulative material. The possessors of his works have what must grow in influence, just as the possessors of Blake's creations are beginning to find ; but with Palmer the progress must be more positive, and infinitely more rapid, since, while a specially select artist to the few, he has a realistic side on which he touches the many, more than Blake can ever do.

I know that you were one of those who were most attached to the good man as well as to the good painter. His works are clear beacons of inspiration, which is a point very hard to attain to in landscape art ; but in him one may almost say that it was as evident as in Blake.

$0$

THE RETURN OF TIBULLUS TO DELIA.

THE lines under the picture are taken from one of the Elegies of Tibullus, where, on his departure for the wars, he writes to Delia how he hopes to find her awaiting his return. The picture shows the realization of his wish. The scene is laid in one of the bed- chambers adjoining the atrium of Delia's house. She is seated on her couch which she has vowed to Diana during her lover's absence, as is shown by the branch and votive tablet at its head. At present she has heaped all the pillows at its foot, and is resting languidly from her spinning with the spindle still in one hand, while with the other she draws a lock of hair listlessly between her lips. The lamp is lit at the close of one of her long days of waiting, and she is listening, before she lies down to sleep, to the chaunt of the old woman, who plays on two harps at the same time, as sometimes seen in Roman art. Tibullus has just arrived, and is stepping eagerly but cautiously over the black boy who sleeps on the doorway as a guard. He has been shown in by a dark girl who half holds him back as he enters, that he may gaze at Delia for a moment before she perceives his presence. A metal mirror reflects the light of the lamp opposite, and on each side of the doorway are painted figures of Love and Night.

506 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

MACLISE'S CHARACTER-PORTRAITS.

THERE is much in the function of criticism which abso- lutely needs time for its final and irreversible settlement. And indeed some systematic reference to past things, now at length presenting clearer grounds for decision, seems a not undesirable section in any critical journal, which finds itself necessarily at the constant disadvantage of determining the exact nature of all grain as it passes with dazzling and illusive rapidity through the sieve of the present hour. Thus it might be well if a certain amount of space were willingly granted, in such journals, to those who, in the course of their own pursuits, find something special to say on bygone work, perhaps half if not wholly forgotten, yet which, for all that, may have in it a vitality well able to second any reviving effort when that is once bestowed.

Maclise stands, it is true, in no danger of oblivion ; though he has lately passed away from among us with infinitely less public recognition and regret than has been bestowed, and that in recent cases, on painters in- finitely less than he. His was a force of central fire whose conscious abundance descends at will on many altars, and has something to spare even for feux d'ar/i- fice; and it is fortunate that, after the production of much which, with all its vigour and variety, failed generally to represent him in any full sense, his wilful and somewhat scornful power did at last culminate in a perfect manifes- tation. His two supreme works — the Waterloo and Trafalgar in the House of Lords — unite the value of almost contemporary record with that wild legendary fire and contagious heart-pulse of hero-worship which are essential for the transmission of epic events through art.

MACLISP S CHARACTER-PORTRAITS. 507

These are such " historical " pictures as the world had perhaps never seen before ; bold as that assertion may appear in the face of the trained and learnedly military modern art of the continent. But here a man wrought whose instincts were absolutely towards the poetic, and yet whose ideality was not independent, but required to be exercised in the service of action, and perhaps even of national feeling, to attain its full development. These two splendid monuments of his genius, thus truly directed, he has left us ; and we may stand before them with the confidence that only in the field of poetry, and not of painting, can the world match them as realized chronicles of heroic beauty.

However, my desire to express some sense of Mac- lise's greatness at its highest point is leading me away at the outset from the immediate subject of this notice, which has to do merely with an early and subordinate, though not ephemeral, product of his powers. I allude to the long series of character-portraits — chiefly drawn on stone with a lithographic pen, but in other instances more elaborately etched or engraved — which he contri- buted (under the pseudonym of " Alfred Croquis ") to Eraser's Magazine between the years 1830 and 1838. Some illustration of Maclise's genius, in the form of a book ready to hand, and containing characteristic work of his, would be very desirable; and I am not aware that any such exists at present. If unfortunately the original plates of these portraits have been destroyed, they are exactly such things as are best suited to reproduction by some of the photo-lithographic processes, and I cannot doubt that by this means they might be perfectly and permanently recovered and again put in circulation. I suppose no such series of the portraits of celebrated per- sons of any epoch, produced by an eye and hand of so much insight and power, and realized with such a view to the actual impression of the sitter, exists anywhere ; and the period illustrated possessed abundant claims to a worthy personal record. Pre-eminent here, among

508 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

literary celebrities, are Gothe, Walter Scott, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Charles Lamb, and Thomas Carlyle. Each produces the impression of absolute trustworthiness, as in a photograph. The figure of Gothe alone, though very vivid as he gazes over his shoulder with encounter- ing unreleasing eyes, is probably not derived from per- sonal observation, but reproduced from some authority — here surpassed (as one cannot but suspect) in clear directness of rendering. The portrait of Scott, with its unflinching enjoyment of peculiarities, gives, I have no doubt, a more exact impression of the man, as equipped for his daily life, than any likeness that could be met with. The same may be said of the " Coleridge " — a mournful latter-day record of him, the image of a life subdued into darkness, yet survived by the soul within its eyes ; and of the " Wordsworth," — beneficently en- throned, as if for the distribution of some order of merit to encourage the forces of Nature ; while Lamb, on the contrary, is shown to us warmly ensconced, sucking at his sweet books (and some other sweets) like a bee, and only conscious of self by the thrills of that dear delight provided. As for our still living glory, Carlyle, the pic- ture here given of him, in the simple reserved strength of his earlier life, convinces us at once of its priceless fidelity. Fortunately this portrait is one of those most carefully modelled and engraved, and is a very beautiful complete piece of individuality. This, no doubt, like some others, is a direct portrait for which the original actually stood ; while many, on the other hand, are re- miniscences, either serious or satirical, of the persons represented.

It would be vain, in such space as I have at disposal, to attempt even a summa-ry of the numerous other repre- sentatives of literature here gathered together ; from the effete memorial effigy of Rogers, to Theodore Hook, jauntily yet carelessly posed, and with a twinkling, self- loving face, which is one of the special masterpieces of the collection. But I may mention, almost at random,

MACLISES CHARACTER-PORTRAITS. 509

the portraits of Godwin, Leigh Hunt, Cruikshank, Disraeli the elder, and the Arctic voyager Ross, as pre- senting admirable examples of the series.

To convey a correct idea of the manner of these draw- ings to those who have not seen them would be difficult. Both in rendering of character, whether in its first aspect or subtler shades, and in the unfailing knowledge of form which seizes at once on the movement of the body beneath the clothes and on the lines of the clothes themselves, these drawings are on an incalculably higher level than the works of even the best professional sketchers. Indeed no happier instance could well be found of the unity, for literal purposes, of what may be justly termed " style " with an incisive and relishing realism. A fine instance, though not at all an exceptional one, is the figure of the poet Campbell, leaning back in his chair for a few whiffs at his long pipe, amid the lumber of an editor's office. The whole proportions of the vignetted drawing are at the same time so just and fanciful, and the personage so strongly and unflinchingly planted in his place, that the eye and mind receive an equal satisfaction at the first and last glance. Kindred instances are the figures of Jerdan and Gait, both equalty admirable. Of course, as in all cases of clear satisfaction in art, the gift of beauty, and no other, is at the bottom of the success achieved. I have no room to point to many instances of this, but may refer to one ; namely, the rendering — whimsical, as in the spirit of the series, yet truly appreciative — of that noble beauty which in Caroline Norton inspired the best genius of her long summer day. At other times the artist allows himself to render character by playful exaggeration of the most obvious kind; as in the funnily-drawn plate of Miss Landon, where the kitten-like mignonnerie required is attained by an amusing excess of daintiness in the pro- portions, with the duly charming result nevertheless. The same may be said of the " Count D'Orsay," that sub- lime avatar of the eighteen-thirties, a portrait no doubt

510 NOTICES OF FINE ART.

as intensely true to impression as it is impossible to fact.

I have already spoken of the literary leaders repre- sented. Here too are the kings of slashing criticism, chiefs of that phalanx of rampant English and blatant Scotch mediocrity : insolent, indolent Maginn ; Lockhart, elaborately at ease ; Croker, tasteless and shameless ; and Christopher North, cock of the walk, whose Growings have now long given place to much sweet singing that they often tried to drown, and who, for all his Jove-like head, cloud-capped in Scotch sentiment and humour, was but a bantam Thunderer after all. Not even piteous in- feriority in their unheeded successors can make such men as these seem great to us now. There they lie — broken weeds in the furrows traced by Time's ploughshare for the harvest which they would fain have choked.

It may be doubted whether Maclise saw clearly the relative importance of all the characters he portrayed in this gathering. His instincts were chiefly those of a painter, not of a thinker ; and moreover he was doubtless, as a young man then, a good deal under the influence of association with the reckless magazine-staff among whom he worked in this instance. Accordingly some of the satire conveyed by his pencil is now and then not in the best taste ; though perhaps the only really strong instance of this is the laughable but impertinent portrait of Miss Martineau. Many are merely playful, as the "Siamese" version of Bulwer-Lytton at his shaving-glass ; or that flush of budding oriental dandyism here on record as the first incarnation of Benjamin Disraeli.

But one picture here stands out from the rest in mental power, and ranks Maclise as a great master of tragic satire. It is that which grimly shows us the senile torpor of Talleyrand, as he sits in after-dinner sleep between the spread board and the fire-place, surveyed from the mantel-shelf by the busts of all the sovereigns he had served. His elbows are on the chair-arms ; his hands hang; his knees, fallen open, reveal the waste places of

MACLISP S CHARACTER-PORTRAITS. 511

shrivelled age; the book he read, as the lore he lived by, has dropped between his feet ; his chap-fallen mask is spread upward as the scalp rests on the cushioned chair-back; the wick gutters in the wasting candle beside him ; and his last Master claims him now. All he was is gone; and water or fire for the world after him — what care had he ? The picture is more than a satire ; it might be called a diagram of Damnation ; a ghastly his- torical verdict which becomes the image of the man for ever. This is one of the few drawings which Maclise has signed with his nom-de-crayon at full length ; and he had reason to be proud of it.

But I must bring particulars to a close, hoping that I may have roused, in such readers of the Academy as were hitherto unacquainted with this series, a desire to know it and an interest in its possible reproduction. This, I may again say, seems easy to be accomplished by photo- lithography, though I do not know myself which of the various methods more or less to be classed under that title is the best for the purpose. The portraits should be accompanied in such case both by the original magazine- squibs necessary for explanation, and by some competent summary of real merits and relative values as time has shown them since. And before concluding, I may men- tion that in the Garrick Club there is a sketch of Thackeray by Maclise, in pen or pencil (I forget which), evidently meant to enter into this series. It is Thackeray at the best time of his life, and ought certainly to be fac- similed with the rest in the event of their revival.

512 NOTICES OF FINE AR7

SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.

For FORTUNA. — A wheel, with a peacock and a raven seated on it.

Subject. — " Di donne io vidi una gentile schiera : " treated something like The Beloved, with Love in the foreground.

Subject. — Fair Rosamond fastening skein to branch of tree.

Subject. — Pietra degli Scrovigni seated on a stone, holding glass globe reflecting fertile hilly landscape.

"Che non la muove se non come pietra Lo dolce tempo che riscalda i colli."

MANDETTA, of Thoulonse, " sweetly kirtled and en- laced," with Love in an architectural background, the Daurade, and Giovanna weeping on the other side. Or, Giovanna and Mandetta together, developing the like- ness. (Guido Cavalcanti.)

For the " Era in pensier " subject. — The two ladies to be very uniform in action. The well and figures to be more at one side of the picture, and the rest occupying a clearer space as large in size as possible. The Church of the Daurade to be the background — ladies issuing from the porch, among them Mandetta ; to whom Love, draped, should be introduced by another lady, and offer her the ballad on his knees. Other ladies in galleries, etc.

For DANTE (to match BEATRICE). — Background, Love

SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES. 513

in black; and Beatrice in white walking away, back view.

VENUS surrounded by mirrors, reflecting her in different views.

HYMEN and CUPID. — Door of marriage-chamber hung with garlands. Hymen standing sentinel, and preventing Cupid from peeping in at keyhole.

Subject. — Last scene in The Cruel Sister. The Spirit standing by the Harper, with her hands on the harp which plays alone, and looking at the Lover, or the Sister. All the personages watching the harp in astonishment without seeing the Spirit ; except the Cruel Sister, who sits upright looking at her.

VOL. it. 33

NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI.

NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI.

Page 29.

"An awkward intermezzo to the volume." The term " intermezzo " was correct when my brother wrote it ; because his introduction, regarding Dante and his friends, appeared in the middle of the original volume entitled The Early Italian Poets, 1861. On republishing the book in 1874, my brother inverted the order of his translations, and made those taken from Dante and his friends to appear in the opening pages of the volume. The word " intermezzo " ought then to have disappeared ; it must have been left through inad- vertence.

Page 34.

"This sonnet is divided," etc. It may be as well to mention that the expositions (of which this is the first) appended to the various poems of the Vita Nuova were translated by me, not by my brother. Several foot-notes are also mine. The translation of the Vita Nuova had been done by my brother at a very early date, probably 1847-8; when he was more inclined to consult his own preferences in the way of translating than to be at the rigid beck of his original. When he had to prepare the work, 1860, for publication, he felt that he had taken too great a liberty, and asked me to supply what was wanted in relation to these expositions, etc.

Page 121.

OF A CONSECRATED IMAGE RESEMBLING His LADY. — It is no part of my business to revise the translations and inter- pretations of my brother : yet I may be excused for observing that there is not in this Italian sonnet anything to indicate that Cavalcanti considered the Image to resemble "his Lady "—/.£., the woman he was in love with. He speaks of

5i8 NOTES BY W. AI. ROSSETTl,

" la Donna mia," which comes to the same thing as " la Madonna," the Virgin Mary. That the Image did really represent the Virgin Mary is apparent from the reply which Guido Orlandi returned to this sonnet.

Page 224.

" Aguglino would be eaglet," etc. Here again my brother is at fault. Aguglino does indeed mean eaglet : it is the name of a coin stamped (I presume) with the imperial eagle. There can be no real doubt that Aguglino is the correct reading ; and that the whole of my brother's surmise about " Avolino " is gratuitous. I pointed this out to him when the book was in course of reprinting. He then admitted the fact ; but (with perhaps pardonable weakness for what he had many years before thought out with ingenuity, and argued with plausibility) he ultimately decided not to interfere with the text as printed.

Page 407.

CAPITOLO. — A. M. SALVINI TO FRANCESCO REDI. — Hitherto unpublished. This must be a very early specimen of my brother's translating-work — I think 1847 or 1848.

Page 409.

THE LEAF. — LEOPARDI. — Thus entitled in my brother's own volume But the lyric, as given by Leopardi, is only a translation from the French of Arnauld.

Page 410.

Two LYRICS, FROM NICCOLO TOMMASEO. — These are also very early. When Tommaseo's death was announced, Eossetti sent them to the AthenaTirn (13 June 1874), with the follow- ing prefatory lines : — " In your late obituary notice {Athenaum, May 1 6), of Niccolo Tommaseo, a passing allusion is made to his earlier lyrical poetry. Any countryman of his, looking, years ago when it appeared, into the slender collection of these verses, must have been struck by their not being chiefly concerned with public events and interests ; inevitably a rare exception in those dark yearning-days of the Italian Muse. Perhaps the two translated specimens which I offer of their delicate and romantic tone may not be unacceptable to some of your readers."

NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI. 519

Page 413.

POEMS BY FRANCESCO AND GAETANO POLIDORI.— This article was published in The Critic for i April 1853. Gaetano Polidori was our maternal grandfather, and was still alive, aged about eighty-nine, when this notice appeared (as its own terms indicate). My brother has, in his translations in this article, improved — such at least is my opinion — upon the originals.

Page 420.

HENRY THE LEPER (HARTMAN VON AuE). — My brother learned German at home, beginning towards 1843, under the tuition of an excellent teacher and excellent man Dr. Adolf Heimann, the Professor in University College. He was soon fired with a wish to translate some German poems. He Englished Burger's Lenore; and, beginning in 1845, the earlier portion of the Nibelungenlied. These translations have perished. He then took up the ancient poem by Hartmann von Aue, Der Arnte Heinrich, and made the version which is here for the first time published. The date of this translation must be 1846, or possibly running on into 1847. My brother was not dissatisfied with it in later years, and more than once thought of putting it into print. Longfellow re-adapted Der Arme Heinrich in his Golden Legend, published in 1851.

Page 468.

Two SONGS (VICTOR HUGO). — These translations also, hitherto unpublished, are very early performances — perhaps 1847.

Page 469.

LILITH, FROM GOETHE. — When my brother was projecting his picture of Lilith, towards 1866, he asked me to copy out for him the lines from the Brocken-scene in Faust, along with Shelley's translation of them. I did so. I find my transcript pasted into one of his note-books, along with this quatrain as translated by himself. As it has some interest of association, I reproduce it here.

Page 4 ? 3.

EXHIBITION OF MODERN BRITISH ART AT THE OLD WATE'R- COLOUR GALLERY. — In the earliest days of my brother's pro- fessional career as a painter, it occasionally happened to him to write a notice or critique of gome particular picture. The

520 NOTES BY W. M. KOSSETTI.

main incentive was that I was in 1850 the art-critic ot The Critic, and, for some years from the autumn of the same year, of The Spectator : and my brother felt minded now and again to express some opinion of his own, which was inserted into an article of mine. In December 1850 he wrote for The Critic the preliminary remarks, here reprinted, on an exhibi- tion of sketches at the Old Water-colour Gallery. Again, in August 1851, while I was out of town, he obliged me by writing for The Spectator an exhibition-review (on some pic- tures at LICHFIELD HOUSE) which happened then to fall due. Both these notices seem to me to be spiritedly touched off; and, though of no high importance in themselves, are certainly something of a curiosity, and I have thought them better in than out of our collection. The last-named article was followed by another on an EXHIBITION OF SKETCHES AND DRAWINGS, IN PALL MALL EAST.

Page 490.

NOTICES OF PAINTERS, ETC. — I have here collected the few notices of individual works by particular artists which my brother included (as mentioned in the previous note) in articles of mine published in The Critic and The Spectator. Some of the works, and even of the artists, are now forgotten : in one instance (that of Mr. Lucy) my brother's estimate may have been a little biased by friendly good-will. After much hesitation, I publish the whole set : it seems a pity that these few utterances of Rossetti on matters pertaining to his own art should be nowhere traceable. I may be allowed to add that although he contributed these notices bodily to articles of mine, he never had any hand whatever in my own critiques ; they were written without any suggestion or con- currence or pre-discussion on his part ; also that he by no means contemplated any general plan of reviewing his pro- fessional brethren in the tone of a literary free-lance. The notices here reproduced belong to the very early years of 1850 and 1851, with a single exception, that of Palmer. This last-named notice consists of two scraps written towards 1875 and 1881, which were eventually published by Mr. L. R. Valpy (to whom they were addressed) in his critical cata- logue of a series of Palmer's works. Of the artists thus individually reviewed by my brother, five were then known to him personally, — Anthony, Lucy, Madox Brown, Holman Hunt, and Palmer ; the others were unknown, — Frank Stone,

NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI. 521

Hook, Branwhite, F. R. Pickersgill, C. H. Lear, Kennedy, Cope, Landseer, Marochetti, and Poole. C. H. Lear must, I presume, have died early : he is not to be confounded with Edward Lear, the landscape-painter and traveller, author of The Book of Nonsense.

Page 499.

MADOX BROWN. — The observation that Mr. Brown adopted for the head of his Chaucer "a portraiture less familiar" etc. deserves note. The fact is that Rossetti himself sat for the head of Chaucer; which head is really a good likeness of Rossetti, although the painter took care that it should also bear some sufficiently recognizable resemblance to the ac- cepted type of Chaucer's countenance. The picture, a very large one, is now in the Public Gallery of Sydney, Australia.

Page 505.

THE RETURN OF TIBULLUS TO DELIA. — This memoran- dum describes a picture painted by Rossetti towards 1866; water-colour, and I believe oil-colour as well.

Page 506.

MACLISE'S CHARACTER-PORTRAITS. — Printed in the Academy for 15 April, 1871.

Page 512.

SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES. — I here give various jottings written in my brother's note-books. Towards 1870 may be something like their approximate date. I think the only one of these subjects which he ever actually took up, and that only in an initial stage, was Pietra degli Scrcniigni (from Dante). The subject of Mandetta will be better understood upon reference to pp. 123 — 125.

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