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7f^
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THE COLLECTED WORKS
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
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^f^)
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THE COLLECTED WORKS
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
BDITKO
WITH PREFACE AND NOTES
BY
WILLIAM M ROSSETTI
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOLUME II
TRANSLATIONS
PROSE 'NOTICES OF FINE ART
ROBERTS BROTHERS
3 SOMERSET STREET
BOSTON
1887
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a.-\v#-xw
CONTENTS.
TRANSLATIONS.
PAOB
Dants and his Circle, with the Itauan Poets preceding
HIM.
Advertiaement to the Edition of 1874 . . . • xi
Pre&ce to the First Edition (1861) • . • . xii
Contents . . • , xvii
Index of First Lines (English and Italian) . . . xxvii
Introduction to Part I i
P€art L—DakU and his Cirdi.
Dtmk AUghitri.
The New Life (La Vita Nuova) .... 30
Poems (sM ConUnts to DanU and his Circle) . . 96
Gmdo CavakanH and other Poets {see Contents as above) 1 16
Appendix to Part I. {see Contents as above) . . 220
Part J J,— Poets chiefly be/ore DanU.
Table ofPoets in Part II 233
Citdlo d'Alcamo and other Poets {see Contents to Dante
and his Crrde) 245
Translations from the Italian, German, and French.
Franceses da Rimini — Dante 405
La Pia— Dante 406
Capitolo — ^A. M. Satvini to Francesco Redi, 16 — . . 407
The Leaf— Lcopardi 409
Two Lyrics firom Niccol6 Tommaseo (The Young Girl—
A Farewell) 410
Poems by Francesco and Gaetano Polidori . • •413
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V CONTENTS,
PAGK
Henry the Leper, by Hartmann von And . . 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 Qose— Old French 467
Two Songs from Victor Hugo's " Burgraves " . . 468
Lilith— from G6the 469
Beauty— a Combination from Sappho .... 469
PROSE.
IV. — ^Noncra of Fine Art.
Exhibition of Modem British Art at the Old Water-
colour Galleiy, 1850 473
The Modem Pictures of all Countries, at Lichfield House,
1851 476
Exhibition of Sketches and Drawings in Pall Mall East,
1851 485
NoHcts ofPaintirs, itc
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 Pahner, 1875-81 504
The Return of Tibullus to Delia 505
Maclise's Character-Portraits 506
Subjects for Pictures 512
Nona BT WiLUAM M. Rossim 517
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TRANSLATIONS.
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DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE:
With the Italian Poets preceding Him.
( iioo— 1200— 1 300. )
A COLLECTION OF LYRICS.
TRANSLATED IN THB ORIGINAL MBTRRS.
PART I.
Dakte's Vita Nuova, etc.
Posts of Dante's Circle.
PART II.
Poets chiefly before Dante.
VOL. n
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TO MY MOTHER
I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION
OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE.
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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 Nidova,
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.
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Preface to the First Edition
(1861).
I NEED 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
chai^ged 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
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PREFACE, xiii
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 bdng an exact science, liter-
ality of rendering is altogether secondary to this chief
law. I say iUeralify, — 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.
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xhr 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 tiie 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 hiunility 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
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PREFACE. XV
the matter ; but no, — ^he must deal to each alike. Some-
times too a flaw in the work galls him, and he would
fidn remove it, doing for the poet that which his age
denied him ; but no, — it is not in the bond. His path
b 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 fed, as it were> divided from
my youth. The first assodatioHs 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,
tiiou^ 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 afibrding, 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
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xvi 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
modem editions hardly looks so imposing as might a
reference to Allacci, Cresdmbeni, 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. 181 7.)
III. Manuale della Letteratura del priroo 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-
ticellL (Firenze. 1843, ^^0
VL Rime di Guido Cavalcanti; raccolte da A. Cic-
ciapord. (Firenze. 1813.)
VII. Vita e Poesie di Messer Cino da Pistoia. Edi-
zione di S. CiampL (Pisa. 18 13.)
VIII. Documenti d'Amore; di Francesco da Barbe-
rino. Annotati da F. UbaldinL (Roma. 1640.)
IX. Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle Donne; di
Francesco da Barberino. (Roma. 1815.)
X. II Dittamondo di Fazio d^li Uberti. (Milano.
1826.)
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CONTENTS.
PART L DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
PAGE
Introduction TO Part I i
Dante Auohieri.
The New Life. {La Vita Nuava.) .... 30
Sonnet (to Brunetto Latini). Sent with the Vita
Nuova 96
Sonnet. Of Beatrice d£ Portinariy on All Saints Day 97
Sonnet. To certain Ladies ; when Beatrice was lament-
if^ her Father's Death 98
Sonnet. To the same Ladies ; ttdth their Answer • 99
Ballata. He will gaze upon Beatrice .... 100
Canzone. A Complaint of his Lady s Scorn . . 101
Canzone. Be beseeches Death for the Life of Beatrice . 104
• Sonnet. On the gth of June 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 . 110
Sonnet (Cino to Dante). He answers the foregoing
Sonnet (by Dante), and prays him, in the name
of Beatrice, to continue his great Poem • • . Ill
Sonnet. Of Beauty and Duty 112
Sestina. Of the Lady Pietra de^i Scrovigni . • I13
Sonnet. A Curse for a fruitless Love .... 115
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xviii C0NTEN7S.
Gunx) Cavalcanti. pao«
Sonnet (to Dantk Alighieri). He inttrprets Demies
Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova 1 16
Sonnet. To his Lady Joan^ of Florence , , . 117
Sonnet. He compares aU things with his Lady, and
finds them wanting .••..• I18
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 1 21
Madrigal (Guido Orlandi to Cavalcanti). In
answer to the foregoing Sonnet {by Cavalcanti) , 122
Sonnet. Of the Eyes of a certain Mandetta^ of Thou'
louse, which resemble those of his Lady Joan, of
Florence 123
Ballata. Hereveals, in a Dialogue^ his increasing Love
for Mandetta 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 thefore*
going Sonnet {by Dante), speaking with shame of his
changed Love 127
Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He reports^ in a
feigned Vision, the successful issue 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 Lotfe , . 133
Ballata. He perceives that his highest Love is gone
from him 134
Sonnet. Of his Pain from a new Lave . . .136
Prolonged Sonnet (Guido Orlandi to Guido
Cavalcanti). He finds fault with the Conceits of
the foregoing Sonnet {by Cavalcanti) . . .137
Sonnet (Gianni Alfani to Guido Cavalcanti).
Oh the part of a Lady of Pisa 138
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CONTENTS. xix
SoNNiT (Bernardo da Bologka to Guido Caval- page
CANTi). He writes to Guido^ idling him of the Love
which a certain Pindia shewed on seeing him . 139
SONNKT (to Bernardo da Bologna). Guido answers ^
commending PineUoL, and saying thai the Love he can
offir her is already shared by many noble Ladies • 140
Sonnet (Dino Compagni to Guido Cavalcanti).
He reproves Guido for his Arrogance in Love . 141
Sonnet (to Guido Orlandi). In Praise of Guido
OrlastdVs Lady 142
Sonnet (Guido Orlandi to Guido Cavalcanti).
He answers the foregoing Sennet {by CavalcasUt)^
declaring himself his LcuHys 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. €f an ill-favoured Lady .... 147
Sonnet (to Pope Boniface VIII.). After the Pope's
Interdict f when the Great Houses were leaving Flo*
rence 148
Ballata. In Exile Satarzana 149
Canzone. A Song of Fortune ..... 151
Canzone. A Song against Poverty .... 154
Canzone. He laments the Presumption and Inconti'
nenceofhis Youth 156
Canzone. A Dispute with Death .... 159
Ono da Pistoia.
Sonnet (to Dante Aughieri). He interprets Daniels
Dream related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova 163
Canzone (to Dante Alighibri). On the Death of
Beatrice Portinctri ....... 164
Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He conceives of some
Compensation in Death 167
Madrigal. To his Lady Sehaggia Vergiolesi ; likening
his Love to a Search for Gold 168
Sonnet. To Love^ in gnat Bitterness .... 169
Sonnet. Death is not without but toithin him . 170
Sonnet. A Trance of Love 171
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CONTENTS.
SoNNBT. Of the Grave of Sehaggh^ on the Monte ddia i'aob
Sambuca 172
Canzone. His Lament for Selvaggia . • . • 173
Sonnet (to Guido Cavalcanti). He owes notking
to Guido as a Poet 175
Sonnet. He impugns the verdicts of Dantis Commedia 176
Sonnet. He condemns Dante for not naming^ in thi
Commedia^ his friend Onesto di Boncima, and his
Lady Seivaggia 177
Dante da Maiano.
Sonnet (to Dante Alighibri). He interprets Dante
Alighieri^s Dream^ related in the first Sonnet of the
Vita Nuova 178
Sonnet. He craves interpreti$9g of a Dream of his . 179
Sonnet (Guido Orlandi to Dante da Maiano).
He interprets the Dream related in the foregoing
Sonnet {by Dante da Maiano) 180
Sonnet. To his Lady Nina^ of Sicily .... 181
Sonnet. He thanks his Lady for the Joy he has had
from her 182
Cecco Anoiolieri, 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. OfLove^ 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 20th 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
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CONTENTS. xxi
PAGE
Prolonged Sonnet. Whm his Clothes Tvere gone . 199
Sonnet. He <irgues 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 toould slay all who hate their Fathers 204
Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He writes to Dante^
then in exile at Verona^ defying him cu no better than
himself 205
Gunx) Orlandi.
Sonnet. Against the ** IVhite*' Ghibellines . . 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. Cf the Star of his Love . . . .211
Giotto di Bondone.
Canzone. Of the Doctrine of Vbluntafy Poverty 212
SiMONE DALL' ANTELLA.
Prolonged Sonnet. In the last Days of the Emperor
Henry VII, 215
Giovanni QuiRiNa
Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He commends the
work of Dante's Hfe^ then drawing to its dose; and
deplores his own deficiencies 216
Sonnet (Dante Alighieri to Giovanni Quirino).
He answers the foregoing Sonnet {by Quirino) ; say-
ing what he feds at the approach of Death . . 217
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CONTENTS.
APPENDIX TO PART I.
PAOB
I. FORSSB DONATI.
Sonnet (Dante to Forese). Ne taunts Forest, by the
nickname of Bicci 220
Sonnet (Forese to Dante). He taunts Dante ironi'
callyfor not avenging Geri Alighieri . . , 220
Sonnet (Dante to Forese). He taunts him concern"
ingkis 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
Sonnet. Inscriptionfor a Portrait of Dante . . 227
Sonnet. To Dante in Paradise, after Fiammetta's death 228
Sonnet. Of Fiammet a singing 229
Sonnet. Of his last sight of Fiammetta . • . 229
Sonnet. Of three Girls and of thdr Talk ... 230
PART II. POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE.
PAOB
TABLE OF POETS IN PART II 233
ClULLO d' Alcamo.
Dialogue. Lover and Lady 245
Folcachiero de* Folcachieri.
Canzone. He speaks of his Condition through Lave . 255
LODOVICO DELIA VeRNACCIA.
Sonnet. He exhorts tke State to vigilance . . . 257
Saint Francis of Assisl
Cantica. Our Lord Christ : of Order . . . 258
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CONTENTS. xaii
Fkidbrick IL Empsror. page
Canzone. Of his Lady in B<mda^ . . . - 259
Enzo, King of Sardinia.
SONNXT. On the fitness of Seasons . • . .262
GUIDO GUINICXLLI.
SONNBT. Concerning Lucy ...... 263
Canzonb. Cf the gentle Heart 264
SONNKT. He will praise his Lady , , . , 266
Canzone. Be perceives his Rashness in Love, but has
no choice 267
Sonnet. Of Moderation and Tolerance . . . 269
Sonnet. Of Human Presumption .... 270
Guerzo di Montecantl
Sonnet. He is out of heart with his Time . . .271
Inghilfredi, Siciliano.
Canzone. He rebukes the Evil of that Time . . 272
RiNALDO D'AQUINO.
Canzone. He is resolved to be joyfulin Love . 274
Canzone. A Lady, in Spring, repents of her Coldness 277
Jacopo da Lbntino.
Sonnet. Of his Lady in Heaven .... 279
Canzonetta. Of his Lady ^ and of her Portrait . • 280
Sonnet. No Jewel is worth his Lady . . 283
Canzonetta. He will neither boasi nor lament to his
Lady 284
Canzonetta. Of his Lady, and of his making her
Likeness 286
Sonnet. Of his Lady's face 288
Canzone. At the end of his Hope .... 289
Hazzeo di Ricco, da Messina.
Canzone. He solicits his Lad/s Pity . . . . 291
Canzone. After Six Years* Service he renounces his
Lady 293
Sonnet. Of Self-seeing 295
ANKUCCIO DAL BaGNO, PISANO.
Canzone. Of his Change through Love . . . 296
GlAOOMINO PUGLIESI.
Canzonetta. Of his Lady in Absence ... 299
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CONTENTS.
Canzoniwta. To his Lady^ in Spring
Canzone. Of his dead Lady ....
Fra Guittone d*Arbzzo.
Sonnet. To thi Blessed Virgin Mary .
Bartolomeo di Sant' Angelo.
Sonnet. He jests concerning his Poverty .
Saladino da Pavia.
Dialogue. Uroer and Lady ....
BONAGGIUNTA UrBICIANI, DA LUCCA.
Canzone. Of the true end of Love ; with a Prayer to
his Lady
Canzonetta. How he dreams of his Lady .
Sonnet. Of Wisdom and Foresight .
Sonnet. Of Continence in Speech
Meo Abbracciavacca, da Pistoia.
Canzone. He will be silent and watchful in his Lave
Ballata. His Life is by Contraries ,
Ubaldo di Marco.
Sonnet. Of a Lady s Lowe for him .
SiMBUONO GlUDICE.
Canzone. He finds that Love has beguiled him, but will
trust in his Lady '
Masouno da Todi.
Sonnet. Of Work and Wealth ....
ONESTO di BONCIMAy BOLOGNESE.
Sonnet. Of the Last Judgment ....
Sonnet. He wishes that he could meet his Lady alone
Terino da Castel Fiorentino.
Sonnet. To Onesto di Boncimaf in annver to the fore-
Maestro Miguore, da Fiorenza.
Sonnet. He declares aU Love to be Grief
Dello da Signa.
Ballata. His Creed of Ideal Love
PA6B
301
303
306
307
308
310
312
314
315
316
319
320
321
324
325
326
327
328
329
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CONTENTS. XXV
PAGE
FOLGORE DA SaN GeMINIANO.
Sonnet. To the Gtulph Faction 330
Sonnet. To the Same 331
Sonnet. OfVtrtue 332
Twelve Sonnets. Of the Months . . . -333
Seven Sonnets. Of the Week 342
GuiDO delle Colonne.
Canzone. To Lave and to his Lady .... 347
Pier Moronelli, di Fiorenza.
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 352
RUGGIERI DI AmICI, SiCILIANO.
Canzonetta. For a Renewal of Favours . . 354
Carnino Ghiberti, da Fiorenza.
Canzone. Being absent from his Lady, he fears Death . 356
Prinzivalle Doria.
Canzone. Of his Love, with the. Figure of a sudden
Storm 358
Rustic© di Filippo.
Sonnet. Of the making of Master Messerin . . . 360
Sonnet. Of the safety of Messer Fazio . . . . 361
Sonnet. OfMesser Ugolino 362
PUCCIARSLLO DI FlORENZA.
Sonnet. Of Expediency 363
ALBERTUCaO DELLA ViOLA.
Canzone. Of his Lady dancing 364
TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA.
Sonnet. He is in awe of his Lady .... 366
NOFFO BONAGUIDA.
Sonnet. He is enjoined to pure Love » . . . 367
LiPPo Paschi de* Bardi.
Sonnet. He solicits a Lady s Favours , . . . 368
Sbr Pace, Notaio da Fiorenza.
Sonnet. A Return to Love 369
VOL. U. C
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xxvi CONTENTS.
Niccol6 degli Albizzi. page
Prolonged Sonnet. When the Troops were returning
from Milan 37<^
Fkancesco da Barberino.
Blank Verse. A Virgin declares her Beauties . • 37i
Sbntenzb. Of Sloth against Sin 373
Sentenze. Of Sins in Speech 375
Sentenze. Of Importunities and Troublesome Persons . 377
Sentenzb. Of Caution 380
Fazio dbgu Ubertl
Canzone. Bis Portrait of his Lady^ Angiola of Verona 381
Extract prom the ^^ Dittamondo.*' OfEngtand^ and
of its Marvels 384
Extract from the " Dittamondo." Of the Dukes
of Normandy y and thence of the Kings of England^
from William L to Edward III, .... 388
Franco Sacchettl
Ballata. His Talk with certain Peasant-girls . . 39a
Catch. On a Fine Day 394
Catch. On a Wet Day 39^
Anonymous Poems.
Sonnet. A Lady laments for her lost Lcver^ by simHt-
tttde of a Falcon 398
Ballata. One spec^ of the Beginning of his U/ve . 399
Ballata. One speaks of his false Lady . 399
Ballata. One speaks of his feigned and real Love. . 400
Ballata. Cf true and false Singing .... 401
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
iENGUSH AND ITALIAN.")
A CERTAIN youthful lady in Thoulouse
Una giauine donna di Tolosa
A day agone as I rode sullenly
Cavalcando taltrier per un camndno
A fresh content of fresh enamouring
Nffuelia gioia e nova innamoranMa
A gentle thought there is will often start
Geniil pensiero cht parla di vui .
A lady in whom love is manifest
La bdia donna dove Amor si mostra
Alas for me who loved a fidcon well
Tapina me ehe amaua uno sparviero
Albeit my prayers have not so long delayed
Awegna ched io m^aggio pih per tempo
A little wild bird sometimes at my ear
Augelletto sehaggio per stagione .
AH my thoughts always speak to me of Love
T^tH It mid pensier parlan d" Amort
All the whole world is living without war
T\Uto to mondo wve senzaguerra
An ye that pass along Love's trodden way
O voi cheper la via d*amor passaU
h^aug the rood all shapes must travel by
Per quella via chi Paltre forme vanno
VAOB
40
90
142
398
164
401
46
^SS
36
315
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES,
A man should hold in very dear esteem
Ogni uomo deve assai caro tenere .
Among my thoughts I count it wonderful
Pure a pernor mi par gran meraviglia
Among the dancers I beheld her dance
Alia danta la vidi dansare
Among the faults we in that book descry
Infra gli altri difetti del libello
And every Wednesday as the swift dajrs move
Ogni Mercoledl corredo grande
And in September O what keen delight
Di Settemhre vi do dilettt tanti
And now take thought my Sonnet who is he
Sonetto miOy anda d lo divisi
And on the morrow at first peep o* the day
Alia domane al parere del giomo .
As I walked thinking through a little grove
Fassando con pensier per un boschetto
As thou wert loth to see before thy feet
Se non ti caggia la tua Santalena
A spirit of Love with Love's intelligence
Ispirito d'Amor con intelletto
A thing is in my mind
Venuto nC i in ialento
At whiles yea oftentimes I muse over
Spessefiate venemi alia mente
A very pitiful lady very young
Donna pietosa e di novella elate .
Ay me alas the beautiful bright hair
Ohimi lasso quelle treccie blonde .
BtUad since Love himself hath fashioned thee
Ballatapoi che ti compose Amore .
Beauty in woman the high will's decree
Belth di donna e di saccente core .
Because I find not whom to speak withal
PoicK to non trovo chi meco ragioni
PAOB
324
270
364
177
344
339
341
346
396
202
367
274
51
65
173
20S
118
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Because I think not ever to return
Perch* to uon spero di tomar giamtnai .
Because mine eyes can never have their fill
Poichi sanar turn posso gli occhi mid
Because ye made your backs your shields it came
Guelfi per fare scudo ddle rent
Being in thought of love I chanced to see
Era in pensier d^amor quand ' io irovai .
Be stirring girls we ought to have a run
State su dontu che debbiatn noifare
Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space
Oltre la spera che pih larga gira .
By a clear well within a little field
Intomo ad tmafonte in un pratello
By the long sojourning
Per itmga ditnorctnza
Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing
Sei tu coiui ch* hoi trattato sovente
Dante Alighieri a dark oracle
Dante Alighieri s<m Minerva oscttra
Dante Alig^eri Cecco your good friend
Dante Alighier Cecco ttw servo e amico .
Dante Alighieri if I jest and lie
Dante Alighier ^io son btion begolardo .
Dante Alighieri in Becchina*s praise
Leusar vuol lo travare di Becchina
Dante a sigh that rose from the hearths core
Dante un sospiro messagger del core
Dante if thou within the sphere of Love
Dante se tu nelP amorosa spera .
Dante since I from my own native place
Poich' io fui Dante dal mio natal sito
Dante whenever this thing happeneth
Dante quando per caso s*abbandona
Death alway cruel Pity's foe in chief
MorU villana di PietiL nemica
XXIX
PAGE
149
100
330
124
394
94
230
319
62
227
183
205
192
128
228
109
167
38
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Death sinoe I find not one with whom to grieve
MortepoiclC to non trovo a cut mi dogiia
Death why hast thou made life so hard to bear
JIforte perchi m*haifatto si gran guerra
Do not conceive that I shall here recount
Non inUndiate ch* to qui le vi dica
Each lover's longing leads him naturally
Naturalfnenie cJure ogni amadore
Even as the day when it is yet at dawning
Come logiomo quando i al matiino
Even as the moon among the stars doth shed
Come ie sielle sopra la Diana
Even as the others mock thou mockest me
Con Vaitre dontte mia vista gabbate
Fair sir this love of ours
Messer lo nostra amore
Flowers hast thou in th3rself and foliage
Avete in voi Hfiori e la verdura .
For a thing done repentance is no good
A cosafatta gih non vol pentire .
For August be your dwelling thirty towers
lyAgpsto sivido trenta casteUa .
For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Vede perfettamente ogni salute
For grief I am about to sing
Di dolor mi comdene cantare
For January I give you vests of skins
lo dono vai nel mese di Genncdo .
For July in Siena by the willow-tree
Di Luglio in Siena sulla saliciata
For no love borne by me
Non per ben eh* io ti voglia
For Thursday be the tournament prepared
Ed ogni Gioved) tomiamento
Friend well I know thou knowest well to bear
Amico saccio ben che sai limare
PAOB
104
163
358
366
49
308
"7
196
338
74
259
335
338
400
344
137
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Glory to God and to God's Mother chaste
Lodt di Dio e ddla Madre pura . •
Gramercy Death as youVe my love to win
MorU nurci si H priego e mV in grata
Goido an image of my lady dweUs
Vnafigura tUUa donna mia
Goido I wish that Lapo thoa and I
Guiib vorrei che tu e Lapo edie , •
Goido that Gianni who a day agone
Guido quel Gianni che a tefii laUrieri .
Hard is it for a man to please all men
Grevepuof uam piacere a tuita genU
He that has grown to wisdom horries not
Uomo ch* i saggio non corre leggiero
Her face has made my life most prood and glad
Lo viso mi fa andare allegramente
I am afieu- hot near thee is my heart
Lontan vi son mapresso v* ilo core
I am all bent to glean the golden ofe
lo mi son dato tuUo a tr agger oro .
I am enamoored and yet not so moch
lo sane innamoraio ma non tasUo .
I am so passing rich in poverty
Eo son si ricco ddia povertaU
I am so oot of love throogh poverty
La poverty nC ha si disamorato .
I come to thee by daytime constantly
lo v/gno i/giomo a te infinite volte
I fdt a spirit of love begin to stir
lo mi sentii svegliar dentro dal core .
If any his own foolishness might see
Chi conoscesse si la suafaUawui .
If any man woold know the very caose
Se alcun voUsse la cagion savere . •
If any one had anything to say
Chi Messer (Igolin diasma o r^rende
xxzi
PAOB
3i6
200
X2I
126
. 138
272
269
. 288
. 356
. 168
• 184
• 307
. 198
144
. 69
. 395
. 271
. 36a
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
If as thou say*st thy love tormenteth thee
5"^ id stringesse quanta dite amore .
If Dante mourns there wheresoe'er he be
Se Dante piange dove cfC el si sia .
If I'd a sack of florins and all new
Sio avessi un sacco difiorini
If I entreat this lady that all grace
Sio prego questa donna che pietate
If I were fire I'd bum the world away
S'iofossifoco arderei lo mondo
If I were still that man worthy to love
Siofossi quello che ^amorfk degno
If thon hadst offered firiend to blessed Maiy
Se a:vessi detto amico di Maria
If you could see fiur brother how dead beat
Fratel se tu vedessi questa gente .
I give you horses for your games in May
Di Maggio sivido molti cavagii .
I give you meadow-lands in April (air
DAprile vi do la gentil campagna
I have it in my heart to serve God' so
lo nCaggio posto in core a Dio servire
I hold him verily of mean emprise
Tegno difolle impresa cUlo ver dire .
I know not Dante in what refuge dwells
Dante io non odo in qual cUbergp suom
I laboured these six years
Sei anni ko travagliato
I look at the crisp golden-threaded hair
lo miro i crespi e gli biondi capegli
I'm caught like any thrush the nets surprise
Babbo Becckina Amore e mia madre
I'm full of everything I do not want
lo ho tutte le cose ch^ io non voglio
In February I give you gallant sport
Di Febbraio vi dono bella caccia
TMXft
327
227
188
133
19s
127
122
370
337
336
279
267
III
293
381
>93
189
335
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
In March I give you plenteous fisheries
Di Mono sivido una peschiera .
In June I give you a close-wooded fell
Di Giugno dcvzH una numtagmtta
I play this sweet prelude
Dolce cominciamenio
I pray thee Dante shouldst thou meet with Love
Se vedi Amorc assai ti prego Dante
I thought to be for ever separate
lo mi credea del tutto esser pariito
I've joDiest merriment for Saturday
E il Sabaio diletto ed allegranza .
I was upon the high and blessed mound
lojui in suir alto e in sul beato monte
I would like better in the grace to be
lo vorrei innansd in graxia ritomare
Just look Manetto at that wry-mouthed minx
Guarda Manetto quella sgrignututza
Ladies that have intelligence in Love
Donne che avete intelletto tFAmore
Lady my wedded thought
La mia amorosa mente
Lady of Heaven the Mother glorified
Donna del cielo gloriosa Madre
Lady with all the pains that I can take
Donna io forxeraggio lo podere
Last All-Saints* holy-day even now gone by
Di donne io vidi una gentile schiera
Last for December houses on the plain
E di Dicembre una citth in piano
Let baths and wine-butts be November's due
E di Novenibre petriuolo e U bagno
Let Friday be your highest hunting-tide
Ed ogni Venerdi gran caccia e forte
Let not the inhabitants of hell despair
Non si disperin quelli dello Inferno
xxxiu
PAGE
336
337
354
129
108
345
172
201
147
54
312
306
352
97
340
340
345
203
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Lo I am she who makes the wheel to turn
lo son la donna che volgo la rota .
Love and the gentle heart are one same thing
Amore e cor gentil son una cosa .
Love and the Lady Lagia Guido and I
Amore t Monna Lagia e Guido ed to
Love hath so long possessed me for his own
Si lungainente nCha tenuto Amore
Love I demand to have my lady in fee
Amore io chero mia donna in domino
Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth
Color d* amore e di pieti sembianti
Love since it is thy will that I return
Perchi tipiace Amore ch* io ritomi
Love steered my course while yet the Sun rode high
Guidommi Amor ardendo ancora il Sole .
Love taking leave my heart then leaveth me
Amor s^eo parto il cor si parte e dole
Love will not have me cry
Amor non vuol ch* io clami
Many there are praisers of poverty
MoUi son juei che lodan povertade
Marvellously elate
MaravigUosamente
Master Bertuccio you are called to account
Messer Bertuccio a driito uom vi cagiona •
Master Brunetto this my little maid
Maser Brunetto questa pultdletta
Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring
Videro gli occhi miei quanta pietcUe
My body resting in a haunt of mine
Poso il corpo in un loco mio pigliando
My curse be on the day when first I saw
Io malculico il di ch* io vidi imprima
My heart's so heavy with a hundred things
Io ho si tristo il cor di cose cento .
PAOI
130
7S
ao7
87
lOI
339
328
284
ai2
280
361
96
86
320
"5
190
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
My lady carries love within her eyes
NegH occhi porta la mia donna amore
lAj lady looks so gentle and so pure
Tanio gentile e tanto onesta pare .
My lady mine I send
Madonna nda a vol mando
My lady thy delightful high command
Madonna vostro altera piadmento
Nero thus much for tidings in thine ear
Novella ti so dire odi Nerone
Never so bare and naked was church-stone
Net tempio santo non vid* io mai pietra
Never was joy or good that did not soothe
Gioia hi ben non i sensta conforto .
Next for October to some sheltered coign
Di Ottobre nd canth cIC ha buono stallo
No man may mount upon a golden stair
Non vi si monta per iscala d^oro .
Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites
Color di cenerfatti son li Bianchi
Vow these four things if thou
Quatlro cose chi vuoU
Now to Great Britain we must make our way
Ora sipassa ndla Gran Bretagna
Now when it flowereth
Oramai quandoflore
Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer
Quando la lufta e la stella diana .
O Bicd pretty son of who knows whom
Bicci novel Jigliuol di non so cui .
Often the day had a most jojrful mom
Spesso di gioia nasce ed incomenza
Of that wherein thou art a questioner
Di db che staio sei dimandatore
O Lady amorous
Donna amorosa
PAOB
59
74
386
296
148
199
310
339
X41
206
375
384
277
343
320
321
178
349
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES,
O Love O thou that for my fealty
O tu Amore che m'haifatio martire
O Love who all this while hast urged me on
AfHor che lungamente nChai menato
On the last words of what you write to me
Al motto diredan prima ragione .
O Poverty by thee the soul is wrapped
O Poverty come tu sei un matUo .
O sluggish hard ingrate what doest thou
O lento pigro ingrato ignar che fat
O thou that often hast within thine eyes
Otu cheporti negli occhi sovente .
Pass and let pass this counsel I would give
Per consiglio ti do di passapassa .
Prohibiting all hope
Levandomi speranza
Remembering this how Love
Membrando ctb che Amore
Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son
Ben so che fosti figliuol d*Alighieri
Round her red garland and her golden hair
Sozn^a lifior vermigii e i capei d*oro
Sapphire nor diamond nor emerald
Diamente ni smeraldo ni zcffino .
Say wouldst thou guard thy son
Vuoi guardar tuo figliuolo
Set Love in order thou that lovest me
Ordina quesf Amore o tu che m^ami
So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me
Si nCabbelHo la vostra gran placenta
Song *tis my will that thou do seek out Love
Ballata iovo che tu ritruom Amore
Stay now with me and listen to my sighs
Venite a intender It sospiri miei .
Such wisdom as a little child displays
Saver che sente un picciolo fantino
PAGE
347
180
154
159
131
363
329
389
320
229
283
380
258
181
44
82
314
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES,
That lady of all gentle memories
Era venuta nella mmie mia
That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse
Quist^ alHssima stella che si vede .
The devastating flame of that fierce plague
V ttrdenU fiamtiia dtllafiera pesU
The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear
II fessimo e il crvdel odio M io porto
The eyes that weep for pity of the heart
GH occhi dolenti per pietii del core .
The flower of virtue is the heart's content
Fior di virtu si i gentil coraggio .
The fountain-head that is so bright to see
Cictscuna fresca e dolce fontanella .
The King by whose rich grace His servants be
Lo Re che merta i swn servi a ristoro
The lofty worth and lovely excellence
Lo gran valore e lo pregio amoroso
The man who feels not more or less somewhat
Chi turn sente d^Amore o tanto o quanta
The other night I had a dreadful cough
L aUra notte mi venne ana gran iosse
The sweetly-favoured face
La dolce dera piacente
The thoughts are broken in my memory
Ctb che fifinamtra nella mente more
The voy bitter weeping that ye made
V amaro lagrimar che voifaceste .
There is a time to mount to humble thee
Tempo vien di salire e di scendere
There is a vice prevails
/\ir che UH viaopur regni
There is a vice which oft
(In tfiao i che laudato
There is among my thoughts the joyous plan
l9 ho pernato difare un gioiello .
xxxvu
PAGE
85
211
156
194
79
332
140
217
291
185
222
299
50
88
262
377
373
342
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XXXVIU
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Think a brief while on the most marvellous arts
Se 7 subiiUo preclaro O Cittadini
This book of Dante's very sooth to say
In verith qtusto libel di Dante
This fiaurest lady who as well I wot
Questa leggiadra donna ched to sento
This fairest one of all the stars whose flame
La bella stella che suafiamma titne
This is the damsel by whom Love is brought
Questa i la giovinetta ch^ amor guida
Thou sweetly-smelling fresh red rose
Rosa fresca atUentissima .
Thou that art wise let wisdom minister
Prowedi saggio ad esta visione . .
Thou well hast heard that Rollo had two sons
Come udit * hat duefigliuoli ebbe Rollo
Though thou indeed hast quite forgotten ruth
Se trChai del tutto obliato mercede .
Through this my strong and new misaventure
La forte e nova mta disawentura
To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song
E il Marfedl li do un nucvo mondo
To every heart which the sweet pain doth move
A dascun* alma presa e gentil core
To hear the unlucky wife of Bicd cough
Chi udisse tossir la malfatata
To see the green retummg
Quando veggio rinverdire .
To sound of trumpet rather than of horn
A suon di tromba innanzi che di como
To the dim light and the large circle of shade
Alpoco giomo ed al gran cerchio d*ombra
Two ladies to the summit of my mind
Due donne in cima delta mente mia
Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth
Vedesti cU mio parere ogni tfalore •
PAGS
176
170
399
210
245
179
388
132
134
343
33
231
301
«43
113
112
116
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Unto that lowly lovely maid I wis
A qtuila amorosetta fbrosella
Unto the blithe and lordly fellowship
Alia brigata nobiU e cortese
Upon a day came Sorrow in to me
Un di si venne a me MelancoUa .
Up(m that cruel season when our Lord
Quella crudd stagUm che a giudicart
Vanquished and weary was my soul in me
Vinta e lassa era gih V anima mia
Weep Lovers sith Love's very self doth weep
Piangete amanti poi che piange Amore .
Were ye but constant Guelft in war or peace
CosifacesU vol o guerra o pace
Wert thou as prone to yield unto my pra3rer
Cosi fossi tu acconeia di donarmi .
Whatever good is naturally done
Qualunqne hen si fa naturalmente
Whatever while the thought comes over me
Qmantunque volte lasso mi rintembra
What rhjrmes are thine which I have ta'en from thee
Qmai son le cose vostre cK to m tolgo
Whence come you all of you so sorrowful
Onde venite vci cost pensose
When God had fini^ed Master Messerin
Quando Iddio Messer Messerin fece
When I behold Becchina in a rage
Quando v^io Becchina corruceiata
When Lucy draws her mantle round her fkce
Chi vedesse a Lucia un var cappuzMO
When the last greyness dwells throughout the air
Quando V aria comincia afarsi druna
Whether all grace have failed I scarce may scan
Non so /i merci che mo vene a meno
Whoever without money is in love
CH i sema denari innamorato
PAOB
333
107
32s
171
37
331
368
1S6
83
175
98
360
191
263
399
3^
197
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xl
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
Who is she coming whom all gaze upon
Chi i qtusta che vien cJC ogtC uom la mira
Whoso abandons peace for war-seeking
Chi va cherendo gturra e lassa pace
Who utters of his father aught but praise
Chi dice di suo padre aliro che onore
Why from the danger did mine eyes not start
Perchi nonfuro a tne gii occhi dispenti
Why if Becchina's heart were diamond
Se di Becchina ij cor fosse duimcuUe
Within a copse I met a shepherd-maid
In un boschetto trovai pastorella .
Within the gentle heart Love shelters him
Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore
With other women I beheld my love
lo vidi donne con la donna mia .
Woe's me by dint of all these sighs that come
Lasso perforza di mold sospiri ,
Wonderful countenance and royal neck
Viso mirabil gola nwrgancUa
Yea let me praise my lady whom I love
lo vo del ver la mia donna lodare
Ye gracefid peasant-girls and mountain-maids
Vaghe le monianine e pastorelU .
Ye ladies walking past me piteous-eyed
Voi donne che pietoso aito mostrcUe
Ye pilgrim-folk advancing pensively
Deh peregrini che pensosi amfate .
You that thus wear a modest countenance
Voi che portcUe la sembiama umile
Your joyful understanding lady mine
Madonna vostra altera canoscenza
PAOK
119
315
204
136
187
145
264
120
91
182
266
392
99
93
61
316
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DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
INTRODUCTION TO PART L
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 wth 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 tesii 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 VUa Nuova (the Autobiography or Autopsycho-
logy of Dante's youth till about his twenty-seventh year)
b 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, imnecessary to say
VOL. II. I
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2 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 fu 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 dear 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-oommunings that we can divine tiie
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 Com-
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.
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INTRODUCTION TO PART /. 3
bat it IB true that the VUa Nuova 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 dty 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 Commedia (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 giieat way : —
•* I've seen the troops out of Caprona go
On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot
They found themselves with foemen compass'd so."
(Cayley's Translaium.)
A word should be said here of the title of Dante's
autobiography. The adjective Nuovo, nuova, or Novello,
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 thb supposition, as everything is a gain which
increases clearness to the modem 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
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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
Irom a long note^ a suggestion as to the meaning of the most
puzzling passage m 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
chiamare." 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
literally, *' 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 gentil 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 afibrded 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, — i.e., the giver of
blessing ? This would be analogous by antithesis to the transla-
tion I have adopted in my text
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INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 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 G^valcanti, bom about 1250
and thus Dante's senior by some fifteen years. It i«^
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 Guido'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
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6 DANTE AND BIS CIRCLE.
The writings of his contemporaries, as well as Ms 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 kindsy 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 tiie Guelfe and Ghibelfines.
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 vms 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 th\«
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 G>rso 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 dty 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.
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INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 7
fiBmM>i]S througlKMit all Christendom. That this devout
journ^ 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 Cava]**
caste Cavakanti, — ^full of courage and courtesy, but disdainful,
aolitacy, and devoted to study,— was a foe to Messer Corso
HDonati), and had many times 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 j^uths against Messer Corso, and these
promised to stand by hinu Who being one day on horseback
wiidir certain of the house, of the Cerchi, and having a javelin in his
handt 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
htm th^ threw stones after him, and also others were thrown at
hira 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 Cavtcchia,* And thus it was
spread abroad of the jongUurs; and especially one named Scam-
poHno 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
CaoakantL The word cavicchia^ cavicchiOf or cavigUa^ 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
As8k Messer Vieri, was tethered at the Gate, (that is, the gate of
San Pietro, near which he lived). However, it seems quite 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 '^ (darg d$l cuh in un cavicchio). The haughty Corso Donati
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8 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
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 4>econie
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)
" 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. Messer 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 MaUfammi or " Do-me-harm." For
an account of his death in 1307, which proved in keeping with his
turbulent life, see Dino Compagni's ChronicUf or the Pecoront of
Giovanni Fiorcntin (Gior. xxiv. Nov. 2).
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INTRODUCTION TO PART L 9
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's
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 firom
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 {Faciere),
and so shamefully free it from its intestine broils. It
appears therefore that the immediate cause of 'the exile
to which both sides ^ere 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 tcncro 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.
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10 DANTE AND HJS CIRCLE.
time. Before Guido's return he had undertaken that
embassy to Rome which bore him the bitter frtdt of mi-
>u8t and perpetual exile : and it will be remembered that
a chief accusation i^painst him was tfiat of &vour shown
to die White party on the banishment of the fections.
Besides the various affectionate allusions to Guido in
the Vita Nuova, Dante has unmistakably referred to
him in at least two passages of tiie Commedia. One of
these references is to be found in those famous lines of
the Purgatory (C. zi.) 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 &me o' the first wanes nigh to nought.
Thus one from other Guido took the high
Gloiy of language ; and perhaps is bom
He who from both shall bear it by-and-bye."
The other mention of Guido is in that pathetic passage
of the Hell (C. z.) where Dante meets among the k^
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 lofUness of intellect, —
Where i3 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 idionu
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INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 1 1
Doth not the sweet light strike upon hn eyes?*
When he perceived a certain hesttance
Which I was making ere I should reply,
He fell supine, and forth appeared no more.*
Dante, however, conveys his answer afterwards to the
^irit of Guido's father, through another of the con-
demned also related to Guido, Farinata d^li Uberti,
wkh whom he has been speaking meanwhile : —
" 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 dumh to the response,
I did it, make him know, because I thought
Yet on the error you have solved for me.' "
(W. H. RossBTTi's TraniMon.)
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 ViUi
Nuova had then both left him. For ten years Beatrice
Portinari had been dead, or (as Dante says in the Con-
vUo) " lived in heaven with the angels and on earth with
his aomL" 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-
iahm&it if the noise continued. The child, however,
managed slily to nail Guidons 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"
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12 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the Decameron
relates a repartee of Guido'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 Guido*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 porphjrry 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 sepui-
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INTRODUCTION TO PART L 13
chres, 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 I when thou shalt
have found that there is no God, what wilt thou have done ? * To
whom Guido^ seeing himself hemmed in among them, readily re-
plied, * 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
bis 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 b'. 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
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14 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
in consequence of the great number of waxen images
in the Virgin's shrine at Or San Midiele ; 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 expelMng 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 tiie best
of his pieces being those which relate to himself, his
loves and hates. The best known, however, and peiiiaps
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 s»d,
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
Guido'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 fr-
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 cultivate 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.
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INTRODUCTION TO PART L 1$
dofus ; and accordin|^yi on ezaminatioB, it proves to foe
a poem beside the purpose of poetry, Med with meta-
physical jargon, and perhaps the very worst of Guido's
productions. Its having been written by a man whose
Ufe and works include so much that is impulsive and
real, is easily accounted for by scholastic pride in those
early da3rs of learning. I have not translated it, as being
of Iktle true interest ; but was pleased lately, neverthe-
less, to meet with a remai^ably complete translation of
it by the Rev. Charles T. Brooks, of Cambridge, United
States.* The stiffness and cold conceits which prevail
IB this poem may be found disfiguring much of what
Gtrido Cavalcanti has left, while much besides is blunt,
obscure, and abrupt : nevertheless, if it need hardly be
said bow 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
diose qualities to Italian poeti^. That Guido's poems
dwek in the ntmid of Dante is evident by his having
appropriated lines from them (as well as from those of
GuinicelU) with little alteration, more than once, in the
Commedia,
Towards the dose of his life, Dante, in his Latin
treatise De Vuigari Eioqut'o, again speaks of himself as
the friend of a poet, — this time of Dno da Pistoia. In
an early passage of that work he says that " those who
have most sweetly and subtly written poems in modem
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 transktion occure in the Appendix to an Essay on the
yUa Nuova of Dante, including extracts, by my friend Mr. Charles
£. Norton, of Cambridge, U.S., — a work ctf high delicacy and ap-
preciation, whkh originally appeared by portions in the AtUnUic
Montkfy, but has since been augmented bv the author and pri-
vately printed in a vdume which is a beautiful specimen of
American typography.
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l6 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
own lyrics, the author of the latter bemg 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 Guido'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 p)owers, for life or for work, as
seem to have distinguished the " Cavicchia " of Messer
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
Guinicelli 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 Purgatoiy. 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 grat^y
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.
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INTRODUCTION TO PART L 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-iii, and that they afterwards cor-
responded as friends tiU 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 " firater 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
Guittondno de' Sinibuldi (for such was Cino's full
name) was bom 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 fevour 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. 2
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i8 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE^,
on account of political sympathy alone; as Selvaggia
Vergiolesi, his daughter, is the lady celebrated through-
out the poefs compositions. Three years later, the
Vergiolesi 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,
" Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains,
Where 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 oflBce under Louis of Savoy, who pre-
ceded the Emperor Henry VII. when he went thither to
be crowned in 131 o. 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 131 9,
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 thenu
He had now been for some time married to Margherit^
degli Ughi, of a very noble Pistoiese fa^nily, who bore
him a son name4 Mino, apd four da\]ghter9| Diamantei
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INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 19
Beatrice^ Giovaima, and Lombarduccia. Indeed, tiiis
marriage must have taken place before the death of
Sdvaggia 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 aP Amore (cap. 4).
Though established again in Pistoia, Cino resided
ttiere 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' Sinibukli 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-
tfieless there are some, and especially the sonnet on her
tomb (at page 172), which display feeling and power.
The finest^ as well as the noost interesting, of all his
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20 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
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 Guido'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 Ntiova (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
modem phrase might be called their " scamp" ; and among
our Danteans, this place is indisputably filled by Cecco
Angioueri, of Siena. Nearly sJl his sonnets (and no
other pieces by him have been preserved) relate either
to an unnatural hatred of his fadier, 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
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INTRODUCTION TO PARI L 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 noUiing 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 fatiier once more
(surely much to his credit) made him a remittance of
money. Boccacdo seems to say in conclusion that Cecco
altimately 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 persoiud interest; but it must
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22 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 ^^o 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 intercoiu^e
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 20th June 1291, and
from his sonnet raising objections to the one at the dose
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.t Mudi
* It may be mentioned (as proving how much of the poetry of
this period still remains in MS.) that Ubaldini, in his Glossaiy 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 of
in^ch 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.)
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INTRODUCTION TO PART L ^S
later, ad 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
l^ate, 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
&ct 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 smger of Rectitude," and his that *' indq;nant
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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, J falls foul of his brother poets ;
and in the remaining one, § seems somewhat appeased
(I think) by a judicious morsel of flattery. I have dready
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, " Per
troppa sottiglianza il fil si rompe," |i 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 Hfe 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-
* " Alma sdegnosa,
Benedetta colei che in te s' indnse 1 "
(iMffTHo, C vnt)
t Page 206. t Pages 122, 137, 180. } Page 143.
I This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle ; let us hope
(in 80 immaculate a censor) from unfitness for publication.
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INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 2$
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 modem reader a much more important
position than he occupied before among the early Italian
poeta I allude to the valuable discovery, in the Ma-
gliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem by him
in nana rima, 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
* Creadmbeni {1st. d, Voig, 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.
t See Docuntinta inediia pour servir a thistoirt litterairt de F Italic,
6^c,f pm A, F, Oumam (Paris, 1850), where the poem is printed
entire.
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96 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.
Ding 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 HeU were
restored to him in exile, after the Casa Alighieri in
Florence had been given up to pillage; by which
fefstoration 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 bom 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 Commedia\ 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 the Bargello at Florence^
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iirrRODVCTtoif to part /. ^
Aen the diapel of the Podestk. This is the author of
the Vita Nuova. That other portrait shown us in the
postiiumous mask, — a face dead in exile afler the death
of hope, — should front the first page of the Sacred Poem
to which heaven and earth had set their hands, but
whidi might never bring him back to Florence, though
h 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) Cavalcand'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.t 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 tiie
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 aacro
Al quale ha posto mano e cido e terra,
S che m' ha iatto per piii anni macro,
Vinca la crudelU che fuor mi serra," tic
{Parad, C xxv.)
t S«e Dante's reverential treatment of this subject. (Pamd,
Cxi.)
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28 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
" Slaked in his heart the fervour of desire,**
as at last he neared the very home
" Of Love which sways the sun and all the star8.**t
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 bottem in a
* 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 Trun^aium).
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INTRODUCTION TO PART /• 29
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 defieice it
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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 Elastem 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.
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TffE NEW LIFE. ^i
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 dens fortior ffte, qm
veniens dominabitur mihi.* 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.'\ At that moment the natural spirit, which
dwelleth there where our nourishment is administered,
began to weep, and in weeping said these words : Hiu
misir! quia frtquenter impediius ero deinceps,t
I say that, from that time forward. Love quit^
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 19 a deity stronger than I ; who, coming, shall rule
over me."
{** Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto you."
" Woe is me 1 for that often I shall be disturbed from this time
forthl"
(Uiad, zziv. 258.)
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32 DANTE ALIGHIERL
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.**
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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
fuum* 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.
f ...
♦ "Behold thy heart"
VOL. n. 3
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54 DANTE AUdHlERL
He seemed Hke one who is full of joy, and had
My heart within his hand, and on his 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 J*
To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying
many diflferent 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 rh3rmes to him, diat 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 skiljRil.
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 ^e thing was so plainly to be discerned
in my countenance that there was no longer aoy means
of concealing it But when they went on to ask, ^ And
* The friend of whom Dante here speftka was Giudo Cavakaati.
For his answer, and those of Cioo da PUtoia and Dante da Maiano^
see their poems further on.
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THE NEW LIFE. 35
by whose hdp hath Love done this ?** I lodced in their
feces 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
inmiediately 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
concemeth the most gentle Beatrice, which is but a very
little. Moreover, about the same time while this lady
was a screen for so much lave 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 i^ced mine own
lady ; and these names I introduced in an epistle in the
fonn 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
* /.A in a church.
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^6 DANTE ALIGHIERL
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 o^ 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.
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THE NEW LIFE. 37
But DOW 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 firsts
I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of
Jeremias the Prophet, " O yos omnes qui transitis per
viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor mens,"
and to pray them to stay cmd hear me. In t?u 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 j
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 ;
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3B DANTE ALIGHIERL
When now so many dames, of such estate
In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep :
For Deatii 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 hen
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 firsts
1 call and beseech t?ie Faithful of Love to weep ; and I say
that their Lord weepSy and that they, hearing the reason
why he weeps y shall be more minded to listen to me. In the
seamdf 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 dames*'; the third here, *^ Now
hearken.**
II.
Death, alway cruel,. Pity's foe in chief.
Mother who brought forth grief)
Merciless judgment and without appeal I
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 nevertheless
I would give hate more stress
With them that feed on love in very sooth.
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THS NRW LIFS. 3t
Out of this worid thou hast driven courtesy.
And virtue^ dearly prized in womanhood ;
And out of youth's gay mood
The bvdy 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 tlie reason why I am moved
to denounce her. In the third, I rail against her. In the
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 fww (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 company
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
allude 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 aUusion 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, '' Quilla ha nonu Amor,** Most probably
both allusions are intended.
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46 DAtfTE 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, i^d 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 thb 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 mom was dim
Thence where I made thy heart to be : whidinow
I needs must bear unto another dame."
Wherewith so much passed into me of him
That he was gone, and I discerned not how.
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THE NEW LIFE. 41
This sonnet Juis three parts. In the first party I tell how
I 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 discovering my secret. In the thirds I say how he dis-
appeared, Tlu second part commences here^ " Then as I
went'^; the third here^ " Wherewith so muchJ*
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, 1 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-
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43 DAHTE ALIGfflMJU.
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 oflen 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 odiers, 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, I betook
myself to my chamber, where I could lament unheard.
And there, having prayed to the Lady of ail 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 pratermittantur sitmdaia 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, cut simili
mode se hadent circumferentice partes : tu autem nan sic** t
♦ " My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting."
t *' 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 fiu- 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 ntuovi il soU t t altrt sUlU) : therefore all lovable objects^
whether in heaven or earth, or any part of the circle's drcum-*
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TJJE HEW 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
joumeyedst 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 equaUy 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."
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44 DANTE AUGHIERL
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 feult 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 fjEuth
That all its thoughts are but oi serving thee ;
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. 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 t?u first, I tell
it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the more
con^dentfyf and I tell it whose company to join tf it would
go with confidence and without any danger. In tlie second^
I say that which it behoves tlie ditty to set forth. In the
thirds 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 'V the third here, " Gentle my
Song,*' Some might contradict me^ and say that they under-
stcmd 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 him understand who now doubts, or would now contra-
did 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
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46 DAKTE AUGHTERL
which I was sorely tempted ; and in especial, there were
four among them that left rae 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 Lave is
evil ; seeing that the more homage his servants pay to
him, the more grievous and painful are the tcnrments
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-
sequcntia rerumJ^* And the fourth was this: *'The
lady whom Love hath cho^n 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 \mte somewhat thereof in rhyme, I
wrote this sonnet i^—
Axx 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."
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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
firsts I say and propound that ail my thoughts are coneerm-
ing Love. In the second^ I say that they are diverse^ and I
relate their diversity. In the thirds I say wherein they all
seem to agree. In the fourth^ I say that, wishing to speak
of Love, I kfiow 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 7" and he answered : '' To ^e
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 dty 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
iaintness 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 bouse ; and i>eing fearful lest my
trembling should be discern^ of them, I lifted mine eyes
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48 DANTE AUGHIERL
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 fiiend,
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." *
Aflerwards, 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 Simone de' Bardi. That she herself was the bride
on this occasion might seem out of the question, from the fiict of
its not being in any way so stated : but on the other hand, Dante's
silence throughout the VUa 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.
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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 scofis 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 reckons given,
has no need of division. True it is tJiat, amid the words
whereby is shewn the occasion of this sonnet, dubious words
are to be found; namely, when I say thai 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 ;
andy 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 dse 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. u. 4
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5P D4irm AUGm^ftr.
this : ^ Seeing that thou comest into such scorn by die
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^ert 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 ner presence. Whereupon I wrote this
sonnet : —
The thoughts are broken in my memory.
Thou lovely Joy, whene'er I see thy face ;
When thou ^rt 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 firsts I
tell the cause why I abstain not from coming to this lady.
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In the second^ IteUwhat befalls me through canUngioher ;
and this part begins here^ ^ Whm 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 ^es ; 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 peradventure
would see this piteousness. The second part begins here,
^ My faa shows** i the third, ''Till, in the drunken Urror** ;
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 grief
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.
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52 DANTE AUGHIERL
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 T ; the fourth, " No sooner do I
liftr
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
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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 h^
to deny me this. Love, my Master, of his great goodness,
hath placed all my beatitude there where my hope will
not DbuI me." Then those ladies began to talk closely
together ; and as I have seen snow &11 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 answei*-
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.
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it seemed to me Uiat I had taken to myself a &eme
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 tiiat 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 dty
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 mii^
And I declare that when I speak thereof
Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me
That if my courage failed not, certainly
To Y\\m my listeners must be all resigned.
Wherefore I will not speak in such lai^ 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 displa3r'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-belovfed, 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 imto 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 proo^
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 feiir woman, so much and not more ;
She is as high as Nature's skill can soar ;
Beauty is tried l^ her comparison.
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56 DANTE ALIGHIRRL
Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon,
Spirits of love do issue thence in flame,
Which through their eyes who then may look on &em
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
Widi 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 I 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
droide more subtly than the others preceding ; and therefore
I will make three parts of it. The first part is a proem to
the words folUnving. The second is the matter treated of.
Hie third is, as it were, a handmaid to the preading 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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THE NEW LIFE. 5f
«* 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 speak 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, *^Love saith concerning
herJ* 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-
card^ 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 I 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*
ingofthis 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
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S8 DANTE AUGBIERL
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 ailment. 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 sojoumeth
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 firsts 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 firsts 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 scty how this power
translates itsdf into act; and, first, haw 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
* Gaido Guinicelli, in the canzone which beginsi " Within the
gentle heart Love ahelten hinu** (See Pmrt //. page 264.)
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TMB NEW LIFE. 5^
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 ; .
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 blessM oflenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought ;
rris such a new and gracious miracle.
This sonnet has three sections. In the firsts I say haw
this lady brings this power into action by those most noble
features J her eyes ; and^ in the thirds 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^ '' O
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^
m act, into the hearts of all those whom she sees. In the
third, I tell what she afterwards, with virtue, operates upon
their hearts. Thesecond begins, " Upon her path'*; the thirds
" Me whom she greeteth:* Then, when I say, << O women^
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6o DANTR AUGHIERI.
hdpy^ I intimate to wham it is my intention to speak^ coiling
on women to help me to honour her. Then, when I say^
" Humbleness y^ 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 afler 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 o&er 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
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THE NEW UFE. 6|
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 &in 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 weighed 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 ?
S^y 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 firsts I
call and ask these ladies whether they come from her^ telling
them that I think they do^ because th^ return the nobler.
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6« DANTE AUGHIERL
In the second^ I pray them to tell me qfher; andtheseeond
begins here^ " And tf indeed J*
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.
TTiis sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose
person I reply had four forms of answer. And, because
these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not to explain the
purport of the parts, 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
lookJ*
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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TBB NEW LIFE. 6i
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 havQ
such imaginations as here follow.
And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw cer^in
&ces 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
widi 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 teara 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 :
**Osamta 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
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64 DANTE AUGHIERL
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 imto the dead, it seemed to me
that I went back imto 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 ! 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
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 J peace be with thee." And
already I had said, '* O Beatrice I ** 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
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THE UTEW 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 vnthout 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 I"
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 looked at each other and thought of death ;
Saying under their breath
Most tenderly, " O let us comfort him : "
VOL. II. q
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66 DANTE ALIGHIBRL
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 Love 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 ! '
"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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THE NEW LIFE. ej
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 ! 1 do so desire to see thy face
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 I '
. . . Just then you woke me, of your complai*
saimce."
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 how /promised them to tell
what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The
second part begins here, " / was arthinkingP The first part
divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain
Icuiies, and which one singly, did and said became of my
phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In
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68 DANTE ALIGRIERL
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 Isay^ " I was a-thinking^* J say how
I told them this my imagination; and concerning this I have
two parts. In the firsts 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^ **/ust 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 Primaverm
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THE NEW LIFE. 69
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 clamantis in deserto : Parait 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 t which seemed proper to be
set aside, because I believed that his heart still r^arded
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 I "
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-
wairds 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
bad not then learned it) from Joan to Mandetta. (See his Poems.)
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70 DANTE ALTCmERL
And even as now my memory speaketh this,
Love spake it then : " The first is christened 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 y 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, I
saw and heard certain things. The second part begins here,
" Saying, * Be now * " ; the third here, " Then, while it was
his pleasure" The 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 ; ifaculties (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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THENBWUFE. 71
Greeks, they were not writers of spoken language, but
men of tetters treated of these thii^gs.* 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 escamine the language of oco
and the language of j}, 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. %
Wherefore, seeing that poets have a license allowed
them that is not allowed unto the writers of prose, and
* On reading Dante's treatise Dt Vulgari Eioquio, 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 lang^uage handed down from mother to son
without any conscious use of g^mmar or syntax), and language
as regulated by grammarians and the laws of literary com[K>sition,
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.
{/./., 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 ( 1 291-2), 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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7« DANTE ALIGHIERI.
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 modem 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 ;
yea, 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 .£olus, master of the Winds ;
as it is written in the first book of the -£neid, yEole^
namque tibiy etc.; and that this master of the Winds
made reply : Tuus^ o reginay quid optes — Explorare labor ^
mihijussa capesserefas est. And through the same poet,
the inanimate thing speaketh unto the animate, in the
third book of the -£neid, where it is written : Dardanida
durif etc. With Lucan, tiie animate thing speaketh to the
inanimate ; as thus : MuUum^ Rotna^ tamen debes ctvUibus
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^ MusOy virum^
etc. Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature,
in the beginning of his ^vscomxsi^ De Remediis Amoris:
as thus : Bella mihiy video^ bella parantur, ait. By which
ensamples this thing shall be made manifest unto such
as may be ofiended at any part of this my book. And
lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering
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TBE NEW UFB. 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 foshion, 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." 1 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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74 DANTE ALIGHIERL
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 eyes 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 I "
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 gentieness.
Merely the sight of her makes sdl things bow :
Not she herself alone is holier
Than all ; but hers, through her, are raised abovoi
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THE NEW LIFE. 75
From all her acts such lovely graces flow
That truly one may never think of her
Without a passion of exceeding love.
This sonnet has three parts. In th^ first ^ I say in what
company this lady appeared most wondrous. In the second^
I say how gracious was her society. In the thirds 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.'* ITiis last part divides into three. . In
the first, I tell what 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. The 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 aU evil keeps afar.
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76 DANTE ALIGHIERL
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 poptdo ! facta est quasi
vidua 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 befongeth 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 I how
18 she become as a widow, she that was great among the nations I "
— LamifiiatioHS o/Jiremtah, L I.
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THE NEW LIFE. 77
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 bom 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
infidlible 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 9th 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.
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78 DANTE AUGHIERI.
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 firom
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-
mode sedet sola civitas / 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 ; aiid I then began ** The
eyes that weep."
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THE NEW LIFE. 79
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 thirds I speak pitifully to the
poem, 7%e second begins here^ " Beatrice is gone up " ; the
third here, " Weep, pitiful Song of mineP 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, " Beatria 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, I 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, and
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.
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> DANTE ALIGHIRRI.
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 &ce, must have become so vile
As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.
Out upon him ! an abject wretch like this
May not imagine anything of her,^
He needs no bitter tears for his reliefl
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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THE NEW LIFE. 8i
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, 1 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 1 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 fnend whom I counted as second unto me in the
degree 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
you iL 6
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82 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 ^ive
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
theyforce.^
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 jo3r'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 me 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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THE NEW LIFE. 83
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 thefirsty that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend,
her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament ; that is,
in the 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 me. life showeth grim
And bare ; and if one dies, I envy him.
For ever, among all my sighs which bum,
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,
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S4 DANTE AUGHIERL
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 thaty according to the first ^ this sonnet has three
parts. In the firsts 1 say that this Uidy was then in my
memory. In the second^ I tell what Love therefore did
with me. In the thirdy I speak 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 certcun words different from the
others. The second begins here, ** And still." In this
* Thus according to some texts. The msjority, however, add
the wordsi '* And therefore was I in thought : * but the shorter
speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic.
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THE NEW LIFE. 85
same manner is it divided with the other beginnings save
that^ in the first part^ I 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 CoMBf£NCEMENT«
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 b^et compassion in
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86 DANTE AUGHIERL
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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THE NEW LIFE. 87
Loye'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 fh>m 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, weepi
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 wiU
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 imdeiigone 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
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88 DANTE AUGHIERI.
this part begins ?iere, *' So far, " It 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 remember^
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 su£fered 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
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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 because it spoke of one who was
gentle ; being of itself most vile.*
In this sonnet I make myself into twOy 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 tluU it is fitting
to ccUl 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 Iculy tJian 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
recLSon, speaks to the Hearty that is, to the appetite. In the
third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins
here, ''And what is thisV the third here, ''And the
heart answers,"
* Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma Donati
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 ConvUo) 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.
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90 DANTE AUGHIERL
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 himibled 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 ;
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THE NSW 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 thou^ 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 I "
/ saidf " IVo^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 I 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 griefs 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 (y^ra icon, or true image) ; that is, the napkin
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92 DANTE ALIGHIERL
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 bom, 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
Avrote 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 Commidia (Farad. zzL 103),
where he sajrs : —
" Qual h colui che forse di Croazia
Viene a veder la Veronica nostra
Che per I'antica fama non si sazia
Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra :
Signor mio Gesii Cristo, Iddio verace,
Or fu si iatta la sembianza vostra ? " etc.
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THE NEW UFE. 93
a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowards the House of
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
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94 DANTE ALIGHIERL
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 firsts 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 makes it go thus. In the thirds I tell what it saw,
namely f a lady honoured. And I then ccUl it a ^^ Pilgrim
Spirit f^ 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 agcunst 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 —
I 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 bom 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
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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 wonderftil 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 sacula
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
Dwina Commedia. The Latin words ending the Vita Nuova
are almost identioed 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.
t " Who is blessed throughout all ages."
THE END OF THE NEW UFE.
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96 DANTE ALIGHIERI.
I.
TO BRUNETTO LATINL
Sonnet.
Sent with the Vita Nuava.
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 imderstand,
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
della 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.
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DANTE AUGHIERL 97
II.
Sonnet.*
Of Beatrice de' Portinari^ on All Saintf 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 dioughts 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 loi) seem so certainly to have been written
at the same time as the poetry of the Viia Nttovoy that it becomes
difficult to guess why they were omitted from that work. Other
poems in Dante*s CawBonitrt refer in a more general manner to
his love for Beatrice, but each among those I allude to bears
tiie impress of some special occasion.
VOL. U.
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98 DANTE AUGHIERl.
III.
SONHET.
To certahi 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 Nttava, at page 6a
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DANTE dUGHIERI. M
IV
SONNBT.
To the same Ladies ; with their Answer.
Ye ladies, walking past me piteous-eyed,
Who is the lad}' 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 diou foiget to know our lady thus,
Whom grief overcomes, we wonder in no wise,
For also the same thing befalleth us.
Yet if thou watch tfie movement of her eyes,
Of her thou shalt be straightway conscious.
O weep no more ; thou art all wan with sighs."
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100 DANIE ALIGHIERT.
V.
Ballata.
He will gaze 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.
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DANTE AUGHIERL loi
VI.
Canzone.*
A Complaini of his Lad^s scorn.
Love, since it is thy will that I return
'Neath her usurped control
Who is thou knoVst how beautiful and proud ;
Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding bum
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 Viia NMova, at
page4i#/M7.)
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tot DANTB AUGHIERL
Blade semblance then to guide them safely lorth ;
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 &ce
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 fevour'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 knee :
While she rejoiced and watched my bitter end.
Only to prove what succour thou wouldst send.
I therefore, weary Mdth my love's constraint.
To death's deliverance ran.
That out of terrible grief I migt^ be brought *:
For tears had broken me and left me faint
Beyond the lot of man,
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DANTE AUGHIBRI. 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.
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104 DANTE AUGHIBRL
VII.
Canzone.
He beseeches Death for the Life of Beatriu,
Death, since I find not one widi 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 bum :
Since thou, Death, and thou only, canst decern
Wealth to my life, or want, at thy free choice : —
It is to thee that 1 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 tiie light of mine own eyes ?
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DANTE AUGHIBRL 105
But now I know that thou wouldst have my life
As hers, and jo^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 !
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 t
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.
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io6 DANTE AUGHIERL
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.
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DANTE ALIGHIERL 107
VIII.
Sonnet.
On the i)th of June 1290,
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."
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io8 DANTE AUGHIERL
IX.
TO CINO DA PISTOIA.
Sonnet.
He rebukes Cinofor Fickleness,
I 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 Ntsova, and
that an allusion may also here be intended to the first conception
of Dante's great work.
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CINO DA PiSlOiA. 109
CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERL
Sonnet*
He answers 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 diase.
Nor from his pitiless aim can I get free.
Nor from the hope M^ich 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 ill many women here and there.
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no DANTE AUGHIBRL
X.
TO CINO DA PISTOIA.
SoNNffr.
WriHen 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 I" 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.
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CINO DA PIS70IA. iii
CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERL
Sonnet*
He answers the foregoing Sonfiet, 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 sweUs.
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 fHend 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 i8» the pledge given at the end of the Vita Nuom, This
may perhaps have been written in the early days of Dante's exile,
before his resumption of the interrupted Conumdia,
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112 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
Aiid 'twizt 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 tiie lofty ends of life.
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DANTE AUGHIERL 113
XII.
Sestina.*
Of the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigrii,
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. Ehq,), 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. n. 8
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114 DANTE AUGHIERI.
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 lofly hills.
Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills
Before Love's flame in this damp wood and green
Bum, 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.
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DANTE AUGHIERI. US
XIII.
Sonnet.*
A Curse for a fruitless Love,
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 smoothed each fine
Of my vain songs, — ^the music and just law
Of art, by which it was my dear design
That the whole world should jrield thee love and awe.
Yea, let me curse mine own obduracy.
Which iirmly holds what doth itself confound —
To 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 NuovOf as it is naturally repugnant to connect it with
Beatrice. I cannot, however, but think it possible that it may
have been thf^ bitter Smit of some bitterest moipent in those hAii«^
when Dante endured her scorn.
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GUI DO CAVALCANTI.
I.
TO DANTE ALIGHIERL
Sonnet.
He interprets Dant^s Dream^ related in the first Sonnet of
the Vita Niwva,^
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
* Sec the Vita Nuova, at page 33.
t This may refer to the belief that, towards morning, dreams go
l>y contraries.
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GDIDO CAVALCANT2. ii|r
II.
Sonnet
To his Lady Joan, of Flonnce*
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 viskge ;
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.
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ii« GUWa CAVALCANTL
III,
Sonnet.
He 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 lios ;
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 eardi.
All good to kindred natures cleaveth soon.
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GUIDO CAVAlCANlh H9
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 I 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.
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120 GUIDO CAVALCANTL
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
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CUIDO CAVALCAN7I. I2|
VI.
TO GUroO 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 FnmdscanSy in profession of deeper poverty and humility
than belonged to other Orders, called themselves Fratrts nu'ptores.
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ua GUWO ORLANDL
GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
Madrigal.
In answer to the foregoing Sonnet.
If thou hadst ofTered, 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 hiunbly 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.
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GUIDO CA VALCAHlu 12\
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 glaiice 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.
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124 GVIDO CAVALCAN7L
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 bom 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."
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GUIDO CAVALCANTL 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 enterM,
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 Daurkde,* look round
And softly call, that so there may be foimd
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 Daur^e still exists at Thoulouse.
It was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics adorning it
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126 DASTB ALIGBIERI.
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 shcty most beautiful ladies of Florence,
referred to in the Viia Nuava ; among whom Lapo Gianni's lady,
Lagia, would seem to have stood thirtieth.
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CUmO CAVALCANTl. 127
IX.
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.
Sonnet.
Guido 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 bom 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 kiU'd,
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12$ GUIDO CAVALCANTi,
X.
TO DANTE ALIGHIERL
Sonnet.
He reports^ in a feigned Vision^ the successful Issue ot
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."
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GQIDQ CjiVALCAim. 119
XI
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.
Sonnet.
He tnistfusts iht Lavi rf Lapa GiannL
I PRAY thee, Dante, shouldst thou meet with Love
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 Mast^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 holds sway
A law subsists, that no man who is vile
Can service yield to a bst woman there.
If su£fering aught avail the sufiferer.
Thou straightway shalt discern our lofty style
Which needs the badge of honour must display.
vot. u.
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130 GUIDO CAVALCANT2
XII.
Sonnet.
On the Detection of a false Friend.*
Love and the Lady Lagia, Guide and I,
Unto a certain lord are bounden all,
Who has released us — know ye from whose thrall ?
Yet ril 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 discem'd
The truth ; and that wise lady afterward,
Who in fit time took back her heart again ;
And Guido next, from worship wholly tum'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
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GUIDO CAVALCANTL 131
XIIL
Sonnet.
He speaks of a third Lave 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 yield.
The first gives pleasure, yet disquieteth ;
And with the second is the longing for
The mighty gladness by the ^rd fulfilled.
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f^ QUIDa CAFALCANTL
XIV.
Ballata.
Cfa €onHnuai Death in Love.
Though thou, indeed, hast quite forgotten ruth,
Its steadfast tniUi 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 mentioiiing that, in every case
where an abrapt change of metre occurs in one of my translations,
it is so also in the original poem.
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G UtDO CA VALCAN7Z lj|
XV.
Sonnet.
to a Frimdwho dots not piiy his L90^\
If I entreat this lady that all grace
Seem not unto her heart Itn enemy.
Foolish and evil thou dedarest me^
And desperate in idle stubbornness.
Whence is such cfuel judgment thine, whose ikoe^
To him that looks thereon, professeth thee
Faithful, and wise, and of all courtesy^
And made after the way of gentleness 7
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
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134 GUIDO CAVALCANT2.
XVI
Balul-ta.
He perceives that Ms 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 imderstand, 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.
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GUIDO CAVALCANTI. i^S
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.
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136 GUIDO CAVALCANT/.
XVII.
Sonnet.
Of his Pain from a new Lave*
Why from the danger did mine eyes not start, —
Why not become even blind, — ere through my sight
Within my soul thou ever couldst alight
To say : '• l5ost 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 ! O help us where thou art I
Thou hast so left mine eyes, that love is fiaun —
Even Love himself— with pity uncontroll'd
To bend above them, weeping for their loss :
paying : '' 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."
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cmsM OKLAfTDr. tyf
GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
PkOXXMGftll SoMNirf.
He finds fault with thi OmeeRs iff fht fdregomg SMtM.
Friend, well I know thou knowest well t6 belif
Thy swordVpoint, that it pierce tht dose-locked iiiAil :
And like a bird to flit flrom 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 &ult is there :
For still among the wise of vnt thou sayst
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 t6 forbear
FtxMn camal love,) I fall not in such snare.
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138 . GIANNI ALFANL
GIANNI ALFANI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
Sonnet.*
On the part cfa Lady of Pisa.
GuiDO, that Gianni who, a day agone,
Sought thee, now greets thee (ay and thou maysl
laugh 1)
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 that Guido
answered the above sonnet, and that AUiELni 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.
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BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. 139
BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA TO
GUIDO CAVALCANTL
Sonnet.
Ht writes to Guide, telling him of the Love wJiich a certain
PineUa shewed 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 die 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 I send him love of mine a thousand-fold I ''
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f4<l OmDO CAVALCANTr.
xvni.
TO BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA.
Sonnet.
Guido answers^ commending Pinetla, and saying thai
the Love he 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 the^
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 bum upon the waves
Which drift her heart, — poor barque, so ill bested \ —
Unto Pinella a great river of love
I send, that's full of sirens, and whose slaves
Are beautiful and richly habited.
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mm QQifPAQHl^ 94F
DINO COMPAGNI TQ (JUIDO CAVALCANTI.
SONNBT«
He reproves Guide 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 piu-e 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 tum'st thine eyes ;
Fairer than Absalom's account'st 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. io8) ; and Dante
by Giuido (p. 144), who fonner^» as we have seen (p. 129), had
confided to him his doubts of Lapo Gianni.
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142 GDIDO CAVALCANTI.
XIX.
TO GUIDO ORLANDI.
Sonnet
In praise of Guido OrlandHs 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 bom :
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 represenUtioii^ the unicorn is often seen with his
head in a virgin's lap.
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GUIDO ORLANDL 143
GUroO ORLANDI TO GUmO CAVALCANTI.
Sonnet.
He answers the foregoing Sonnet^ declaring himself his
Ladys Champion,
To sound of trumpet rather than of horn,
I m 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 mom
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, diat 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 from Him.
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GU2DQ CAVALCANT2.
XX.
TO DANTE AUGHISRL
Sonnet.
M$ reMhes Dank fyr kis way of XJfe^ c^er the Death
0f Beatrice.^
I coBfE 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 Bumifest tlmt I approve thy rhymes ;
Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst know.
Ah I prythee read tfiis 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
m words of noble reproach when he meets her in Eden. {J*urg
C xzz.)
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GUWO CAVALCANTL i45
XXI.
Ballata.
Cofueming a Shepherd-maid.
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, *' the time recurs,
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. u. lO
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146 GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
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 stilly
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 glossaxy to Barberino, already mentioned, refers to the
existence, among the Strozzi MSS., of a poem by Lapo di Farinata
degli Ubertiy written in answer to the above ballata of Cavalcanti.
As this respondent was no other than Guido*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 information.
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CUJDO C^VALCANTL 147
XXII.
Sonnet.
Of an iU'favoured Lddy.
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.
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^4^ GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
XXIII.
TO POPE BONIFACE VIII.
Sonnet.
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 giVst 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 Uiou 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 bairgaining.
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GUIDO CAVALCANII 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 suffer more.
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150 CmnO CAVALCANTI.
Theni going, I implore
That this my soul thou take
(Nay, do so for my sake,)
When my heart sets it free.
Ah I Ballad, unto thy dear offices
I do commend my soul, thus trembling ;
That thou mayst lead it, for pure piteousness.
Even to that lady's presence whom I sing.
Ah ! 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 !)
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^
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GUIDO CAVALCANTL ISI
XXV.
Canzone.*
A Song of Fortune.
Lo 1 I am she who makes the wheel to turn ;
Lo I I am she who gives and takes away ;
Blamed idly, day by day,
In all mine acts by you, ye humankind.
For whoso smites his visage and doth mourn,
What time he renders back my gifts to me,
Leams 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 e^>ecially for
the beauty of the last .among them ; but must confess to some
doubts of their authenticity.
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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 I ye wretchedest,
And chide ye at God also ? Shall not He
Judge between good and evil righteously ?
Ah I 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 !
O wealth, with thee is won
A worm to gnaw for ever on his soul
Whose abject Ufe is laid in thy control I
If also ye take note what piteous death
They ofttimes make, whose hoards were manifold,
Who cities 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.
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GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 15 J
For me,^HX)uld 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
G>mmend us, thee and me.
To them that are more apt in lofty speech :
For truly one must learn ere he can teach.
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IS4 GUIDO CAVALCAN71
XXVI.
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 fiEur summits of applause ;
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 lofty scope.
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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 ;
To tyranny the just lord tumeth here,
And the magnanimous soul to avarice.
Of every bitter vice
Thou, to my thinking, art the foimt 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 shalt 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
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156 GVIDO CAVALCAN7I.
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 whichsoever 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 I 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 suflfering,
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.
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GUIDO CAVALCANTL 157
He now has left me ; and I draw my breath
Wound m 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 strengUi 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*
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158 GUIDO 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 I on this my soul has set her trust ;
And failing this, thou must
Prove false to truth and honour, seest thou I
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 unadomM 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.
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GUWO 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 iind out joy alone is bent
I call thee, and thou falFst to deafness now ;
And, deeming that my path whereby to win
Thy seat is lost, there sitt'st tiiee down content,
And hold'st me to thy will subservient.
But I into thy heart have crept disguised :
A^ong 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 Ufe which heard that whisper speak.
And had conceived the sense with sore travail ;
Till in the mouth it murmured, very weak.
Saying : ''Youth, wealth, and beauty, these have I :
O Death 1 remit thy claim, — I would not die.'
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i6o GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
Small sign of pity in that aspect dwells
Which then had scattered all my Hfe abroad
Till there was comfort with no single sense :
And yet almost in piteous syllables.
When I had ceased to speak, this answer flowed :
'' 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 fece.
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 ;
Sajring : " 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 ;
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GUIDO CAVALCANTh i6i
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'st 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,
vou n. II
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l62 GVIDO CAVALCANTI.
Lord God, and suffer me to seek out Christ, —
Weeping, to seek Him in thy ways apart ;
Until my sorrow have at length sufficed
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 b^an
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.
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CINO DA PISTOIA.
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.
Sonnet.
He interprets Dante'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 oifir, page 33.
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1^4 CINO DA FIS70IA.
n.
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 dispossessed,
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 I 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 furFd
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
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CJNO DA PISTOIA. 16$
Hath called her, hearkening what her Angel said,
To have Heaven perfected^
Elach 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 overjoyd.
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 I
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 1
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 shouldst 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 Heavec crown'd.
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l66 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.
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CINO DA PISTOIA. 167
III
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.
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.
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i68 CINO DA PISTOIA.
IV.
Madrigal.
To his Lady Sdvaggia Vergiolesi ; likmmg his Love to a
Starch for Gold.
I AM all bent to glean the golden ore
Little by little from the river-bed ;
Hoping the day to see
When Croesus 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.
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CINO DA PISTOIA. 169
Sonnet.
To Love, in great Bitterness,
0 Love, O thou that, for my fealty,
Only in torment dost thy p)ower 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.
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170 CINO DA PISTOIA.
VI.
Sonnet.
Death ts 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 afer 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"
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CINO DA PISTOIA. in
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."
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172 CINO DA PISTOIA^
VIII.
Sonnet.
Of the Grave of Selvaggia, on the Monte della Sambuca.
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 I 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.
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UNO DA PISTOIA. 173
IX.
Canzone.
His Lament for Selvaggia.
Ay me, alas ! the beautiful bright hair
That shed reflected gold
O'er the green growths on either side the way :
Ay me I the lovely look, open and fair,
Which my heart's core doth hold
With all else of that best-remembered day ;
Ay me I the face made gay
With joy that Lx)ve confers ;
Ay me I that smile of hers
Where whiteness as of snow was visible
Among the roses at all seasons red !
Ay me ! and was this well,
O Death, to let me live when she is dead ?
Ay me I the calm, erect, dignified walk ;
Ay me I the sweet salute, —
The thoughtful mind, — the wit discreetly worn ;
Ay me I 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 born
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 !
These thou hast broken, as glass,
O Death, who makest me, alive, to die !
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174 CINO DA PISTOIA.
Ay me ! Lady, the lady of all worth ; —
Saint, for whose single shrine
All other shrines I left, even as Love will'd ; ^
Ay me I 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 fulfilled
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 I
Ay me ! two languid fountains
Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns.
Ay me, sharp Death ! 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 ?
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CINO DA FISTOIA, I75
X.
TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI.
Sonnet
He owes nothing to Guide 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 knowetli 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.
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176 CINO DA PISTOIA.
XI
Sonnet.
He impugns the verdicts of Dantis Commedia.
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.
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CINO DA PISTOIA. 177
XII.
Sonnet.
Se 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 Amauld 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. :(
♦ 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 fiu* from being affectionate or respectful. They are
very obscure, however, and not specially interesting.
{The Proven^ poet, mentioned in C. xxvi. of the Purgatory,
That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on the Monte
della Sambuca.
you II. 12
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178
DANTE DA MAIANO.
L
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.
Sonnet.
He interprets Dante AUghieris Dream^ related m the
first Sonnet rf the 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 miade 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 shovn).
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\DANfM DA MAIANO. 179
II.
Sonnet.
He craves interpreting of a Dream of Ms.
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 wreatii 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.
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f8o CUIDO ORLANDL
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 dreain. 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
Alighieri, 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.
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DANTE DA MA2AN0. i8i
III.
SoNNET»
To Ms Lady Nina, of Sidly.
So greatiy 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.
Wierefore 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 afndd :
Yet, lady, twofold is the gift, we wot,
Given to the needy unsolicited.
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i8a DANJP D4 MAIANO.
IV.
Sonnet*
He thanks his Lady for the Jay he has had from her.
Wonderful countenance and royal neck,
I have not found your beauty's parallel I
Nor at her birth might any yet prevail
The likeness of these features to partake.
Wisdom is theirs, and mildness : for whose sake
All grace seems stoFn, 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.
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««3
CECCO ANGIOLIERI, DA SIENA
t
TO DANTj: AUOHIERL
Sonnet.
On ihe last Sonnet of the Vitm Nwoa.^
Dante Aughieri, 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 geptle 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 aM/f^ page 94.
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i84 CECCO ANGIOUERI.
11.
Sonnet.
He will not he too deeply in Love.
I AM enamoured, and y^t not so much
But that Fd 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, Fm proud to vouch.
So let no woman who is bom conceive
That FU 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
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CECCO ANGIOUER/. 185
IIL
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.
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i86 CSCCQ 4NGfOl,IfiRt,
ly.
Sonnet.
OfLave, in hqnpur of his mistress ^ecchina.
Whatever good is naturally done
Is bom of Love as fruit is bom 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.
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CSCCO ANQIOUERI. 1S7
Sonnet.
Of Biccfuna^ the Shoemaker'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 bom 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 for a minute hear,
And I could speak if only pretty well,
Fd let her know that I'm her happiness ;
That Fm her life should also be made clear.
With other things that Fve no need to tdl ;
And then I feel quite sure she'd answer Yes.
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i88 CECCO ANOiOUBRL
VL
SONlfXT.
To Messer Angiolierif 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 bis Other's estates.
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CECCO ANGIOLIERI
VII.
Sonnet.
Of the 2othJune 1291.
Fm 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 bum, 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 I)
Upon her mouth (I and no other man I)
So sweetly on the twentieth day of June
In the new year * twelve hundred ninety-one.
♦ The year, accordibg to the calendar of those days, began on
the 25th March. The alteration to ist 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 (9th of June 1291 ),
when Dante tells us that he '' drew the resemblance of an angel
upon certain tablets." (See anU^ p. S4.)
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I90 CECCO ANGIOUERL
VIIL
Sonnet*
In 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 siififering 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
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CECCO ANGldUERJ. 19
IX.
Sonnet.
Ot BeccMna 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
Fd 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.
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192 CECCO ANGIOLIERL
YL
Sonnet.
He rath against DanU^ who had censured his homage to
Beuhina.
Dante Aughieri 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 I — 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, ^^d
died in the same year, in his Other's lifetime (JParadisi, C. viii.)
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CRCCO ANGIOUERI. 193
XI.
Sonnet.
Of his four Tormentors.
Fm 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 !"
VOL. n. 13
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194 CECCO ANGIOLIERI.
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 Fve 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-winc 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 !
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
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CECCO ANGIOUERL 195
XIII
Sonnet
Of alike would do.
If I were fire, Fd burn the world away ;
If I were wind, I'd turn my storms thereon ;
If I were water, Fd soon let it drown ;
If I were God, Fd sink it from the day ;
If I were Pope, Fd never feel quite gay
Until there was no peace beneath the sun ;
If I were Emperor, what would I have done ?-
Fd lop men's heads all round in my own way.
If I were Death, Fd look my father up ;
If I were Life, Fd run away from him ;
And treat my mother to like calls and runs.
If I were Cecco (and that's all my hope),
Fd pick the nicest girls to suit my whim,
And other folk should get the ugly ones.
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196 CECCO ANGIOLIERL
XIV.
Sonnet,
He is past all Hdp.
For a thing done, repentance is no good,
Nor to say after, Thus would I have done :
In life, whafs 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.
Fm 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 I
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CECCO ANGJOLIERL I97
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, if 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.
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198 CECCO ANGIOLIERL
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.
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CECCO ANGIOLIERL 199
• XVII.
Prolonged Sonnet.
When his Clothes 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 I 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 rU 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 I Well, this is nice I
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aoo CECCO ANGIOUERL
XVIII.
Sonnet.
He 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,
Whatever you do, be quick now and b^n.
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 Tm slain
Alone, — his wealth, it's true, I'll never have.
Yet dea^ is life to one who lives in pain :
But if you only kill Saldagno's knave,
Fm 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 bis ability to
pay them ; but the meaning seems very uncertain.
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CECCO ANGIOLIERL
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 shbuld 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 resigned
To death that bends my life to its decree.
And one thing makes the matter still more sad :
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 straAge^
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ao2 CECCO ANGIOLIERL
XX.
Sonnet.
To BecchtncCs nch 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 strown,
And with what gloom the tempest is replete.
Yet daily, in good sooth, as mom by mom
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 Angiolierif
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.
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CECCO ANGIOUERL 203
XXI.
Sonnet.
On the 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 leafs 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
(FrtUe Arrigo), and as if he here meant that Brother Henry was
now decayed, so to speak, through the resuscitation of Cecco. (See
Introduction to Fart /., p 23.)
t In the original words, ** Ma di tal dbo imbecchi lo suo becco,"
a play upon the name of Becchina seems intended, which I have
conveyed as well as I could.
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204 CECCO ANGJOUERL
XXII.
Sonnet.
He would slay all who hate their Fathers,
Whq 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 gainsays."
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 I for I fear me much
Some words of mine were rather foul than fair.
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CECCO ANGIOLIERl aoj
XXIII.
TO DANTE ALIGHIERL
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 I 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.
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2o6 GUJDO ORLANDL
GUmO ORLANDL*
Sonnet.
Against the " White " Ghide/hnes.
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'st 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 oflfered to Saint John.t
* Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Guido Cava!-
canti and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their poems.
t /•*• Florence.
% That is, presented at the high altar on the feast-day of St John
the Baptist ; a ceremony attending the release of criminals, a cer-
tain numb^ of whom were annually pardoned on that day in
Florence. Thb 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*
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LAPO GIANNI. 207
LAPO GIANNI.
Madrigal.
WJiat 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.
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2o8 LAPO GIANNI.
II.
Ballata.
A Message in charge far 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 bom 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, " Thils 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 inclined,
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, nig^ 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 &ce for delicacy.
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LAPO GIANNI. 309
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
r 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 I — ^
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. n. 14
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2IO DINO FRESCCBALDL
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 surroimds 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 younsr maiden beautiful
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DINO FRESCOBALDL 2II
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.
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aia GIOTTO DI BONDONB^
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 lackinj; too.
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GIOTTO^ ii3
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
Of virtue, can her cold regard instil.
I call it shame and ill
To name as virtue that which stifles goodt
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.
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SI4 PIOTTO,
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 hurFd
From where they sit in high hypocrisy,
No comer of the world seems safe to me.
Go, Song, to some sworn owls that we have known,
And on their folly bring them to reflect :
But if they be stiff-neck'd,
Belabour them until their heads are down.
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SIMONB DALV ANTBLLA, ai5
SIMONE DALL' ANTELLA.
Prolonged Sonnet.
In the last Days of the Emperor Henry VI L
Along the road all shapes must travd by.
How swiftly, to my thinking, now doth fare
The wanderer who built his watchtower there
Where wind is torn with wind continually !
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.
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2i6 GIOVANNI QUIRINO.
GIOVANNI QUIRINO TO DANTE ALIGHIERI.
Sonnet.
He commends the work of Dant^s life^ then drawing
to its close ; and deplores his ortm 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.
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DANTE AUCHIERL 317
DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GIOVANNI QUIRINO.
Sonnet.
He answers the foregoing Sonnet ; saying what he feels 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.
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2l8
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
may be.
Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, (published in
1640, and already several times referred fo 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, —
' Ben s5 che fosti figliuol d' Alighieri ;
£d accorgomen pure alia vendetta
Che facesti di lui s\ 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
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APPENDIX TO PART L 219
passing his kinsman in contemptuous silence on account
of his awn death by the hand of one of the Sacchetti,
which remained till then unavenged, and so continued
till after Dante's death, when Clone 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. xxui.) 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 181 2 by Fiacchi, who
states that he had seen two separate ancient MSS. in
both of which they were attributed to Dante and Forese.
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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.
I.
Dante Aughieri to Forese Domati.
He taunts Forest^ 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 ! 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.
IL
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,
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APPENDIX TO PART L 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 I
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 Aughieri to Forese Donati.
He taunts him concerning his Wife,
To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough,
(Bicd, — Forese as he's called, you know, — )
You'd fancy she had wintered, sure enough.
Where icebergs rear themselves in constant snow :
And Lord I 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 I
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 1 "
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222 APPENDIX TO PART L
IV.
FORESE DONATI TO DaNTE AuGHIERI.
He taunts him concerning the unavenged Spirit of
Geri Alighieri,
The other night I had a dreadful cough
Because Fd got no bed-clothes over me ;
And so, when the day broke, I hurried ofi
To seek some gain whatever it might be.
And such luck as I had I tell you of.
For lo ! no jewels hidden in a tree
I find, nor buried gold, nor suchlike stuflf,
But Alighieri among the graves I see.
Bound by some spell, I know not at whose 'best, —
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
Docunienti d' Amore. The two sonnets bearing Dante's
name, if not less offensive than the others, are rather
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APPENDIX TO PART L a«3
more pointed ; but seem still vary 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
translate 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 cbe fosti figliuol d'Alighieri :
£d accorgomen pure alia vendetta
Che focesti di lui, s& bella e netta,
DeU' aootin che di& cambio Taltxieri.
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224 APPENDIX TO PART L
Of the two printed texts one says, in the fourth line-
Dell' aguglin ched ei cambib raltrieri ;
and the other,
Degli auguglin die di& cambio Taltrieri.
"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.) dUl^ avolino che di^ cambio Faltrier ; "
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 " Bicd " of Sonnet I.
seems a tendency somewhat akin to the insatiable
gluttony which Forese is represented as expiating in
Dante's Pui^gatory. Mention is also there made of
Foresees 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. I
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 mysel£
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APPENDIX TO PART L 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 thfe 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 deila 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.
II.
Ceccx> D'Ascoli.
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,
vou n. 15
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236 APPENDIX TO PART I.
who was burnt by the Inquisition at Florence in 1527,
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^AcerbOy 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 " Bicd " sonnets are quite^ enough of themselves in
the way of absolute trash.
in.
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 suc-
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APPENDIX TO PART L 237
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'd
That men account my powers a miracle.
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228 APPENDIX 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.
Renown^ 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 FiammettcCs 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 prayer before thee : for an easy thing
This were, to thee whom I do ask it of.
I know that where all joy doth most aboimd
In the Third Heaven, my own Fiammetta sees
The grief which I have borne since she is dead.
O pray her (if mine image be not drown'd
In Lethe) that her prayers may never cease
Until I reach her and am comforted.
I 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;
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APPENDIX TO PART /. 229
while its beauty of colour (to our modem minds^ privi-
leged to review the whole pageant of Italian Art,) might
recall the painted pastorals of Giorgione.
IV.
Of Fiammetta 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, arrayed
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230 APPENDIX TO PART I.
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.
VL
Of thru 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.
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PART II.
POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE.
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233
TABLE OF POETS IN PART II.
I. CiULLo d'Alcamo, 1 1 72 — 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 betr^veen 11 72 and 11 78, —
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 /<z/bAf.
II. FOLCACHIERO DE* FoLCACHIERI, KnIGHT OF SlENA,
II77.
The above date has been assigned with probability to
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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
IIL LODOVICO DELLA VeRNACCIA, I200.
IV. Saint Francis OF Assisi; born, 1182; died, 1226.
His baptismal name was Giovanni, and his father
was Bemardone 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.
VL Enzo, King of Sardinia; born, 1225; died, 1272.
The unfortunate Enzo was a natural son of Frederick II.,
and was bom 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
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TABLE OF POETS IN PART IL 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, I220.
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 Guido's nv>8t famous one **On the Gentle Heart."
VIII. GUERZO DI MONTECANTI, 1220.
IX. Inghilfredi, Siciliano, 1220.
X. RiNALDO d' Aquino, 1250.
I have placed this poet, belonging to a Neapolitiin
family, under the date usually assigned to him ; but
Trucchi states his behef 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 80, the mistake would be easily accounted for, as there
seem to have been various members of the family named
Rinaldo, at different dates.
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236 TABLE OF POETS IN FART IL
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. Cxxiv.),
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 Eloqtdo.
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 : —
" lo mi son un che quando
Amor mi spira, noto, ed in quel modo
Ch' ei dctta 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 spedmens.
XII. Mazzeo di Ricco, Da Messina, 1250.
XIIL Pannucciodal Bagno, Pisano, 1250.
XrV. GlACOMINO PUGLIESI, KnIGHT OF PrATO, 125©.
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 GurrroNE 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
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TAJ^LE OF POETS IN FART 12. 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 by 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* Amort (cap. iii.). 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.
XVIL Saladino da Pavia, 1250.
XVIII. BONAGGIUNTA UrBICIANI, DA LuCCA, I250.
XIX. Meo Abbracciavacca, da Pistoia, 1250.
XX. Ubaldo di Marco, 1250.
XXI. SiMBUONO GlUDICE, I250.
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 1 301, 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, I250.
XXVIII. GUIDO DELLE COLONNE, I250.
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 regibtis et rebus Anglia, as well as a
Historia destrucHonis Troja.
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238 TABLE OF POETS IN PART IT.
XXIX. Pier Moronelli, di Fiorenza, 1250.
XXX. ClUNCIO FlORENTINO, 1250.
XXXI. RuGGiERi DI Amici, Siciliano, 1250.
XXXII. Carnino Ghiberti, da Fiorenza, 1250.
XXXIIL Prinzivalle Doria, 1250.
Prinzivalle commenced by writing Italian poetry, but
afterwards composed verses entirely in Proven^l, 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. Rusnco di Fiuppo; 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 Tesoreito from the Guelf Brunetto
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 Fiorenza, 1260.
XXXVI. Albertuccio della Viola, 126a
XXXVII. ToMMASO BuzzuoLA, DA Faenza, I28o,
XXXVIII. NOFFO BONAGUIDA, I280.
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TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 339
XXXIX. LiPPO Paschi de' Bardi, laSo.
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 Niccol6. 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 bom 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 bom 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 Bnmetto 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 retum to Italy in 13 13, 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 Bama di Tano, and had several chil*
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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 Docummti 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 delk 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 181 5. 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 the 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-
enoe or apparent communication of any kind between
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TABLE OF POETS IN PART IL 941
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 Cavalcand, 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
Dti)^ 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 doubtfiiL
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 Degu Uberti, 1326 — 60.
The dates of this poef 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 stem nature,
unyielding even amid penal fires, has been recorded by
Dante in the tenth canto of the Inferno, Farinata's son
Lapo, himself a poet, was the father of Fazio (/>. Boni-
fazio), who was no doubt bom 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
tiamed 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
Other'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. n. 16
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g4ft TAjBZjS of POETS IN PART //•
have suffered sometimes from poverty, he ei^joyed high
reputation as a poet, and is even said, on Uie 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 CImi-
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 Qossary to Barbe-
rino, had already quoted it as the work of Fazio,) is more
particularizing than accords with the practice of Dante ;
while, thou^ 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 trav.elled over a great part
of Europe, and composed his long poem entitled //
Dittamcndo,—** The Song of the Worid." This work,
though by no means contemptible in point of execution,
certainly falls fiir short of its conception, which is a
grand one ; the topics of which it treats in great mear-
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TABLE OP POETS W PART IL ^43
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; died,
SHORTLY AFTER I4OO.
This excellent writer is the only member of my gather-
ing who was bom after the death of Dante, which event
(in 132 1 ) 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-
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244 TABLE OF POETS IN PART IL
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 d^li
Strozzi, to Ghita Gherardini, and to Nannina di Santi
Bnmi.
XLV. Anonymous Poems.
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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 qom-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.
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246 CIULLO /y 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 !
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.
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dULLO n 4L0AM0. 347
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 be^^ui.
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
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.
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24S CIULLO D' 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 f 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 I
Let him seek through the earth ; 'ds long and broad :
He will find fairer damsels, O my God !
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.
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CIULLO Lf 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 wilUng, 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, V\\ make a net
Wherein thou shalt be caught
What, wilt thou put on wings to fly ?
Nay, but of wax the3r're wrought, —
The3r'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 !
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aso CIULLO Zy ALCAMO.
But meanwhile I shall not stir henoe
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 ?
Hi.
How many nosegays I have sent
Unto thy house, sweet soul I
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
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.
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CIULLO ff ALCAMO. «S«
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 I she that breaks her vows,
And, in her dainty chamber, stabs I " Love, see :
One strikes just thus : it is soon done, pardie I
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 I
She.
So 'twas my dress enamoured thee I
What marvel ? I did wear
A cloth of samite silver-flowered^
And gems within my hair.
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252 CIULLO Zy ALCAMO,
But one more word ; if on Christ's Book
To wed me thou didst swear,
There's nothing now cduld 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,
m follow all among the waves,
Paddling with foot and hand ;
Then, when the sea hath done with thee,
111 seek thee on the sand.
For I will not be conquered in this strife :
111 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 I 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 I
Thou mayst, love, very well ;
For though thou love not me, my love is such
That 'tis enough for both — ^yea overmuch.
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CIULLO Zy ALCAMO. 253
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 1 jny heart is burning me.
She.
Think'st thou I know not that thy heart
Is hot and bums 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,)
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254 CIULLO L^ 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.
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FOLCACHIERO DS' JfOLCACHIERl 15$
FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERI,
KNIGHT OF SIENA.
Canzone.
Hie speaks of his condition through Love*
All the whole world is living without war,
And yet I cannot find out any peace.
0 God I 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 sudi 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.
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*2S6 FOLCACHIERO DE FOLCACHIERL
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 jne 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 sig^.
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.
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LODOVICO BELLA 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 shealJi ?
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. 17
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25« SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI.
SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI.
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 ! 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.
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FREDERICK IL 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 I
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 ;
She is but girded with a girth
Of hate, that clips her in like frost
Thus says she every hour almost : —
'* When I was bom, 'twas an ill birth I
O that I never had been born.
If I am still to fall asleep
Weeping, and when I wake tp weep ;
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26o FREDERICK IL
If he whom I most loathe and scorn
Is still to have me his, and keep
Smiling about me night and mom !
** O that I never had been bom
A woman I a poor, helpless fool,
Wl\o can but stoop beneath the mle
Of him she needs must loathe and scorn !
If ever I feel less forlom,
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!
" 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 murmureth
With smitten palms and hair abroad :
Still whispering under my held breath,
'Shall I not praise Thy name, O God?'
" 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 mom I hear his voice bid them
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FREDERICK IL 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.
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«6a BNZO, KING OF SARDINIA^
ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA,
Sonnet.
On the Fttmss of Seasons.
There is a time to mount ; to hmnble 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 shouldsthave done.
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GUIDO GUmiCELU. 263
CUIDO GUINICELLI.
I.
Sonnet.
Concerning Lucy.
When Lucy draws her mantle round her fece,
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 map's patient love abides its growth.
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264 GUIDO GUINICELU,
II.
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 bum there else, it is so proud.
For evil natures meet
With Love as it were water met with fire,
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GUIDO GUINICELU. 265
As cold abhorring heat.
Through gentle heart Love doth a track divine, —
Like knowing like ; the same
As diamond nms 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 &ce :
Lord, if I loved her, count it not my shame."
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266 GUIDO GVimCELLL
III.
Sonnet.
He will 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.
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GVIDO GUINICELLL 267
IV.
GlNZONE.
He percevoes his Rashness in Love^ hut has no choice.
I HOLD him, verily, of mean emprise,
Whose rashness tempts a strength too great to bear ;
As I have done, alas I who turned mine eyes
Upon those perilous eyes of the most fair.
Unto her eyes I boVd ;
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 ; v
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.
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268 GUIDO GUimCBLLI.
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.
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GUIDO GUINJCELLT. 269
Sonnet.
Of Moderation and Tolerance,
He that has grown to wisdom hurries not.
But thinks and weighs what Reason bids him do ;
And af^er 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 gif^ 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.
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270 GUIDO CUimCELU.
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.
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GUERZO DI MONTECANTI. 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, —
m 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 remained,
Except of seeing the world's self submerged.
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272 INGHILFREDI, SICIUANO.
INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO.
Canzone.
He rebukes the Evil of that lime.
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,
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INGHILFRBDI, 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 111 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 abo spum'd
By the proud feet of Hope continually ;
Till that which gave me such good comforting
Is altogether tum'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. lu 18
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274 RINALDO L^AQUINO.
RINALDO D'AQUINO.
I.
Canzone.
He is resohed to be joyful in Love.
A THING is in my mind, —
To have my joy again,
Which I had ahnost put away firom me.
It were in foolisii 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 diat 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 ;
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RINALDO jyAQUINO. 375
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 pleasaiince
Whose service pleasureth,,
I am enriched with all the wealth of Love.
Song hath no utterance
For my life's jo3rful 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 exults
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276 RINALDO D' 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.
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RWALDO HAQUINO, 277
IL
Canzone.
A Ladyi in Spring, repents of her Coldness,
Now, when it flowereth,
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,
I 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
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278 RINALDO ^AQUINO,
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 &in move.
Wherefore I pray thee, Love,
That thy breadi 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 chie£
Let also the dear youth, whose passion must
Henceforward have good trust.
Be happy without words ; for words bring grief.
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JACOPO DA LENTINO. 279
JACOPO DA LENTINO.
I.
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,
iThat so it should be my complete content
To see my lady joyful in her place.
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a8o rACOPO DA LENTINO.
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 I strangely hath it fared I
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 :
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TACOPO DA LBNTINO. 281
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: n^ne eyes,
Lady, to look on thee :
But, as I go, alas 1
With bitterness of sighs
I mourn exceedingly.
Alas I the constant woe !
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.
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282 JACOPO DA LENTINO.
Delicate song of miney
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.
Bom in Lentino here."
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TACOPO DA LSNTINO. a«3
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 uncoronalFd.
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 1
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284 T^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
Gui 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.
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lACOPO DA LENTINO. 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 theew
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.
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286 lACOPO DA LENTINO.
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
* Madonxia mia.
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fACOPO 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.
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288 JACOPO DA LENTINO.
VI.
Sonnet.
Of his Ladfsface.
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.
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/ACOPO 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 keeps me nigh to death,—
How it doth still behove
I suffer the keen sword,
Whenee 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 possessed ;
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.
VOL. n. 19
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290 JACOPO DA LENTINO.
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 ?
OGodI thatitavail'dl
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 attained
Than sea hath sand, and wisdom even so) ; —
Pray thou to her that she
For my love pity me,
Since with my love I bum, —
That of the fruit of love.
While help may come thereof,
She give to me in turn.
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MAZZEO DI RICCO. 291
UAZZEO DI RICCO, DA MESSINA.
I.
Canzones
If(g solicits his Ladfs 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 oi
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, jojrful, 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
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292 MAZZEO Dl 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 lofly 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
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MAZZEO DI RICCO. 393
II.
Canzone*
After Six Year^ servia he 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 thee ;
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 possest,
Yet do I count me blest,
Because I still can spurn
This thrall which b so mean.
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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.
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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,
Scom'st him, yet know'st not what / think of thee*
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.
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296 PANNUCCrO DAL BA CNO.
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 fii'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 my life-service :
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PANNUCCIO 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 thee
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 I thy law is passed
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 r^ret.
But on thee dwells mine every thought and sense ;
Considering that from thee all virtues spread
As from a fountain-head,—
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298 PANNUCCIO DAL BAGNO.
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 darkened place
Where many hours and days
It hardly ever had remembered 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.
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CIACOMINO PUGLIESL 299
GIACOMINO PUGLIESI, KNIGHT OF PRATO.
I.
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 evei^hing 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
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300 GIACOMINO PUGLJESl.
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 :
I 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.
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GIACOMINO PUCUESL 301
II.
GlNZONETTA.
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 embarrM 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.
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302 GIACOMINO PUGLJESI.
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.
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GIACOMINO PUGLIESL 303
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.
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304 GIACOMINO PUGLJESL
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 which 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 —
Thesoft fell 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 bom and glorified,)
No more pleasaunce
Her image bringeth, seated at my side.
But only tears. Ay me I the strength and pride
Which it brought once.
Had I my will, beloved, I would say
To God, unto whose bidding all things bow,
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GJACOMINO PUGUESL 305
That we were still together night and day :
Yet be it done as His behests allow,
do remember that while she remained
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 He can send
Be thine. Even so,
Vol, a 10
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306 FRA GUITTONE JD^AREZZO.
FRA GUITTONE D'AREZZO.
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 I
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
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BARTOLOMEO DI SANT ANGELO, 307
BARTOLOMEO DI SANT ANGELO.
Sonnet.
He jests amceming 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 ForU ;
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
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3o8 SALADINO DA PAVIA.
SALADINO DA PAVIA.
Dialogue.
Ijjver and Lady.
She.
Fair sir, this love erf* 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.
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SAL AD wo DA PA VIA 309
Nay, let thus much suffice : —
From thee whom I have seiVd,
All undeserved contempt is my reward,*-
Rich prize prepared to guerdon fealty t
She.
Fair sir, it <^ is found
That ladies who would try their lovers so,
Have for a season frown'd,
Not from their heart but ill 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 I 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.
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310 BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANL
BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI, DA LUCCA.
I
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 desiretii ;
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 ;
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BONAGGWNTA URBICIANL 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 bom,
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 lon^ng that I die for love.
• h I and these words as nothing seem to be :
or love to such a constant fear has chid
My heart that I keep hid
Much more than I have dared to tell thee of.
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312 BONAGGIUNTA VRBICIANL
IL
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 filb 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 I
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. £d. 1816).
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BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANL 313
Then, burning, I awake,
Sore tempted to partake ^
Of dr^ms that seek thy sight 1
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 how 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 bums,
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 the^ now,
Life beats within my brow
And would be gone from me.
So hear I ceaselessly.
Love's whisper well fuIfiU'd —
Even I am he, even so,
Whose flame thy heart doth know :
And while I strive I yield.
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314 BONAGGJUNTA UI^BICIAAi.
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 scoui^ged can bid the lion fear.
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BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANL 315
IV.
Sonnet.
Of Continence 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.
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3i6 MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA.
MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA, DA PISTOIA.
Canzone.
He will be silent and watchful in his Lave.
Your joyful understanding, lady mine,
Those honours of feir 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 gface ;
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.
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JHEO 4BBRACCJAVACCA, 317
Twere Jate to wait, ere I would render [dam
My heart, (thus much I tell you, as I should,)
Which, to be understood,
Craves therefore the fine quickness of your glance.
So shall yo^ ki^ow my love of such high strain
As never yet was shoym by its own will ;
Whose proffer is so still.
That love in heart hates love in counten^ce.
In countenance oft the heart is evident
Full clad in mirth's attire,
Wherein at times it overweens to waj^te :
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 I 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 ?
Lady, 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.
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3iS 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 in :
For alway shame and sin
Stand covered, ready, full of faithful words.
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MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA, 3^9
II.
Ballata.
His Ltfe IS by Conttaries,
By the long sojourning
That I have made with grief,
1 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 ;
lU 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
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aao VBALDQ DI MARCO.
UBALDO DI MARCO.
Sonnet.
OfQ> fxidfs Love for him.
My body resting in a haunt of mine,
I ranged among alternate memories ;
What while an unseen noble lady's eyes
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 90 beguile.
Finding it not, I sought it by the scent ;
And by the scent, in truth, the plant I found.
And rented in its shadow a great while.
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SIMBUONO GIVDICE. 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 bom
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 hearty 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 I) —
Which through mine eyes found entrance cunningly !
VOL. II. . 21
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322 SIMBUONO GIUDICE.
In manner as through glass
Light pierces from the sim,
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 ofience,
The so-belovfed face
So watched for ; rather should
All death and ill be thereby subjected.
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SIMBUONO GIUDICB. 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,
Foi^ving him therein where he did err.
Ah I well I know she hath the noble heart
Which in the lidn quells
Obduracy of pride ;
Whose nobleness is for a crown on her.
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S34 MASOLMO 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 attained,
From that first mite they were increased to him.
Who foUoweth 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.
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ONESIO DI BONCIMA. 3^
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 anytiiing afford
Peace in the heart, how pure soever it be ;
When heaven shall break asunder at His word.
With a great trembling of the eardi 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 afirighted of that wrath.
Except the Virgin Lady, she our guide y^
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*
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3t6 ONESTO DI SOKCJMA.
IL
Sonnet.
Hie wishes that he eould meet his Lady aUme.
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 d3dng ** 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.
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TERINO DA CASTBL FIORENTINO. 327
TERINO DA CASTEL FIORENTINO.
Sonnet.
To Onesto di Bondtna^ in Answer to the forgoing.
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 Hfe's gladdening ; tf 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.
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328 MAESTRO MIGLIORE.
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 called grace.
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DELLO DA SIGNA. 3«9
DELLO DA SIGNA.
Ballata#
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 tr^ist 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 bom of prayer ;
Also, of ruth delicious love is bom ;
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.
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330 POLGORB DA SAN GBAfimANO.
FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.
L
Sonnet.
To the Gueif Factum.
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 I 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. viil).
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FOLGORE DA SAN GEUmiANO. 33c
II.
Sonnet.
To the Same.
Were ye but constant, Guelfs, in war or peace,
As in divisions ye are constant still t
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 £avour ill ;
And traitors rule ye ; and on his own sill
Each stirs the fire of household enmities.
What, Guelfs I 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 I
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, Ug^cdone della Faggiola, against the Floren-
tinesy 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.
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332 FOLGORE DA SAN GBMJNIAHO,
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
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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 Niccol6,
Whose praise in Siena springs from lip to lip.
* This fellowship or club {Brigaia), 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. xzix. 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 2i6,ocx) 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.
Here, however, all sorts of disasters and discomforts^ in the same
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334 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.
Tingoccioy Atuin di Togno, and Ancaikn,
Bartolo and Mugaro and FaCnot,
Who well might pass for children of King Ban,
G>urteous and valiant more than Lancelot, —
To each, God speed I how worthy every man
To hold high tournament in Camelot*
pursuits of which Folgore treats, are unagined 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 merit
of the first, I have not included it.
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FOLGORB 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 fiirry 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'U 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-fell,
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.
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336 FOLGORB 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 g^eons 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 fiU'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 rare ;
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.
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FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 337
MAY.
I GIVE you horses for your games in May,
And all of them well trained unto the course,—-
Elach 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 Ufe, so filled with courtesies,
Throtighout the world be counted debonair.
VOL. II 22
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338 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.
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 mom 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 tablfes 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.
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FOLGORE DA SAN GEMIN2AN0. 339
SEPTEMBER.
And in September, O what keen delight I
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 I
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.
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,34» J^LGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.
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, —
Casta, 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.
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I'OLGORE DA SAN GEMINIAMX 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 hb 'hests are law to me.
For if I held flair Paris town in fee,
And were not called his friend, 'twere surely less.
Ah I had he but the emperor's wealth, my place
Were fitted in his love more steadily
Than is Saint Francis at Assisi. Alway
Commend him unto me and his, — not least
To Caian, held so dear in the blithe band.
" Folgore da San Geminiano" (say,)
" Has sent me, charging me to travel fast,
Because his heart went with you in your hand-"
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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 fairiy 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 £st6 hath no freer hand.
* That is, according to early Tuscan nomenclature, Carlo, tiu
son of Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli.
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FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 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 I 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 Love'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.
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344 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.
WEDNESDAY.
. 77te 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 vemage-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 prepared.
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.
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FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 34S
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 I hither. Beauty, Dian, Dragon, what I
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."
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346 ^OLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO.
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 expressed
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.
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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 oppressed 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 stound.
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.
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348 GUIDO DELLS COLOmfE.
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 ! what a pain it is for the grieved heart
To hold apart and not to show its ill I
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 o^kvl
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.
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PIER Ak QRONELU. 349
PIER MORONELLI, DI FIORENZA.
Canzonetta.
A bitter Song to his Lady.
O LADY amorous,
Merciless lady,
Full blithely played 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
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350 PIER MORONELLL
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 Pm 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,
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PIER MORONELLL 351
Upon the Mayday
Which brought me to you
Was all my haste then
But a fooFs venture ?
To have my sight full
Of you propitious
Truly any 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 b^ you ?
In all your glances
What is't a man sees ?-•
Fever and ague.
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352 CIUNCIO FIORENTINO.
CIUNCIO FIORENTINO.
Canzone.
Of his Love; with the Figures of a Stag, of Water^ and
of an Eagle.
Lady, with all the pains that I can take,
ril 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 delayed
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.
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ClUNCIO 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. n, 23
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354 RUGGIER2 D2 AMICL
RUGGIERI DI AMICI, SICILIANO:
Canzonetta,
Far a Renewal of Favauru
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 :
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MUGGIER! DI AMICL 35J
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 I and of this year
Let him not see the May.
Is't not a vile thing, say.
To freeze at Midsummer ?
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3S6 CARNINO GMTRRifTl,
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 kneVst 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 overmasters me.
I am o'erpowerVd 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 I 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
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CARNINO GBIBERT7. 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.
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SS8 PRINZIVALLE DORIA.
PRINZIVALLE DORIA.
Canzone.
Of his Lovcy 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,
Foi^getteth then his gladness altogether ;
Even so am I, through Love, alas the day I
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.
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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 stem unwomanly r^ard
Her face may not be marr'd.
1 therefor* pray of thee, my own soul's wife.
That thou remember me who am forgot.
How shall I stand without thee ? Art thou not
Jhe pillar of the building of my life ?
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3156 RUSTICO Dl 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, haying nothing else to do ;
And proved there is not anything at all
He cannot make, if that's a thing He can.
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RUSTICO DI FIUPPO. 361
Sonnet.
Of the Safety ofMesser Fazio*
Master 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.
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36a RUSTICO DI PILIPPO.
III.
Sonnet.
Of Messer UgolincJ*
If any one had anything to say
To the Lord Ugolino, because he's
Not staunch, and never mmds 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.
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PUCCIARELLO DI FIORENZA. 365
PUCCIARELLO DI FIORENZA.
Sonnet.
Of Expediency.
Pass 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.
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964 ALBERTUCCIO DELIA 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 I the flower of flowers, she did not fail.
Woe's me I I will be Jew and blasphemer
If the good god of Love do not prevail
To bring me to thy grace, oh I thou most fair.
My lady and my lord t alas for wail I
How many days and how much sufferance ?
Oh 1 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 I
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 sigh of her to put their ilb from them.
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ALBERTVCCIO BELLA 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.
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366 70MMAS0 BUZZUOLA.
TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAEN2A.
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.
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NOFBO BONAGUIDA. 3^7
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 the ^e :
Through whom my love hath such full permanence
That thereby other loves seem dispossessed.
I have no pain, nor am with sighs oppressed,
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."
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368 LIPPO FASCHI 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,
" 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 extremest ban.
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SEIi FACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA, 369*
SER PACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA,
Sonnet.
A Return to Love,
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,
Haying 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 thercf seems
Within, as of a subtle fire that runs
Unto my heart, and remains burning there*
VOL. u. 24
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370 NICCOLb DBGLI ALBIZZL
NICC0L6 DEGLI ALBIZZL
Prolonged Sonnet.
When 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 gtiunt horses ; and a sorry sight
Are the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones.
They are ashamed, and march throughout the night ;
Stiunbling, 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.
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FRANCESCO DA BARBERmO. 371
FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO.
I.
Blank Versb.*
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 unrbymed verse and in
prose, " Of the Government and Conduct of Women ** ; {Dtl Reggi"
mento # dei Costutm delle Donm^
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37a FRANCESCO DA BARBBRINO.
My girdle, dipping 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
Tliat I speak soft lest she be made a^iamed.
Lo this is she who hath for company
The Son of God and Mother of the Son ;
Lo ! this is she who sits with many in heaven •
Lo ! this is she with whom are few on earth.
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FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. %%%
11.
Sbntbnze.*
OfShth against Sim
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 b^fun."
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 eztncted (rom his
• ' Documents of Love ** {DoomtinH tt Amort).
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374 FJRANCBSCO DA BARB^RWO.
Or one, whose tongue records
Unwillingly his own base heart, will say,
"I'll not be led astray
To bear a hand in others' life or death."
They have it in their teeth I
For unto this each man is pledged and bound ;
And this thing shall be found
Entered against him at the Judgment Day.
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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.
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376 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 weU.
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FRAirCESCO DA BARBBRINO. 377
IV.
Sentenze.
Of ImportunUies and Troublesome Persons,
There is a vice prevails
G>nceming which Til set you on your guard ;
And other four, which hard
It were (as may be thought) that I should blame.
Some think that still oithem —
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 I") "Oh never mind —
Say nothing of the kind, —
It's quite a pleasure to be where you are ! "
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, —
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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 your 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
Thaf 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.
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FRANCESCO DA BARBERJNX). 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 planned,
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 takew
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.
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^ FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO.
Sentenze*
Of Cataion.
Say, wouldst thou guard thy son,
That sorrow he may shun ?
Begin at the beginning
And let him keep from sinning.
Wouldst guard ^y house ? One door
Make to it, and no more.
Wouldst guard thine orchard-wall ?
Be free of fruit to all.
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FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 381
FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL
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 Sim'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 : —
" Woe's me I 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.
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382 PAZIO DEGLl UBERTL
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.
Bom 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 designed.
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 dodt 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,
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FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 383
In all thy veins were bom 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 expressed
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 spritigs to view ;
All that she loves to do
Tends alway to her honour's single scope ;
And only jfrom 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 displayed
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 I) is pity absent thence ?
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384 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL
II.
Extract from the " Dittamondo." *
(Lib. IV. Cap. 23.)
O/En^and, 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 Dittamondot 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 of 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 fdt
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FAZIO DEGU UBERTL 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 toa
The people are as white and comely-faced
As they of Ethiop land are black and foul.
Many hot springs and limpid fountain-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 bom 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 t^uty.
I should mention that the DiHamondo, like Dante*s great poem, is
written in Uraa 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 Damletta, 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 1 ** To which the Englishman replied, " You will need stout
hearts to keep near our tails when the assault is made.**
VOL. IL 25
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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.t
We went to London, and I saw the Tower
* This is the Barnacle-tree, often described in old books of
travels and natural tiistory, and which Sir Thomas Browne classes
gravely among his " Vulgar Errors.**
f What follows relates to the Romances of the Round Table.
The only allusion here which I cannot trace to the Mort 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 tkt
King, Why Fazio should have "joyed to see" Merlin's stone
" for another's love ** seems inscrutable ; unless indeed the words
*^per amor aUrui^ 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 6rom the Dittamondo,
to ttie unknown author of an acute and kindly article in the
Sp4ctaior for January i8th, 1862.
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FAZIO DEGU UBERTL ^%^
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.
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388 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI,
III.
Extract from the " DnrAMONDO."
(Lib. IV. Cap. 25.)
Of the Dukes of Normandy, and thence of the Kings oj
Englandyfrom 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 da'*'
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 Commtdia^
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FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 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 fi^om 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 many 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
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390 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL
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 ;
Himting 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 bom,
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 \i 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 roof
With straw,— conceive I — ^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.
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FAZIO DEGLI VBER7L 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.
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39* FRANCO SACCHBTTL
FRANCO SACCHETTI.
I.
Ballata.
His Talk with certain Peasant-girls.
" 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, teD 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
" 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 ? "
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FRANCO SACCHBTTL 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,
Fd 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.
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394 I'RANCO SACCHETTL
II.
Catch.
On a Fine Day.
" Be stirring, girls I we ought to have a run :
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 I " 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 I "
" You weigh a hundred, you.
And this one weighs two."
" Why, dear, you do get stout I "
" You think so, dear, no doubt :
Are you in a decline ? "
'* Keep your temper, and I'll keep mine.
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FRANCO SACCHETTL 395
Come, girls," ("O thank you, miller!")
" 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.
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396 FRANCO SACCHRTTL
III.
Catch.
On a Wet Day.
As I walked thinking through a little grove.
Some girls that gathered flowers came passing me,
Saying, " Look here I look there I " delightedly.
" O here it is I " " Whaf s that ? " "A lily, love"
" And there are violets I "
" Further for roses I Oh the lovely j)ets —
The darling beauties ! Oh the nasty thorn I
Look here, my hand's all torn I "
" What's that that jumps ? " *' Oh don't 1 it's a grass-
hopper I "
" G>me run, come run.
Here's bluebells ! " " Oh what fun I "
*' Not that way I Stop her I "
" Yes, this way I " " 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 I "
" Oh shan't we hear the vesper-bell, I wonder ? "
" Why, it's not nones, you silly little thing ;
And don't you hear the nightingales that sing
Fly away O die away f "
" O I hear something ! Hush I"
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FRANCO SACCHETTL 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.
'«0 Lord! O mel Alack I Ah me I 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 gets trampled on by two or three.
What's gathered is let fall
About the wood and not picked up at all.
The wreaths of flowers are 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 stook quite still to have a perfect view,
And never noticed till I got wet through.
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3^8 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 I
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 I 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.
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ANONYMOUS POEMS. 399
II.
Ballata.
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 I 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 sfeaks 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.
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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 diee 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.
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ANONYMOUS POEMS. 401
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,
\nd 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
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TRANSLATIONS
FROM THE
ITAUAN, GERMAN, FRENCH, AND CREEK.
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f>S
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."
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406 LA P/A.
At the tale told, while one soul uttered it.
The other wept : a pang so pitiable
That I was seized, like death, in swooning-fi^
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 spint 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."
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407
CAPITOLO :
A. M. SALVINI TO FRANCESCO REDI, 1 6 — .
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 diange.
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 so I "
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 time 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.
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408 SALVINPS 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 I thine angry tones, awful and dread,
What time God puts the thunder in thy mouth,
Upon His foes the righteous wrath to shed I
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, imder whose mighty stress
Tyrants and evil men shall shrink and quail ;
True seeds of an undying perfectness.
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409
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 wo9ds 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."
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410
TWO LYRICS
FROM NICCOLb TOMMASEO.
. \,-^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.
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THE YOUNG GIRL. 4"
Not thine the skill to shut
The love up in thine heart,
Neither to seem more tender,
Les3 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 joumejing bird
Of the pure drink that flows
Takes but one drop, and goes.
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412
11.—^ FAREWELLi
I SOOTHED and pitied thee : and for thy lips, —
A smile, a word (sure guide
To love that's ill to hide I)
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 I
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 Hfe 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.
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413
POEMS BY FRANCESCO AND GAETANO
POLIDORI.
// Losario : Poema Eroico Romanesco, di Ser Francesco
PouDORi. Messo in luce, coU' aggiunta di Tre
Canti, da Gaetano Polidori, suo nipote. Firenze
e Londra. [Losario: a Poetic Romance. By Ser
Francesco Poudori. 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 modem 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
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414 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 bom in the year 1 720, at Pontedera, 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.
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POEMS BY F. AND G. POLIDORL 415
And the banks shuddered, 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 Ops 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 n3rmph, 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, €t S0q.)
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
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4i6 POEMS BY F. AND G. POUDORL
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 Rossetti, 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 paretrmne. 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
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POEMS BY F. AND G. POUDORL 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 &ir 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 shalt thou see, beside the wan
Changed surface of his watexy 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
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8i4 POEMS BY F. AND G. POUDORL
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 ! how beautiful doth seem
That evening journey when the herd
Troop homeward by accustomed 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 l^^ht,
And in the unalterM 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.
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POEMS BY F. AND G. POUDORL 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 Uttle 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 crown*st his children's foreheads weU."
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
I hoped — ah 1 shall I hope again ? Nay, cease.
Too much, alas ! the world's rude clamours now
Bewilder mine accorded cadences.**
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430
HENRY THE LEPER.
A Swabian MtracU-Rkymt :
BY HARTMANN VON AUE, (a.D. IIOO — I20o).
Hartmann von Aue^ the fame weni.
Was a good knight, and well acquent
With books in every character.
Having sought this many a year,
He found cS length a record fit ^
As far as he afprehendeth it.
To smoothe the rugged ^aths uneven.
To glorify God which ts in Heaven,
And gain kind thoughts from each true heart
For himself as also for his art.
Unto pour ears this song sin^s he.
And begs, an you hear it patiently.
That his reward be held tn store ;
And that whoso, when 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^or soul.
That man his iroper 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
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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 aroimd,
A stainless and priceless diamond,
Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,
A home when the t3rrant 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 I 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
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422 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
Bum 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 I 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.
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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 —
He 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
InmosUy 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 I weak to strive and little stout
'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possessed.
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424 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 ^e 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 nou^t before.
Up rose fresh-hearted the sick man.
And sought the great physician,
And told him all, and prayed him hard,
With the proflfer of a rich reward.
To take away his griefs foul cause.
Then said the leach without a pause,
'' There is one means might healing yi^d.
Yet will you ever be unhealed."
And Henry said, " Say on ; define
Your thoughts ; your words are as thick wine.
Some means may bring recovery ? —
I will recover I 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 ;—
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HENRY THE LEPER, 4*5
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 wiU and be content."
*' Woe's me I " 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 cast 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 eartti,
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 vii^gin 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 Saleme,
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42$ 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.
Of 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 concealed, —
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 will
Set limit to his labour still,
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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 oflen 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.
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428 . 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 trustfukiess ;
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 suflfered 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«
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HENRY THE LEPER. 4^9
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,
" WoftiUy 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 foi^got.
The moulder of my human lot.
Whose gifts, ill ta'en, though well bestowed.
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,
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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 I 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 I **
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HENRY THE LEPER. 43*
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 I " 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
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43« HENRY THE LEPER.
That we should make outcry and lamoit :
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 souPs 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 fai^ful, 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 soAened 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^ —
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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.
vou II. 28
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434 mBI^RY THE JJS^PEM.
' Leave thy words and thy weq>ing too ;
What cannot be don^ seek not to do."
" Nay, father mine/' replied the child,
"Though my words may be counted yA)A,
Well I know that the body's death
Is a torture and tortureth.
Yet truly this is tru& no less :
He who b plagued with abarp distress,
Who hates his life, having but woe, —
To him the end cometh, even so.
When for all the<:urses 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 rou^ is world-driving and so rude ;
And, good once ended, hope once lorn,
Best it were I had not been bom.
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,
Eam'd^ father, in the sweat of thy brow.
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HENRY TEE LEFER. 435
With yoUy while he liveth, it ^all stay;
He is good ; he will not drive you away.
But if we now ^ould let him die.
Our ruining hasteneth thereby :
The thought whereof doth mi^ 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 fost.
'' Think, my own child, — dau^ter mine, think
Of the bitter cup that 1 had to drink,
Of the pain that I suffered once for thee ;
And, tanking, 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 I —
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 I 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,
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436 HENRY THE LEPER.
And a stafif our falling steps 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 I 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 and 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 :
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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 I to such reeds let me not chng I
God knows how vain seem to my sight
The bliss of this world and the delight ;
For the delight tumeth 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 and 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 !
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 I though I kept this life of mine
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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 Hfe 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 stru^le still.
What to attain ? Even grief and ill.
In this strait, One would set me free.
My soul and my body sisking 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 bams 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 shadow-place below, —
This place laid waste like a waste plain,
Where nothing is but torment and pain,
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ffENRY TBE LEPER. 439
Where a day's blight fidleth'upoR
The work of a jrear, and it is gone ;
Where ruinous thunder lifts its voice,
And where the harvest may not rejoice, f
You love me ? Oh let your love be seen,
And labour no more to drcumvene
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 ftirthering.
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 worUi.
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440 HENRY THE LEPER.
Nor think that thou shalt 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 IIL
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 I they had no speech
The new dawn of their thought to reach.
With a wild sorrow imrepress'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" ,
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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 astoni^,
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
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HEffRY TBR IMP BR,
As thou, in thy reckoning, reckonest
Thou didst keep madness from my breas^
And help me when other help was none :
I thank thee for all that thou hast done^
(May God unto thee be merciflil
For thy tenderness in the day of dule 1)
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;
So that now in thy faithfulness
I pleasure me wiUi 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 enter'd 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 desir^ 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 b^;uiled ?
To thy parents' counselling, my child,
For evermore look that thou incline :
So sorrow of heart shall not be thine.**
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HENRY THE LEPER. 443
Whai 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 boVd,
The father spake these words aloud :
"God knows," said he, "we do wilhngly,
Dear master, aught that may vantage thee
Who hast been so good to us and so kind.
If God have in very truth designed
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 imaginM.
To-day, alack I 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
Proflfered 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.
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HENRY THE LEPER.
The parents grieved with a bitter woe
That their dear child should leave them so,
While yet they prayd 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, dotii 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 dasp'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,
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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 fadier v^as 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.
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446 HENRY THE LEPER,
Vnth 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 joumeyeth
To the door of the house of death.
So they rode without stop or turn
By the paths that take unto Saleme.
Lo I he is riding to new life
Whose countenance is laden and rife
With sorrow and carp and great dismay.
But for her who rides the charnel-way —
Oh I 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 h'ghten 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
WHiose heart to believe is well-nigh loth,
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SSNitY THE LEPER. 447
Even though his eyes witness a thing.
At length he said : '' By whose oounseUiqg
Comes 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 constrain'd, 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, wiien 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, —
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448 HENRY THE LEPER.
Thou shalt feel worse than death's worst sting
Ere the heart be drawn forth quivering.
How deemest thou ? Canst thou suffer this ?
Alack, poor wretch I there is dreadfiilness
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 answered : " 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 wam'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, meseems,
Are frightened by these idle dreams
From the work you should perform for the Elarl.
Oh I it might hardly grace a girl
Such cowardly reasoning to use I
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 ntere 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, —
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HENR Y 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 aU 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 alsp, —
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 tum'd, and went out again.
Again to the maid did he repair.
And straightway lock'd the doors with care.
VOL. IL 29
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450 BENR Y TBE LEPER.
That Henry might not see or know
What she for his sake mast undeiigo.
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 clothM 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 strudc to his heart
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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 bum'd, as he stood without,
In scalding tears ; transfigure
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 ui^ed 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."
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452 HENRY THE LEPER,
JThen 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 leam'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 I " she cried ;
"There is no pity on any side.
Woe is me I It fades fiim 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 ruinM.
Oh I 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 I
Lo ! he chooseth his own calamity.
That so my crown may be reft from me I "
Then with sharp prayer she pray'd them there
That still the death might be given her
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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 I
How have I been cheated with lies.
And cozen'd with fair-seeming falsities I
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 wiU be so.
Take heed — there is no second one
Who yet for thy life will lose her own.
Oh I turn to me and be pitiful,
And grudge not death to my poor soul ! "
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.
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454 HENRY THE LEPER.
He knew the shame and the evil speech
And the insult he must bear, — yet boVd
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
Moum'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 tum'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.
Elach in a little chamber alone.
They watch'd till many hours were gone.
The nobleman gave thanks to God
Who had tum'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, —
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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 looked 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 Elarl was stripped
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 pra^d.
She gazed and gazed some speechless space
And then knelt dovm with lifted &ce
And said, ''The Lord God hath done this :
His was the deed — the praise be His.
With solemn thinking let me take
The life which He hath given me back."
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456 HENRY THE LEPER.
PART V.
The Earl retum'd in joyful 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 sta^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.
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HENRY 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 possessed.
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 taste
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
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458 HENRY THE LEPER.
Some worthy woman for to woo,
And bring her as his wife thereta
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,
Everjrwhence, both far and near ;
And eke his whole vassalage was tiiere, —
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 appeared to be altogether lost.
So that all people avoided me
With cursings and cruel mockery.
And yet no man scometh 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 thee
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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 ! 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.
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46o 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.
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46i
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 H6loise, the learned nun.
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on ?
(From Love he won such dule and teen I)
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 ?
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46a
TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY.
FRANgOIS 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!
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4^3
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 imdeserving 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 live 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 f)
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:
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464 HIS MOTHERS 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 I 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,
Oflfering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare^
And in this &ith I choose to live and die.
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46s
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,
Whaf 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,
Whaf s the singing that I hear ? "
VOL. n. 30^
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466 JOHN OF TOURS.
" Daughter, it's the priests in rows
Going round about our house."
" Tell me then, my mother my dear,
What's the dress that I should wear ? '
" Daughter, any reds or blues,
But the blaick is most in use."
" Nay, but say, my mother my dear,
Why do you fell 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.**
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467
MY FATHER'S CLOSE.
OLD FRENCH.
Inside my father's close,
(Fly away O my heart away f)
Sweet apple-blossom blows
So sweet
Three kings' daughters fair,
(Fly away O my heart away I)
They lie below it there
So sweet
" Ah I " says the eldest one,
(Fly away O my heart away I)
'* I think the day's begun
So sweet"
" Ah ! " ssLys the second one,
(Fly away O my heart away !)
'* Far off I hear the drum
So sweet"
'* Ah f " says the youngest one,
(Fly away O my heart away I)
" 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 J let him lose or win.
He hath it still complete.**
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468
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.
IL
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 f
The Burgrave prospereth :
Men fear him more and more.
Barons, a fig for his Holiness !
A fig for the Emperor !
Right well we hold our own
With the br^d and the iron rod.
A fig for Satan, Bui^graves I
Burgraves, a fig for God I
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469
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.
A COMBINATION FROM SAPPHO.
I.
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.
II.
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 ground.
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PROSE.
IV.— NOTICES OF FINE ART.
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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 pm*-
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
firom 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 Assodateship 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
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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 comer-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
duch 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-
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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.
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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.
Afler 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,
at last, at the feet of one lady who has really done some-
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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 anjrthing 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 balkt-lover. There is great humour in the
" Arraying of the ' Virgins ' for the Fete of Agriculture,'
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478 NOTICES OF FINE AR2.
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 the same inability,
apparently, to set about it in the right way. "The
Viilgin 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
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LICHFIELD 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
siationaty 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 leav^ her present insufiicient material.
There are few better things in the gallery than a very
small picture by Gdr6me, 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 oif
the same qualities, but with a want of expression and a
servile Dutch look, may be found in the " Interior of an
Artisf s Studio," by Alphonse Ro€hn. 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
Caiia," 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 modem artist who should be
sufiiciently *'poor in heart" to receive the promised
blessing.
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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 LeuUier, 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 L," 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 "
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LICHFIELD 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 displa3ring 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 latten 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 fece, but is flatly
painted ; the " Nymphs of the Grotto," . by Steinbruck
of Dusseldorf, 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 Hasenclever 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
vou II. 31
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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 Killamey," by H.
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 £. 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
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LICHFIELD HOUSE, 1851. 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 " Cmderella," 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
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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.
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485
EXHIBITION OF SKETCHES AND
DRAWINGS IN PALL MALL EAST, 185 1.
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 Sufifolk 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
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4S6 N07ICES 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 work 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
Com 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
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PALL MALL EAST, 1851. 487
contributions of Messrs. Hook, Egg, and Lewis. Mr.
Hook's study for the " Dream of Venice " isj 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. E^ (while in fact there are
no two painters whose chief characteristics are much
more dififerent), 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 eflforts ; 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
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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 eflfective 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 tfie 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 :
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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, Prout, 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 two years ago at the Royal Academy.
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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 yoimg lady in faded
yellow with the young lady in washed-out red, or vice
versd, 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 sofe
in a place which, from its utter nakedness, can be
intended for no part of a modem dwelHAg-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
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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
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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 poet
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. AH 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 plimiage 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 ;
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LUCY. 493
And lady, stately overmuch,
Who movfed 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 L 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 tiie limbs ; but the feeling
in the head and in the children, assisted by the quietness
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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 diflfer 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. PickersgiU, 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 d^;ree 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 imderthe closed
door, is vividly imagined ; there is poetry in the last.
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LEAR. KENNEDY, 495
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'AUegro." 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
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496 NOTICES OF FINE ART.
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 delist.
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 I my dear fkther 1 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-
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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. 11. 32
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498 NOTICES OB 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 of
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 I Nothing about him but what has felt his in-
fluence ; — the peasantry, whose native soil has t>ecome
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 dass 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.
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MADOX BRO WN. 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 of
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 woiics have, as we have said, been few in number,
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Spo NOTICES OB FINE ART.
and of a diflferent class from those which, to judge from
the circle of their admirers, would seem to possess a
talisman somewhat akin to the enigmatic ducdemu 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. Madoz 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 ivake 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 ^miliar
than the one which he followed when he had occasion
to introduce the poet in his picture of "Wydiflfe." In
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POOLE. 501
eiSect, the work aims at representing broad sunb'ght, 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 afler year, the
idea upon which he works is sure to be among the finest
in modem 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
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$02 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," Jt 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, \vhich 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 coflTee-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 : Ave 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 d^ree as
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HOLM AN HUNT. 503
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.
HoLBfAN 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 firom 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,
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504 NOTICES OF FINE 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
j( 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.
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505
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.
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5o6 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 vitahty well able to second any reviwmg effort
when that is once bestowed.
Madise 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 fetix cT arti-
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
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MACLISE^S CHARACTER-PORTRAITS, 507
These are such *' historical " pictures as the world ha 1
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
Fraser's Magamine 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
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So8 NOTICES OF FINE ART.
literary celebrities, are Gothe, Walter Scott, Coleridge,
Wordsworth, Charies Lamb, and Thomas Carlyle. Ew±
produces the impression of absolute trustworthiness, as
in a photograph. The figure of G6the 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," — beneficentiy 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 deh'ght
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 summary 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.
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MACLISSS CHARACTER-PORTRAITS, 509
the portraits of Godwin, Leigh Hunt, Cnukshank,
Disraeh 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
sketchera 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 equally
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
sunmier 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
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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 ; Ix>ckhart,
elaborately at ease ; Croker, tasteless and shameless ; and
Christopher North, cock of the walk, whose crowings
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-stafif 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 plajrful, 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
p>ower, 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 tfie
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
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MACLISE^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 tYi^ 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.
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512 NOTICES OF FINE ART.
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 Th$ 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.
" Ch^ non la muove se non come pietra
Lo dolce tempo che riscalda i colli"
Mandetta, of Thoulouse, ** 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). — Backgroimd, Love
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^
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, IX. ^i
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NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI.
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517
NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI.
Page 7^
"An awkward tntermsnxo to the volume." The term
" intermezzo " was coirect when my brother wrote it ; because
his introduction, regarding Dante and his friends, appeared
in the middle of tiie original volume entitled The Early
Italian Poets, 1861. On republishing the book in 1874, my
brother inverted the order of his translations, and made tbose
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 vanous 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, i860, 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 ftkticate
that Cavalcanti considered the Image to resemble "his
Lady "— 1>., the woman he was in love with. He speaks ef
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5i8 NOTES BY IV. M. ROSSETTL
"la Donna mia," which comes to the same thin^ 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 reial 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.
PageAP7'
Capitolc— A. M. Salvini to Francesco Redi.— Hitherto
unpublished. This must be a very early specimen of my
brother's translanting-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 Millevoye.
Page 410.
Two Lyrics, from NiccolO Tommaseo. — These are also
very early. When Tommaseo's death was announced, Rossetti
sent them to the Athenceum (13 June 1874), with the follow-
ing prefatory lines : — " In your late obituaiy notice {Athenctum,
May 16), of Niccold Tommaseo, a passing allusion is made to
his earlier l3nical poetiy. 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."
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NOTES BY W. M. ROSSETTI. 519
Pag^ 413-
Poems by Francesco and Gaetano Poudori.— 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 Arme HHnrtchf and made ttie 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
Anne Heinrich in his Golden Legend^ published in 185 1.
Page 468.
Two Songs fVicroR Hugo). — ^These translations also,
hitherto impublished, are very early performances — perhaps
1847.
Page 469.
LiUTH, raoM Goethe. — ^When my brother was projecting
his picture of Lilitk^ 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 473-
EXHIBFTION OF MODERN BRITISH ART AT THE OLD WATER-
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 some particular picture. The
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520 NOTES BY m M. ROSSETTL
main incentive was that I was in 1850 the art-critic of 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 1 85 1, 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 tiiese notices seem to me to be spiritedly touched oflF;
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 1 85 1, with a single exception, that of Palmer. This
last-named notice consists of two scraps written towards
1875 and ^^88^» 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,— Fraiik Stone,
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NOTES BY W, M. ROSSSTTl. S^i
Hook, Branwhite, F. R. Pickeregill, C. H. Lear, Kennedy,
Cop^ 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
Tlie Book of Nonsense,
Page 499-
IfADOX 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 veiy
laige one, is now in the Public Gallery of Sydney, Australia.
Page S05.
The Return of Tibullus to Delia.— This memoran-
dum describes a picture painted by Rossetti towards 1866;
water-colour, and 1 believe oil-colour as well.
Page 506.
Macuse'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 whicn he ever actually took up, and that
only in an initial stage, was Pieira degli Scrovigni (from
Dante). The subject of Mandetta will be better understood
upon reference to pp. 123^125.
the end.
Printed by Hanll, Watton. ft ViDtr, Ld, LoDdoo and K^^nAmf,
VOL, II. 34
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