Google This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project to make the world's books discoverable online. It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the publisher to a library and finally to you. Usage guidelines Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. We also ask that you: + Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes. + Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. + Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. + Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at|http: //books .google .com/I ^^y-^^-^^ ^ ^'.'H'i. P FA RJM S W O KT H ,§" .J HARVARD COaEGE UBRARY IN MEMORY OF HENBY WESTON E^RNSWOp™ CLASS OF 1912 A SOmiER OF THE FOBHGN LECJON IW FRANg f ■J DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE: With the Italian Poets preceding Him. (lIOO — 1200 — 13CX)). A COLLECTION OF LYIQCS, EDITED, AND TRANSLATED IN TtiE ORIGINAL METRES, BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. REVISED AND RE-ARRANGED EDITION. PART I. Dante's Vita Nuova, &c. Poets of Dante's Circle. PART IL Poets chiefly before Dante. LONDON : ELLIS AND WHITE, 29 NEW BOND STREET. 1874. - . ^.K I I ^\. \ V *-• -Til, *. \. ' o \. V J i i /^ LONDON: PRINTBD BY JOHN StRANGBWAYS, Castle St. Leicester Sq. TO MY MOTHER I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE. Advertisement to the present Edition. In re-entitling and re-arranging this book (originally published in 1861 as The Early Italian FoetSy) my object has been to make more evident at a first glance its important relation to Dante. The Vita Nuava^ 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 elsewh^e attempted even by Italian or German editors. Preface to the First EcUtion. (r86i). 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 tibe same time, its imperfections are not all to be chaig^ 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 ofifer, 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. viii PREFACE. v/ Much has been said, and in many respects justly, against the vahie of metrical translation. But I think it would be admitted that the tributary art might find 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^-grace has almost been dealt them by clumsy transcription and pedantic super- structure. At this Stage the task of talking much more about them in any language is hardly to be entered upon ; and a translation (involving, as it does, the necessity of settling many points without discussion,) remains perhaps the most direct form of commentary. The life-blood of rhythmical translation is this com- mandment,— that a good poem shall not be turned into a bad one. The only true motive for putting poetry into a fresh language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far as possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry not being an exact science, liter- ality of rendering is altogether secondary to this chief law. I say Hterality, — 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 PREFACE. ix degree, from the &ct 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 iot the first time. That there are many defects in this collection, or that the above merit is its defect, or that it has no merits but only defects, are discoveries so sure to be made if necessary (or perhaps here and there in any case), that I may safely leave them in other hands. The series has probably a wider scope than some readers might look for, and includes now and then (though I believe in rare instances) matter which may not meet with universal approval ; and whose introduction, needed as it is by the literary aim of my work, is I know inconsistent with the principles of pretty bookmaking.. My wish has been to give a full and truthful view of early Italian poetry ; not to make it appear to consist only of certain elements to the exclusion of others equally belonging to it. Of the difficulties I have had to encounter, — the causes of imperfections for which I have no other excuse, — it is the reader's best privilege to remain ignorant; but I may perhaps be pardoned for briefly referring to such among these as concern the exigencies of translation. The task of the translator (and with all humility be it spoken) is one of some self-denial. Often would he avail himself of any special grace of his own idiom and epoch, if only his will belonged to him : often would some cadence serve him but for his author's structure — some structure but for his author's X PREFACE. cadence : often the beautiful turn of a stanza must be weakeqed 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 the matter ; but no, he must deal to each alike. Some- times too a flaw in the work galls him, and he would fain remove it, doing for the poet that which his age denied him ; but no, — it is not in the bond. His path is like that of Aladdin through the enchanted vaults : many are the precious fruits and flowers which he mu.st pass by unheeded in search for the lamp alone ; happy if at last, when brought to light, it does not prove that hia old lamp has been exchanged for a new one, — glittering indeed to the eye, but scarcely of the same virtue nor with the same genius at its summons. In relinquishing this work {which, small as it is, is the only contribution I expect to make to our English knowledge of old Italy), I feel, as it were, divided from my youth. The first associations I have are connected with my father's devoted studies, which, from his own point of view, have done so much towards the general investigation of Dante's writmgs. 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. 1 trust that from this the reader may place more confidence in a work not carelessly undertaken, though produced in the spare-time of other pursuits more closely followed. He should perhaps be told PREFACE. xi that it has occupied the Idsure moments of not a few years ; thus affording, often at long intervals, every opportunity for consideration and revision ; and that on the score of care, at least, he has no need to mistrust it Nevertheless, I know there is no great stir to be made by launching afresh, on high-seas busy with new traffic, the ships which have been long outstripped and the ensigns which are grown strange. It may be well to condude 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, Crescimbeni, &c. ; but these older collections would be found less accessible, and all they contain has been reprinted. I. Poeti del primo secolo della Lingua Italiana. 2 vol. (Firenze; 1816.) II. Raccolta di Rime antiche Toscane. 4 voL (Palermo. 1817.) III. Manuale della Letteratura del primo Secolo. del Prof V, Nannuccl 3 vol. (Firenze. 1843.) IV. Poesie Italiane inedite di dugento autori : raccolte da Francesco Trucchi. 4 vol. (Prato. 1846.) V. Opere Minori di Dante. Edizione di P. I. Fra- ticelli. (Firenze. 1843, &c) VL Rime di Guido Cavalcanti ; raccolte da A. Cic- daporcL (Firenze. 1613.) VII. Vita e Poesie di Messer Cino da Pistoia. Edi- zione di S. Ciampi. (Pisa. 1813.) xii PREFACE. VIII. Document! 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 degli Uberti. (Milano. 1826.) CONTENTS. PART I. DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. PAOE Introduction to Part I. . . . • . i Dante Aligkieri. The New Life. {La VUa Nucva.) • . .29 Sonnet (to Brunetto Latini). Sent with the VUa Nuava . . • . . .110 Sonnet. Of Beatrice tU Poriinari, on All Saints Day 11 1 Son net. To certain Ladies ; when Beatrice wcu lament' ing her Father's Death • • . .112 Sonnet. To the same Ladies ; with their Answer * 113 Bajllata. He will gau upon Beatrice . • .114 Canzone. A Complaint of his Lady s Scorn . . 115 Canzone. He beseeches Death for the Life of Beatrice • 118 Sonnet. On the^h of June, 1290 . . .121 Sonnet (to Cino da Pistoia). He rebukes Cinofor Fickleness ...... 122 Sonnet (Cino to Dante). He answers Dante, con- fessing his unsteadfast Heart . . .123 Sonnet (to Cino da Pistoia). Written in Exile 124 Sonnet (Cino to Dante). He answers the foregoing Sonnet (by Dante), and prays him, in the name of Beatrice, to continue his great Poem . .125 Sonnet. Of Beauty and Duty . . . .126 SSSTINA. Of the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigni . . 127 Sonnet. A Curse for a fruitless Leve . . .130 ^ -8 .' ' . • 4 LONDON: Printbd by John Strangbways, Castle St. Leicester Sq. TO MY MOTHER I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE. ■i Advertisement to the present Edition. In re-entiding 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 Nmva, together with the many among Dante's lyrics and those of his contemporaries which elucidate their personal intercourse, are here assembled, and brought to my best ability into clear connection, in a manner not elsewhere attempted even by Italian or German editors. Preface to the First Edition. (r86i). I NEED not dilate here on the ch^acteristics of the first epoch of Italian Poetry ; since the extent of my translated selections is sufficient to afford a complete view of it. Its great beauties may often remain un- approached in the versions here attempted; but, at the same time, its imperfections are not all to be charged to the translator. Among these I may refer to its limited range of subject and continual obscurity, as well as to its monotony in the use of rhymes or firequent 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 meti^s. Nothing but a strong impression, first of their poetic value, and next of the biographical interest of some of diem (chiefly of those in my first division), would have inclined me to bestow the time and trouble which have resulted in this collection. ^^r XX CONTENTS. Canzonktta. Tb his Lady, hi Spring 335 CiNZONF. 0/ his dead Lady . 3J7 Fra Guittone d' Arezzo. So.NNET. TolhfBUssrJ Vir^n Maty . 34° Bartolomeq di Sant' Angelo. 341 Saladino da Pavia. DlAlxiGUE, Lover and Lady . 34* Bonaggiunta URBiciAwr, DA Lucca. Canzohe. OflAt trut End of Lave; loilk a. Prayer to iitLady 344 CanzonetTA. N(nii ht dream! ef his Lady 347 SONNSTT. Of Wisdont and Foresight 350 Sonnet. Of ConHntnce in Speech 351 Meo Aebkacciavacca, da Pistoia. Canzone. He will ie silent and ■watchful in his Ltnie 352 BALtATA. Hit Life is ty Cantraries . 355 UBALDO Dl MAB.CO. Sonnet. Of a Lady's Love far him 356 SIMBUONO GlODICE. Canzone. Ilejinds that Love has iesuUcd him, hut -mil ^^ trust i« kU Lady .... 357 ^^^ Masolinoda Toi>i. ^H Sl^NNKT. Of Work ami IVealth . 360 ^^1 ONSSTO di BONCIMA, BOLOGN£5E. ^H Sonnet. OftheLastyndgment 36^ ^^1 Sonnet. He vmifi that i^ could meet hi! Lady alone 36a ^^P TiKINO DA Castel Fiokentiho. ^■^ SoNMET. To OHato di Boncima, in answer to thtfore g^^s 363 Maestro Migliore, da Fiokekza. Sonnet. He declares his Love to ht Gri^ 364 Dellc da Signa. Ballata. His Creed of Id^ Levi 3^5 FoLGOKR DA San Geminiano. Sonnet. To tki Gvelpk Faction 366 Sonnet. TotheSame . , . '■ 367 L i CONTENTS. xki Sonnet. Of Virtue Twelve Sonnets. Of the Months Seven Sonnets. Of the Week . GUIDO DELLE COLONNE. Canzone. To Love and to his Lady Pier Moronelli, di Fiorbnza. Canzonbtta. a bitter Song to Jiis Lady CiUNCio Fiorentino. Canzone. Of his Love: with the Figures of n Stag, of Water, and of an Eagle . . • RUGGIERI DI AMICI, SICILIANO. Canzonetta. For a Reneival of Favours Carnino Ghiberti, da Fiorenza. Canzone. Being absent from his Lady, he fears Death Prinzivalle Doria. Canzone. Of his Love, with the Figure of a sudden Storm m . . • , RUSTICO DI FiLIPPO. Sonnet. Cffthe making of Master Messerin Sonnet. Of the safety of Messer Famo . Sonnet. OfMesser Ugolino • PUCCIARBLLO DI FlORENZA. Sonnet. Of Expediency ALBERTUCCIO DELIA VlOLA* Canzone, Of his Lady dancing TOMMASO BuZZUOLA, DA FAENZA. Sonnet. He is in awe of his Lady NOFFO BONAGUIDA. Sonnet. He is enjoined to pure Love Lzppo Paschi ds' Bardi. Sonnet. HesoUdts a Lady s Favours . Sbr Pace, Notaio da Fiorenza. Sonnet. A Return to Loue Niccol6 degli Albizzi. Prolonged Sonnet. When the Troops were returning from Milan .... 368 384 392 395 398 400 402 405 407 4o3 409 410 411 413 414 415 416 417 CONTENTS. Fkancesco da Barberino. Blank Vehse. A Virgin dttlaris h^r BeauHis . Skmtenzb. OfSlolh against Sin Sektenze. OfSira ia Speech .... Sente.nze. Of JmpertunUia and TnubUsonu Flrsoni . Sentenze. 0/ Caution .... Fazio dbgliUherti. Canzone. His Portrait cfhis Lndy, Areola of Verona Extract from the ' Dittamondo.' Of England, and of its Marvels ..... Extract from the ' Djttamondo,' Of the Duha of Normandy, and I hem t of the Kings of England, from WUliam I. ts Ed-a-ard III. .... Franco Sacchetti. BALI.ATA. His Talk v/il/i certain J^asanl-girls . Catch. On a Fine Bay Catch. On a Wei Day .... ANONVMaus Poems. Sonnet. A Lady laments far her lost Loner, fy simili- tude of a Ealean .... Eallata. One speaks of the Beginning of his Love Ballata. One speaks of his false Lady . BaLI-ATA. One speats of hir feigned and real Lmie ^^f Ballata. Of True and Faise Singing . PART I. DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. /. DANTE AUGHIERL IL GUIDO CA VALCANTI. III. CINO DA PISTOIA. IV. DANTE DA MAIANO. V. CECCO ANGIOUERI. VI. GUIDO ORLANDI. VII. BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. VIII. GIANNI ALFANI. IX. DINO COMPAGNI. X. LAPO GIANNI. XI. DINO FRESCOBALDL XII. GIOTTO DI BONDONE. XIII. SIMONE DALU ANTELLA. XIV. GIOVANNI QUIRINO. ^aUa— A-c' DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. INTRODUCTION TO PART I. IN the first division of this volume are included all the poems I could find which seemed to have value as being I personal to the circle of Dante's friends, and as illustrating i their intercourse with each other. Those who know the Italian collections from which I have drawn these pieces (many of them most obscure) will perceive how much which is in fact elucidation is here attempted to be embodied in themselves, as to their rendering, arrangement, and heading: since the Italian editors have never yet paid any of them, except of course those by Dante, any such attention ; but have printed and reprinted them in a jumbled and dishearten- ing form, by which they can serve little purpose except as tcsii di lingua — dead stock by whose help the makers of dictionaries may smother the language with decayed words. Appealing now I believe for the first time in print, though in a new idiom, from their once living writers to such living readers as they may find, they require some preliminary notice. The Vita Nuova (the Autobiography or Autopsychology of Dante's youth till about his twenty-seventh year) is already well known to many in the original, or by means of essays and of English versions partial or entire. It is, therefore, and on all accounts, unnecessary to say much B L DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. more of the work here than it says for itself. Wedded to its exquisite and intimate beauties are personal peculiarities which excite wonder and oonjeeture, best replied to in the words which Beatrice herself is made to utter in the Coin- media : ' Questi _/(! /o/ nella sua vita nuova.'* Thus then young Dante was. All that seemed possible to be done here for the work was to translate it in as free and clear a form as was consistent with fidelity to its meaning ; to ease it, as far as possible, from notes and encumbrances ; and to accompany it for the first time witli 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 he found written, but to the various other members of his circle, these few pages should be devoted. It may be noted here, however, how necessary a. know- ledge of the Vita Nuova is to the full comprehension of the part borne by Beatrice in the Commedia. Moreover, it is only from the perusal of its earliest and then undivulged self-communings that we can divine the whole bitterness of wrong to such a soul as Dante's, its poignant sense of abandonment, or its deep and jealous refuge in memory. Above all, it is here that we find the first manifestations of that wisdom of obedience, that natural breath of duty, whicli afterwards, in the Commedia, lifted up a mighty voice for warning and testimony, Throughout the Vita Nuova there is a strain like the first falling murmur which reaches the car in some remote meadow, and prepares us to toojc upon Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, tells us that the great poet, in later life, was ashamed of this work of his yoi:th. Such a statement hardly seems reconcilable with the a!Iu- t made or implied In the Commedia ; but it is true that the Vita Nuova is a book which only youth couM have • rurgiforio, C. xxx. INTRODUCTION TO PART I. 3 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 effemi- nacy 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 pre- ceding 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 tlie people of Arezzo. In the autumn of the next year, 1290, when for him, by the death of Beatrice, the city as he says * sat solitary,' such refuge as he might find from his grief was sought in action and danger : for we learn from the 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 reminiscence to give life to a description, in his great way ; — • iVe seen the troops out of Caprona go On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot They found themselves with foemen compass'd so.' (Caylev's Translation^ A word should be said here of the title of Dante's autobio- graphy. The adjective Ntiovo^ nuova, or Novella, novella^ literally New, is often used by Dante and other early writers in the^sefise o( young. This has induced some editors of the Vita Nuova to explain the title as meaning ^££rA/ Z//^. I should be glad on some accoulits to adopt this supposition, as everything is a gain which increases clearness to the modern reader ; but on consideration I think the more mystical interpretation of the words, as A^ew Life^ (in reference to that revulsion of his being which Dante so minutely de- scribes as having occurred simultaneously with his first sight of Beatrice), appears the primary one, and therefore the most DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. necessary to be given in a translation. The probability may be that both were meant, but this I cannot convey." Among the poets of Dante's circle, the first in order, the first in power, and the one wbom Dante has styled his ' first friend,' is GulDO Cavalcanti, born aboul 1250, and thus Dante's senior by some. fifteen years. It is therefore pro- babTe'TKat iTicrc is some inaccuracy about the statement, often repeated, that he was Dante's fellow-pupil under Brunetlo 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 Cavakante de' Cavalcanti ' appears as one of the sureties offered by the city, for the quarter of San Piero Scheraggio. His father roust have been notoriously a sceptic in matters of religion, since we find him placed by Dante in the sixth circle of Hell, • I must haiard here (to relieve the first page of my translation from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning of the most puzzling passage in the whole VUa Nuaua, — that senlence just at the outset which says, ' Ia gloriosa donna della mia menle, la quale fi» chiamattt da molli Beatrice, i qnali non sapeailo che si chiamare.' On this passage all the commentalors seem helpless, turning it about and sometimes adopting alteratioos nol to be found in any ancient manuscript of the worlt. 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 difBculty that the lady's name really was Beatrice, and that Dante throughout uses that name himself In the text of my version I have adapted, as a rendering, the one of the various compromises which seemed lo give the most beauty to the meaning. But it occurs to me that a less irrational escape out of the difficulty than any 1 have seen suggested may possibly be found by linking this passage with the close of the sonnet at page 77 of the VUn Nanva, beginning, ' i felt a spirit of Love begin to stir,' in the last line of which sonnet Love is made to •ssert that the name of Beatrice is Line. Duite af^iears lo have INTRODUCTION TO PAST T. j 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 corro- boration of such reports, at any rate as applied lo Guide's youth, seems capable of being gathered from an extremely obscure poem, which I have translated on that account (at page 175) 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 j making his exploits 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. The dwelt on this fancy with some pleasure, from what is said in an earlier sonnet (pa^e 3S) about ' Love in his proper form' (by which Beatrice seems to be meant) bending over > dead lady. And it it in connection with the sonnet where (he name of Beatrice is said to be Love, that Danle, as if to show us that the Love he speaks of is only his own emotion, enters into an argument as !o Love being merely an accident in substance, — in other words, ' Amore e il cor gentil son una cnsa.' This conjecture may be pronounced extravagant ; bat the Vita Nuova, when esamined, proves so full of intricate and fantastic analogies, even in the mere arrangement of its parts, (much nolle than appears on any but the closest scratiny), that it seems admissible to suggest even a whimsical solution of a difficulty which remains unconquered. Or to have rerouise to the much more < welcome means of solution afforded by simple inherent beauty : may not the meaning be merely that any person looking on so noble and lovely a creation, without knowledge of her name, must have lily called her Beatrice, — i.a- the giver of blessing! This would be analogous by antithesiji to the translation I have adopted I ipontaneoui ^^^V would be 11 ^^^B Inmy texL J DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. writings of his contemporaries, as well as his own, tend to - show him rash in war, fickle in love, and presumptutius in belief; but also by the same concurrent testimony, he was distinguished by great personal beauty, high accomplislunents of all kinds, and daring nobilily of soul. Not unworthy, for all I the weakness of his strength, to have been the object of I Dante's early emulation, the first friend of his youth, and bis precursor and fellow-labourer in the creation of Italian / Poetry. In the year 1267, when Guido cannot have been much more than seventeen years of age, a last attempt was made in Florence to reconcile the Guelfs and Ghibieilines. 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 degh Ubertl. The peace was of short duration ; the utter expulsion of the GhibeUines (through French intervention solicited by the Guetfs) following almost immedialely. In the subdivision, which afterwards took place, of the victorious Guelfs into so- called 'Blacks' and 'Whites,' Guido embraced the White party, which tended strongly to Ghibellinism, and whose chief was Vieri dc'Cerchi, while Corso Donati headed the opposite faction. Whether his wife was still living at the time when the events of the Vita Nuova occurred, is probably not ascer- tainable ; but about that lime Dante tells us that Guido was enamoured of a lady named Gio-iiantia or Joan, and whose Christian name is absolutely all tha.t we know of her. How- ever, on the occasion of his pilgrimage lo Thoulouse, recorded by Dino Coropagui, he seems to have conceived a fresh passion for a. lady of that city named Mandetta, who first attracted him by a striking resenibiance 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 Saint James the Greater ; though the same supposed distinction had already made the shrine of Coinpostella in Gallicia one of the most famous througliout all Christendom. 1 I INTRODUCTION TO PART I. -J That this devout journey of Guido'shad other results besides a new love will be seen by the passage from Compagni's Clironicle. He says ; — ' A young and noble knight named Guido, son of Measer Cava!- cante Cavalcanli, — full of courage and courtesy, but disdainful, solitary, and devoted to sludy, — was a foe lo Messer Coiso (Donati) and had many times cast about to do him hurt. Mcsser Cofm) feared him exceedingly, as knowing him lo be of a great spirit, aiKl sought to assassinate him on s pilgrimage which Guido made lo the shrine of Si. James ; but he might not compass it Whereftnt, having returned to Floicnce and being made aware of this, Guido incited nkany youths against Messer Corso, and these promised to Ksnd by him. Who being one day on horseback with certain of the house of the Cerchi, and having a javelin in his band, spurred his horse against Messer Corso, Ibinking lo be followed by the Cerchi o their companies might engage each other ; and he running in , on his horse cast the javelin, which misted its aim. Aod wilb I Messer Corso were fjimon, his son, a strong and daring youth, and I Cecchino de' Bardi, who with many others pursued Guido with r drawn swords ; but ool overtaking him they threw stones after him, I ud also others were thrown at him from the windows, whereby he E wounded in the hand. And by this matter hate was increased. P And Messer Coreo spoke great scorn of Messer Vieri, calling him f fiie Ass of the Gate; because, albeit a very handsomeman, he was bnt ' ofblunt wit and no great speaker. And therefore Messer Corso would I say often, ' To'day the Ass of the Gate has brayed," and so greatly r £sparage him ; and Guido he called Cankchia* And thus it. was I tpread abroad of the jongleurs; and especially one nmned Scam- P poUno reported worse things than were said, thai so the Cerchi might rbe provoked to engage the Donati.' * A nickname chiefly chosen, no doubt, for its resemblance to Cavakanii. The word cavicchta, cavicc/ih, or caviglia, means a voodea peg or pin. A passage in Boccaccio says, ' He had tied his ; wooden pio,' {caviglia.) Thus Guido, from his mental luperiorily, might be said to be the Pin to which the Ass, Messer Vieri, was tethered at the Gate, (that is, the gate of San Pietro, near which he lived.) However, it seems 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,' {dare dd cula ittvicrkio.) The haa|^ty Coiso Donati hinuelf went by the I DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. The praise which Compagnj, his contemporary, awards to Guido at the commencement of the foregoing extract, I additional value when viewed in connection with the sonnet addressed to him by the same writer (see page 1 58), where we find that he could tell him of his faults. the one related above had become 1 things in Florence, which kept on its course from bad to worse till Pope Boniface VI II 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, however, 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 ensued we again hear of Guido Cavalcanti. ' It happened (says Giovanni VQIani in hia History of Florence) that in the month of December (1300] Measer Corso Donati with his followen, and also those of the house of the Ccrclii and their fnllgwers, going armed to the funeral of a lady of Che Frescobaldi pmily, 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 dty got under arms, both factions assembhng in great numbers, ai their respective bouses. Messer Gentile de' Cerchi, Guido Cavalcanti, Baldinuccio mnd Corso Adimari, Baschiero della Tosa and Naldo Gherardini, with their comrades and adherents 00 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 Cono waa 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 ppsition which he then filled as chief of the name of Malefammi or ' Do-me-bann.' For an account of Ma death in 1307, which proved in keeping with bis turbulent life, see Dino Compagnl's Chrpnkle, or the Paerone of Giovumi Fiorcnlino, ( Gior. xxiv. Not. a.) /■ { INTRODUCTION 70 PART I. 9 nine Priori on whom the government of Florence devolved, had resigned for far other cares the tweet 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 i$ impossible to say how much of the old feeling may still have siurvived 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 Caval* canti being included among the latter. The Florentines had -. been at last provoked almost to demand this course from their governors, by the discovery of a conspiracy, at the head of which was Corso Donati, (while among its leading members was Simone de* Bardi, once the husband of Beatrice Portinaij), for the purpose of inducing the Pope to subjecTthe republic to a French peace-maker {Paciere) and so shamefully free it from its intestine broils. It appears therefore that the inunediate Cause of the exile to which both tfides were subjected lay entirely with the * Black' party, the leaders of which were banished to the Castello della Pieve in the wild district of Massa Traboeria, 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 ViUani) '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 time. Before Guido's return he had undertaken that embassy to * ' Troppo tenero e stizzoso.* I judge that ' tenero * here is rathet to be interpreted as above than as meaning 'impressionable* in love mfikirs, but cannot be certain. i DANTE AND HTS CIRCLE. Rome which bore him the bitter fruit of unjust and perpetual exile : and it will be remembered that a chief accusation against him was that of fevour shown to the White party on the banishment of the factions. Besides the various affectionate allusions to Guido in the Vita Nuovn, Dante has unmistakeably referred to him in at least two passages of the Commedia. One of these refer- ences is to be found in those famous lines of the Purgatory (C. XI.) where he awards him the palm of poetry over Guido Guinicelli (though also of the latter he speaks elsewhere with high praise,) and implies at the same time, it would seem, % consciousness of his own supremacy over both, ' Against all painters Cimabue thought To keep the field. Now Giollo has the cry. And so the fame o' the first wanes nigh lo nought. Thus one from othet Guido took the high Glory of language ; and perhaps is born He who from both shall bear it by-aud-bye,' The Other mention of Guido is in that pathetic passage of the Hell {C. x.) where Dante meets among the lost souls Cavalcante de' Cavalcaiiti :^ But lifter his surmise was all extinct, He weeping said : " If through this dungeon blind Thou goest by loftiness of intellect,— Where is ray son, and wherefore not with thee ! " And I to him : "Of myself come I not : He who there waiteth eads me thoro' lierc. Whom haply in disdain your Guido had."» Raised upright of a sudden, cried he; "How Didst say He had? Is he not living still T Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?" • Viipl, Danle'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, Lo a perfected Italian idiom. INTRODUCTION TO PART I. it When be perceived i cerlain hesitance WhLch I was making ere I should reply. He fell supine, and forth appeared no more.' Dante, however, conveys his answer afterwards to the spirit of Guido's father, through another of the condemned also related to Guido, Farinata dcgli Uberti, with whom he has been speaking meanwhile :— 'Then I, as in compunction for my fault, Said: "Now then shall ye tell [hat fallen one His son is still united with the quick. And, if I ersi was dumb to the response, I did it, make him know, because I thought Ye[ on the error you have solved for me." ' (W. M. RossETTi's TraiiilaiioH.) The date which Dante fixes for his vision is Good Friday of the year 130a A year later, his answer must have been different. The love and friendship of his Vita Nuova had then both left him. For ten years Beatrice Portinari had been dead, or (as Dante says in the Ccnvilo) ' lived in heaven with the angels and on earth with his soul.' And now, distant and probably estranged from him, Guido Caval- canti was gone too. Among the Tales of Franco Sacchetti, and in the Decameron 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 punishment if the noise continued. The child, however, managed slily 10 nail Guido's coat to the chair on which he sat, and so had the laugh against him when he rose soon afterwards to fulfil his threat. This may serve as an amusing instance of Guide's hasty temper, but is rather a disappointment after its magniloquent heading, which sets forth haw ' Guido Ca^ valcanti, being a man of great valour and a philosopher, is defeated by the cunning of a child.' DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the Decameron relates a repartee of Guide's, which has all the profound platitude of mediaeval wit. As the anecdote, however, is interesilng on other grounds, I translate it here. ' You must know that in past limes there were in our city certain goodly and praiseworthy customs no one of which is now left, th-jnks 10 avarice whii:h has so increased with riches thai it has driven them all away. Amon(; the which was one whereby the gentlemen of the outsltirts were wont to nssemble together in divers places throughout Florence, and to limit their fellowships to a certain number, having heed to compose them of such as could filly discharge the expense. Of whom to-day vae, ajul to-motiow an- other, and so all in turn, kid tables each on his own day for all the fellowship. And in such wise often they did honour to strangers of wonhip and also to citizens. They alt 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 feasl-days, or whenever any news of %-ictory or other glad tidinjjs had reached the city. And among these fellowships ^vaB one headed by Messer Betto Brunei I esdii, into the which Messer Betto and his companions had often intrigued to draw Guido di Messer Civaleanle 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 philosopher, Yfor 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 belter than any other ; and W35 exceeding rich and knew well to solicit with honourable words whomsoever hedeemed worthy. But Messer Betto had never been able to sucr«ed 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 otHnion of the Epicureans, it was said among the vulgar sort, that his speculations were only to cast about whether he might lind that there was no God. Now on a cen^n day Guido having left Or San Michete, and held along the Corso degU Adimari as far aa San Giovanni (which oftentimes was his walk) ; and coming to the great marble tombs which now arc in the Church of Santa Reporata, but were then with many others in San Giovanni; he being between the porphyry columns which ace there among thote tombs. INTRODUCTION TO PART L 13 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 sepulchres, said, ' Let us go and engage him.' Whereupon, spurring their horses in the fiEishion of a pleasant assault, they were on bim almost before he was aware, and began to say to him, 'Thou, Guido, wilt none of our fellowship ; but lo now ! when thou shalt have found that there is no God, what wilt thou have done V To whom Guido, seeing himself hemmed in among them, readily replied, ' Gentlemen, ye are at home here, and may say what ye please to me.* Where- with, setting his hand on one of those high tombs, being very light of his person, he took a leap and was over on the other side ; and so having freed himself from them, went his way. And they all rezhaiued 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 ; keeing 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, seeing that in them the dead are set to dwell ; and here he says that we are at home ; giving us to know that we and all other simple unlettered men, in comparison of him and the learned, are even as dead men ; wherefore, being here, we are at home.* Thereupon each of them understood what Guido had meant, and was ashamed ; nor ever again did they set themselves to engage him. Also from that day forth they held Messer Betto to be a subtle and understanding knight.' In the above story mention is made of Guido Cavalcanti'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 172 (where the author speaks of his poverty) can really be Guide's work, though I have included it as being interesting if ightly 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 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. Florence chiefly held by their adversaries. In this confla- gration the houses and possessions of the Cavalcanti were almost entirely destroyed ; the flames in that neighbourhood (as Dino Compagni records) gaining rapidly in consequence of the great number of waxen images in the Virgin's shriae at Or San Michele ; one of which, no doubt, was the very image resembling his lady to which Cuido refers in a sunnet (see page 136.) After this, their enemies succeeded in finally expelling from Florence the Cavalcanti family,* greatly impoverished by this monstrous fire in which nearly two thousand houses were consumed. Gnido appears, by various evidence, to have written, besides his poems, a treatise on Philosophy and another on Oratorj-, but his poems only have survived to our day. Asa poet, he has more individual life of his own than belongs to anyofhis predecessors; by far the best of his pieces being those which rdatc: tn himself, his loves and hates. The best known, however, and perhaps the one for whose sake the rest have been preserved, is the metaphysical canione on the Nature of Love, beginning, ' Donna roipriega,* and intended, it is said, as an answer to a sonnet by Guido Orlandi, uTitten as though coming from a lady, and beginning, ' Onde si muove e dondc nascc Amore V On this canzone of Guides 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 rtHaissaiue; the earliest being that by Egidio Colunna, a beatified churchman who died in 1316; while most of the too numerous Academic writers on Italian literature speak of tliis perfonnance with • With Ihem were enpelled the still more powerful Gherardini, bUo greot sufferers by the conflagmtion ; who, on being driven from their own country, became Ihe founders of the ancient Geraldijie fimtily in Ireland. The Cavalcanti re-appeai now Riid then in later European history ; and especially we hear of a secon.l (;nido Caval- c&nii, who also cullivaled poetry, and travelled to colkcl txioks for tbc AmliroFiin Librai^ ; and who, in 1563, visited England ax Ambassador to the cuiu't of Eliiabeth from Charles IX. of France. INTRODUCTION TO PART L ij great admiration as Guide's crowning work. A love-song which acts as such a fly-catcher for priests and pedants looks very suspicious ; and accordingly, on examination, it proves to be a poem beside the pui-pose of poetry, filled with meta- physical jargon, and perhaps the very worst ofGuido's pro- ductions. l[s having been written by a man whose life and works include so much that is impulsive and real, is easily accounted for by scholastic pride in those early days of learning. 1 have not translated it, hb being of little true interest ; but was pleased lately, nevertheless, to meet with a remarkably coinplete translation of it by the Rev, Charles T. Brooks of Cambridge, United States.* The stiffness and crfd conceits which prevail in this poem may be found dis- figuring much of what Guido Cavalcanti has left, while much besides is blunt, obscure, and abrupt ; nevertheless, if it need hardly be said how far he falls short of Dante in variety and personal directness, it may be admitted that he worked worthily at his side, and perhaps before him. in adding those qualities to Italian poetry. That Guido's poems dwelt in the rmnd of Dante is evident by his having appropriated lines frwn them)^.(as well as from those of Guinjcelli) with little alteration, more th3n'once,'in the Commidia. Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his Latin treatise e Vulgrtri Etequio, again speaks of himself as the friend of "a. poet, — this time of CtNO j34_Pistqia. Inan early passage [ of that work he says that 'those who have most sweetly and I subtly written poems in modem Italian are Cino da Pistoia 1 and a friend of his.' This friend we afterwards find to be ) I>ante himself ; as among the various poetical examples i loted are several by Cino followed in three instances by • This translation occurs !n the Appendix to, an Essay on the 'a Niava of Dante, including extracts, by my friend Mr. Charles E, Norton, of Cambricige, U.S., — a work of high delicacy and •ppredation which originally appeared by portions in the Atlantic Moiillliy, but haa since been ain^meiited by the author and privately printed in a volume which is a beautiful specimen of American Ij-pt^raphy. i6 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. lines from Dante's own lyrics, the author of the latter being again described merely as 'Amicus ejus,' la immediate proximity lo 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 thai of Guido, and in some instances it rises into truth and warmth of expression but it conveys no idea of such powers, 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 ol * It is also noticeable thai in this treatise Dante speaks of Guido Guinicelli on one occasion as Cuida Maxintta, thus Beeming lo contradict the preference of Cavalcanti which is usually supposed lo be implied in tlkft-pnsage I have qaated^&cm the Pulsatory. It has been sometimes surmised (perhaps for tlits reason) that the two Guidos there spoken of may be Guittone d'Arciio and Guido Guinicelli, the lutler being said to suipass the former, of whom Dante elsewhere iu the Purgatory has expressed a low opinion. But I should think it doubtful whether the name Guittone, which [if not a nickname, as some sayl is substantially the same as Guido, could be so absolutely identified iih it ; at that rate Cino da Pistoia even might he classed as one Guido, his full name, Guittondno, being the diminutive of Guittone. 1 believe it moie probable that Guinicelli and Cavalcanti were then really meant, and that Dante afterwards either altered his opinion, oi may (conjecturablyl have chosen to imply a change of preference in order to gratify Cino da. Pistoia whom he so markedly distinguishes as his friend throughout the treatise, and between whom and Cavalcanti some jealousy appears to have existed, as we may gather froi e of Cino's f (at page 196) ; nor is Guido mentioned anywhere with praise by 3, as other poets are. INTRODUCTION TO PART I. Beatrice, as well as his answer to the first sonnet of the Vila Nuova, indicate that the two poets must have become 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 in- ferred with some plausibility that their acquaintance was revived after an interruption by the sonnet and answer at pages 124-125, and that they afterwards corresponded as friends till the period of Dante's death when Cino wrote his elegy. Of the two sonnets in which Cino expresses disapprobation of what he thinks the partial judgments of Dante's Commedia, the first seems written before the great poet's death, but I should think that the second dated after that event, as the Paradisi, to which it refers, cannot have become fully known in its author's lifetime. Another son- net sent to Dante elicited a Latin epistle in reply, where we find Cino addressed as ' fraier carissime.' Among Cino's lyrical poems are a few more written in correspondence with Dante, which I have not translated as being of little personal interest Guittoncino de' Sinibuldi (for such was Cino's full name) was horn in Pistoia, of a distinguished lamily, in the )-ear 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 I in favour of their own party; so that Cino, as a lawyer of ' Ghibelline opinions, soon found it necessary or advisable to ' leave Pistoia, for it seems uncertain whether his removal \ was voluntary or by proscription. He directed his course i towards Lombardy, on whose confines the chief of the ' White' party in Pistoia Filippo Ve'rgiolesi, still held the fortress of Pitecchio. Hither Vergiolesi had retreated with his family and adherents when resistance in the city iS DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. became no longer possible ; and it may be supposed that Cino came to join him, not on account of political sympathy alone \ as Selvaggia Vergiolesi, his daughter, is the lady celebrated throughout the poet's compositions. Three years later, the Vergiolesi and their followers, finding Pitecchio untenable, fortified themselves on the Monte della Sambuca, a lofty peak of the Apennines ; which again they were finally obliged to abandon, yielding it to the Cuelfs of Pistoia at the price of eleven thousand lire. Meanwhile the bleak air of the Sambuca had proved fatal to the lady Sel- vaggia, who remained buried there, or, as Cino expresses it in one of his poems, L Over her cheerless tomb Cino bent and mourned, as he has toid 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 surrendered, and her grave almost the only record left there of the Vergiolesi. Cino's journey to Rome was on account of his having received a high office under Louis of Savoy, who preceded the Emperor Henry VII. when he went thither to be crowned in 1310. In another three years the last blow was dealt to the hopes of the exiled and persecuted Ghibellines, by the death of the Emperor, caused almost surely by poison. This death Cino has lamented in a canzone. It probably determined him to abandon a cause which seemed dead, and return, when possible, to his native city. This he succeeded in doing before 1319, as in that year we find Uira deputed together with sixothercitiiens, by the Government of Pistoia, to take possession of a stronghold recently yielded to them. He had now been for some time married to Margherita dcgli Ughi, of a very noble Pistoiese family, who bore him a son named Mino, and four daughters, Diamante, Beatrice, INTRODUCTION TO PART L 19 Giovanna, and Lombarduccia. Indeed, this marriage must have taken place before the death of Selvaggia in 13 10, as in 1325-26, his son Mino was one of those by whose aid from within, the Ghibelline Castruccio Antelminelli ob- tained 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 pur- suits 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, how- ever, conmiencing * Piangete 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 d^ Amove y (cap. 4.) Though established again in Pistoia, Cino resided there but little till about the time of his death, which occurred in 1336-7. His monument, where he is represented as a pro- fessor among his disciples, still exists in the Cathedral of Pistoia, and is a mediaeval work of great interest Messer Cino de' Sinibuldi was a prosperous man, of whom we have ample records, from the details of his examinations as a j student, to the inventory of his effects after death, and the curious items of his funeral expenses. cOf his d^j^s a*; a. pnf>t i^ j^gy ^f> g;^i^ tfa^^ he^ filled cre4itably: thejnterval een the d^aJih. of Dante and_Qlg_^ll arches success. Most of Tils poems in honour of gelvaggia^e full of an elaborate and mechanical tone of complaint which hardly reads like the expression of a real - love ; nevertheless there are some, and especially the son- j net on her tomb (at page 192), which display feeling and power. The finest, as well as the most interesting, of all \ his pieces, is the very beautifril canzone in which he attempts k \ V ■ I 30 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. I to console Dante for the death of Beatrice. Though I have I found much fewer among Cino's poems than among Guido's . which seemed to call for translation, the collection of the I former is a larger one. Cino produced legal writings also, I of which the chief one that has survived is a Commentary I on the Statutes of Pistoia, said to have great merit, and whose production in the short space of two years was ac- counted an extraordinary achievement. I Having now spoken of the chief poets of this di- vision, it retnains to notice the others of whom less is / knowD. f 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 hy 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'a dteam sonnet in the Viia Naova (see page 198). 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 'scamg^;' and among our Danteans, this place is indisputably lilled by CEcco Angiolieki, of Siena. Nearly ail his sonnets ^and no ^ther' pieces T)y him have been preserved) relate either to an unnatural haired of his father, or to an infatuated love for the daughter of a shoemaker, a certain m arried^ -Begchina. It would appear that Cecco was probably enamoured of her before her marriage as well as afterwards, and we may sur- ' mise that his rancour against his father may have been partly dependent, in the first instance, on the disagreements arising INTRODUCTION TO PART L 21 from such a connexion. However, from an amusing and lifelike story in the Decameron (Gior. ix. Nov. 4) we learn that on one occasion Ceccd'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 handsome and well-bred man) was induced to take with him as his servant a fellow'gamester with whom he had formed an intimacy purely on account of the hatred which each of the two bore his own father, though in other respects they had little in common. The result was that this fellow, during the journey, while Cecco was asleep at Buonconvento, took all his money and lost it at the gaming-table, and afterwards managed by an adroit trick to get possession of his horse and clothes, leaving him nothing but his shirt Cecco then, ashamed to return to Siena, made his way, in a borrowed suit and mounted on his servant's sorry hack, to Corsignano where he had relations ; and there he stayed till his father once more (surely much to his credit) made him a remit- tance of money. Boccaccio seems to say in conclusion that Cecco ultimately had his revenge on the thief. In reading many both of Cecco's love-sonnets and hate- sonnets, it is impossible not to feel some pity for the indica- tions they contain of self-sought poverty, unhappiness, 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. TEeiT" humour is sometimes strong, if not well chosen ; their passion always forcible from its evident reality : nor indeed are several among them devoid of a certain delicacy. This quality is also to be discerned in other pieces which I have not included as having less personal interest ; but it must be confessed that for the most part the sentiments exprfisspri in Cecco's poetry are either impious or licentious. Most of I / n from the I DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. the sonnets of his which are in print are here given ;* the selections concluding with an extraordinary one tn which he proposes a sort of tnurderdVis crus;ide against all those who hate their fathers. This I have placed last (exclusive of the Sonnet to Dante in exile) in order to give the writer the benefit of the possibility that it was written last, and really expressed a still rather blood-thirsty contrition ; belonging at best, 1 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 the expression of impu- dence alone, unless perhaps of hypocrisy, Cecco Angiolieri seems to have had poetical i with Dante early as well as later in life; but evi little that remains, we may gather that Dante si end to any intimacy which may have existed between tliem. That Cecco already poetized at the time to which the Vita Ntiova relates is evident from a date given in one of his sonnets,^lhe 20th June, IZ91, and from his sonnet raising objections to the one at the close of Dante's autobiography. When the latter was written he was probably on good terms with the young Alighieri ; but within no great while aftenvalHlB 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 Much later, as we may judge, he again addresses Dante in an insulting tone, apparently while the latter was liiing in exile at the court of Can Grande delJa • It may be menlloned (as proving how much of the poetry cf tliis period stiil remains in MS.) that Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, published in 1640, cites as ^'^mmatics.l examples no fewer than twenty-three short fragments from Cecco Angiolieri, one of which alone is to be found among the sonnets which 1 have seen, and which I believe are the oiUy ones iu print. Ubaldini quotes tliem fr-om the Stroma MSS. t Of this sonnet 1 have seen two printed versions, in both of which the text is go corrupt a£ to make them very contradictory in imi>ortant points ; but I believe that by comparing the two I have given itsmeaning correctly. (Seepage 213.J ILI. ) INTRODUCTION TO PART L 23 Scalau 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 anothe^-'s bread and how steep the stairs of his house.' Why Cecco in this sonnet should describe himself as having become a Roman, is more puzzling. Boccaccio certainly speaks of his luckless journey to join a Papal legate, but does not tell us whether fresh clothes and the wisdom of experience served him in the end to become so far identified with the Church of Rome. However, from the sonnet on his ( father's death he appears (though the allusion is desperately obscure) to have been then living at an abbey; and also, from the one mentioned above, we may infer that he himself, as well as Dante, was forced to sit at the tables of others : coincidences which almost seem to afford a glimpse of the phenomenal fact that the bosom of the Church was indeed \ for a time the refuge of this shorn lamb. If so, we niay | further conjecture that the wonderful crusade-sonnet was an amende honorable then imposed on him, accompanied pro- bably 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 himself) * the singer of Rectitude,' and his that * indignant soul ' which made blessed the mother who had born him.* * ' Alma sdegnosa, Benedetta colei che in te s' incinse !* (InfemOf C. viii.) I DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. Leaving to his fate (whatever that may have been) the Scamp of Dante's Circle, I must risk the charge ol 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 live I have given. In one of these,* he rails against his political adversaries ; in threc,t falls foul of his brother poets ; and in the remaining one,J seems somewhat appeased (I think) by a judicious morsel of flattery. I have already referred to a sonnet of his which is said to have led to the composition of Guido Cavalcanti's Canzone on the Nature of Love. He has another sonnet beginning-, ' Per troppa sottiglianra il fil si rompe,' % in which he is certainly enjoying a fling at somebody, and I suspect at Cavalcanti in rejoinder to the very poem which he himself had instigated. If so, this stamps him a master-critic of the deepest initiation. Of his life nothing is recorded; but no wish perhaps need be felt to know much of him, as one would probably have dropped his acquaintance. We may be obliged to him, however, for his character of Guido Cavalcanti (at page 154) which is boldly and vividly drawn. Next follow three poets of whom I have given one speci- men apiece. By Bernardo da Bologna (page 156) no other is known to exist, nor can anjihing be learnt of his career. Gianni Alfani was a noble and distinguished FlorentiiiCt^a' mucli graver man, it would seem, than one could judge from this sonnet of his (page 155), which belongs rather to the school of Sir Pandarus of Troy. .DiNO COMPAGNI, the chronicler of Florence, is repre- sented here by a sonnet addressed to Guido Cavalcanti,!) which is all the more interesting, as the same writer's his- * Page 217. t Pages 137, IS4, 200. J Page 160. { This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle ; let us hope (in so immaculate a censor} from unfitness for publication. II Cresdmbeni (/i(. d. Volg. Poes.) gives tliis sonnet from a MS.- where it is headed, 'To Guido Guinicelli;' but he surmise*, and I have no doubt correctly, that Cavalcanti is really the person addressed in it INTRODUCTION TO PART I 25 torical work furnishes so much of the little known about Guido. Dino, theugh one of the noblest citizens of Florence, was devoted to the popular cause, and held successively various high of&ces in the state. The date of his birth is; i not fixed, but he must have been at least thirty in 12^ 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 poets. I allude to the valuable discovery,.] in the Magliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem byr him in nana rima containing 309 stanzas. It is entitled ^ \J Intelligenza,' and is of an allegorical nature intersperseq with historical and legendary abstracts.* I have plaror^jTAPn (^ji^TJVT in thic my first division on account of the sonnet by Dante (page 143) in which he seems undoubtedly to be the Lapo referred to. It has been sup- posed 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 and others were written; whereas no Uberti can have been in Florence after the year 1267, when the Ghibel- lines 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 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. * ^et Documents inicKtspatirserviriirhistoirelittA^airedefltaliet ^■ ic» par A, P. Otanam (Paris, 1850), where the poem is printed entire. 26 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. __ Pino Frescobaldi's claim to the place given him here wilriiot be disputed when it is remembered that by his pious care the seven first cantos of Dante's Hell were restored to him in exile, after the Casa Alighieri in Florence had been given up to pillage ; by which restoration Dante was enabled to resume his work. This sounds strange when we reflect that a world without 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 fails 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 thegreat painter with iheconceptionsof 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; arid hat 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, then the chapel of the PodestL This is the author of the Vita Nuova. That other portrait shown us in the posthumous mask, — a face dead iii exile after the death of hope, — should front the first page of the Sacred Poem to which Heaven and earth had set their hands, but which might never bring him back to Florence, though it had made him haggard for many years.* * ' Se mai conlinga che il poenui !acra Al quale ha posto laano e cielo e terra. INTRODUCTION TO PART L 27 Giotto's Canzone on the doctrine of voluntary poverty,— the only poem we have of his, — is a protest against a per- version of gospel teaching which had gained ground in his day to the eartent of becoming a popular frenzy. People went literally mad upon it ; and to the reaction against this mad- ness may also be assigned (at any rate partly) Cavalcanti's poem on Poverty, which, as we have seen, is otherwise not easily explained, if authentic. Giotto's canzone is all the more curious when we remember his noble fresco at Assisi, of Saint Francis wedded to Poverty.* 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 ail accounts attribute to Giotto. I have next introduced, as not inappropriate to the series of poems connected with Dante, Simone pall' Antella's fine sonnet relating to the lasr~^terprises ofTlenry of Luxembourg, and to his then approaching end, — that death- blow 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 for- XohoCoi anypers^SnaTmstory. 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 probably dates from Ravenna, and that his correspondent writes from some distance ; while the poet SI che in' ha fatto per pift 2 -^X macro, Vincala crudeld che fuor mi serra,' &c. {Parad. C. XXV.) * See Dante*s reverential treatment of this subject, {Parad. C. XI.) k DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. 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 swaj^ the sun and all the slaii.' \ I am sorry to see that this necessary introduction to my first division is longer tiian I could have wished. Among the severely-edited books which had to be consulted in form- ing this GoUeetion, 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 thiOugh a few lines at the top of the page only to stick fast at the bottom in a 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 ! 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 something which may require a little peace. The glare of too many tapers is apt to render the attar-picture confused and inharmonious, when their smoke does not obscure or deface it. * In the case of the above two sonnets, and of alt others inter- changed between two poets, I have thought it best to place them to- gether among the poems of one or the other correspondent, wherever they seemed to have most biographical value ; and the same with several epiitolary sonnets which have no answer. f The last line of the Paradise (Cayi-ev's TraHstation). DANTE ALIGHIERI. THE NEW LIFK (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, sajong, 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 * * Here beginneth the new life.* t 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 acccmipaaied his father, Alighiero Alighieri. 30 DANTE ALIGHIERI. the Eastern quarter one of the twelve parts of a degree ; so that she appeared to me at the beginning of her ninth year almost, and I saw her almost at the end of 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 ivith 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 : Ecu dots fortior me, qui 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 beatihido vestra.f At that moment the natural spirit, which dwelleth there where our nourishment is administered, began to weep, and in weeping said these words : Jim miser ! quia frequmtfr impeditus ero deiiueps-X I say that, from that time forward. Love quite go- verned 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 al! his bidding continually. He oftentimes commanded me to seek if I might see this youngest * ' Here is a deity stronger than I ; who, cominfr, shall nile t ' Your beatitude hath now been mode manifest unto you.' ; ' Woe is me 1 for that often I shall be disturbed from (bis time forth 1' .A THE NEW LIFE. 31 of the Angels : wherefore I in my boyhood often went in search of her, and found her so noble and praise- wtathy 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 that it never allowed me td 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 t)y her imspeakable 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; {//tad, XXIV. 258.) h 31 DANTE AUGHIER!. and because it was the first time that any words f. 'm 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 to me : for there appeared to be in my room a mist of the colour of fire, within the which I discerned 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 understand but fewj and of these, this : Ego dominus iuus.* In his arms it seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only with a blood-coloured cloth ; upon whom looking very attentively, I knew thai it was the lady of the salutation who had deigned the day before lo salute me. And he who held her held also in his hand a thing that was burn- ing in flames; and he said to me, Vtde car iuum.\ 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 • 'I am thy master.' t ' Behold thy heart.' A r THE NEW LIFE. 33 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) oi the night Then, musing on what I had seen, I {Ht>posed 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 imto them those things which I had seen in my sleep. And the sonnet I made was this : — To every heart which the sweet pam 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 firaught As may not carelessly be spoken o£ He seemed like 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 TMs sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I ^ve greetings and ask an answer; in the second^ I signify m D I 34 DANTE ALIGHIERI. what thing has to be answered to. 77ie second part com- mences here: ' Of those long hours' To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying many different opinions ; of the which one was sent by him whom I now call the first among my friends, and it began thus, ' Unto ray thinking thou beheld'st all worth.'* And indeed, it was when he learned that I was he who had sent those rhymes to him, that our friendship commenced. But the true meaning of that vision was not then perceived by any one, though it be now evident to the least skilful. From that night forth, the natural functions of iny 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 re- duced 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 un- kindly questions,) by Love's will, who directed me according to the counsels of reason, told them how it was Love himself who had thus dealt with me : and I said so, because the thing was so plainly to be discerned in my countenance that there was no longer any means of concealing it. But when they went on to ask, ' And by whose help hath Love done this ?' I looked in their faces smiling, and spake no word in return. * The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Cavalcanti. or his aiiswer, md those of Cino da Pistoia and Dante da Maiano, e then poems further on. ^ THE NEW LIFE. 35 Now it fell on a day, that this most gracious crea- ture was silting where words were to be heard of the Queen of Glory;* and 1 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 iavour ; 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 sa)nng this they named her who had been midway between the most gentle Beatrice and niine 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 love on my part, I took the resolution to set down the name of this .most gracious creature accompanied with many other women's names, and especially with hers whom I spake of. And to this end I put together the names of sixty the most beau- * i, ^. in a church. 36 DANTE AUGHIERI. tiful ladies in that city where God had placed mine own lady ; and these names I introduced in an epistle in the fonn of a sirvmi, which it is not my intention to tran- scribe here. Neither should I have said anything of thifi matter, did I not wish to take note of a certain 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 toy desire, that it behoved her to leave the city I speak of, and to journey afar : where- fore I, being sorely perplexed at the loss of so excellent a defence, had more trouble than even I could before have supposed. And thinking that if I spoke not some- what mournfully of her departure, my former counter- feiting would be the more quickly perceived, I detei- mined 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 : • It will be observed that this poem is not whal we now call ft sonnet. Its structure, however, is anaii^ous to that of the sonnet, lieing Iwo Bextetts followed by two quattiains, ixistead of two qoat- foUowed by two Iriplets. Dante applies the term sonnet to both these forms of composilion, and to no other. THE NEW LIFE. 37 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 But now that fearless bearing is all gone Which with Love's hoarded wealth was given me ; Till I am grown to be So poor that I have dread to think thereon. And thus it is that I, being like as one Who is ashamed and hides his poverty, Without seem full of glee, And let my heart within travail and moan. This poem has two principal parts ; for^ in the Jtrst^ I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of Jeremias the Prophet^ *0 vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor mens,' and to pray them to stay and hear me. In the second I tell where Love had placed me^ with a meaning other than that which the last part rf the poem shows^ and I say what I have lost. The second part b^ins hercy ^Love^ {never, cartes): r ^1 A certaii DANTE AUGHIERT. A certain while after the depaitare of that lady, it pleased the Master of the Angeis to call into his glory a damsel, young and of a gentle presence, who had been very lovely in the city 1 speak of: and I saw her body lying without its sou! 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 con- ceived to saj' 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 lie will discern who understands. And I wrote two sonnets, which are these : — Weep, Lovers, sith Loye's very self doth weep. And sith the cause for weeping is so great; When now so many dames, of such estate In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep : For Death the churl has laid his leaden sleep Upon a damsel who was fair of late, Defacing all our earth should celebrate, — Yea all save virtue, which the soul doth keep. Now hearken how much Love did honour her. I myself saw him in his proper form Bending above the motionless sweet dead, And often gazing into Heaven ; for there The soul now sits which when her life was warm Dwtit witli the joyful beauty that is fled. THE NEW LIFE. 39 JTits first sonnet is divided into three parts. In the firsts I call and beseech the Faithful of Love to weep; and I say thai their Lord weeps^ and that they^ hearing the reason why he weeps ^ shall be more minded to listen to me. In the second^ I relate this reason. In the thirds I speak of honour done by Love to this Lady. The second part begins here, * When now so many dames;* the third herCy ^ Now hearken.* II. Death, alway cruel, Pit/s foe in chie^ Mother who brought forth grie^ Merciless judgment and without appeal ! Since thou alone hast made my heart to feel This sadness and unweal, My tongue upbraideth thee without relief. And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth) Behoves me speak the truth Touching thy cruelty and wickedness : Not that they be not known ; but nevertheless I would give hate more stress With them that feed on love in very sooth. Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy, And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood ; And out of youth's gay mood The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me Save by the measure of these praises given. DANTE ALIGHIERL Whoso deserves not Heaven May never hope to have her compuny.* This poem is divided into four parts. In the first I address Death by certain proper names of hers. Jit the second, speaking to her, 1 tell the reasmi ■why I am tuoved to denounce her. In the third, I rail against her. In the fourth, I turn to speak to a person utidifimd, although defined in my own conception. The second paH commences here, ' Since thou alone;' tlte third here, ' And now {for I must) / the fourth here, ' Whoso deserves not! Some days after the death of this lady, I had occasion to leave the city I speak oi, and to go thitherwards where she abode who had formerly been my protection ; albeit the end of my journey reached not altogether bo far. And notwithstanding that 1 was visibly in the company of many, the journey was so irksome that I had scarcely sighing enough to ease ray 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 my most gentle lad/ was made visible to my mind, in the - * The commenUtors assert that (he 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 coveti allusion to Beatrice, as Dante lumself intimates. The only fona in wllich I can trace it consists in the implied assertion tha.t sach person as had enjoyed the dead lady's society was worthy of heayen, and thst person was Beatrice. Or indeed the allusion to Beatrice might be in the first poem, where he says that Love ' injorma vtra' (that is, Beatrice,) mourned OTer the corpse : as he afterwaids says of Beatrice, * Quetta ha name Amor.* Most probably be^ allusions «re ' intended. ^^^^^^ta THE NEW LIFE. 41 light habit of a traveller, coarsely- fashioned. Reap- peared 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 padi I was taking. And then I thought that Love called me and said to me these words : ^ I come from that lady who was so long thy surety; for the matter of whose return, I know that it may not be. Wherefore I have taken that heart which I made thee leave with her, and do bear it unto another lady, who, as she was, shall be thy surety;' (and when he named her I knew her well.) 'And of these words I have spoken, if thou shouldst speak any again, let it be in such sort as that none shall perceive thereby that thy love was feigned forher, 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 mj^elf : so that, changed as it were in mine aspect, I rode on lull of tibought the whole of that day, and with heavy sighing. And the day being over, I wrote this sonnet :— A DAY agone, as I rode sullenly Upon a certain path that liked me not, I met Love midway while the air was hot, Qothed lightly as a way&rer might be. And for the cheer he showed, he seemed to me As one who hath lost lordship he had got ; Advancing towards me full of sorrowful thought. Bowing his forehead so that none should see. Then as I went, be called me by my name. DANTE ALIGHIERI. Sajing : ' I journey since the mom was dim Thence where I made thy heart to be : which now I needs must bear unto another dame,' Wherewith so much passed into me of him That he was gone, and I discerned not how. This sonnel has three pca-ts. In the first fart, 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 third, I say hew he dis- appeared. The second part commences here, ' Then as I ■went ^ the third here, ' IVhereivith so much.^ On my return, I set myself to seek out that lady whom my master had named to me whiie 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 mis- fame 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 def)art 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 j and such THE NEW LIFE. 43 warmth of charity came upon me that most certainly in that moment I would have pardoned whosoever had done me an injury ; and if one should then have ques- tioned me concerning any matter, I could only have said unto him ' Love/ with a countenance clothed in humble- ness. 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 mine 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 sweetness that my body, being all subjected thereto, remained many times helpless and passive. Whereby it is made manifest that in her salutation alone was there any beatitude for me, which then very often went beyond my endurance. And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to relate that when, for the first time, this beatitude was denied me, I became possessed with such grief that, parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears : and when, by this heat of weeping, I was somewhat relieved, I betook myself to my chamber, where I could lament unheard. And there, having prayed to the Lady of all Mercies, and having said also, * O Love, aid thou thy servant;' I went suddenly asleep like a beaten sobbing child. And in my sleep, towards the middle of it, I seemed to see in the room, seated at my side, a youth in very white rai- I 44 DANTE AUGHIERI. ment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep diought. And when he had gazed some time, I thought that he sighed and called to me in these words : ' Fill mi, tempus est ttt praffrmittantur sinudata nostra.^ • And thereupon I seemed to Imow 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 weepii^ 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 : ' Egs tanquam centrum circuit, cut Hmili modo se habeni ctrcum/ermtia partes : tu auiem nox sic.' t 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 answerin the vulgar tongue: 'Demand no more than may be useful to thee-' Whereupon I began to discourse with * ' Mf son, it is time for ns to lay aside onr connterfeiticg.' f 'I un aj the centre of s drcle, to the wbicb all parts of the circumfereacc bear an equal rektion : but with thee it is not thus.' This phrase seems to have remained as obscnre to cominen- UXOTi as Danle found it at the moment. No one, as far as I know, has even &irly tried to Had a meaning for it. To me the following appenn 3 not nnlilcely one. Love is weeping on Dante's account, and not on his own. He says, 'I am the centre of a circle {^Amvr the mtiove il sole e le aUrs stiUt) -. therefore all loveable objects, whether in heaven or earth, or any part of the circle's orcamfereoce, equally neat tome, Not so thou, who wilt one day lose Beatrice when she goes to hcaveiL ' The phrase would Ihos coatain an inti- of the death of fieatiice, accounting for Dante being next told not to inquire the meaning of Che qieech, — 'Demand no more thu be usehil to thee.' THE NEW UFE. 4S 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 veiy sooth, thy secret must needs have become known to her by familiar observation) it is my will that thou compose certain things in xhyxao^ 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 fitted them 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 beheld this vision during the ninth hour of the day; and I resolved that I would make a ditty, before I left my 46 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 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 ma/st 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, Aad that if Love do not companion thee, Thou'lt have perchance small cheer to tell me of. With a sweet accent, when thou com'st to her, Begin thou in these words, First having craved a gracious audience : ' He who hath sent me as his messenger. Lady, thus much records. An thou but suffer him, in his defence. Love, who comes with me, by thine influence Can make this man do as it liketh him : Wherefore, if this fault is or doth but seem Do thou conceive : for his heart cannot move.' THE NEW LIFE. 47 Say to her also : ' Lady, his poor heart Is so confirmed in iaith That all its thoughts are but of serving thee : '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 befHend my cause and plead it well. * In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth ' (Entreat him) * stay with her ; Let not the hope of thy poor servant fail ; And if with her thy pleading should prevail, Let her look on him and give peace to him.' Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem, Do this : so worship shall be thine and love. This ditty is divided into three parts. In the firsts I tell it whither to go^ and I encourage it^ that it may go the more confidently, and I tell it whose company to join if it would go with confidence and withotit any danger. In the second, I say that which it behoves the ditty to set forth. In the third, I give it leave to start when itplecues, recommending its course to the arms of Fortune. The second part begins here, * With a sweet accent;* the third here, * Gentle my ^ Sortg.' i DANTE ALIGHIERl. Song? Some mighi contradict me, and say that they under- stand not whom I address in the second person, seeing thai the ditty is merdy 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 diffimlt passage, and t/ien let him understand who new doubts, or would now contra- dict as aforesaid. After this vision I have recorded, and having written those words which Love had dictated to me, I began to be harassed with many and divers thoughts, by each of which I was sorely tempted ; and in especial, there were four among them that left me no rest The first was this: 'Certainly the lordship of Love is good; seeing that it diverts the mind fi-om all mean things.' The second was this : ' Certainly the lordship of Love is evil ; seeing that the more homage his servants pay to him, the more grievous and painful are the torments wherewith he torments them.' The third was this : 'The name of Love is so sweet in the hearing that it would not seem possible for its effects to be other than sweet j seeing that the name must needs be like unto the thing named : as it is written : Nomina sunt consequetitia reram.'* And the fourth was this : ' The lady whom Love hath chosen out to govern thee is not as other ladies, whose hearts are easily moved.' And by each one of these thoughts I was so sorely assailed that I was like unto him who doubteth which path to take, and wishing to go, goeth not. And if I bethought myself to seek out some point at die which all • ' Niinei are [he conseqoenU or things.' THE NE W LIFE. 49 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 mjrself unto her. And it was then that, feeling a desire to write somewhat thereof in rhyme, I wrote this sonnet: — All my thoughts always speak to me of Love, Yet have between themselves such difference That wiiile one bids me bow with mind and sense, A second saith, ' Go to : look thou above ;' The tliird 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 : Until, (my peace with all of them to make,) Unto mine enemy I needs must pray. My Lady Pity, for the help she brings. TMs sonnet may he diinded into four parts. In the firsty I say and propound that aU my thoughts are concern- ing Love. In the second^ I say thai they are diverse^ and I relate their diversity. In the thirds I say wherein they ail seem, to agree. In thefourth^ I say thaty wishing to speak of Lovey I know not from which of these thoughts to take my argument ; and that if I would take it from ally I shall have to call upon mine enemy y my Lady Pity, * Lady * I say, as in a scornful mode of speech. The second b^ns E so DANTE ALIGHIERI. hire, 'Vet have between ikemselves;' the third, 'All of them a-aving;' 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 i ' To what end are we come among these ladies?' and he answered; 'To the end that they may be worthily served.' And they were assembled around a gentlewoman who was given in marriage on that day ; the custom of the city being tliat 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 1 had thus resolved, I began to feel a faintness and a throbbing at my left side, which soon took possession of my whole body. Whereupon I remember that I covertly leaned my back unto a painting that ran round the walls of that house ; and being fearful lest my trembling should be discerned of them, I lifted mine eyes to look on those ladies, and then first perceived among them the excellent Beatrice. And when I perceived har, 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 THE NEW LIFE, 51 their own kistmments because Love entered in that honoured place of theirs, that so he might the better behold her. And although I was other than at first, I grieved for the spirits so expelled, which kept up a sore lament, saying : ' If he had not in this wise thrust us forth, we also should behold the marvel of this lady/ By this, many of her friends, having discerned my confusion, began to wonder ; and together with herself, kept whis- pering of me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who knew not what to conceive, took me by the hands, and drawing me forth from among them, required to know what ailed me. Then, having first held me at quiet for a space until my perceptions were come back to me, I made answer to my friend : * Of a surety I have now set my feet on that point of life, be3Fond the which he must not pass who would return.'* Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room where I had wept before; and again weeping and ashamed, said : * If this lady but knew of my condition, I do not think that she would thus mock at me ; nay, I am sure that she must needs feel some pity.* And in my weeping I bethought me to write certain words, in the which, speaking to her, I should signify the occasion of * 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 fact 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. 53 DANTE ALIGHIERI. my disgfiureraent, telling her also how I knew tliat she had no knowledge thereof: which, if it were known, T 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 mocfcest me ; Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is That I am takeu with strange semblances, Seeing thy face which is so fair to see : For else, compassion would not suffer thee To grieve my heart with such harsh scoffs as these. I^o I Love, when thou art present, sits at case, And bears his mastership so mightily, That all my troubled senses he thrusts oul, Sorely tormenting some, and slaying some, Till none but he is left and has free rango 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 diinsion is only made to open the meaning of the thing divided: attd this, as it is sufficiently manifest through the reasons giveti, has m need of division. True it is that, amid the words whereby is shevm the occasion of this sonnet, dubimis words are to be found; namely, when I say that Love hills all my spirits, but that the visual remain in life, otdy outside of their own instruments. And this difficulty it is impossible for any to solve who is Jiot in eqtial guise liege unto Love ; ^ THE NEW LIFE. 53 and^ to those who are so^ that is manifest which would dear up the dubious words. And therefore it were not weU for nu to expound this difficulty, inasmuch as my speaking would be either fruitless or else superfluous. A while after this strange disfigurement, I became possessed with a strong conception which left me but very seldom, and then to return quickly. And it was this : ^ Seeing that thou comest into such scorn by the companionship of this lady, wherefore seekest thou to behold her ? If she should ask thee this thing, what answer couldst thou make unto her ? yea, even though thou wert master of all thy faculties, and in no way hindered from answering.' Unto the which, another very humble thought said in reply : * If I were master of aU my faculties, and in no way hindered from an- swering, I would tell her that no sooner do I image to m)rself 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 fe- strain me from seeking to behold her.' And then, because of these thoughts, I resolved to write somewhat, wherein, having pleaded mine excuse, I should tell her of what I felt in her presence. Whereupon I wrote this sonnet : — The thoughts are broken in my memory, Thou lovely Joy, whene'er I see thy face ; When thou art near me, Love fills up the space, Often repeating, ' If death irk thee, fly. 54 DANTE ALIGHIERI. My face shows ray heart's colour, verily, Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place ; Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace. The very stones seem to be shrieking, ' Die !' It were a grievous sin, if one should not Strive then to comfort my bewildered mind (Though merely with a simple pitying) For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought In the dead sight o' the eyes grown nearly blind. Which look for death as for a blessed thing. This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, T tell the cause why I abstain not from coming to this lady. In the second, J tell what befalls me through coming to her; and this part be^ns here, ' IVhen thou art near.' Aiui also this second part divides into five distinct statements. For, in the first, I say what Love, counselled by Heason, tells me when J am near the lady. In the second, I set forth the state of my heart by the example of the face. In the third, I say how all ground of trust fails me. In the fourth, I say that he sins who shows not pity of me, which would give me some comfort. In the last, I say why people should take pity ; namely, for the piteous look which comes into mine eyes ; which piteous look is destroyed, that is, appeareCh not unto others, through the Jeering of this lady, who draws to the like action those who perad- venture would see this piteousness. The second part begins here, 'My face slmvs ;' the third, 'Till, in the drunken terror ;' thefourth, 'It were a grievtnis sin ;' the fifth, ' For the great a THE NEW LIFE. 55 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 fii^t among these was the grief that possessed me very often, remembering the strange- neiss 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 sdght of her would defend me against the assault of Love, and altogetiier forgetting that which her {pre- sence 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 ^pHules (yea oftentimes) I muse over The quality of anguish that is mine Tbi^ough Love : then pity makes my voice to pine, 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 tiien 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 DANTE ALIGHIERI. Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, And all my pulses beat at once aod stop. I 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. Ii7iere- f ore I say that the secoful part begins, 'Love smiteth me;' the third, 'And then if I;' the fourth, 'No sooner do I lift: After I had written these three last sonnets, wherein I spake unto my lady, telling her almost the whole of my condition, it seemed to me that I should be silent, having said enough concerning myself. But albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me afterward to write of another matter, more noble than the foregoing. And for that the occasion of what I then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I will relate it as briefly as I may. Through the sore change in mine aspect, the secret of my heart was now understood of many. Which thing being thus, there came a day when certain ladies to whom it was well known (they having been with me at divers times in my trouble) were met together for the pleasure of gentle company. And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very sweet speech. And when I had come close up with them, and perceived that they had not among them mine excellent lady, I was reassured; and saluted them, asking of their pleasure. The ladies THE NEW LIFE. 57 were many ; divers of whom were laughing one to an- other, 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 salu- tation of that lady of whom I conceive that ye are speaking; wherein alone I found that beatitude which is the goal of desire. And now that it hath pleased her to deny me this. Love, my Master, of his great goodness, hath placed all my beatitude there where my hope will not fail me.' Then those ladies began to talk closely together ; and as I have seen snow fall among the rain^ so was their talk mingled with sighs. But after a little, that lady who had been the first to address me, addressed me again in these words : ' We pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein abideth this thy beatitude.' And answer- ing, I said but thus much : ' In those words that do praise my lady.* To the which she rejoined : * If thy speech were true, those words that thou didst write concerning thy condition would have been written with another intent.' Then I, being almost put to shame because of hei answer, went out firom among them ; and as I walked. S8 DANTE ALTGHIERI. 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 diflferent?' 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, it seemed to me that I had taken to myself a theme which was much too lofty, so that I dared not begin ; and I remained during several days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of beginning. After which it hap- pened, 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 tliey are gentie, let alone for mere womanhood. Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as though by its own impulse, and said, ' Ladies that have intel- ligence in love.' These words I laid up in my mind with great gladness, conceiving to take them as my com- mencement. Wherefore, having returned to the city I spake of, and considered thereof during certain days, I began a poem with this beginning, constructed in the mode which will be seen below in its division. The poem begins here ; — I 1.AD Ladies that have intelligence in love. Of mine own lady I would speak with you ; THE NE W LIFE. 59 Not that I hope to count her praises through, But telling what I may, to ease my mind. And I declare that when I speak thereol^ Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me That if my courage failed not, certainly To him my listeners must be all resigned. Wherefore I will not speak in such laxge 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. An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith To God : ' Lord, in the world that Thou hast made, A miracle in action is displa/d, By reason of a soul whose splendours fare Even hither : and since Heaven requireth Nought saving her, for her it prayeth Thee, Thy Saints crying aloud continually.' Yet Pity still defends our earthly share In that sweet soul ; God answering thus the prayer: * My well-beloved, suffer that in peace Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is. There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her; And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say, ' I have looked on that for which God's chosen pray.' My lady is desired in the high Heaven : Wherififre^ it now behoveth me to tell, 6o DANTE AUGHIERL 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 creatiure of God till now unknown/ She hath that paleness of the pearl thaf s fit In a &ir woman, so much and not more ; She is as high as Natiure's skill can soar; Beauty is tried by her comparison. Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon, Spiiits of love do issue thence in flame, Which through their eyes who then may look on them Pierce to the heart's deep chamber every one. And in her smile Love's image you may see ; Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly. Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech With many ladies, when I send thee forth : THE NEW UFE. 6i 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 i^ 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. Tkis paem^ that it may be better understood^ I will divide more subtly than the others preceding ; and therefore J will make three parts of it. 77ie first part is a proem to the words following. The second is the matter treated of The third is^ as it were^ a handmaid to the preceding words, T7ie second begins here^ ^ An angel;' the third here^ ^ Dear Songy I know' The first part is divided into four. In the fir sty I say to whom I mean to speak of my lady, and wJierefore 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, repeatifig to whom I purpose spec^fig, I tell the reason why I speak to them. The second begins here, ^And I declare;' the third here, * Wherefore I will not speak ;' the fourth here, * With you alone,' Then, when I say ^ An Angel,' I begin treating of 62 DANTE ALIGHIER!. this lady: aitd this part is divided into two. In the first, I tell what is understood of her in heaven. Jn the second, I tell what is utiderstood of her on earth : here, ' My lady is desired.' This second part is divided t}ito two; for, in t/te first, I speak of her as regards the nobleness of her soul, relating some of her virtues proceeding from her soul; in the secoitd, I speak of her as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating some of her beauties : here, ' Love saith concernitig her' This second part is divided into two, for, in tlu 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 ene^ I speak of the eyes, which are the begintiiftg of love; in the second, I speak of the mouth, which is the end of love. And that every vicious thought may be dis- carded herefrom, lei the reader remember that it is above written that file greeting of this lady, which was an act of her mouth, was the goal of my desires, while / 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 7vhal I desire from this my poem. And because this last part is easy to understand, T trouble twt myself with more divisions. I say, indeed, that the further to open the mean- ing of this poem, more minute divisions ought to be used; but nevertheless he wlto is not ef 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. THE NEW UFE. 63 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 afler such discourse it were well to say somewhat of the 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 argiunent. 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 * Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, * Within the gentle heart Love shelters him.' (See Part II. page 291.) 64 DANTE AUGHIERI. of him according as ht! fiower translates itself into act. The second part begins hen, ' TVicn beauty seen.' The first is divided into two. la the first, / 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, "2is Nature.' Afterwards when I say, ' '£%en beauty seen in virtuous wofnankind' I say h^ I. You that thus wear a modest countenance With lids weigh'd down by the heart's heaviness, Whence come you, that among you every face Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance ? Have you beheld my lady's face, perchance, BoVd with the grief that Love makes full of grace ? Say now, * This thing is thus ;' as my heart says, Marking your grave and sorrowful advance. And if indeed you come from where she sighs And mourns, may it please you (for his heart's relief) To tell how it fares with her unto him Who know;; that you have wept, seeing your eyes, And is so grieved with looking on your^ef That his heart trembles and his sight grows dim. 68 DANTE ALIGHIERI. This sonnet is divided into two parts. In ifte first, I cail and ask these ladies whether they come from her, telling them that I think they do, because they return the twbler. In the second, I pray them to tell me of her; and the second begins fure, ' And if indeed^ 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 sJiouid strive to soothe our woe. For in her weeping we have heard her speak : Also her look's so full of her heart's moan That they who should behold her, looking so, Must fall aswoon, feeling all life grow weak. This sonftet 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, andtherefore I only discriminate them. T/ie second begins here, 'And wherefore is thyp-ief;' the third liere, 'Nay, leave our toot;' the fourth, * Also her look.' THE NEW LIFE. 69 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 firail a thing life is, even though health keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that I cotdd not choose but weep ; and weeping I said within myself: 'Certainly it must some time come to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die.' Then, feel- ing bewildered, I closed mine eyes \ and my brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations as here follow. And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women with their hair loosened, which called out to me, *Thou shalt surely die;* after the which, other terrible and unknown appearances said unto me, * Thou art dead.' At length, as my phantasy held on in its wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to behold a throng of dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and thither weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves, and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping : and it seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, and that there were great earthquakes. With that, while I wondered in my trance, and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a certain fi:iend 70 DANTE AUGHTEni. came unto me and said : ' Hast thou not heard? She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life.' Then I began to weep very piteously ; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine eyes, which were wet with tears. And I seemed to look towards Heaven, and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards, having before them an exceedingly white cloud : and these angels were singing together gloriously, and the words of their song were these : ' Osanna in excelsis :' and there was no more that 1 heard. Then my heart that was so full of love said unto me : 'It is true that our lady lielh dead ;' and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein (bat blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. And 80 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 said, ' I have attained to look on the beginning of peace.' And therewidial 1 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 thon 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 T had seen all those offices performed that are fitting to be done onto the dead, it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up towards Heaven. And so strong was my phantasy, that I wept again in very truth, and said with my true THE NEW LIFE. 71 voice : * O excellent «ouI ! how blessed is he that now looketh upon thee V And as I said these words, with a painful anguish tl sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried otit 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, *0 Beatrice! peace be with thee.' And already I had said, ' O Beatrice !' when being aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in ^pite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love's counselling. And when they beheld me, they b<^;an to say, 'He seemeth as one dead,' and to whisper among themselves, ' Let us strive if we may not comfort him.' Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned me moreover toudung the cause of my fear. Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasyi said 72 DANTE ALIGHIERI. unto them, 'This thing it was that macle me afeard;' and told them of all that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my sick- ness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme ; deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem : A VERY pitifiil 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 thai 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 ■ Bui THE NE W LIFE. 73 That they look'd at each other and thought of death; Saying under their breath Most tenderly, * Oh, let us comfort him :' Then unto me : * What dream Was thine, tibat 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 Possessed 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 shriek'd 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 street, 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, L 74 DANTR AUGHTERL The son ceased, and the stais began to gadier, And eadi wept at die other ; And birds dropp'd in tnid-ftight out of the sky ; And earth shook suddenly ; And I was "ware of one, boaise and tired out. Who ask'd of me : " Hast thou not heard it said? .... Thy lady, she that was so fiiir, is dead." ' Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came, I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna, In a long flight flying back Heavenward ; Having a little cloud in front of them, After the which the}- went and said, " Hosanna ;" And if they had said more, you should have heard. Then Love said, " Now shall all things be made dear : 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 v.-ith a veil were covering her ; And with her was such voy humbleness That she- appeared to say, " I am at peace," ' .ind I became so humble in my grief. Seeing in her such deep horaility. That I said : " Death, I hold thee passing good Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief. Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee: Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood, Lo ! I do so desire to see thy face THE NEW LIFE. 75 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 \'' Just then you woke me, of your complai* sailnce.' This poem has two parts* In the first, speakif^ to a person undefined, I tell ?iouf I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The second part begins here, * / wets a-thinking.^ The first part dvm4es into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and which one singly, did and scud because of my phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, *But uttered in a voice' Then, when I say, ' I was chthinhing,' I say how /told them this my imagination; cMd concerning this I have two parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second^ saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them } and this part b^ns here^ ^Just then you woke me* After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtftil, that I was taken with such a strong^ trembling at the heart, that it could not have be^:i other- wise itt the presence of my lady. Whereupon I per- ceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, 1 I I DANTE AUGHIERI. and I seemed to see him coming from my lady ; and he said, not aloud but within my heart r ' Now take heed that thoa bless the day when I entered into thee ; for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so.' And witJi 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 roe 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 hap- pen 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 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 * There is a play in the original upon the HOida Primimrra (Spring) and /r/mi verri (she shall come first], to which I have given as near an equivalent as 1 could. THE NEW LIFE. 77 ciamantis in desetio : " Parate vtam 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 set- ting aside certain words t which seemed proper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring. And I wrote this sonnet : — I FELT a spirit of love begin to stir Within my heart, long time unfelt till then ; And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain, (That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer), Saying, * Be now indeed my worshipper 1' 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. * * I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness : ** Prepare ye the way of the Lord." * t That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from delicacy towards his friend, the words in which Love describes Joan as merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in the latter part of this sen- tence a reproach is gently conveyed to the fickle Guido Cavalcanti, who may already have transferred his homage (though Dante had not then learned it) from Joan to Mandetta. ( See his Poems. ) 8 DANTE AUGHIERI. And even as now my memory speaketh this, Love spake it then : ' The first is christen'd Spring ; The second Love, she is so like to me.' This sonnet has many parts : whireof the first tells how I felt awakened within my heart the accitstomed tremor, and hoio it seemed that Love appeared to ine joyful from afar. The second says hoiv it appeared to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect. The third (ells how, after lie liad in such wise been with me a space, L saw and lieard certain things. The second part begins here, 'Saying, "Be no7e;"' the third here, ' Then, while it was his pleasure.' The third part divides into two. Ln the first, I say what I saw. In the second, I say what I heard ; and it begins liere, ' Love spake it tlieu? 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, thai Love spake ; (acuities (and especially THE NEW LIFE. 79 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 fit- ting,) 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 po'chance the same may have been among others, and although likewise, as among the Greeks,- they were not writers of spoken language, but men of let- ters, treated of these things.* And indeed it is not a great number pf years since poetry began to be made in the vulgar tongue ; the writing of rhymes in sp€^en lan- guage corresponding to the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language of ceo and the language of x) f we shall not find in those tongues any written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and fifty years. Also the reason yAiy certain of a very mean sort obtained at the first some fame as poets is, that before them no man had written verses in the language of s\ : and of these, the first was moved to the writing of such verses by the wish to make himself understood of a * On reading Dante's treatise De Vulgari Eloquioy it will be found that the distinction which he intends here is not between one language, or dialect, and another; but between 'vulgar speech* (that is, the language handed down from mother to son without any eonsdotts use of grammar or syntax,) and language as regulated by grammarians and the laws of literary composition, and which Dante caUs umply ' Grammar. ' A great deal might be said on the be&nngs of the present passage, but it is no part of my plan to enter on sudi questions. t ^ /. the languages of Provence and Tuscany. Bo DANTE ALICHIERT. certain lady, nnto whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is against, such as rhyme concerning 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 seeing also that they who write in rhyme are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and reasonable 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 un- seemly 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 dis- course 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 often- times written of those which are merely accidents as though they were substances and things human ;) it should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the like; which is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such suffi- cient motive as may afterwards be set forth in prose. * It strikes me thai Ihi; curiotis passage fumishes & reason, hitherto (1 believe) overlooked, why Dnnic put such of his lyiicst poems (Ls relate to philosophy inio llie form of love-poema. He liked writing in Ilolian rlijnne rather thnii Latin metre ; he thought Italian rhyme oujjht to be confined lo love-poems ; therefore what- ever he wrote (ot this age) hail (o take the rorm of a love-poem. Thus any poem hy Danle not concerning love is later than his twenty-seventh year (izgl-z), when he wrote the prose of the Vila iViiova : the poetry having been written earlier, at the time of the THE NEW LIFE. 8i That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through Vii^, where he saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto iEolus, master of the Winds ; as it is written in the first book of the ^Eneid, j£ole^ namque tUn^ etc.; and that this master of the Winds made reply : Tuus^ o r^na, quid optes — Explorare labor ^ miht jussa capessere fas est. And through the same poet, the inanimate thing speaketh unto the animate, in the third book of the iEneid, where it is written : Dardanida duri^ etc. With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh to the vor animate ; as thus : MuUum^ Ramay tamen debes civilibus armis. In Horace, man is made to speak to his own in- telligence as unto another person; (and not only hath Horace done this, but herein he followeth the excellent Homer,) as thus in his Poetics : Die tnihi^ Musa^ viruMy etc. Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning of his discourse De Retnediis Amoris : as thus : BeUa tnihiy video, bella parantur, ait. By which en- samples this thing shall be made manifest unto such as may be offended at any part of this my book. And lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering 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 fiaushioi:!, 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 • G 82 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 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 troth 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 hear 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 mtnicle ; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work thus marvellously.' I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so gentle and so full of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked upon her a soothing quiel beyond any speech; neither eould any look upon her without sighing immediately. These things, and things yet more wonderful, were brought to pass through her miraculous virtue. \Vherefore I, considering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale of her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her sur- passing influence; to the end that not only they who had beheld her, but others also, might know as much con- cerning her as words could give to the understanding. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet : — THE NEW LIFE. 83 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 stiU, 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 !' 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 favoiu: 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 liumbly should combine To thank their God for such peculiar grace. ^ 84, DANTE AUCHIERI. So perfect is the beauty of her (ace That it begets in no wise any sign. Of envy, but draws round her a clear line Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness. Merely the sight of her makes all things bow : Not she herself alone is holier Than all ; but hers, through her, ate raised above. From all her acts such lovely graces flow That truly one may never think of her Without a passion of exceeding love. TTiis sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in wh'tt company this lady appeared most wondrcms. In the second, I say how gracious was her society. In the third, I tell of the things which she, with power, ■worked upon others TSi second begins here, ' They that go with Iter ;' the third here, 'So perfea.' This last part divides into three. In the first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, by tlieir own fatuities. In the second, 1 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 wan- 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 n THE NEW LIFE. 8$ 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, I began therefore a poem with this beginning : — Love hath so long possessed me for his own And made his lordship so familiar That he, who at first irked me, is now grown Unto my heart as its best secrets are. And thus, when he in such sore wise doth mar My life that all its strength seems gone from it. Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar. Love also gathers to such power in me That my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing, Always soliciting My lady's salutation piteously. Whenever she beholds me, it is so. Who is more sweet than any words can show. Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo ! facta est quasi 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- * * How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people ! how is she become as a widow, she that was great among the nations ! ' — Lanuntations of Jeremiah^ i. I. h. 86 DANTE AUGHJERL self, that she might be glorious under the banner of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good that I should say some- what concerning her departure, I will herein declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so. And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth not of right to the present argument, if one consider the opening of this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behove me to speak also mine own praises : a thing that in whosoever 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 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 ItaJy, her most noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour ofthc ninth day of the month; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the ninth month of A THE NEW LIFE. 87 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 infallible truth, this number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The number three is the 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 * 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 ei^ht 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. 88 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 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, arc also One : — this lady was accompanied by the number nine lo 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 t but such is the reason that I find, and that lilteth me best. After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias : Quo- modo sedet sola 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 spoVtn, 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 epistie I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine undertaking : more especially as 1 know thai 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 3 few mournful words might stand me instead of THE NEW LIFE. 89 tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit ; and I then b^an ^ The eyes that weep.' Tliat this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its dose, I will divide it before writing it; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say thai 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. The second b^ns here, ^Beatrice is gone up ;^ the third here, ^ Weep, pitiful Song of mine* The first divides into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here, * And because often, thinking;* the third here, * And I will say* Then, when I say, ^Beatrice is gone up,* I speak of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell the cause why she was taken away from us: afterwards, I say hew one weeps her parting; and this, part commences here, ^ WonderfullyJ 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 thai 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 speaJtto 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 : |0 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 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 moum with me. Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven, The kingdom where the angels are at peace; And lives with tJiem ; 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. THE NEW LIFE. 91 Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm Upon his face, must have become so vile As to be. dead to all sweet sympathies. Out upon him ! an abject wretch like this May not imagine anything of her, — He needs no bitter tears for his relief. But sighing comes, and grief. And the desire to find no comforter, (Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brie^) 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. All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit ; Till, starting up in wild bewilderment, I do become so shent That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it. Afterward, calling with a sore lament On Beatrice, I ask, * Canst thou be dead ?* And calling on her, I am comforted. Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs. Come to me now whene'er I am alone ; So that I think the sight of me gives pain. I 12 DANTE ALJGHIERl. And what my life hath been, that living dies, Since for my lady the New Birth's begun, I have not any language to explain. And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain, I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus. All joy is with my bitter life at war ; Yea, I am fallen so far That all men seem to say, ' Go out from us,' Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are. But she, though I be bowed unto the dust. Watches me ; and will guerdon me, I trust. Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way. To the dames going and the damozels For whom and for none else Thy sisters have made music many a day. Thou, that art very sad and not as they. Go dwell thou with tliem as a mourner dwells. After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little sproken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat 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 J THE NEW LIFE. 93 afterwards, having thought thereof I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, ta whom I was to give it. And the son- net saith thus : * Stay now with me,' &c. This sonnet has two parts. In the firsts I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second^ I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here^ ^ Mark how they force.* Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs, Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do. Mark how they force their way out and press through ; If they be once pent up, the whole life dies. Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes Oftener refuse than I can tell to you, (Even though my endless grief is ever new,) To weep and let the smothered anguish rise. Also in sighing ye shall hear me call On her whose blessed presence doth enrich The only home that well befitteth her : And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech That mourns its joy and its joy's minister. But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give* it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to 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 94 DANTE ALIGHIERI. N P stanzas of a poem : the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him. but the other being 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. 77ie poem be^ns, '■Whatever while ^ and Itas iws parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear-friend, her kinsman, laments. In ike second, I lament ; that is, in the other stanza, which begitis, '■For ever.' And thus it appears that tji 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 calteth after strife, Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim And bare ; and if one dies, I envy him. A THE NEW LIFE. 95 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 fh>m us with the joy we had, 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 * Thus according to some texts. The majority, however, add the words, ' And therefore was I in thought :' but the shorter speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic. 96 DANTE AUGHIERI. ot angels : in doing which, I conceived to write of this natter 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. I say thai, according to the first, this sonntt has three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was thm in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Lm-e. The second begins here, ' Love knowing ;' the third here, 'Forth went thef.' This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second be^ns here, 'And still.' In this same manner is it divided with the other beginning, 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; , I With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe i ^^^ Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. I THE NEW LIFE, 97 And $till those sighs which drew the heaviest breath Came whispering thus : ^ O noble intellect I It is a year today that thou art gone.' Second Commencement. That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul ; — for whose sake flow'd 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, &c. 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 outwutlly mani- fest in. mine altered countenance. Wh^^upon, 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 roe from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unluippy persons, when tliey beget compassion in 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 imto 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, H DANTE ALIGHIERT. speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this sonnet is veiy 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 fortom my life must be ; And I became afraid that thou sbouldst 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 J bethought me to .■ipeak 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 ; — THE NEW LIFE. 99 Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth Were never yet shown forth so perfectly In any lady's face, chancing to see Griefs miserable countenance uncouth, As in thine, lady^ they have sprung to soothe. When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me ^ Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee, My heart might almost wander from its truth. Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes From gazing very often upon thine In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep ; And at such time, thou mak'st the pent tears rise Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine ; Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep. At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine eyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company; through which thing many times I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person: also, many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them inwardly : * Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while to make others weep? And will ye now foiget 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 ! many a time will I make you remember it ! for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping.* And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And » 100 DANTE ALIGHIERI. to the end that this inward strife which I had under- gone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in it this horrible condition. And I wrote this which begins, ' The very bitter weeping.' The sonnet has two parts. Jn the first, I speak to my eya, as my heart spoke withm myself. In the second, I re- move a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus : and this part begins here, ' So/ar.' It wdl might receive other divisions also ; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition. ' The very bitter weeping that ye made So long a time together, eyes of mine, Was wont to make the tears of pity shine In other eyes full oft, as I have said. But now this thing were scarce remembered If I, on my part, foully would combine With you, and not recall each ancient sign Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed. It is your fickleness that doth betray My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus What while a lady greets me with her eyes. Except by death, we must not any way Forget our lady who is gone from us.' So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs. The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear imto me ; and I began to consider her thus : ' This lady THE NEW LIFE. t6t 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 rea- soning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: ^ What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all other imagining ?' Also there was another voice within me, that said: 'And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through Love, not escape while yet thou mayst fi-om so much bitterness? Thou must surely 4i:now that this thought carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its life fi*om the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee so much pity.' Where- fore I, having striven sorely and very often with myself bethought me to say somewhat 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 Intake myself into tivo^ according as my thoughts were divided one from the other. The one part I * Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma Donati about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma then be *■ the Hdy of the window,* his love for whom Dante so contemns ? Such a passing conjecture (when considered together with the interpret* I02 DANTE AUGHIERI. call Heart, that is, appetite ; the other. Soul, that is, reason ; attd I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is fitting to mil the appdite 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 pari of the Heart against the Eyes ; and thai 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 tny nwst gentle lady than to sathis 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, J begin to say to this lady how ^ny desires turn ail toivards her. In the second, I say hmo the Soul, that is, the reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the third, I say how the latter answers. The second b^ns here, 'And what is thisV the third here, 'And the heart A GENTLE thought dierc 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 Ihus to comfort thee and me. And thence where it would dwell, thus potently »tion o( th« passage in Dante's laler work, the Cmniie) would of course imply an admission of what I believe lo lie at the heart of all true Danlesque cnmmeiilary : that is, the existence always of the actual events even nhere the atlegoricHl superstructuie has been laisctf bj Dante himself. THE NEW LIFE. 103 Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?' And the heart answers : ' Be no more at strife 'Twixt doubt and doubt f 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 (M'der of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part ; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so basely let itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason. And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought con- stantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before DANTE ALIGHIERI. had been somewhat lesseoed, increased in like r BO that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and canoe at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom ; neither e 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 guerdoned for their un steadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain tempta- tions 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 roe I' / said, ' Woe's me!' because I was ashamed of the trifling ef mine eyes. This son/Kt I do not dimde, since Us 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 lotig that now they are griefs home And count their tears all laughter far above ; They wept till they are circled now by Love Witli 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. L. THE NEW LIFE. lo; 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 now looketii contioually.) 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 seem 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 • The Veronica ( Vera iion, or true image) ; that is, the napkin with which a woman was said lo 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. xxK. (03), where he says ; — ' Qual h colui che forsc di Croazia Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, Che per 1' anlica faraa non si saiia Ma dice nel pensier fin die si mostra : Signor mio Gesu Criato, Iddio verace, Or fu SI fatla la sembiaiua vostra ?' etc. L io6 DANTE ALIGHIERJ. forth of this city ; for those things that they would hear from me must neeils beget weeping in any." And when the last of them had gone by me, I be- thought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech ; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth ; ' Ye pilgrim-folk,' I made use of the word pilgrim for its general significa- tion ; for ' pilgrim ' may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth ; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is 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 wlio 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- dently 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— THE NEW LIFE. 107 That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free Though passing through the mournful town mid-way ; Like unto men that imderstand 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 conveyed to them, accompanied by the one preceding, and 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 goethy naming the place by the name oj one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a kuiy honoured. And I then call it a * Pilgrim Spirit^ because it goes up spiritually, atidlike a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is^ in such qucUity) that I cannot » DANTE AUGHtERl. understand her ; that is to say, my thought rises into the polity of her in a degree that my intellect cannot compre- hend, seeing that our intdlect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eye weak against the sun ; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I lay tliat, 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 hername therein. And, at the end of this fifth pari, I say, ' Ladies mine' to,show that they are ladies to whom I speak. The second part begins, 'A new perception;' the third, ' IVhen it hath reached ;' the fourth, ' It sees her such ;' the fifth, ' And yet I knotv.' It might be divided yet 'e 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 Which it hath seen, I understand it not, It hath a speech so subtile and so fine. And yet I know its voice within-nay thought- '\ Often rememberetti me-of Beatrice : tj^f^r So 'h^t ^ understand it, ladies miofi. THE NEW LIFE. 109 After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision:* wherein I saw things which determined me that I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as I could dis- course more worthily concerning her. And to this end I laboiir all I can ; a? 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 specula benediMsA Lous Deo. ♦ This we may believe to have been the Vision of Hell, Purga- tory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple argument of the ' Divina Commedia.' _The Latin words ending the Vita Nuova are almost identical with those at the dose of the letter in whiqh JDante, ji^^jcanjuding tne i^flWrfilW, and acwmfTisKing the lu^e here ex- pressed, dSG^to^^j^^TWOrtt to Can tJrtfnde denafSoaLsi. " — f*"Wll5 is t>le^ed throu^out all'ages.* THE END OP THE NEW LIFE. DANTE ALIGHIERl. TO BRUNETTO LATINI. Sent with the Vita Nuova. MASTER Brunetto, this my little maid Is c&me to spend her Easter-tide with you ; Not that she reckons feasting as her due, — Whose need is hardly to be fed, but read. Not in a hurry can her sense be weigh'd, Nor mid the jests of any noisy crew ; Ah ! and she wants a little coaxing too Before she'll get into another's head. But if you do not find her meaning clear, You've many Brother Alberts" hard at hand, Whose wisdom will respond to any call. Consult with them and do not laugh at her ; And if she still is hard to understand. Apply to Master Janus last of all. * Probably in alluBion to Albert of Cologne. Giano (Janus), which follows, was in use as an ItaJian name, as for instance GiaJio dcUa Bella ; but it seems probable that Dante is merely playfully advising bis preceptor to avail himself of the twofold insight of Janus the dooble-feced. DANTE AUGHIERL 1 1 1 11. Jf SONNETj^ Of Beatrice d^Portinari^ on All Saints Day. LAST All Saints* holy-day, even now gone by, I met a gathering of damozels : She that came first, as one doth who excels, Had Love with her, bearing her company : A fiame burned forward through her steadfast eye. As when in living fire a spirit dwells : So, gazing with the boldness which prevails O'er doubt, I knew an angel visibly. As^'she passed on, she bowed her mild approof And salutation to all men of worth, ■Lifting the soul to solemn thoughts aloof. In Heaven itself that lady had her birth, I think, and is with us for oiu: behoof: Blessedase^bey who meet her on the earth. _ * This and the six following pieces (with the possible exception of the canzone at page 115} seem so certainly to have been written at the same time as the poetry of the Vita Nuova, that it becomes diffi- cult to guess why they were omitted from that work. Other poems in Dante's CanxonUre refer in a more general manner to his love for Beatrice, but each among those I allude to bears the impress of some special occasion. DANTE ALIGHIERI, n To certain Ladies; whan 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 widi dule. 0 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 1 be not worn unto the earth : Yea, and my spirit must fail from me here, Tf, when you speak, your words are of no worth. • ScE the Vila A'ucva, at page 66. DANTE ALIGHIERL 113 IV. SONNKT. To the same Ladies; with their Answer, Y£ ladies, walking past me piteous-eyed, Who is the lady that lies prostrate here ? Can thisl)e even she my heart holds dear? Nay, if it be so, speak, and nothing hide« Her very aspect seems itself beside, And all her features of such altered cheer That to my thinking they do not appear Hers who makes others seem beatified.' ' If thou foiget to know our lady thus. Whom grief overcomes, we wonder in no wise, For also the same thing be&Ueth us. Yet if thou watch die movement of her eyes, Of her thou shalt be straightway conscious. O weep no more ! thou art all wan with sig^s.' J 14 DANTE ALIGHIERI I He will gase tipen Beairia. BECAUSE mine eyes can never have thdr fill Of looking at my lady's lovely iace, I will so fix my gaze That I may become blessed, beholdiag her. Even as an angel, up at his great Jieigiil ^Standing amid the lights Eecometh 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. _Su^ power abideth in that gracious one ; Albeit felt of none Save of him who, desiring, honours her. DANTE AUGHIERL 1 1 5 VI. Canzone.* A Complaint of his Ladfs scorn, LOVE, since it is thy will that I return 'Neadi her usurped control Who is thou know'st how beautiful and proud ; Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding bum Thy flame within her soul That she rejoice not when my ciy 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 thoult 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 jserve thee. But I was not wounded yet. When under heaven I beheld openly The face which thus hath rapt * This poem seems probably referable to the time during which Beatrice denied her salutation to Dante. (See the Vita Nhovo^ at page 42 et seq.) r ^^H My SOI "^ Is St DANTE ALIGHIERI. 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 worshipper. Made semblance then to guide them safely forth : And they put faith in her : Till, gathering them within her garment all. She turned their blessed peace to tears and gall. Then I, (for I could hear how they complained,) As sympathy impelled, Full oft to seek her presence did arise. And mine own soul (which better had refirained) So much my strength upheld That I could steadily behold her eyes. This in thy knowledge lies, Who then didst call me with so mild a face That I hoped solace from my greater load : And when she turned the key on my dark place. Such ruth tliy grace bestowed Upon my grief, and in such piteous kind. That I had strength to bear, and was resign'd. For love of the sweet favour's comforting Did I become her thrall j 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 Jiope to see : Till her proud contumely — DANTE AUGHJERL wj That so mine aim might rest unsatisfied — Covered the beauty of her countenance. So straightway fell into my living side, To slay me, the swift lance : While she rejoiced and watched my bitter end, Only to prove what succour thou wouldst send. I therefore, weary with my love's constraint, To death's deliverance ran. That out of terrible grief I might be brought : For tears had broken me and left me faint Beyond the lot of man, 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. DANTE AUGJtlERJ. vn. CAS20SE. He beseuhes Death for the Life of Beairiee. DEATH, since I find not one with whom to grieve, Nor whom this grief of mine may move to tears, Whereso I be or whilbereo 1 tnro: Since it is thou who in my soul wilt leave No single joy, but chill'st it with just fears And malcest it in fruitless hopes to bum ; Snce thou. Death, and thou only, canst decern Wealth to my life, or want, at thy free choice : — It is to thee that I lift up my voice, Bowing my face that's like a face just dead. I come to thee, as to one pitying. In grief for that sweet rest which nought can bring Again, if thou but once be entered Into her life whom my heart cherishes Even as the only portal of its peace. Death) how most sweet the peace is that thy giace 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,— DANTE AUGHIERt iJ^ If upon all thoii look which proves me thine. Since the fear only maketh me to pine After this sort, — ^what will mine ai^iuish be When her eyes dose, of dreadiid verity, In whose light is the light of mine own eyes? 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 widiin,— Thou biddest Virtue rise up and begone^ Thou dost away with Merc/s best eflfect,. Thou spoffst 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^ne whom jHeaven ^_Sent upon earth in token of its own* Thou dost break througETthe 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 ne 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. s 1 I20 DANTE ALICHIERI. Slacken Uie string, if so it be thy will, That the sharp arrow leave it not, — thereby Sparing her life, which if it files 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 ! 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. 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 1 praise. DANTE ALIGHIERL I2i VIII. Sonnet. On the 9M ofJufUj 1290. UPON a day, came Sorrow in 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 V 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.' r^ANTE ALIGHIERi. TO CINO DA PISTOIA. He rebuka Cim for MckUtms. I THOUGHT to be for ever separate, Fair Master Cino, from these rhymes of yours ; Since fiirther 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. TTie man after this measure amorous. Who still at his own will is bound andjoosedi How slightly Love him wounds is lightly known. If on this wise your heart in homage bows, ^ P^y y°" forGod's sake it be disused. So that the deed and the sweet words be one. * This might seem to suggest that the present sonnet w>s written ibout the same lime as the dose of the Vita Nuout, and that an oUanon may also here be intended to the first conception ot Diuite's great work. CINO DA PISTOIA. t%% CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERL ^ Sonnet. ^ He answers Dante^ confessU^kis unsteadfast Heart. DANTE, since I from my own native place In heavy exile have turned wanderer, Far distant from the purest joy which e'er Had issued from the Fount of joy and grace^ I have gone weeping through the world's dull space, And me proud Death, as one too mean, doth spare; Yet meeting Love, Death's neighbour, I declare That still his arrows hold my heart in chase. Nor from his pitiless aim can I get free, Nor from the hope which comforts my weak will, Though no true aid exists which I could share. One pleasure ever binds and looses me ; That so, by one same Beauty lured, I still^^ Delight in many women here and there. DANTE ALICHIERI. 1/ X. TO CINO DA PISTOIA. I Written in ExiU. BECAUSE I find not whom to speak withal Anent that lord whose I am as thou art, Behoves that in thitie 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 l^ve comes not here to any woman's face, Nor any man here for his sake nill sigh. For unto such ' Thou fool ! ' were straightway sa Ah ! Master Cino, how the time turns base, Ajid mocks at us, and on our rhymes says ' Fie I ' Since truth has been thus thinly harvested. CINO DA PISTOIA. 125 CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. Sonnet. He answers the forcing Sonnet^ and prays Dante^ in the name of Beatrice^ to continue his great Poem. I KNOW not, Dante, in what refuge dwells « The truth, which with all men is out of mind ; For long ago it left this place behind. Till in its stead at last God's thunder swells. Yet if our shifting life most dearly tells That here the truth has no reward assigned, — 'Twas God, remember, taught it to mankind. And even among the fiends preached nothing else. Then, though the kingdoms of the earth be torn, Where'er thou set thy feet, from Truth's control, Yet unto me thy friend this prayer accord : — Beloved, O my brother, sorrow-worn, )ven in that lady's name who is thy goal. Sing on till thou redeem thy plighted word ! ■IV 1^*11 WHMN^r^ * That is, the pledge g^ven at the end of the Vita Nuova. This may perhaps have been written in the early days of Dante's exilo, before his resumption of the interrupted Commedia, 1*6 DANTE ALICHIERI. Of Beauty and Duty, TWO ladies to the summit of my mind Have clomb, to hold an argument of love. ^e one has wisdom with her from above, For every noblest virtue well designed : The other, beauty's tempting power refined And the high charm of perfect grace approve : And I, as my sweet Master's will doth move, At feet of both their favours am reclined. Beauty and Duty in my soul keep strife, At question if the heart such course can take And 'twixt two ladies hold its love complete. The fount of gentle speech yields answer meet, That Beauty may be loved for gladness' sake, And Duty in the lofty ends of life. DANTE ALIGHIERI. «7 XII. Sestinju* Of the Lady Pietra degli Scravigm. TO the dim light and the large circle (tf shade I have domb, 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 ; * I have translated tiiis 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 Provenfal poets (see Dante, De Vulg. Eloq,)» I have headed it with the name of a Paduan lady, to whom it is surmised by some to have been addressed during Dante's exile; but this must be looked upon as a rather doubtful conjecture, and I have adopted the name chiefly to mcrk it at once as not referring to Beatrice. DANTE ALIGHIERI. For she is no more moved than is a 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 ; 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 tlian 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, T wooed her in a field that was all grass Girdled about with very lofty hills. Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills Before Love's flame in this damp wood and green Bum, as it bums within a youthful lady, For my sake, who would sleep awav in stone DANTE ALIGHIERL 1 29 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. K 132 GUIDO CAVALCANTI. To his Lady Joan^ of Florence. FLOWERS hast thou in thyself, and foliage, And what is good, and what is glad to see ; The sun is not so bright as thy visage ; All is stark naught when one hath looked on thee ; There is not such a beautiful personage Anywhere on the green earth verily ; If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage Comforteth him, and no more fear hath he. Thy lady friends and maidens ministering Are all, for love of thee, much to my taste : And much I pray them that in everything They honour thee even as thou meritest, And- have thee in their gentle harbouring : Becausej.mong them all thou art the best. GUIDO CAVALCANTL L TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. [y Sonnet. He interprets Dant^s Dreatn^ related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuava.* 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 pit/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 I ^That Death had claimed thy lady for aj^fiy ; In fear whereof he fed her wj^jfejjr heart. But when he seemed in sorrow to depart, Sweet was thy dream ; for by that sign, I say, Surely the opposite shall come to pass.t • See the Vita Nucva, at page 33. t This may refer to the belid* that, towards morning, dreams go by contraries. GVIDO CAVALCANTI. n. \_/ Sonnet. Tq his Lady Joan, of Florence. FLOWERS hast thou in thyself, and foliage. And what is good, and what is glad to see ; The sun is not so bright as thy vishge ; All is stark naught wlien one hath looked on thee ; 'J'here 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 thai in everything They honour thee e^'en as thou moritest, And have thee in their gentle harbouring : Be£au>;?_%fiioi'g them all thou artthe best. _ CUIDO CAVALCANTL 133 III. He ampares aU Tlkings with his Lady^ and finds them wanting. » BEAUTY in woman; the high will's decree ; Fair knighthood armed for manly exercise ; The pleasant song of birds ; love's soft replies ; The strength of rapid ships upon the sea ; The serene air when light begins to be ; The white snow, without wind that falls and lies ; Fields of all flower ; the place where waters rise ; Silver and gold ; azure in jewellery : — Weighed against these^ the sweet and quiet worth Which my dear lady cherishes at heart Might seem a little matter to be shown ; Beiqg tru^Tovcr these, as much apart As the whole heaven is greateFthan this earth, good to kindred natures rleavethsoon. i CUWO CAVALCANTI. t/^ Son NET. A Rapture concerning his Lady. "WJ HO is she coming, whom all gaze upon, . . . Who makes the air al! tremulous with light, ^^m And at whose side is Love himself? that none ^^1 Dare speak, but each man's sighs are inRnite. ^^H Ah me ! how she looks round from left to right, ^^1 Let Love discourse : I may not speak thereon. ^^1 Lady she seems of such high henison ^^1 As makes all others graceless in men's sight. ^^H The honour which is hers cannot be said ; ^^H To whom jtc^bject all things virtuous, __ ^^^ ^^h;ia-«ai (hinge tipaiitpniie nn-n hw Ainty ^H Ne^^ waaJheuBiiiid o/maa. so nobly.Jfiii,___ ^^H Nor yet \vas such redemption granted us ^^K That we should ever know her perfectly. GUIDO CA VALCANTL 1 3$ V. 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 she3T And then the eyes yield passage, at that thought, To the heart's weeping, which forgets her not CUIDO CAVALCANTt. l^ VI. -^ TO GUIDO ORLANDI. i Of a eonsecraUd Image reserrtbling kis Lady. GUIDO, an image of ray lady dwells At San Michele in Orto, consecrate And duly worshipped. 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 liend 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 fece two burning tapers are ; Her voice is uttered upon paths alar. Yet through the Lesser Brethren's" jealousy She is named idol ; not being one of theirs. GVIDO ORLANDL i37 GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. Madhigal. In answer to the foregoing Sonnet. IF thou hadst offered, friend, to blessed Mary . r^ A pious voluntary, g\ \f^ As thus : * Fair rose, in holy garden set :' ^ . V Thou then hadst found a true similitude : v^' "^ Because all truth and good ^ -^-^^' -^ Are hers, who was the mansion and the gate 0^ ^J^ WherdiL^bode our High Sah:ari5n, ^"^3^ .y^ ConceiveSTnJg^iZSQn,^ ^ livwi by theangel'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 thiiie own misdeed. 138 GUIDO ORLANDL And not another's ? Ponder what Aou art ; And humbly lay to heart That Publican who wept his proper need The Lesser Brethren cherish the divine Scripture and church-doctrine ; Being appointed keepers of the faith Whose preaching succoureth : For what they preach is our best medicine. GUIDO CAVALCANTL 139 VII. Sonnet. Of the Eyes of a certain MandettOy of Thoulouse^ which resemble those of his Lady Jocm^ 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 ^r s,/ 1^0 her ; yet, tearing, saith not who is she ^ That of a truth its essence thus subdues. This lady looks on it with the sweet eyes Whose glance did erst the wounds of Love anoint Through its true lady's eyes which are as they. Then to the heart returns it, full of sighs. Wounded to death by a sharp arrow's point Wherewith this lady speeds it on its way- GUIDO CAVALCANTl. VIII. Ballata. ffe reveals, in a Dialogue, his increasing Love for Mandelta. ) EING in thought of love, I chanced to see Two youthful damozels. One sang: ' Our hfe 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 1 damozels, do not account him base Wliom thus his wound subdues : Since I was at Thoulouse, My heart is dead in me.' They turned their eyes upon me in so much As to perceive how wounded was my heart ; While, of the spirits born of tears, one such Had been begotten through tlie constant smart. Then seeing me, abashed, to turn apart, GUIDO CAVALCANTL 141 One of them said, and latigh'd : ' Love, look you, by his craft Holds this man thoroughly/ But with grave sweetness, after a brief while, She who at first had laughed on me replied. Saying : *This lady, who by Love*s great guile Her countenance in thy heart has glorified, Look'd thee so deep within the eyes. Love sigh*d And was awakened there. If it seem ill to bear, In him thy hope must be/ The second piteous maiden, of all ruth, Fashioned for sport in Love's own image, said : ' This stroke, whereof thy heart bears trace in sooth, From eyes of too much puissance was shed, Whence in thy heart such brightness entered, Thou mayst not look thereon. Say, of those eyes that shone Canst thou remember thee ?' Then said I, yitWing 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/ 142 GUIDO CA VALCANTI. Go, Ballad, to the city, even Thoulouse, And softly entering the Daurkde,* look round And sofUy call, that so there may be found Some lady who for compleasuance may choose To show thee her who can my life confuse. And tf she yidd thee way, Lift thou thy voice and say : * For grace I come to thee.* * The ancient church of the Daurade still exists at Thoulouse. It was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics adorning it. DANTE AUGHIERL 143 DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTL ^ Sonnet. Hi imagines a pleasant Voyage for Guido, Lapo Gianni^ and himself ^ with their three Ladies^ UIDO, I wish thatjLapo, 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 misdiance nor tempe of the sky Should mar our coiunse with spite or cruel slip ; But we, observing old companionship, To be companions still should long thereby. And ijady Joan, and Ljady Beatrice^, her the thirtieth on my roll^* with us ShoulJouTgCRJd wizard set, o'er seas to move And not to talk of anything but love : And they three ever to be well at ease As we should be, I think, if this were thus. * That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies of Florence, referred to in the Vita Nuova ; among whom Lapo Gianni's lady, Lagia, would seem to have stood thirtieth. GUWO CAVALCANTI. TO DANTE AUGHIERI. the forcing Sonnet, speaking with shame of his changed Love. IF I were still thai 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 sou! 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 rae, it would seem As though he held his lordship for a jest. Then hear the marvel which is sorriest : — My sorely wounded soul forgiveth him, Yet knows that in his act her strength is kill'd. GUIDO CA VALCANTI. 145 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. Sonnet. He reports, in a feigned Vision, the successful Issue of Lapo Gianni^ s Love, DANTE, a sigh that rose from the heart's core Assailed me, while I slumbered, suddenly : So that I woke o' the instant, fearing sore Lest it came thither in Love's company : Till, turning, I beheld the servitor Of lady Lagia : * Help me,' so said he, * O help me. Pity.' Though he said no more, So much of Pity's essence entered me, That I was ware of Love, those shafts he wields A-whetting, and preferred the mourner's quest To him, who straightway answered on this wise : * Go tell my servant that the lady yields. And that I hold her now at his behest : If he believe not, let him note her eyes.' 146 GUWO CAVALCANTI. XI. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. Sonnet. He mistrusts the Lcve of Lapo Gianm, I PRAY thee, Dante, shouldst thou meet with Love In any place iidiere Lapo then may be. That there thou fail not to mark heedfully If Love with lover's name that man approve ; If to our Master's will his lady move Aright, and if himself show fealty ; For ofttimes, by ill custom, ye may see This sort profess the semblance of true love. TtHoU Khow'st thatm the court where Love holds sway, A law subsists, that no man who is vile Can^^endce yield to a lost woman there. If suffering aught avail the sufferer, Thou straightway shalt discern our lofty style, Which needs the badge of honour must display. GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 147 XII. SONNET« On the Detection of a false Friend.^ LOVE and the Lady Lagla, Guido and I, Unto a certain lord are bounden all, Who has released us — know ye from whose thrall ? Yet I'll not speak, but let the matter die : Since now these three no more are held thereby, Who in such homage at his feet did fall That I myself was not more whimsical, In him conceiving godship from on high. Let Love be thanked the first, who first 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 pro- bably Guido Orlandi. 138 GUIDO ORLANDL And not another's ? Ponder what Aou art ; And humbly lay to heart That Publican who wept his proper need The Lesser Brethren cherish the divine Scripture and church-doctrinc ; Being appointed keepers of the &ith Whose preaching succoureth : For what they preach is our best medicine. G UIDO CA VALCANT2. £49 XIV. Ballata. Of a continual Death in Love. THOUGH thou, indeed, hast quite forgotten ruth, Its steadfast truth my heart abandons not ; But still its thought yields service in good part To that hard heart in thee. Alas ! who hears believes not I am so« Yet who can know ? of very surety, none. From Love is won a spirit, in some wise, Which dies perpetually : And, when at length in that strange ecstasy The heavy sigh will start, There rains upon my heart A love so pure and fine, That I say : * Lady, I am wholly thine.'* * I may take this opportunity of mentioning that, in every case where an abrupt change of metre occurs in one of my translations, it is so also in the original poem. HO GUIDO CAVALCANTL ;V^ 1> XV. Sonnet. To a Friend who does not pity his Love. IF I entreat this lady that all grace Seem not unto her heart an enemy Foolish and evil thou declarest me/ And desperate in idle stubbornness. Whence is such cruel judgment thine, whose face. To him that looks there<3g;^, professeth thee Faithful, and wise, and o^ all courtesy, And made after the way of gentleness ? Alas I 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. GUIDO CA VALCANTI. 151 XVI. Ballata. Hepercdves that his highest Love is gone from htm, THROUGH this my strong and new misaventure, All now is lost to me Which most was sweet in Love's supremacy. So much of life is dead in its control, That she, my pleasant lady of all grace, Is gone out of the devastated soul : I see her not, nor do I know her place ; Nor even enough of virtue with me stays To understand, ah me ! The flower of her exceeding purity. Because there comes — ^to kill that gentle thought With saying that I shall not see her more — This constant pain wherewith I ^am distraught, Which is a burning torment very sore, Wherein I know not whom I should implore. Thrice thanked the Master be ^ Who turns the grinding wheel of misery ! O^^y^s^-k^^ yS^i^ IS* GUIDO CAVALCANTL ■f' Full of great anguish in a place of fear . The ^intjQf^ni^Jieart lies sorrj Through Fortune's bitter craft She lured it here, And gave it o^ toBeath, and barbed the sting ; She wrought that hopewhich was a treacherous thing ; In Timey which dies froi She made me lose mine hour of ecstasy. For you, perturbed and fearful words of mine, Whither yourselves may please, even thither go ; But always burthened with shame's troublous sigh. 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 assured] GUIDO CAVALCANTL 153 / XVII. SOKNET. 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 : ' Dost thou not hear me in thy heart ?' New torment then, the old tormenf s counterpart, Jb'illed me at once with such a sorTaffright, That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not quite Mine eyes and me 1 O help us where thou art I Thou hast so left mine eyes, that love is fain — Even Love himself—^with pity uncontrolled To bend above them, weeping for their loss : Saying : If any man feel heavy pain. This man's more painful heart let him behold : Death has it in her hand, cut like a cross. DW ^\ 1 GUIDO CA VALCANTI. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. tht foregoing Sonnet, speaking »fitfi 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 kill'd. J GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 145 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. Sonnet. He reports y in a feigned Vision^ the successful Issue of Lapo Gianni^ s Love. DANTE, a sigh that rose from the heart's core Assailed me, while I slumbered, suddenly : So that I woke o' the instant, fearing sore Lest it came thither in Love's company : Till, turning, I beheld the servitor Of lady Lagia : * Help me,' so said he, * O help me. Pity.' Though he said no more, So much of Pit3r'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.' 146 GUIDO CAVALCANTL XI. TO DANTE ALIGHIERl. Sonnet. He mistrusts the Lave of Lapo Gianni, I PRAY thee, Dante, shouldst thou meet with Love In any place ^ere Lapo then may be, That there thou fail not to mark heedfully If Love with lover's name that man approve ; If to our Master's will his lady move Aright, and if himself show fealty ; For ofttimes, by ill custom, ye may see This sort profess the semblance of true love. TTJoU'Kiow'st that inTQie court where Love holds sway, A law subsists^ that noja^a-Who is vile C^>-sendce yield to a lost woman there. If suffering aught avail Uie sufferer, Thou straightway shalt discern our lofty style, Which needs the badge of honour must display. GUJDO CAVALCANTI. 147 XII. SONKET« On the Detection of a false Friend.* LOVE and the Lady Lagia, Guido and I, Unto a certain lord are bounden all, Who has released us — know ye from whose thrall ? Yet 111 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 Lad^ 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 pro- bably Guido Orlandi. 148 GUIDO CA VALCANTL SONNBT. He speaks of a third Love of his* 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^§Qul in heavy sighs, Which even by Love's sharp arrow wounded lies. Twice did the Syrian archer shoot, and he Now bends his bowthe third time, cunningly, That, thou being here, he wound me in no wise. Because the soul would quicken at the core Thereby, whidi 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 third fiilfilFd. GUIDO CAVALCAATl. 149 XIV. Ballata. Of a conUmtai Death in Lave. THOUGH thou, indeed, hast quite fogotten rath. Its steadfast troth my heazt abandons not; But still its thought jrields service in good part To that hard heart in diee. Alas ! who hears believes not I am so. Yet who can know ? of veiy surety, none. From Love is won a spirit, in some wise, Which dies perpetually : And, when at length in that strange ecstasy The heavy sigh will start, There rains upon my heart A love so pure and fine, That I say : * Lady, I am wholly thine.'* * I may take this opportunity of mentioning that, in every case where an almipt change of metre occurs in one of my tiansladons, it is so also in the original poem. ISO GUIDO CA VALCANTI. V" '■.AX I XV. Sonnet. To a Friend who does not pity his Love, F I entreat this lady that all grace Seem not unto her heart an enemy Foolish and evil thou declarest me, And desperate in idle stubbornness. \ > Whence is such cruel judgment thine, whose face, To him that looks therec^, professeth thee Faithful, and wise, and oi all courtesy, And made after the way of gentleness ? Alas I 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. GUIDO CA VALCANTI. 15 1 / XVI. Ballata. He perceives that his highest Love is gone from him, THROUGH this my strong and new misaventure, All now is lost to me Which most was sweet in Love's supremacy. So much of life is dead in its control, That she, my pleasant lady of all grace, Is gone out of the devastated soul : I see her not, nor do I know her place ; Nor even enough of virtue with me sta}rs To understand, ah me ! The flower of her exceeding purity. Because there comes — ^to kill that gentle thought With saying that I shall not see her more — This constant pain wherewith I am distraught, Which is a burning torment very sore, Wherein I know not whom I should implore. Thrice thanked the Master be ^ Who turns the grinding wheel of misery I ^ GUIDO, that Gianni who, a day agone, Sought thee, now greets thee (ay and thoa mayst laugh 1) On that same Pisan beaut/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- menti d* Amore' of Francesco Barberino (1300), I judge that Guido answered the above sonnet, and that Alfani made a rejoinder, from which a scrap there printed appears to be taken. The whole piece existed, in Ubaldini's time, among the Strozzi MSS. BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA TO GUIDO / CAVALCANTI, y*\b^ lie wrtUs to Guido, UiHng him of the Xove wftieh a certaiit Jr Pimlla showed on seeing him. ft^^ ■,. ^" UNTO that lowly lovely maid, I wis, So poignant in the heart was thy salute, That she changed countenance, remaining mute. Wherefore I aslted : ' Pinella, how is this ? Hast heard of Guido? know'st thou who he is ?- She answered, ' Vea;' then paused, irresolute j But I saw well how the love-wounds acute Were widened, and the star which Love calls his Filled her with getitle 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 !' L GUIDO CA VALCANTI. 1 57 XVIII. TO BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. SONNST. Gtddo attrwerSj commending Pindla^ and saying that the Love he can ojffer her is already shared by many noble Ladies. THE fountain-head that is so bright to see Gains as it nins in virtue and in sheen, Friend Bernard ; and for her who spoke with thee, Even such the flow of her young life has been : So that when Love discourses secretly Of things the fairest he has ever seen. He says there is no fairer thing than she, A lowly maid as lovely as a queen. And for that I am troubled, thinking of That- sigh wherein I bum upon the waves Which drift her heart, — poor barque, so ill bested! — Unto Pinella a great river ^ love I send, thafsfuU of sirens, and whose slaves Are beautiful and richly habited. niNO COMPAGNI. DINO COMPAGNI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTL \.^ Sonnet. He r^roves Guide fur kts Arrogance in Love. NO man may mount upon a golden stair, Guido ray master, to Love's palace-sill ; No key of gold wUl fit the lock that's there. Nor heart there enter without pure goodwilL Not if he miss one courteous duty, dare A lover hope he should his love fulfil ; But to his lady must make meek repair. Reaping with husbandry her favours still. And thou but know'st of Love (I think) his name : Youth holds thy reason in extremitie^j^ ,TJnIyQn -thine own face' thou tum'st thine eyes; Fairer than Absalom's account'ift tiie same ; And think'st, as rosy moths are drawn by flame, To draw the women from their balconies.* V I • It is curious to find these poets perpetually rating one another [for the want of constancy in love. Guido is rebuked, as above, by n Dino Compagni ; Cino do. Pistoia. by Dante (p. in) ; and Dante by j|^' 1 Guido (p. l6l), who fonneriy, as we have seen (p. 146), bad ^ I to him bis doubts of Lapo Gianni. to L ad confided j GUIDO CAVALCANTI, 159 lA XIX. TO GUIDO ORLANDI. Sonnet* In praise of Guido OrlandTs 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 even is felt of Indian unicorn :* And all its virtue now, with fierce unrest, Unto thy soul makes difficult return. j^ 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 evep, hgrgJUl ^^^ ^y]?"' shdl be found : For only thus our intellect could know Th^heavenly beauty wmdhresembles her. * In old repretentaHopg, the imiconi is often teen with hb head in a ▼irgin's lap. GUIDO ORLANDt LO^- ^ u GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. [^.- Sonnet. ffe amwers thefore^tt^ Sonnet, declaring himself his lad^s Champion. '"T'^0 sound of trumpet rather than of boruj "I ^n^Love's name would hold a battle-play { Of gentlemen in arms on Easter Day ; And, sailing without oar or wind, be bome 1 Unto my joyful beauty ; all that room \ 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 ali truths adom. And still I pray Our JLady's grace above, Most reverently, that she whom my thoughts bear In sweet remembrance own her T..ord supreme. Holding her honour dear, as doth behove?^ _In_Qodwho therewithal sustaineth her Let her a^dej^a'^^ "^^^ depart from Him. t GUIDO CAVALCANTI. i6i t/' XX. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. Sonnet. He rebukes Dante for his way of lafe^ after the Death of Beatrice,^ I COME to thee by daytime constantly, But in thy thoughts too much of baseness find : Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind, And for thy many virtues gone from thee. It was thy wont to shim much company, Unto all sorry concoiu^e ill inclin'd : And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and kind, Had made me treasure up thy poetry. But now 1 dare not, for thine abject life, Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes; Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst know. Ah ! prythee read this sonnet many times : So shall that evil one who bred this strife Be thtust from thy dishonoured soul and go. * This interesting sonnet must refer to the same period of Dante's life r^arding which he has made Beatrice address him in words of noble reproach when he meets her in Eden. {Purg. C. xxx.) M GUIDO CAVALCANTI. ^■A XXI. Ballata. Concerning a Shepherd-maid. w ITHIN 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 foi 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. k 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 moo'd.' / / GUWO CAVALCANTI. 163 And so^ in h^ sweet fetvoui's name, I sued That she would kiss there and embrace with me. She took my hand to her with amorous will. And answered that she gave me all heart, And drew me where the leaf is fresh and still. Where spring the wood-flowers in the shade apart. And on that day, by Joy*s enchanted art, There Love in very presence seemed to be.* \ * The glossary to Btrberino, already mentioned, refers to the existence, junongthe Strom MSS., of a poem by Lapo di Farinata d^li Uberti, ¥rrttten in answer to the above ballata of Cavalcanti As this req>ondent was no other than Guido's brother-in*law, one feels cnrioos to know what he said to the peocadiUoes of his sister's husband. But I fear the poem cannot yet have been published, as I have sou^t for it in vaiti at all my printed sources of information. i64 GUJDO CA VALCANTL XXII- Sonnet. Of an iH-fcoioured Lady. JUST look, Manetto, at that wry-mouthed minx ; Merely take notice what a wretch it is ; How well contrived in her deformities, How beastly favoured when she scowls and blinks. Why, with a hood on (if one only thinks) Or muffle of prim veils and scapularies, — And set together, on a day like this, Some pretty lady with the odious sphinx ; — Why, then thy sins could hardly have such weight, Nor thou be so subdued from Love's attack, Nor so possessed in Melancholy's sway, But that perforce thy peril must be great Of laughing till the very heart-strings crack : Either thou'dst die, or thou must run away. CUWO CA VALCANTL 165 XXIIL TO POPE BONIFACE VIII. Sonnet. After the Popis Inierdidy when the great Houses were having Florence. NERO, thus much for tidings in thine ear. They of tiie Buondeknonti quake with dread, Nor by all Florence may be comforted, Noting in thee the lion's ravenous cheer; Who more than any dragon giv'st them fear, In ancient evil stubbornly anay'd ; Neither by bridge nor bulwark to be stay'd, But only by King Phaiadi's sepulchre. O in what monstrous sin dost thou engage, — All these which are of loftiest blood to drive Away, that none dare pause but all take wing 1 Yet sooth it is, thou might'st redeem the pledge Even yet, and save thy naked soul alive, Wert thou but patient in the bargaining. CUIDO CAVALCANTI. Sallata. In Exile at Sarsatia. ^L Surely tho ^^^^^H Assails 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, Sliail 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 : ^ CUIDO CAVALCANTI. 167 Thou kiu>west 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. Then, going, I implore That this my soul thou take (Nay, do so for my sake,) When my heart sets it free. Ah ! Ballad, unto thy dear offices 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. i68 GUIDO CA VALCANTI. s>.. ^ ^>*tc;>^^ f r"- XXV. Canzone.* V 1^ ^ ASo^ of Fortune, LO ! I am she who makes the wheel to turn ; Lo 1 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, I Learns then that I decree No state which mine own arrows may not find. Who clomb must fall : — this bear ye well in mind, Nor say, because he fell, I did him wrong. Yet mine is a vain song : For truly ye may find out wisdom when King Arthur's resting-place is found of men. Ye make great marvel and astonishment What time ye see the sluggard lifted up * This and the three following Canzoni are only to be found in the later collections of Guido Cavalcanti's poems. I have included them on account of their interest if really his, and especially for the beauty of the last among them ; but must confess to some doubts of their authenticity. GUIDO CAVALCANTL 169 And the just man. to drop, And ye €omplain on God and on my sway. O humankind, ye sin in your complaint : For He, tfiat Lord who made the world to live, l^^% mo tint ^^Ire nr yive Bvjnine own act^ but as He wills I may. Yet is the mind of man so castaway, That it discerns not the supreme behest Alas ! ye wretchedest, And chide ye at God also ? Shall not He JudgeJ^etween good and evil righteously ? Ah 1 had ye knowledge how God evermore, With agonies of soul and grievous heats, As on an anvil beats On them that in this earth hold high estate, — Ye would choose little rather than much store. And solitude than spacious palaces \ Such is the sore disease Of anguish that on all their days doth wait. Behold if they be not unfortunate, When oft the father dares not trust the son I O weakh, with thee is won A worm to gnaw for ever on his soul Whose abject life is laid in thy control I If also ye take note what piteous death They ofttimes make, whose hoards were manifold, Wlio cities had and gold And multitudes of men beneath their hand ; ■ Yea, 70 GVWO CAVALCANTI. Then he among you that most angereth Shall bless me, saying, ' Lo 1 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 Oravarice, shutting you from the true light ■ Wliich shows how sad and slight Are this world's treasured riches and array That still change hands a hundred times a-day. For me, — could envy enter in my sphere, Which of all human taint is clean and quit, — I well might harbour it When I behold the peasant at his toil. Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear, He leaves his perfect furrow as he goes, And gives his field repose From thorns and tares and weeds that vex the soil : Thereto he labours, and without turmoil Entrusts his work to God, content if so Such guerdon from it grow That ill that year his iamily 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. GUIDO CAVALCANTL 171 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 cany high intent Dissembled in the garb of humbleness, — With fair and open face To Master Thomas let thy course be bent Say that a great thing scarcely may be pent In little room : yet always pray that he Commend us, thee and me. To them that are more apt in lofty speech : For truly one must learn ere he can teach. m GUIDO CAVALCANTI. A Seng against Poverty. O 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 othenvise- I name thee now, because my mood is apt To ciirse thee, bride of every lost estate. Through whom are desolate On earth all honourable things and wise. Within thy power each blest condition dies : By thee, men's minds with sore mistrust are made Fantastic and afraid : — Thou, hated worse than Death, by just accord. And with the loathing of all hearts abhorr'd. Yea, rightly art thou hated worse than Death, For he at length is longed for in the breast. But not with thee, wild beast, Was ever aught found beautiful or good. For life is all that man can lose by death. Not fame and the fair summits of applausej His glorj- shall not pause, GUIDO CAVALCANTL 173 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. Hereby my mind is laden with a fear. And I will take some thought to shelter me. For diis I plainly see : — Through thee, to ftaud the honest man is led ; To tyranny the just loid tumeth here. And the magnanimous soul to avarice. Of every bitter vice Thou, to my thinking, art the fount and head,^ From thee no light in any wise is shed, v | ^ j^/s"^^ Who bringest to the paths of dusky hell. ^- "^""^ " I therdofe se6 ftlU well, ^1 /^^^T^^ 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 ; 174 GUIDO CA VALCANTI. 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 thyjgum^^^jiow : Andy 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. GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 175 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 firom me Which twice man may not see. And quenched the intelligence of joy, till now All solace but abides in perfect woe. Alas ! the more my painfiil spirit grieves, The more confused with miserable strife Is that delicious life Which sighing it recalls perpetually : 176 CUIDO CAVALCANTI, But its worst anguish, whence it still receives More pain than death, is sent, to yield the sting Of perfect suffering, By him who is my lord and governs me ; Who holds all gracious truth in fealty, Being nursed in those four sisters' fond caress Through whom comes happiness. He now has left me ; and I draw my breath Wound in the arms of Daath, 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 iiope 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 GUIDO CAVALCANTL 177 As her smooth face doth show. With yet more shameless strength holds mastery. My spirit, naked of its light and vile, Is lit by her with her own deadly gleam, Which makes all anguish seem As nothing to her scomges 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. Since that first frantic devil without faith Fell, in thy name, upon the stairs that mount Unto the limpid fount Of thine intelligence, — ^withhold not now Thy grace, nor spare my second foe from death. For lo ! on this my soul has set her trust ; And failing this, thou must Prove false to truth and honour, seest thou ! Then, saving light and throne of strength, allow My prayer, and vanquish both my foes at last ; That so I be not cast Into that woe wherein I fear to end. Yet if it is ordain'd That I must die ere this be perfected, — Ah ! yield me comfort after I am dead. N 178 GUIDO CAVALCANTL Ye unadombd 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. GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 179 XXVIII. Canzone. A Dispute with Death, ' /^ SLUGGISH, hard, ingrate, what doest thou ? V->/ Poor sinner, folded round with heavy sin, Whose life to find out joy alone is bent. I call thee, and thou fall'st to deafness now ; And, deeming that my path whereby to win Thy seat is lost, there sitt'st thee down content, And hold'st me to thy will subservient. But I into thy heart have crept disguised : Among thy senses and thy sins I went. By roads thou didst not guess, unrecognised. Tears will not now suffice to bid me go. Nor countenance abased, nor words of woe.* Now, when I heard the sudden dreadful voice Wake thus within to cruel utterance, Whereby the very heart of hearts did fail, My spirit might not any more rejoice. But fell from its courageous pride at once, And turned to fly, where flight may not avail. Then slowly 'gan some strength to re-inhale The trembling life which heard that whisper speak, And had conceived the sense with sore travail ; 1 80 GUWO CA VALCANTT. Till in the mouth it murmured, very weak, Saying : ' Youth, wealth, and beauty, these have I : 0 Death ! remit thy claim, — I would not die.' Small sign of pity in that aspect dwells Which then had scattered all my life abroad Till there was comfort with no single sense : And yet almost in piteous syllables, When I had ceased to speak, this answer flow'd : ' Behold what path is spread before thee hence ; Thy life has all but a day's permanence. And is it for the sake of youth there seems In loss of human years such sore offence? Nay, look unto the end of youthful dreams. What present glory does thy hope possess. That shall not yield ashes and bitterness?' But, when I looked on Death made visible, From my heart's sojourn brought before mine eyes, And holding in her hand my grievous sin, 1 seemed to see my countenance, that fell. Shake like a shadow : my heart uttered cries, And my soul wept the curse that lay therein- Then Death: 'Thus much thine urgent prayer shall win : — I grant thee the brief interval of youth At natural pity's strong soliciting.' . And I (because I knew that moment's ruth But left my life to groan for a frail space) Fell in the dust upon my weeping face. GUIDO CAVALCANTL i8i So, when she saw me thus abashed and dumb, In loftier words she weighed her argument, That new and strange it was to hear her speak ; Saying : ' The path thy fears withhold thee from Is thy best path. To folly be not shent, Nor shrink from me because thy fiesh 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 ; 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, — GUtDO CA VALCANTI. Thy (ktiier 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 1 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.' Vea, Lord. O thou, the Builder of the spheres. Who, making me, didst shape me, of thy grace. In thine own image and high counterpart ; IJo thou subdue my spirit, long perverse. To weep within thy will a. certain space. Ere yet thy thunder come to rive my hearL Set in my hand some sign of what thou art, Lord God, and suffer me to seek out Christ, — Weeping, to seek Him in thy ways apart; Until my sorrow have at length suffic'd In some accepted instant to atone For sins of thought, for stubborn evil done. Dishevelled and in tcar^, go, song of mine, To break the hardness of the heart of man ; Say how his life began From dust, and in that dust doth sink supine : LYet, say, the imerring spirit of grief shall guide His soul, being purified, To seek its Maker at the heavenly shrine. J CINO DA PISTOIA. Mr>.'Ma«Ma ■■ ' *"" J I. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. *:■ k Sonnet. He inUrprds Dant^s Dreamy related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova.* ^\ ^ACH lover's longing leads him naturally \ xJ^ Unto his lady's heart his heart to show ; ) And this it b 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, LO long had lainin slumber, from all woe Jolde a mantle silently. Also, in coming, Love niight not repress His joy, to )rield thee thy desire achieved, Whence heart should unto heart true service bring. ^t ?]md*^"^^"^^"Pi the great love-sickness Which in thy lady's bosom was conceived, !■ ■—■■■■■Hi— III 11 iff I I *"' ■ — -.f^. ^ . ^., . He pitied her, and wept in vanishing. * Sec ante^ page 33. 1 84 CINO DA PISTOIA. 11. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. Canzone. On the Death of Beatrice Fortinari. V ALBEIT my prayers have not so long dela/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 p'ersta/d But that these words of mine which towards thee move Must find thee still with spirit dispossessed, And say to thee : * In Heaven she now is bless'd, Even as the blessfed name men called her by ; While thou dost ever cry, * Alas ! the blessing of mine eyes is flown ! ' Behold, these words set down Are ileeded 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. Bless&d the soul which, when its flesh is furiM WithiiFiTshrbudTTejmang doth attain To HeaverTitself, made free of earthly jtCfiss- CINO DA PISTOIA, 185 Then wherefore sighs thy heart in abjectness. Which for her triumph should exult aloud ? For He the Lord our God Hath called her, hearkening what her Angel said. To have Heaven perfected. Each saint for a new thing beholds her face, And she the face of our Redemption sees. Conversing with immortal substances. Why now do pangs of torment clutch thy heart Which with thy love should make thee overjoy'd, As him whose intellect hath passed the skies ? Behold, the spirits of thy life depart Daily to Heaven with her, they so are buoy'd With their desire, and Love so bids them rise. O God 1 and thou, a man whom God made wise, To nurse a charge of care, and love the same ! 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 wiHTlKee. Be comforted, Love cries, be comforted ! Devotion pleads, Peace, for the love of God ! 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. 86 CJNO DA PISTOIA. How ever shouldst thou see the lovely face If any desperate death should once be thine? ^ From justice so condigti Withdraw thyself even now ; that injhe end Thy heart may not offend Against thy soul, which in the holy place. In Heaven, still hopes to see her and to be Witiiih her aims. Let this hope com?ort tEee;__ Look thou into the pleasure wherein dwells Thy lovely lady who is in Heaven crown'd. 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 blessfed 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. d CINO DA PISTOIA. 187 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 Soiil that never feared to die Then in another body draw new breath ? _?rlnw,iM thnt I, who entered at her door, Now at her dreadful window must fare forth. Yea, and I think through her it doth befisdl 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. CINO DA PISTOIA. To his Lady Sdvaggia VergioUst ; UkeiUng his I^ne b} a Search Jor Gold. I AM all bent to glean the golden ore Little by little from the river-bed ; Hoping the day to see When Crcesus 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 wami i' the core As this whereby tlie 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. I CINO DA PISTOIA. 189 To LovCy in great BitUmess. OLOVE, O thou that, for my fealty, Only in torment dost thy power employ, ^ive me, for God^s sake, something of thy joy, That I may learn what good there is in thee. Vea. for^ if thou art glad with CfilnflrH "^i ^^Surely my very life thou shalt destroy When thou reneVst 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, I must a little taste its opposite. ^■ir.^.^ CINO DA PISTOIA. VI. \J Sonnet, Death is not wti/wuf but within Aim. THIS fajrest lady, who, as well I wot. Found entrance by her beauty to my soul, ^ Pierced through mine eyes my heart, which erst was whole. Sorely, yet makes as though she knew it not ; Nay, turns upon me now, to anger wrought, Dealing me harshness for my pain's best dole. And is so changed by her own wrath's control. That I go thence, in my distracted thought Content to die ; and, mourning, cry abroad On Death, as upon one afar from me ; But Death makes answer from within my heart Thert7TieajiI5g"her so hard at hand to be, I do commend my spirit unto God ; Saying to her too, ' Ease and peace thou art.' L CINO DA PISTOIA. 191 VIL Sonnet. A TV'ance 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 toe that hath the wings of Love.' CINO DA PISTOIA. V VIII. Sonnet. Of the Grave of Seh'aggia, on the Monfe ddla Satnbuca. I WAS upon the high and blessed mound, And kissed, long worshipping, the stones and grass, There on the hard stones prostrate, where, alas ! That pure one laid her forehead in the ground. Then were tlie springs of gladness sealed and bound, The day that unto Death's most bitter pass My sick heart's lady turned her feet, who was Already in her gracious life renown'd. So in that place I spake to Love, and cried ; ' O sweet my god, I am one whom Death may claim Hence to be his ; for lo ! my heart lies here.' Anon, because my Master lent no ear, Departing, still I called Selvaggia's name. So with my inoanTleft the mountaTii^sidc. CINO DA PISTOIA. 193 A IX. Canzone. \/m His Lamenifor Selvaggia. AY me, alas ! the hgmtjfal bright hair That shed reflected c^old O'er the green growths on either side the way : Ay me I the lovely loyjc^ ypen and fair. Which my heart's core doth hold With afi else of that best-remembered day ; Ay me ! the face made gay With joy that Love confers ; Ay me ! that smile of hers Where whiteness as of snow was \dsible Among the roses at all seasons red ! Ay meT'and was this well, O Death, to let me live when she is dead ? Ay me ! the calm, erect, dignified walk ; Ay me I the sweet salute, — * The thoughtfiil mind, — the wit discreetly worn; Ay me ! tiie clearness of her noble talk, ^ [ j (^'**^ ^ Which made theToodtake n>ot^ r scorn ; ^ ^y me'i the longing bom * In me, and for the evil woke my scorn ; ^i :J C}NO DA PISTOIA. 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 glas^ 0 Deatli, who makcst me, alive, to die I Ay me I Lady, the lady of "TIjruJh j Saint, for wHose single "iRrine XlTother shrines 1 leit, evSn as Love will'd ; — Ay me 1 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 fulfiU'd With more than this world's good, — By cruel chance and rude Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains Where Death has shut thee in between hard stones ! Ay me I two languid fountains Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns. Ay me, shaip Death I till what I ask is. done And my whole life is ended utterly, — Answer — must I weep on Even thus, and never cease to moan Ay me? J CINO DA PJSTOIA. y J< TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. SOKHET. He owes nothhig to Gvido as a Poet. >5 I WHAT ihymes are thine yUadi I h»Ye u'en ThouJ!5uido, that thou ever say's! I thieve ?• 'Tis true, fine fancies glaiJly I receive, But when was aught found beautiful in thee ? Nay, I have "searched my pages diligently, And tell the truth, and lie not, by your leave. From whose rich store my web of songs I weave Love knoweth well, well knowing them and me. No artist I, — all men may gather it ; Nor do I work in ignorance of pride, (Though the world reach alone the coarser sense;) But am a. certain man of humble wit Who journeys with his sorrow at his side, For a hearths sake, alas ! that is gone hence. • I have not examined Cino's poetry with special reference to \ this Rccusatkin ; but thtre is a. Canzone of his in which he speaks of \ having conceived an affection for another lady from her resemblance J CO Selvaggia. Perhaps Guido considered this as a sort of plafiarisin / de facto on his own change of love through Mandelti's likeoess to V.GiovMuia. CINO DA PISTOIA V He impugns the verdicts of DarU^s 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, Jt beats the right down, lets the wrong go free. Shows some abased, and otheis in greatrfe^ Muc£"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. L CINO DA PJSTOIA. Sonnet. He condemns Danttfor ■not naming, in ihe Commedia, his friend Onesto di Boncima, and his Lady Seivaggia. AMONG the feults we in that Twok 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. TTe of Onesto di Boncima* nought HarSsud, who was to Arnauld Daniel f nigh. The other~rs,' 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 intercliangeil, which may be found in the Italian collections. There is also one Sonnet by Onesto to Cino, with his answer, both of which are far from bring afTectionate or respectful. They are very obscure however, and not qiecially interesting. t Tlie Provenfal poet, mentioned in C. xxvt. of the Purgatory. X That is, sanctilied the ApennineK by her burial on the Monte della Sambuca. DANTE DA MAIANO. ^ TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. He inierprOs Dante Alighieri's Dream, rdatedin thejirs^ Sormet of the Vita Nuova.* OF that wherein thou art a questioner Considering, I make answer briefly thus, Good friend, in wit but little prosperous ; J' And from my words the truth thou shalt infer, — ,^,^*"r Ji5i""So hearken to thy dream's lntcrprete^__ ^tsP%. If, sound of frame, thou soundly canst discuss ^""^ In reason,— then, to expel this overplus Of vapours which hath made thy speech to V y/- See that thou lave and purge thy stoinadrMjon. ^JSr' But if thou art afflicted with disease, J^ ,r i Know that I count it mere delirium^ ^_H*/^S^jjK Thus. of my thought I write thee back the sum: \p Nor my conclusions can be changed~ft5Si th^e^ (*^*^ Till to the leech thy water I haVe sliown."^-^ — I * See SMtt, page 33. [,/itv^ ^^-"^^^ w"-^-^-'^'"^au^ ^».'iA>s*j. ^ DANTE DA MAIANO. 199 Sonnet. He craves interpreting of a Dream of his. THOU that art wise, let wisdom minister Unto my dream, that it be imderstood. To wit : A lady, of her body fair, And whom my heart approves in womanhood^ Bestowed on me a wreath of flowers, fair-hued And green in leaf, with gentle loving air ; After the which, meseemed I was stark nudg .^ Save for a smock of hers that I did wear. t/LA'^^^ d/^ Whereat, good friend, my courage gat su<3i growth Hiat to mine arms I took her tenderly : With no rebuke the beauty laughed unloth. And ^ gjie \^w^pA \ kissed continua^^ I say no more, for that I pledged mine oath, And that my motliev^ho fa Head, was lEy" aM-^ , GUIDO ORLANDT. GUIDO ORLANDI- TO DANTE DA MAIANO. He interprets the Dream* r 1 the foregoing Sonnet. ON the last words of what you write to rae 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. • There ejdst no fewer than six answers by different poets, inter- preling Dante da Maiuio's dream. I have chosen Guido Orlandi's, much the moit matter-of-fact of lie six, because it is diverting to find the writer again in his anta^nistic 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 ludd interjireter of dreams ; though it might have some interest, as giving him {when compared with the SDimet at page 198) a decided advantage over his lesser namesake in point of courtesy. GUIDO ORLANDI. 201 It is a thing unseemly to declare The love of gracious dame or dainozel, And therewitn tor^excuse to say^T dream'd. Tell us no more of this, but think who seem'd o call you : mother came to ^^lip you well. Love close, and of LoVe's Joy you'll have your share. '^ (^ >i^A-J^ ^^ Y>^ i^t^-aX. /UL4w>yv J DANTE DA MA7AN0. lb his lady Nhta, nf Sicily. SO greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me, Gentle my lady, from the first of all, That counting every other hlessing small 1 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 he. Wherefore I pray thee, joyful countenance. Humbly, that it incense or irk thee not. If I, being thine, do wait upon thy glance. More to solicit, I am all afraid : Yet, lady, twofold is the gift, we wot, Given to the needy unsolicited. L. DANTE DA MAIANO, 203 IV- Ht thanks his Lady for th^Joy he has had from her, WONDERFUL countenance and royal neck, I have not found your beauty's pandlel ; Nor at her birth might any yet {Mre\'ail 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 Ejudted. And herein my pride I take Who of this garden have possession, So that all worth subsists for my behoof And bears itself according to my will. Lady, in thee such pleasaunce hath its fill That whoso is content to rest thereon Knows not of grief, and holds all pain aloof. CECCO ANGIOLIERI, DA SIENA. ^ TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. On the last Sonnet ofjhe Vita Nvova.^ DANTE ALIGHIEJXIjCecco, your^ood^iend^ And servant, gives you greeting as his loid^ And~pnEyE"you for the sake" of Love s accorcJ^ (Love being the Master before whom you bend,) That you will pardon him if he offend, Even as your gentle heart can well afford. All that he wants to say is just one word Which partly chides your sonnet at the end. For where the measure changes, first you say You do not understand the gentle speech A spirit made touching your Beatrice : ■ And next you tell yoiu- ladies how, straightway, IYou understand it. Wherefore (look you) each Of these your words the other's sense denies. 1^' • See ante, page ii CECCO ANGIOLIERL 205 IL Sonnet. He wiU not be too deeply in Love. I AM enamoured, and yet not so much But that I'd do without it easily; And my own mind thinks all the more of me That Love has not quite penned me in his hutch. £nough if for his sake I dance and touch The lute, and serve his servants cheerfully : An overdose is worse than none would be : Love is no lord of mine, I'm proud to vouch. So let no woman who is bom conceive That ril be her liege slave, as I see some, Be she as fair and dainty as she wiU. Too much of love makes idiots, I believe : I like not any fashion that turns glum The heart, and makes the visage sick and ill CECCO ANGIOLIERL 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. AJso 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. CECCO ANGIOLIERL wj IV. Sonnet. Of Love^ in homur of his mtstrtss Becchina. 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 foimd, no good is there ; On that there's nothing that I would not stake. So now, my Sonnet, go as you are told To lovers and their sweethearts everywhere, And say I made you for Becchina's sake. CECCO ANGIOLIERL Of Becchina, the Shoemaker's WHY, if Becchioa's heart were diamond, And al! the other parts of her were steei, 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, I'd let her know that I'm her happiness ; That I'm her life should also be made clear, With other things that I've no need to tell ; And then I feci quite sure she'd answer Yes. k J CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 209 VI. Sonnet. To Messer Angbiieri^ 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,— whafs My sin, or all the sins of Turks, to you? For I protest, (or may I be struck dead I) My love's so firmly planted in its place, Whipping nor hanging now could change the grain. And if you want my reason on this head, It is that whoso looks her in the face, Though he were old^ gets back his youth again. * Perhaps the names of his Other's estates^ CECCO ANGIOUERI. L Of the 2oth/une, 1291, I'M full of everything I do not want And have not that wherein I should find ease ; For alway till Becdiina 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 ate fewer in heaven's span Than all those kisses wherewith I kept tune All in an instant (I who now have none !) Upon her mouth {I and no other man 1) So sweetly on the twentieth day of June In the new year " twelve-hundred-ninety -one, • The year, according to the calendar of those days, b^an on ihe 25th Maj-ch. The RlteraCion to m J anuary wss made in ijSz by the Pope, and immediately adopled by all Catholic countries, but by England nol till 1752. There is some added vividness in remembering that Cecco's unplatonic love -encounter dates twelve dayg after the first deadi-anniverjaryof Beatrice {^ih of June, lagi), when Dante tells us that he ' drew the resemblance of an uigel upon tablets.' (See ante, page 95.) A CECCO ANGIOUERL 211 VIII. SOMKET. In absence from Becchina, MY heart's so heavy with a hundred things That I feel dead a hundred times arday ; Yet death would be the least of sufferings. For life's all suffering save what's slept away : Though even in sleep there is no dream btu 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-strickoi guest : Sorrow has brou^t 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 212 CECCO ANGIOLIERL IX. Sonnet. Of BeccMna in a rage. WHEN I behold Becchina in a rage, Just like a litde lad I trembling stand Whose master tells him to hold out his hand ; Had I a lion's heart, the sight would wage Such war against it, that in that sad stage I'd wish my birth might never have been planned, 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 screened. So I'll not blink the fact, but plainly say It's time I got my valour to grow big. CECCO ANGIOLIERL 213 X. Sonnet. He rails against Danie^ who had censured his homage to Beuhina* DANTE ALIGHIERI in Becchina's praise Won't have me sing, and bears him like my lord. He's but a pinchbeck florin, on my word ; Sugar he seems, but salt's in all his Ways; He looks like wheaten bread, who's bread of maize ; He's but a sty, though like a tower in height ; A falcon, till you find that he's a kite ; Call him a cock ! — a hen's more Uke 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 well 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 Hungary. We know from Dante that a friendship subsisted between himtelf and the latter prince, who visited Florence in 1295, and dl^* saif^ipeflkrt in his fttiwi's fifetime^ {JParadisi^ C vnL) 2J4 CECCO ANGIOLIERI. XL Sonnet. Of his four Tormentors. I'M caught, like any thrush the nets surprise, By Daddy and Becchina, Mammy and Love. As to the first-named, let thus much suffice, — . Each day he damns me, and each hour thereof; Becchina wants so much of all that's nice, Not Mahomet himself could yield enough : And Love ttill 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 !' CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 215 XII. Sonnet. Conceming his Father. THE dreadful and the desperate hate I bear My father (to my praise, not to my shame,) Will make him live more than Methusalem ; Of this I've long ago been made aware. Now tell me, Nature, if my hate's not fair. A glass of some thin wine not worth a name One day I begged, (he has whole butts o' the same,) And he had almost killed me, I declare. *• Good Lord, if I had asked for vemage-wine !' Said I ; for if he'd spit into my face I wished to see for reasons of my owlL Now say that I mayn't hate this plague of mif!6 ! Why, if you knew iidtat I know of his ways. You'd tell me that I ought to knock him down.* * I have thought it necessary to soften one or two expressions in this sonnet. CECCO ANGIOUERI. xm. Somnrr. Of aU he would do. IF I were fire, I'd bum the world away ; If I were wind, I'd turn my storms thereon; if I were water, I'd soon let it drown ; If I were God, I'd sink it from the day ; If I were Pope, I'd never feel quite gay Until there was no peace beneath the sun ; If I were Emperor, what would 1 have done? — I'd top men's heads all round in my own way. If I were Death, I'd look my father up ; If I were Life, I'd run away from him ; And treat ray mother to like calls and runs. If I were Cecco, (and that's all my hope,) I'd pick the nicest girls to suit my whim, And other folk should get the ugly ones. J CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 217 XIV. Sonnet. He is passed aU Help. 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. I'm down, and cannot rise in any way ; For not a creature of my nearest kin Would hold me out a hand that I could reach. I pray you do not mock at what I say ; For so my love's good grace may I not win If ever sonnet held so true a speech ! 2 1 8 CECCO ANGIOLIERL XV. Sonnet. Of why he is unhanged, WHOEVER without money is in love Had better build a gallows and go hang ; He dies not once, but oftener feels the pang Than he who was cast down from Heaven above. And certes, for my sins, it's plain enough, If Love's alive on earth, that he's myself, Who would not be so cursed with want of pelf If others paid my proper dues thereof. Then why am I not hanged by my own hands ? I answer : for this empty narrow chink Of hope ; — that I've a father old and rich. And that if once he dies I'll get his lands ; And die he must, when the sea's dry, I think. Meanwhile God keeps him whole and me i' the ditch. CECCO ANGIOLIERL 219 XVI. Sonnet. Of why he would he a Scullion. I AM so out of love through poverty Hiat if I see my mistress in the street I hardly can be certain whom I meet. And of her name do scarce remember me. Also my courage it has made to be So cold, that if I suffered some foul cheat. Even from the meanest wretch that one could beat, Save for the sin I think he should go free. Ay, and it plays me a still nastier trick ; For, meeting some who erewhile with me took Delight, I seem to them a roaring fire. So here's a truth whereat I need not stick : — That if one could turn scullion to a cook. It were a thing to which one might aspire. CECCO ANGIOUERI. XVII. Prolonged Sonnet. When his Clothes were gpne. NEVER so bare and naked was church-stone As is my clean-stripped doublet in my grasp ; Also I wear a shirt without a clasp, Which is a dismal thing to look upon. Ah ! had I still but the sweet coins I won That time I sold my nag and staked the pay, I'd not lie hid beneath the roof to-day And eke out sonnets with this moping moan. Daily a thousand times stark mad am I At my dad's meanness who won't clothe me now. For ' How about the horse ?' is still his cry. Till one thing strikes me as clear anyhow, — No rag I'll get. The wretch has sworn, I see, Not to invest another doit in me. And all because of the fine doublet's price He gave me, when I vowed to throw no dice, And for his damned nag's sake I Well, this is nice I J CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 221 XVIIL Sonnet. He argues his cctsewith 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^in. 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 called, — Both me and him who sticks so in his skin. Or better stiU, look here ; for if I'm slain Alone, — ^his wealth, it's true, I'll never have, Yet death is life to one who lives in pain : But if you only kill Saldagno's knave, I'm left in Siena (don't you see your gain ?) Like a rich man who's made a galley-^lave.* "^ He means, possibly, that he should be more than ever tor- iiented by his creditors, on accoimt of. their knowing his ability to pay them : but the meaning seems very uncertain. CECCO ANGIOLIERl. Of Beahina, and of her Husband. I WOULD like beKer in the grace to be Of the dear mistress whom I bear in mind (As once I was) than T should like to find A stream that washed up gold continually : Because no language could report of me The joys that round my heart would then be twin'd, Who now, without her love, do seem resign'd To death that bends my life to its decree. And one thing makes the matter still more 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 strange, 1 CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 223 XX. Sonnet. To BecchincCs rich Husband.* AS thou wert loth to see, before thy feet, The dear broad coin roll all the hill-slope down, Till, gathering it from rifted dods, 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 heafst the voice of thy poor husbandman And those loud herds, his other family, — I know, as surely as Becchina's bom With a kind heart, she does the best she can To filch at least one new-bought prize from thee. * This puxziing sonnet is printed in Italian collections with the name of Guido Cavalcanti. It must evidently belong to Angiolieri, and it has certain fine points which make me unwilling to omit it ; though partly as to rendering, and wholly as to application, I have been driven on conjecture. CECCO ANGIOLIERL 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 gloiy 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,f till his life swells To more than Enoch's or Elijah's scope. ■ It would almost seem ^s if Cecco, in his poverty, bad at last taken refuge in a religious house under the name of Brother Henry {Frati Arrigo], and as if be here meant that Brother Henry was now decayed, so to Sf>eak, through the resuscitation of Cecco. (Sec Introduction to Part I. page 23. ) t In the original words, ' Ma di tal cibo imbecchi lo suo becco,' a play upon the name of Beccbina seems intended, which I have 'yed as wei] as I could. CECCO ANGIOUERI. 225 Sonnet. He would slay all who hak tkdr Fathers. XXTHO niters of his fiidier auj^ bat praise, V Y Twere well to cut his tongae out c^his moudi ; Because the Deadly Sins aie 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, Sa3ring, ' Holy Father, let a just crusade Scourge each man who his sirens good name gainsays.* And if by chance a handful of sodi rogues At any time should come into our dutch, rd have them cooked and eaten then and there, If not by men, at least by wolves and dogs. The Lord foigive me 1 for I fear me much Some words of mine were rather foul than fair. 226 CECCO ANCIOUERI. xxin. TO DANTE ALIGHIERI, SONN£T. He writes to DanU^ thai in exile at Verona^ ^fy^^ ^^ ^^ no better than himself, DANTE ALIGHIERI, if I jest and Kc, You in guch lists might lun 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 ! 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. GUIDO ORLANDL 227 GUIDO ORLANDI/ Sonnet. Against the ' White' Ghibetlines. 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's f 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. * Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Gvido Caval- « •«nti and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their poems. \ i,€> Florence. 228 GUIDO ORLANDL Behold, against the Whites all men must agn Some judgment whence no pardon can be daim'd Excepting they were offered to Saint John/ * * That iS| presented at the high altar on thefeast DANTE ALICHIERr. DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GIOVANNI QUIRING. 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 qnires agree The cidzens of that fair citadel, To the Creator I His creature swell Their song, and all their love possesses tne So, when I contemplate the great reward To which our God has called the Christian seed, ^H I long for nothing else but only this. ^B And then my soul is grieved in thy regard, ^H Dear Mend, who reck'st not of thy nearest need, ^^B Renouncing for slight joys the perfect bliss. APPENDIX TO PART I. L FORESE DONATI. WHAT follows relates to the very filmiest of all the will-o'-the-wisps ^ich 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 £eur as may be. Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, (published in 1640, and already several times referred to here,) has a rather startling entry imder the word Vendetta^ After describing this 'custom of the country,' he says: — ' To leave a vengeance imaccomplished was considered ' very shameful; and on this account Forese de* Donati sneers * at Dante, who did not avenge his father Alighieri; saying to * him ironically^ — *' Ben s6 che fosti figliuol d' Alighieri ; £d accoigomen pure alia vendetta Che facesti di lui d bella e netta ;'* ^ and hence perhaps Dante is menaced in Hdl 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 childhood, 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 passing his kinsman in contemptuous silence on account of his own 6ef^ " J 242 APPENDIX TO PART I. hand of one of the Sacchetti, which remained till then unavenged, and so continued till after Dante's death, when Cione Aiighieri fulfilled the vendetta by slaying a Sacchetti at Ihe 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 Aiighieri. 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 Purgatorj- (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 ran- cour, 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, Q.uadriO; 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 stigmatising Forese's supposed pro- ductions 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 lirst published together in iSta by Fiacchi, who states that he had seen two separate ancient MSS. in both of which they were attributed to Dante and Forese. 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 afterwards. APPENDIX TO PART L 243 I. Dante Alighieri to Forese Donati. He taunts Forese^ by the nickname of Bicci. O Bicci, pretty son of who knows whom Unless thy mother Lady Tessa tell, — Thy gullet is already crammed too well, Yet others' food thoa needs must now consume. Lo ! he that wears a purse makes ample room When thou goest by m 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 Bicd 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 iromcatty for not avenging Geri Alighieri, Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son \ Nsy^ that revenge alone might warrant it. Which thou didst take, so clever and complete, For thy great-uncle who awhile agone 244 APPENDIX TO PART 1. Paid scores in full. Why, if thou hadst hewn one In bits for it, 'twere early still for peace ! But then thy head's so heaped with things like these That they would weigh two sumpter-horses down. Thou hast taught us a fciir 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 Than hast of help, that I may stand by thee. H^ Who s K She Dante Alighieri to Forese Domati. ffe taunts him conarning his Wife. To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough, (Bicci, — Forese as he's called, you know, — ) You'd fancy she had wintered, sure enough. Where icebergs rear themselves in constant snow And Ix)rd ! if in mid-August it is so, How in the frozen months must she come off? To wear her socks abed avails not, — no, Nor quilting from Cortona, warm and tough. Her cough, her cold, and all her other ills, Do not afflict her through the rheum of age, But through some want within her nest, poor spouse This grief, with other griefs, her mother feels, Who says, ' Without much trouble, I'll engage, She might have married in Count Guide's house !' I APPENDIX TO PART /. 245 IV. FORESE DONATI TO DaNTE AuGHIERI. He taunts Mm concerning the unavenged Spirii of Geri AlighierL The other night I had a dreadful cough Because I'd got no bed-clothes over me ; And so, when the day broke, I hurried off To seek some gain whatever it might be. And such luck as I had I tell you of. For lo 1 no jewels hidden in a tree I find, nor buried gold, nor suchlike stuff, But Alighieri among the graves I see, Bound by some spell, I know not at whose *hest, — At Solomon's, or what sage's who shall say ? ITierefore I crossed myself towards the east; And he cried out : * For Dante's love I pray Thou loose me I' 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 evezything which could pos- sibly belong to my subject Even supposing that the authorship is correctly attributed 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 observ- ance of the vendetta had its opponents among the laity, is evi- dent from a passage in Barberind's Docununtid^Atnore^ The 246 APPENDIX TO PART 1. [wo sonnets bearing Dante's name, if not less offensive than the others, are rather more pointed; but seem still very unworthy even of his least exalted mood. Accordingly Fraticelli (in his Minor Works ef Dante) settles to his own satisfaction that these four sonnets are not by Dante and Forese; but I do not think his arguments 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 I7S7i 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, vocato Forese,'showsthat 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 fiill as likely to be meant in ridicule as in earnest Lastly, of Sonnet IV. Fraticelh says nothing. It is now necessary to explain that Sonnet 1 1,, as I trans- late 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 si chc fosti figliuij! d'Alighieri ; ' I Ed accorgomen pure alia vendetta J ^^_ Che facesti di lui, si bella e neltn, ^^^^1 ^^^k Dell' malin che dii cambio I' altrieri. ^^^^^^| APPENDIX TO PART I 247 Of the two printed texts one says, in the fourth line-—* Dell' aguglin ched ei cainbi6 F altrieri ; and the other, D^li auguglin che di^ cambio 1* altrierL *" Aguglino ' wovdd 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 confused 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.) deW avolino che di^ cambio 1' altrieri;' translated literally, ^The vengeance which you took for him, — iot yowt 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 after wards slain himself by another. I should add that I do not think the possibility, however questionable, of these sonnets being authentically by Dante and Forese, depends solely on the admission of this word * avolino.' The rapacity attributed to the * Bicci ' of Sonnet I. seems a tendency somewhat akin to the insatiable gluttony which Forese is represented as expiating in Dante's Purgatory. Mention is also there made of Forese''s wife, though certainly in a very different strain from that of Sonnet III.; but it is not impossible that the poet might have intended to make amends to her as well as in some degree to her husband's memory. I am really more than half ashamed of so many * possibles' and *not impossibles;' but perhaps, having been led into the subject, am a little inclined that the reader should be worried with it like myself. At any rate, considering that these Sonnets are attributed 148 APPENDIX TO PART I. by various old manuscripts to Dante and Forese Donatij— 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 lifetime, as we find the vendetta accomplished even after his death, — and lastly, that the sonnets attributed to Forese seem to be plausibly referable to this subject, — I have thought it pardonable towards myself and my readers to devote to these ill-natured and not very refined produc- tions this very long and tiresome note. Crescimbeni {Storia delta 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 conclusion, I hope I need hardly protest against the inference that my transla- tions and statements might be shown to abound in dubious makeshifts and whimsical conjectures; though it would be admitted, on going over the ground 1 have traversed, that it presents a difficulty of some kind at almost every step. Cecco lyAscOLi. There is one more versifier, contemporary with Dante, to whom I might be expected to refer. This is the ill-fated Francesco S tab ili, better known as Cecco d' Ascoli, who was burnt by the Inquisition at Florence in 1327, as a heretic, though the exact nature of his offence is involved in some APPENDIX TO PART I. 249 mystery. He was a narrow, discontented and self-sufficient writer; and his incongruous poem in sesta rimay called LAcerba^ contains various references to the poetry of Dante (whom he knew personally) as well as to that of Guido Cavalcanti, made chiefly in a supercilious spirit These allusions have no poetical or biographical value whatever, so I need say no more of them or their author. And indeed perhaps the ^ Bicci ' sonnets are quite enough of themselves in the way of absolute trash* III. 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 Conmientary on the Poem, as well as by other passages in his writings both in prose and poetry. The first of the three following sonnets relates to his public eading 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 gene- ration which immediately succeeded Dante already paid un- hesitating 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 t]»* ^irit of his nugbty master, unknown to him in the flef APPENDIX TO PART I. To oru who liad censured his public Exposition of Daitie. If Dante mourns, there wheresoe'er he be, That sucJi high fancies of a soul so proud Should be laid open to the vulgar Crowd, (As, touching my Discourse, I'm loid by thee,) This were my grievous pain ; and certainly My proper blarae 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. 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. My lofty fancy passed as low as Hell, As high as Heaven, secure and unconfia' And in my noble book doth every kind Of earthly lore and heavenly doctrine dwell. APPENDIX TO PART L 25* Renownfed 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. TIL 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 abound 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 has a playful charm very cha- 352 APPENDIX TO PART I. racteristic of the author of the Decameron ; while its beauty of colour (to our modern minds, privileged to review the whole pageant of Italian Art,) might recall the painted pas- torals of Giorgionc. IV. Of FiamTnetta 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; Vet 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. 0/ his last sigkt 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. r \ L Thence to a little cloud I watched it fade. Than silver or than gold more brightly fair ; I APPENDIX TO PART I. 253 And like a pearl that a gold ring doth bear, Even so an angel sat therein, who sped Alone and glorious throughout heaven, anay'd 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 sdngs Of sorrow, and with life's most weary load I dwell, who fain would be where she is gone. VI. Of three Girls and of their Talk, By a clear well, within a little field Full of green grass and flowers of every hue, Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew) Their loves. And each had twined a bough to shield Her lovely face ; and the green leaves did yield The golden hair their shadow ; while the two Sweet colours mingled, both blown lightly through With a soft wind for ever stirred and still'd. After a little while one of them said, (I heard her,) * Think ! If, ere the next hour struck. Each of our lovers should come here to-day, Think you that we should fly or feel afiraid ?' To whom the others answered, * From such luck A girl would be a fool to run away.* End of Part I. PART II. POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE. TABLE OF POETS IN PART II I. CIULLO D'ALCAMO, 1172-78. CiuUo is a popular form of the name Vincenzo, and Alcamo an Arab fortr ss some miles from Palerma 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. Arguments have sometimes been brought to prove that it must be assigned to a later date than the poem by Folcachiero, which follows it in this volume ; thus ascribing the first honours of Italian poetry to Tuscany, and not to Sicily, as is commonly sup- posed. Trucchi, however, (in the preface to his valuable collection,) states his belief that the two poems are about contemporaneous, fixing the date of that by Ciullo between 1172 and 1 178, — chiefly from the fact that the fame of Saladin, to whom this poet alhides, 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 ally as its language is far the most unformed 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 /o/Smt. IL FOLCACHIERO D^ FOLCACHIEM, KKIGRT OF SlENA^ 1177. The above date has been assigned with probability to 8 =58 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. Folcachiero's Canzone, on account of its first line where ihe 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 between Frederick Barbarossa and Pope Alexander III. III. LODOVICODELLA VERNACCIA, I200. IV. Saint Francis of Assist; born, iiSz, died, 1226. His baptismal name was Giovanni, and his fnilier was Bemardone Moriconi, whose "mercantile pursuits he shared till the age of tweaty-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. Tlie 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 ; ?nd lovingly culti- vated 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 1 believe that an allegorical interpretation may here probably be admissible ; and that ihe lady of the poem may be the Empire, or perhaps the Church herself, held in bondage by the Pope, VI. Enzo, King of Sardinia; born, 1225, died, 1172. The unfortunate Enzo was a natural son of Frederick II,, and was born at Palermo. By his own warlike enterprise, at an early age (it is said at fifteen !) he subjugated 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 promise as a leader ; but at the age of twenty-five was taken prisoner by the Bolo- gnese, whom no threats or promises from the Emperor could TABLE OF POETS IN PART 11. 259 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 Commediay (Purg. C. xxvi) in the ConvitOy and in the De Vulgari Eloguioj 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 most famous one * On the Gentle Heart.' VIII. GUERZO DI MONTECANTI, 1220. IX. INGHILFREDI, SiCILIANO, I22a X. RiNALDO d' Aquino, 1250. I have placed this poet, belonging to a Neapolitan family, under the date usually assigned to him ; but Trucchi states his belief that he flourished much earlier, and was a con- temporary of Folcachiero ; partly on accoimt of two lines io one of his poems which say, — ' Lo Imperadore con pace Tutto il mondo mantene.* If so, the mistake would be ^sily accounted for, as there seent to have been various members of the family named Rinaldo, at different dates. XI. JACOPO DA LENTINa, 1250. This Sicilian poet is generally called Mhe Notary of 26o TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. Lentino.' The low estimate expressed of him, as well as of Bonaggiunta and Guittone, by Dante (Purg. C. XXiV), must be understood as referring in great measure to their want of grammatical purity and nobility of style, as we may judge when this passage is taken in conjunction with the principles of the De Vulgari Eloquia. However, Dante also attributes his own superiority to the fact of his writing only when love (or natural impulse) really prompted him, — the highest certainly of all laws relating to art ; — Amor tni spira, nolo, ed in quel modo Ch' ei detu dentro, vo signiticindo.' A translation does not suffer from such offences of dialect as may exist in its original ; and I think my readers will agree that, chargeable as he is with some conventionality of sentiment, the Notary of Lentino is often not without his claims to beauty and feeling. There is a peculiar charm in the sonnet which stands first among my specimens. XII, Mazzeo di Rjcco, da Messina, 1250. Xni. Pannucciodal Bagno, Pisano, 1250. XIV. GlACOMINO PUGLIESI, KNIGHT OF PRATO, laJO. Of this poet there seems nothing to be learnt j but he deserves special notice as possessing rather more poetic individuality than usual, and also as furnishing the only instance, among Dante's predecessors, of a poem (and a very beautiful one) written on a lady's death. XV. Fra Guittone d' Arezzo, 1250. Guittone was not a monk, but derived the prefix to fais name from the fact of his belonging to the religious and mili- tary order of Cavalieri di Santa Maria. He seems 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 pro- minent kind; and Dante shows by various allusions that he TABLE OF POETS IN PART 11. 261 considered them much over-rated. The sonnet I have given is somewhat remarkable, from Petrarch's having transplanted its last line into his Trionfi cTAmore (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, I2S0. XVII. Saladino da Pavia, 1250. XVIII. Bonaggiunta Urbiciani, da Lucca, i2sa XIX. Meo Abbracciavacca, da Pistoia^ 125a XX. Ubaldo di Marco, 1250. XXL Simbuono Giudice, 1250. XXII. Masolino da Todi, 1250. XXIII. Onesto di Boncima, Bologkese, 1250. Onesto was a doctor of laws, and an early friend of Cine da Pistoia. He was living as late as 1301, though his career as a poet may be fixed somewhat further back. XXIV. Terino da Castel Fiorentino, 125a XXV. Maestro Migliore, da Fiorenza, 125a XXVI. Dello da Signa, 1250. XXVI I. FOLGORE DA San Geminiano, 1260. XXVI I L GUIDO DELLE COLONNE, I250. This Sicilian poet has few equals among his contempo- raries, and is ranked high by Dante in his treatise De VuJ- gariEloquio, He visited England and wrote in Latin a Htstoria de regibus et rebus Anglia^ as well as a Hisioria destrucHonis Troja. XXIX. PiER Moronelli, di Fiorenza, 125a XXX. CiuNcio Fiorentino, 125a XXXI. RUGGIERI DI AMICI, SICILIAKO, I25Q. ^ 262 TABLE OF POETS IN PART IT. XXXn. Cabnino Ghibekti, da Fiorbnza, 1250. XXXIII. Prinzivalle DORIA, 1250. Prlmivalle commenced by wriring Italian poetry, but afterwards composed verses entirely in Provencal, for the love of Beatrice, Countess of Provence. He wrote also, in Provengal prose, a treatise ' On the dainty Madness of Love,' and another ' On the War of Charles, King of Naples, against the tyrant Manfred!.' He held various high offices, and died at Naples in 1276. XXXIV. RUSTICO m FiLIPPO ; BORN ABOUT 1200, DIED, 1270. The writings of this Tuscan poet (called also Rustico Barbuto) show signs of more vigour and versatility than was common in his day, and he probably began writing in Italian verse even before many of those already mentioned. In his old age, he, though a Ghibelliae, received the dedication of the Tesoretto from the Guelf Brunetto Latini,who there pays him unqualified homage for surpassing 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. PUCCIAEELLO DI FlORENZA, Iz6o. XXXVI. ALBERTUCCIO BELLA ViCLA, I26o, XXXVII. TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA, I280. XXXVIII. NOFFO BONAGUIDA, 128o. XXXIX. Lippo Paschi DE" Bardi, 1380. XL. Ser Pace, Notaio da Fiorenza, 128a J TABLE OF POETS IN PART IL 263 XLI. NICCOL6 DEGLI ALBIZZI, I30O. The noble Florentine jEamily 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 confess 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 CoM" 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, 1 296, he pursued the study of law chiefly in Bolog^na 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 Bru- netto 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 else- where ; and on his return to Italy in 131 3, was the first who, by special favour of Pope Clement V., received the grade of Doctor of Law** 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 children. At the age of eighty-four he died in the great Plague of Florence. Of the two works which Barberino has left, one bears the title of Documenti d^Amore, literally 'Documents of Love,' but perhaps more properly rendered as 'Laws of Courtesy;* TABLE OF POETS IN PART IT. while the other is called D^l Riggiminto e dei Costumi d^lle Donne, — 'OftheGovemmentand Conduct of Women.' They Toa-y 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 prominent merits. The first- named treatise, however, has much more of such qualities than the second ; and contains, 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 minute- ness 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 re- mained long unprinted, the first edition of the Documenti d'Amore being that edited by Ubaldini in 1640, at which time he reports the Heggimenio, &'£., to be only possessed by his age ' in name and in desire.' This treatise was after- wards brought to light, but never printed till iSij. I should not forget to state that Barberino attained some knowledge of drawing, and that Ubaldini had seen his original MS. of the Documenti, containing, as be 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 Ghibelline party. This contributes with other things to render it rather singular that we find no poetic correspondence or apparent communication of any kind between him and his many great countrymen, contemporaries of his long life, and with whom he had more than one bond of sympathy. His career stretched from Dante, Guido Cavalcanti, and Cino da Pistoia, to Petrarcit and Boccaccio ; yet only in one respectful but not enthusiastic notice of him by the last-named writer TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. {Genealogitt degli Dei), do we ever meet with an aJlusion to him by any of the greatest men of his time. Nor in his own writings, as far as I remember, are they ever referred to. His epitaph is said to have been written by Boccaccio, but this is doubtful. For some interesting notices of, and translations from, Barberino, I may refer the reader to the tract on 'Italian Courtesy Books,' by my brother W. M. Rossetti, issued by the Early English Text Society. XLIII. Fazio Degi.i Uberti, 1326-60, The dates of this poet's birth and death are not ascertain- able, but I have set against his name two dates which resilt 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 Ghzbellines 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 grandfather was Farinata degli Uberti, whose stern nature, unyielding even amid penal fires, has been recorded by Dante in the tenth canto of the Inferno, Farinata's son Lapo, himself a poet, was the father of Fazio {,i.e. Bonifazio), who was no doubt bom in the lifetime of Dante, and is some place of exile, but where is not known. In his youth he was enamoured of a certain Veronese lady named Angiola, and was afterwards married, but whether to her or not is again among the uncertainties. Certain it is that he had a son named Leopardo, who, after his father's death at Verona, settled in Venice, where his descendants maintained an honourable ranic for the space of two succeeding centuries. Though Faiio appears to have suffered sometimes from poverty, he enjoyed high reputation as a poet, and is even said, on the authority of various early writers, to have publicly received the laurel crown ; but in what city of Italy this took place we do not learn. There is much beauty in several of Fazio's lydcal poems, of which, however, no great number have been preserved. S66 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 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 Canzaniere ; and as far as poetic beauty is concerned, it must be allowed to hold even there aji eminent place. Its style, however, (as Monti was the first to point out :n our own day, though Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, had already quoted it as the work of Fazio) is more particulariiing than accords with the practice of Dante ; while, though certainly more perfect than any other poem by Fazio, its mainner is quite his ; bearing especially a strong resemblance throughout in struc- ture to one canzone, 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 collec- tion of I5i8.' 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. 1 believe we may decide that the triumph belongs by right to Fazio. An exile by inheritance, Fazio seems to have acquired restless tastes ; and in the latter years of his life (which was prolonged to old age), he travelled over a great part of Europe, and composed hi? long poem entitled // Ditti- ttwndo, — ' The Song of the World.' This work, though by no means contemptible in point of execution, certainly falls far short of its conception, which is a grand one ; the topics of which it treats in great measure,— geography and natural history, — rendering it in those days the native home of all credulities and monstrosities. 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 accom- phshed. The whole earth (or rather all that was then TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. 267 known of it) is traversed, — 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 beforehand to the greatest poets by some imconscious steward. XLIV. Franco Sacchi^tti; born, 1335, died shortly AFTER 1400. This excellent writer is the only member of my gathering who was bom after the death of Dante, which event (in 1 321) 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 chi^ characteristic ; for even with Boccaccio, in his poetry, this is hardly the case, and we can but ill accept as play- fulness 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 belonged 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-historical, and even theological. He was a prolific writer, and one who well merits complete and careful publi- cation. 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 ifendetta of long standing (spoken of here in the Appendix to Part /.), but which was probably set at rest before' Franco's time, by 268 TABLE OF POETS IN PART II. the deaths of at least one Alighieri and two SacchettL 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 im- portant offices; was one of the Priori in 1383, and for some time was deputed to the government of Faenza, in the absence of its lord, Astorre Manfredi. He was three times married ; to Felice degli Strozzi, to Ghita Gherardini, and to Nannina di Saiiti Bruni. XLV. Anonymous Poems. CIULLO D' ALCAMa Dialogue. Lover and Lady. He, THOU sweetly-smelling fresh red rose That near thy summer art, Of whom each damsel and each dame Would fcdn be counterpart j Oh I from this fire to draw me forth Be it in thy good heart : For night or day there is no rest ifvith me, Thinking of none, my lady, but of thee. She. If thou hast set thy thoughts on me, Thou hast done a foolish thing. Yea, all the pine-wood of this world Together might'st thou bring. And make thee ships, and plough the sea Therewith for corn-sowing, Ere any way to win me could be found ; For I am going to shear my locks all round. ^^K 370 ClULLO D'ALCAMO. 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. Merely to pass and look at thee, Rose of the garden-bed. Has comforted me mudi, 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, b By the same path I counsel thee to go. r H. I And if thy kinsfolk find me here, ^. Shall I be drowned then ? Many, ^B I'll set, for price against my head, ^1 Two thousand agostari. ^1 I think thy father would not do't H For all his lands in Bari. ^L Long life to the Emperor I Be God's the praise ^^1 Thou hear'st, my beauty, what thy servant says. piaiac ] t says. I CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 271 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 an3rthing toward. 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 boVd ; For still a woman's weaker than a man. When the end comes, recall how this began. She. God grant that I may die before Any such end do come,— Before the sight of a chaste maid Seem to me troublesome ! 1 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. 9J3 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. He. How many are the cunning ch^ns Thou hast wound round my heart ! 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. 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 ait. Have I not conquered thee ? CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 273 She. Out and alack I wherefore am I Tormented in suchw se ? Lord Jesus Christ the Saviooiy In whom my best hope lies, O give me strength that I may hush This vain man's blasphemies 1 Let him seek diroug^ the earth ; 'tis long and broad : He will find fairer damsels, O my Crod 1 He. I have sou^t through Calabria, Lombardy, and Tuscany, Rome, Pisa, Lucca, Genoa, All between sea and sea : Yea, even to Babylon I went And distant Barbaiy : But not a wdman found I anywhere Equal to thee, who art indeed most If thou have all tins love for me, Thou canst no better do Than ask me of my &ther dear And my dear mother too : They willing, to the abbey-church We will tc^ether go, And, before Advent, thou and I will wed ; After the which. Ill do as thou hast said. T I CIULLO D'ALCAMO. He. \ These thy conditions, lady mine, Are altogether nought ; Despite of them, ni make a net Wherein thou shalt be caught. What, wilt thou put on wings to fly ? Nay, but of wax they're wrought, — They'll let thee fall to earth, not rise with thee : So, if thou canst, then keep thyself from me. She. Think not to fright me with thy nets And suchlike childish gear; I am safe pent within the walls Of this strong castle here ; A boy before he is a man Could give me as much fear. If suddenly thou get not hence again, It is my prayer thou mayst be found and slain. He. Wouldst thou in very tmth that I Were slain, and for thy sake ? Then let them hew me to such minc( As a man's limbs may make I But meanwhile I shall not Stir hence Till of that fruit I take Which thou hast in thy garden, ripe enough : All day and night I thirst to think thereof! CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 275 She. None have partaken of that fruity Not Counts n(^ 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 ihau think to succeed alone Who hast not a thousand ounces offline own? He. How many nosegays I have sent Unto thy house, sweet soul ! At least till I am put to proo^ This scorn of thine controL For if die wind, so foir for thee. Turn ever and wax foul. Be sure that thou shalt say when all is don^ * Now is my heart heavy for him thafsgone.' She. If by my grief thou couldst be grieved, God send me a grief soon 1 I tell thee that diough all my friends Prayed me as for a boon. Saying, * Even for the love of us, Love diou this worthless loon,' — Thou shouldst not have the thing that thou dost hope. No, verily; not for the reahn o* the Pope. CIULLO D'ALCAMO. He. Now could I wish that I in truth Were dead here in thy house ; My soul would get its vengeance Chen ; 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 !' Love, see : One strikes just thus : it is soon done, pardie ! 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. ► Hg. 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 d»ess thou worest on that day Since when thou art walking at my side alwa] CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 277 She. So 'twas my dress enamoured thee t What marvel ? I did wear A cloth of samite silver-flowered, And gems within my hair. But one more word \ if on Christ's Book To wed me thou didst swear, There's nothing now could win me to be thine : I had rather make my bed in the sea^^brine. He. And if thou make thy bed therein, Most courteous lady and bland, ril follow all among the waves, Paddling with foot and hand ; Then, when the sea hath done with thee, I'll seek thee on the sand. For I will not be conquered in this strife : 111 wait, but win ; or losing, lose my life. She. For Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Three times I cross m)rself. 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. I CIULLC D'ALCAMO. 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 1 Thou mayst, love, very well ; For though thou love not me, my love is such That 'tis enough for both — ^yea overmuch. Sh£. Is it even so ? Leain 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 Uke to do't; Gut as for going hence, it will not be. O hate me not ! my heart is burning me. CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 279 She. Think'st thou I know not that thy heart Is hot and burns to death ? Of all that thou or I can say, But one word succoureth. Till thou upon the Holy Book Give me thy bounden fiaith, God is my witness that I wUl not 3rield : 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 jnay, (I took it, fairest, in a church, The priest being gone away,) I swear that my whole self shall be Thine alwa3rs 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. I FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERl. FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERI, KNIGHT OF SIENA. He speaks of his Condition ALL the whole world is living without war. And yet I cannot find out any peace. O God ! that this should be L O God ! what does the earth sustain me for? My life seems made for other lives' ill-ease : All men look strange to me ; Nor are the wood-flowers now As once, when up above The happy birds in love Made such sweet verses, going from bough to bough. And if I come where other gendemen Bear arms, or say of love some joyfid 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. 'A FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERL z^i I know not what I am. I know how wearisome My life is now become, And that the da3rs I pass seem all the same. 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 v^ear raiment seems a burden since This came, nor ever any food I crave \ Not any cure is known To me, nor unto whom I might commend my case : This evil therefore stays Still where it is, and hope can find no room. I know that it must certainly be Love : No other Lord, being thus set over me, Had judged me to this curse ; With such high hand he rules, sitting above. That of myself he takes two parts in fee^ Only the third being hers. Yet if through service I Be justified with God, He shall remove this load. Because my heart with inmost love doth sigh. Gentle my lady, after I am gone, There will not come another, it may be. 233 FOLCACHJERO DE' FOLCACHIERL To show thee love like mine : For nothing can I do, neither haye 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. LODOVJCO BELLA VERNACCIA. 283 LODOVICO DELLA VERNACCIA- SONKET. He exhorts the State to vigilance. THINK a Imef while on die most marvelkms aits Of our h]£^-puxposed labour, ddzens ; And having tfunij^^ diaw dear pondusion thence ; And say, do not ours seem but diildish parts ? Also on these intestine sores and smarts Ponder advisedly ; and die deep sense Thereof shall bow your heads in penitence, And Uke a thorn shall grow into your hearts. If, of our foreign foes, some prince or lord Is now, perdiance, some whit less tronUesome, Shall the sword therefore drop into the sheath ? Nay, grasp it as the friend that warranted! : For unto this vik rout, our foes at home, Nothmg is hig^ or awfol save die sword. SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI. SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI. 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 roust keep My ground : When to My love thou dost bring charily. 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. * 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 Loid. SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISL 285 Charity most of all, when known enough^ Is of her very nature orderly. Loy 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. FREDERICK If. FREDERICK II. EMPEROR. » Of /lis Lady in bondage. FOR grief I am about to sing, Even as another would for joy; Mine eyes which the hot tears destroy Are scarce enough for sorrowing : To speak of such a grievous thing Also my tongue I must employ, Saying : Woe's me, who am full of woes ! Not while I live shaU 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 t O that I never had been bom, n sdll to fall asleep ' When I was bom, twas an ill birth I I O that I never had been bom, I L If I am sdll to fall asleep M FREDERICK IL 287 Weeping, and when I wake to weep ; If he whom I most loathe and scorn Is still to have me his, and keep Smiling about me night and mom t ' O that I never had been bom A woman I a poor, helpless fool, Who can but stoop beneath the role Of him she needs must loathe and scom ! 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 I ' Thou, Crod the Lord, dost know all this r 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 V FREDERICK If. ' 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 That watch me, to be faithful spies l.est I go forth and see the sitica ; Each night, to each, he saith the same ; — And in my soul and in mine eyes There is a biirniiig 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 ray love. J ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA. 289 ENZO, KING OF SARDINIA. Sonnet. On the Fitness 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 &cing him. And lets his life slide with occasion ; And so comports himself, throu^ youth to age. That never any man at any time Can say, Not thus, but thus thou shouldst have done. 290 GUIDO GUINICBLLl. GUIDO GUINICELLI. I. Sonnet. Cimceming Lucy, WHEN Luqr draws her mantle round her face, So sweeter than all else she is to see. That hence unto the hills there lives not he Whose whole soul would not love her for her grace. Then seems she like a daughter of some race That holds high rule in France or Germany : And a snake's head stricken ofif suddenly Throbs never as then throbs my heart to embrace Her body in these arms, even were she loth ; — To kiss her lips, to kiss her cheeks, to kiss The lids of her two eyes which are two flames* Yet what my heart so longs for, my heart blames For surely sorrow might be bred from this Where some man's patient love abides its growth. GUIDO GUINICELU. 291 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 heaf 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 dean firom guile, , A woman, like a star, enamoureth. 192 GUIDO GUINICELLI. 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, As cold abhorring heat. Through gentle heart Love doth a track divine, — Like knowing like ; the same As diamond runs through iron in the mine. The sun strikes full upon the mud all day ; It remains vile, nor the sun's worth is less. ' By race I am gentle,' the proud man doth say : He is the mud, the sun is gentleness. Let no man predicate That aught the name of gentleness should have. Even in a king's estate, Except the heart there be a gentle man's. The star-beam lights the wave, — Heaven holds the star and the star's radiance. God, in the understanding of high Heaven, Burns Kiore 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 GUIDO GUINICELU. 393 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 reviewed ;) ' Thou passedst Heaven, into My sight, as now. To make Me of vain love similitude. To Me doth praise belong. And to the Queen of all the realm of grace Who slayeth fraud and wrong.' Then may I plead : ' As though from Thee he came, Love wore an angel's face : Lord, if I loved her, count it not my shame/ 294 GUIDO GUINICELLL 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 ; v 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. GUI DO GUINICELU. 295 IV. Canzone. He perceives 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 fidr. 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 stayed ; But deep into the heart it pierced, which felt The pang of the sharp wound, and waxed afiaid ; 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. 296 GUIDO GUINICELU. 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 lad/s service 3aeldeth 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 \drtue*s strength and stir So fill her full of joy That I am glad to die for love of her^ GUIDO GUINICELLJ. 297 Sonnet. Of Moderation and Tolerance, HE that has grown to wisdom hurries not, But thinks and weighs what Reason bids him do ; And after thinking he retains his thought Until as he conceived the fact ensue. Let no man to overweening pride be wrought, Bit count his state as Fortune's gift and due. He is a fool who deems that none has sought The truth, save he alone, or knows it true. Many strange birds are on the air abroad, Nor all are of one flight or of one force, But each after his kind dissimilar : To each was portioned of the breath of God, Who gave them divers instincts from one source. Then judge not thou thy fellows what they arc. 9g» CUIDO GUINICELLI. I Of Human Frenimplion. 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 fiill. As though there never were another life ; Till Death throws all his order into strife. And round his head his purposes doth pull. And evermore one sees the other die, And sees how all conditions turn to change. Yet in no wise may the blind wretch be heal'd. I therefore say, that sin can even estrange Man's very sight, and his heart satisfy To live as lives a sheep upon the field. GUERZO DI MONTECANTI. 299 GUERZO DI MONTECANTI. Sonnet. He is out of heart with his Time. IF any man woukL know the very cause Which makes me to forget my speech in rhyme, All the sweet songs I sang in other time,— I'll tell it in a sonnef 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. ■ 300 TNGl III INGS INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO. INGHILFREDT, SICILIANO. He rebukes tfu Evil of that Time. HARD is it for a man to please all men : I therefore speak in doubt, And as one may that looketh to be chid. But who can hold his peace in these days ? — when Guilt cunningly slips out, And innocence atones for what he did ; When worth is crushed, even if it be not hid ; When on crushed worth, guile sets his foot to rise ; And when the things wise men have counted wise Make fools to smile and stare and lift the lid. Let none who have not wisdom govern you : For he that was a fool At first shall scarce grow wise under the sun. And as it is, my whole heart bleeds anew To think how hard a school Young hope grows old at, as these seasons ran. 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 I II INGHILFREDTy SICILTANO. 301 I would not have y^ without counsel ta'en Follow my words ; nor meant, If one should talk and act not, to praise hinli But who, being much opposed, speaks not again, 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 yoiu' 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 ofl*, remember time is not gone by. Let him say calmly : ' Thus far on this road A foolish trust buoyed up My soul, and made it like the summer fly Burned in the flame it seeks : even so was I : But now I'll aid myself; for still this trust, I find, falleth to dust : The fish gapes for the bait-hook, and doth die.' And yet myself, who bid ye do this thing,*— Am I not also 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 302 INGHILFREDI, SICILIANO. 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. RJNALDO D* AQUINO. 303 RINALDO D* AQUINO. I. Canzone. He ig resolved to bejoyftd in Love^ A THING is in my mind,— To have my joy again, Which I had ahnost put away from me. It were in foolish kind For ever to refrain From song, and renounce gladness utterly. Seeing that I am given into the rule Of Love, whom only pleasure makes alive. Whom pleasure nourishes and brings to growth : The wherefore sullen sloth Will he not suffer in those serving him ; But pleasant they must seem. That good folk love them and their service thrive ; Nor even their pain must make them sorrowful So bear he him that thence The praise of men be gain'd, — He that would put his hope in noble Love ; For by great excellence Alone can be attained That amorous joy which wisdom may approve. 304 RINAtDO D'AQUINO. The way of Love is this, righteous and just ; 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. Me seems I scarce could dwell Ever in weary life or in dismay If to true service still my heart gave room. Serving at her pleasahnce Whose service pleasureth, I am enriched with all the wealth of Love. Song hath no utterance For my life's joyful breath Since in this lady's grace my homage throve. RINALDO D'AQUINO. 305 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 foigoti So that no jot Do I remember of mine evil da3r8. It is my lady's will that I exult Exulting let me take My joyful comfort, then. Seeing myself in so much blessedneM. Mine ease even as mine adie Accepting, let me gain No pride towards Love; but with all hmnbiaiesi. Even still, my pleasurable service pay. For a good servant nei'er was left to pine : Great shall his gnevdoc be who gready bcacL But, because he that ficaci To speak too nmrii, by Us ova sEcks ibeet, TTath someticiies wnii I am thus boastfiJ, lady; besag For homage snd obedaesoe m^ md dqr. RINALDO D'AQUINO. A Lady, i tring, repents of her Coldness. N" I f OW, 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 Uugh and play. Love is brought unto me In the scent of the flower And in the birds' 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. RINALDO D' AQUINO. 307 What time I hear the lark And nightingale keep Spring, My heart will pant and yearn For love. (Ye all may mark The unkindly comforting Of fire that will not bum.) 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 tliought too lightly of: For that the pain is fierce I do feel now. And yet this pride is slow To free my heart, which pity would fain move. Wherefore I pray thee. Love, That thy breath turn me o'er, Even as the wind a leaf; And I will set thee above This heart of mine, that^s scHre Perplexed, to be its chief. Let also the deaf youth, whose passion must Henceforward have good trust. Be happy without words ; for words bring grief. JACOPO DA LENTINO. JACOPO DA LENTINO. Of his Lady itt Heaven. I HAVE it in my heart lo serve God so That into Paradise I shall repair, — The holy place through the which ever^-where I have heard say that joy and solace flow. Without ray 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 beautifijl soft eyes, and lovely face, ^^^ That so it should be my complete content ^H To see my lady joyful in her place. i J AC OP O DA LENTINO. 309 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 1 I know not if thou knoVst The love within my heart Exceedingly afraid. My hope I have not ssud. But gazed on thee apart JACOPO DA LENT/NO. Because desire was strong, I made a portraiture In thine own likeness, love : When absence has grown long, I gaze, till I am sure That I behold thee move ; As one who purposeth To save himself by faith, Yet sees not, nor can prove. Then comes the burning pain : As with the man that hath A fire within his breast, — When most he struggles, then Most boils the flame in wrath. And will not let him rest So still I burned and shook, To pass, and not to look In thy face, loveliest. For where thou art I pass, And do not lift mine eyes, Lady, to look on thee : But, as I go, alas ! With bitterness of sighs I moum exceedingly. Alas ! the constant woe ! Myself I do not know, So sore it troubles m yA COPO DA LENTINO. 3 1 1 And I have sung thy praise, Lady, and many times Hare 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. Delicate song of. mine. Go sing thou a new strain : Seek, with the first simshine. 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.' 312 JACOPO DA LENTINO. III. SONNJST. Nojewdis worth his Lady. SAPPHIRE, nor diamond, nor emerald, Nor other precious stones past reckoning, Topaz, nor pearl, nor ruby like a king, Nor that most virtuous jewel, jasper call'd. Nor amethyst, nor onyx, nor basalt. Each counted for a very marvellous thing. Is half so excellently gladdening As is my lady's head uncoronall'd. All beauty by her beauty is made dim ; Like to the stars she is for loftiness ; And with her voice she taketh away grief. She is fairer than a bud, or than a leaf. Christ have her well in keeping, of His grace. And make her holy and beloved, like Him ! JACOPO DA LENTINO. 313 IV. Canzonetta, He will neither boast nor lament to his Lady. LOVE will not have me cry For grace^ as others do ; Nor as they vaunt, that I Should vaunt my love to you. For service, such as all Can pay, is counted small ; Nor Ls 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 dianoe or use may strike ; As one may see an ape Counterfeit all alike. Then, lady, unto you Be it not mine to sue JACOPO DA LENTINO. For grace or pitying. Many the lovers be That of such suit are free, — A gem, the more 'tis rare. The more its cost wUl 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 JACOPO DA LENTINO. 315 Than to myself, to thee. And is there nothing else That in my heart avails For love but groan and sigh ? And wilt thou have it thus, This love betwixen us ? — Much rather let me die. 3x6 JACOPO DA LENTINO. V. Canzonetta. Of his Lady^ and of his making her Likeness. MY Lady mine,* I send These sighs in joy to thee ; Though, loving till the end, There were no hope for me That I should speak my love ; And I have loved indeed, Though, having fearful heed. It was not spoken o£ 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. * Madonna mia. JACOPO DA LENTINO. 317 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. Thou, lady, killest me, Yet keepest me in pain. For thou must surely see How, fearing, I am fain. Ah I 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. 3X8 JACOPO DA LENTINO. 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 duie. 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. JACOPO DA LENTINO. 319 VI. Sonnet. Of his Ladys Face. HER &ce 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. ^^^r n 320 JACOPO DA LENTISO. 1 ^L ^H Canzoxe. ^H ^4/ the end of his Hope. V "p EMEMBERINO this-how Love H XV Mocks me, and bids me hoard ^^ Mine ill reward that keeps me nigh to death,— ^1 How it doth still behove ^H I suffer the keen sword, ^1 Whence undepior'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 tuma apart. p I am dying, and through her — This flower, from paradise J 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 possessV ; 1 For, through her countenance L (Fair brows and lofly glance !) ■ JACOPO DA LENTINO. 321 I live in constant dule. Of lovers' hearts the chief For sorrow and much grief, My heart is sorrowful 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 song the sirens know. The mariner forgets, Voyaging in those stndts. And dies assuredly. Yea, from her pride perverse, Who hath my heart as her's, 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 unparalleled. Yet what availeth moan But for more grirf al!»'«" ^"'»""'^>'fi:;:^-:r:ji. (eo«» ° -->:;5-2S^'- ^ FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 373 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 galeons stout, To bear you, while the season lasts, far out, And back, through spring, to any port you please. But with &ir mansions see that it be fill'd, With everything exactly to your mind. And every sort of comfortable folk. No convent suffer there, nor priestly guild : Leave the mad monks to preach after their kind Their scanty truth, their lies beyond a joke. FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 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 A sound of German music on the air. And gardens ye shaU have, that eveiy one May lie at ease about the fragrant place ; And each with fitting reverence sliall bow down Unto that youth to whom I gave a crown Of precious jewels like to those that grace The Babylonian Kaiser, Prester John. FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 375 MAY. I GIVE you hones for your games in May, And all of tfaem well trained unto the oouise,- Each dodle, swift, erect, a goodly horse ; With armour on their chests, and bells at play Between their brows, and pennons &ir 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 youtiis Shall kiss together on the cheeks and mouths ; And every day be glad with joyful love. 1 1\ ■ With thirty villas twelve times tuireted, [ All girdling round a little citadel ; And in the midst a springhead and fair well With thousand conduits branched and shining speei 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 j And every one shall be a lover there ; Until your life, so filled with courtesies, Throughout the world be counted debonair. FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. JUNE. IN June I give you a close-wooded fell, With crowns of thicket coiled about its head, | FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 377 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 £U1 ; And keep your tables set in fresh array. Not coaxing spleen to be your seneschal. 378 FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. AUGUST. FOR August, be your dwelling diirty towers Within an Alpine valley mountainous, Where never the sea-wind may vex your house, But clear life separate, like a star, be yours. There horses shall wait saddled at all hours, That ye may mount at morning or at eve : On each hand either ridge ye shall perceive, A mile apart, which soon a good beast scours. So alway, drawing homewards, ye shall tread Your valley parted by a rivulet Which day and night shall flow sedate and smooth. There all through noon ye may possess the shade, And there your open purses shall entreat The best of Tuscan cheer to feed your youth. FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 379 SEPTEMBER. AND in September, O what keen delight I Falcons and astors, merlins, sparroidiawks ; 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. jSa FOLGORE DA SAX GEMIXZAJ^O. OCTOBER. NEXT, fcr Octobo, to K« sbeterf coign Fkratn^ the winds, IH hope to find joa sfamk ; Thou^ in biid-shooting (fest aQ sport be sank). Your loot stiD press the tnif^ the hone jour grcHn. At nig^ with sweethearts in the dance jroaH join. And drink the blessed most, and get quite drunk. There's no sodi life for zof hnman tnmk ; And thaf s a troth that rings Hke ge bone, 'Mid entrails strown abroad ofsoldios kiO'd; Tilt blow to camp those trompetcn of ytmis Who noise awhile jroor mumpb and are still'd. And to your tents you come back conquraors. ^ FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 3«7 WEDNESDAY. The Day of Feasts. AND every Wednesday, as the swift days move. Pheasant and peacock-shooting out of doors You'll have, and multitude of hares to course, And after you come home, good cheer enough ; And sweetest ladies at the board above, Children of kings and counts and senators ; And comely-^voured 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 &ces perfectly at ease. FOLGORE DA SAN CEMINIANO. THURSDAY. The Day of Jousti and Tournaments. FOR Thursday be the tournament prepaid, And gentlemen in lordly jousts compete : First man with man, together let them meet, — By fifties and by hundreds afterward. Let arms with housings each be fitly pair'd, And fitly hold your battle to its heat From the third hour to vespers, after meat ; Till the best-winded be at last declared. Then back unto your beauties, as ye came : Where upon sovereign beds, with wise control Of leeches, shall your hurts be swathed in bands. The ladies shall assist with their own hands, And each be so well paid in seeing them That on the morrow he be sound and whole. FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 389 FRIDAY, The Day cfJIuntifig, LET Friday be your highest huntbg-tidey — 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 dose on them, and rip out blood and breath : Till all your huntsmen's horns wind at the death. And yon count up how many beasts have died. Then, men and dogs together brought, you'll say : Go fairly greet from us this firiend 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 1 I think we held a royal hunt to-day. /it FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 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 Till you all shout for glory and holiday. Then, going home, you'll closely charge the cooki ' Al! this is for to-moiTOw's roast and stew . Skin, lop, and truss : hang pots on tvery book And we must have fine wine and white bread loo, Because this time we mean to feast : so look We do not think your kitchens lost Oi FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 39» SUNDAY. 77u 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 a 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. 392 CUIDO DELLE COLONNE. GUIDO DELLE COLONNE- To Love and to his Lady. OLOVE, who al] this while hast urged me on, j Shaking the reins, with never any rest,— Slacken for pity somewhat of thy haste ; I am oppress'd with languor and foredone,— Having outrun the power of sufferance, — Having much more endured than who, through &ith 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. 0 comely-favoured, whose soft eyes prevail, More &iir than is another on this ground, — Lift now my mournful heart out of its stound, Which thus is bound for thee io great travail : For a high gale a little rain may end. GUIDO DELLE COLONNE. 393 Also, my lady, be not angered thou That Love should thee enforce, to mhicm all bow. There is but little shame to i^prehend 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. 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 fiill of light. And the more bright the higher he doth ride : So let thy pride, my lady, and thy height, Stand me in stead and turn to my delight. Still inmostly I love thee, labouring still That others may not know my secret smart Oh 1 what a pain it is for the grieved heart To hold apart and not to show its ill 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 anjr heart A«t hid nch lore to homA ' For Ixwe am nuke the imeit torn utn^ ; Love,«titimi»t,ofmeaaiiettfflhMkMt; > He is Uie maddcM man nho lores Ae bat; It is Lore's jest, to make mm's bewts wbnj So hot i^t they by coldness cawrat oooL The eyes unto At heart bear mctsages Of the bepnniiigs of aH pain and ease : And thou, my lady, is thy hand dost rule Mine eyes and heart iriiich thou hast made dune o Love rocks my liCe with tenq>ests cm Ac deep, Even m ah^' round which tlwirindsaie Mown: Thou art my pennoa ttiat will not go down. PIER MORONELLL 395 PIER MORONELLI, DI FIORENZA. Canzonetta. A hitter Song to his Lady* OLADY amorous, Merciless lady, Full blithely pla/d ye These your beguilings. So with an urchin A man makes merry, — In mirth grows clamorous, Laughs and rejoices, — But when his choice is To fall aweary, Cheats him with silence. This is Love's portion : — In much wayfaring With many burdens He loads his servants , But at tlie sharmg, The underservice And overservice Are alike barren. As my disaster Your jest I cherish, PIER MORONELLI. And well may perish. Even so a falcon 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 J If I'm not thought on, At least perceive me ! O do not leave me So much forgotten J If, lady, truly Vol! wish my profit. What follows of it Though still you say so ? — For all your well-wishes / still am waiting. I grow unruly, And deem at last I'm Only your pasrime. A child will play so, Who greatly relishes Sporting and petting PIER MQRONELLL 397 With a Uttle wild bird : Unaware he kills it, — Then tarns 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. Upon the Mayday Which brought me to you Was all my haste then But a fool's venture ? To have my sight full Of you propitious Truly my wish was, And to pursue you And let love chasten My heart to the centre. But warming, lady, May end in burning. Of all this yearning What comes, I beg you ? In all your glances What is't a man sees ? — Fever and ague. CIUNCIO FIORENTINO. CIUNCIO FIORENTINO. Of his Love; with the Figures of a Slag, of Water, an. of an Sasle. LADY, with all the pains that I can Uke, I'll sing my love renewed, if I may, well. And only in your praise. The stag in his old age seeks out a snake And eats it, and then drinks, (I have heard tell) Fearing the hidden ways Of the snake's poison, and renews his youth. Even such a draught, in truth. Was your sweet welcomej 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 CIUNCIO FIORENTINO. 399 Than ever, as the thing it first was made. Thine advent long dela/d Even thus had almost worn me out of love, Biding so far above : But now that thou hast brought love back for me. It mounts too much, — O lady, up to thee. 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. 400 RUGGIERI DI AMICI. RUGGIERI DI AMICI, SICIUANO- Canzonetta. Far a Renewal of Favours. I PLAY this sweet prellide For the best heart, and queen Of gentle womanhood. From here unto Messene ; Of flowers the fairest one 5 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 ? — RUGGIERT PI AMICI. 401 When I her heart did move By kisses and by vows, Whom I then called my love, Fair-haired, with silver brows : 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 ? DD CARNINO CHIBERTI. CARNINO GHIBERTI, DA FIORENZA. 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 kncw'st what pain and evil smart The lack of thy sweet countenance can bring, Thou wouldst remember me compassionately. Even as my case, the stag's is wont to be. Which, thinking to escape His death, escaping whence the pack gives cry, Is wounded and doth die. So, in my spirit imagining thy shape, I would fly Death, and Death o'ennasters me. I am o'eipower'd of Death when, telling o'er Thy beauties in my thought, I seem to ha^e that whicli I have not ; then I am as he who in each meteor, Daazled and wildered, sees the thing he sought. In suchwise Love deals with me among men : — Thee whom I have not, yet who dost sustain J CARNINO GHJBERTI. 403 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. 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 — * Alluding to the Syrian tribe of Assassins, whose chief was the Old Man of the Mountain. 4<4 CARNINO GHIBERTI: The last — I send tfaee, 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 anguishi till, if neither quit The other, one must perish utterly. PRINZIVALLE DORIA. 40S PRINZIVALLE DORIA. Canzone. Of his LavCy with thi Figure of a sudden Storm. EV£N 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, Foigetteth then his gladness altogether; Even so am I, through Love, alas the day 1 It plainly is through Love that I am so. At first, he let me still grow happier Each day, and made her kindness seem to grow ; But now he has quite changed her heart in her. And I, whose hopes throbbed and were all astir For times when I should call her mine aloud And in her pride be proud i 4o6 PRINZIVALLE DORIA. 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. 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 fi'om 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 regard Her face may not be marr'd. 1 therefore pray of thee, my own soul's wife, That thou remember me who am forgot How shall I stand without thee ? Art thou not The pillar of the building of my life ? RUSTICO DI FIUPPO, 407 RUSTICO DI FILIPPO. I. Sonnet. Of the making of Master Messcrin. WHEN God had finished Master Messerin, He really thought it something to have done : Bird, man, and beast had got a chance in one, And each felt flattered, it was hoped, therein. For he is like a goose i* the windpipe thin, And like a cameleopard high i* the loins ; To which, for manhood, you'll be told, he joins Some kinds of flesh-hues and a callow chin. As to his singing, he affects the crow ; As to his learning, beasts in general ; And sets all square by dressing like a man. God made him, having nothing else to do ; And proved there is not anything at all He cannot make, if that's a thing He can. mA rustico di fujppo. 11. Sonnet. Of the St^ly €f Messar Faxio* MASTER Bertuccioy yoa are called to account Tbat yoa goaxd Fazio's life firom poison ill : And every man in Florence tdls me still He has no hofse tiiat he can safely moimt A mig^ity war-horse worth a thousand poond Stands in Cremcma stabled at his will ; Whidi for his honoured person should fulfil Its use. Nay, sir, I pray you be not found So poor a steward. For all £ime of yours Is cared for best, believe me, when I say : — Our Florence gives Bertucdo charge of one Who rides her own proud spirit like a horse ; Whom Cocdolo 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 reim. RUSTICO DI FILIPPO. 409 IIL. Sonnet. Of Messer Ugolino,* IF any one had anything to say To the Lord Ugolino, because he's Not staunch, and never minds his promises^ Twere hardly courteous, for it is his way. Courteous it were to say such sayings nay : As thus : He's true, sir, only takes his ease And don't care merely if it plague or please, And has good thoughts^ no doubt, if they would stay. Now I know he's so loyal every whit And altogether worth such a good word As worst would best and best would worst befit He'd love his party with a dear accord If only he could once quite care for it. But can't run post for any Law or Lord. * The character here drawn certainly suggests Count UgoHno de' Gherardeschi, though it would seem that Rustico died nearly twenty years before the tragedy of the Tower of Famine. PUCCIARELLO DI FIORENZA. PUCCIARELLO DI FIORENZA. OJ 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, Ajid, 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, biiffet, thrust, and so redress Thine ill that it may not return «n thee. ALBERTUCCIO DELLA VIOLA. 411 ALBERTUCCIO DELLA VIOLA. Canzone. Of his Lady dancing: AMONG the dancers I beheld her dance, Her who alone is my heart's sustenance. So, as she danced, I took this wound of her ; Alas ! the flower of flowers, she did not fail. Woe's me ! I will be Jew and blasphemer If the good god of Love do not prevail To bring me to thy grace, oh ! thou most fair. My lady and my lord ! alas for wail ! How many days and how much sufferance ? Oh ! would to God that I had never seen Her face, nor had beheld her dancing so ! Then had I missed this wound which is so keen- Yea, mortal — for I think not to win through Unless her love be my sweet medicine ; Whereof I am in doubt, alas for woe ! Feaiing therein but such a little chance. 412 ALBERTUCCIO BELLA VIOLA. She was apparelled in a Syrian cloth. My lady : — oh ! but she did grace the same, Gladdening all folk, that they were nowise loth At sight of her to put their ills from them. 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. TO Af MA so BUZZUOLA. 413 TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA. Sonnet. He is in awe of his Lady. EVEN as the moon amid the stars doth shed Her lovelier splendour of exceeding light,- Even so my lady seems the queen and head Among all other ladies in my sight Her human visage, like an angeFs 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. 414 SOFFO BONAGUIDA. NOFFO BONAGUIDA. Sonnet. He is mjoined to pure Lave. A SPIRIT of Love, with Love's intelligence, Maketh his sojourn alway in my breast, Maintaining me in perfect joy. and rest ; Nor could I live an hour, were he gone thence : Through whom my love hath such full permanence That thereby other loves seem dispossess'd. I have no pain, nor am with, sighs 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.' UPPO PASCHI DE' BARD I. 415 LIPPO PASCHI DF BARDI. Sonnet. He solicits a Lad^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 feUows 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. 4i6 SER PACE, NOT A 10 DA FIORENZA. SER PACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA. Sonnet. A Return to Lave. AFRESH content of fresh enamouring Yields me afresh, at length, the sense of song, Who had well-nigh foigotten Love so long : But now my homage he will have me bring. So that my life is now a joyful thing, Having new-found desire, elate and strong, In her to whom all grace and worth belong, On whom I now attend for ministering. The countenance remembering, with the limbs. She was all imaged on my heart at once Suddenly by a single look at her : Whom when I now behold, a heat there seems Within, as of a subtle fire that runs Unto my heart, and remains burning there. NICCOLb DEGLl ALBIZZL 417 NICC0L6 DEGLI ALBIZZI. Prolonged Sonnet. When the Troops were returning from Milan, IF you could see, fair brother, how dead beat The fellows look who come tMrough Rome to-day, - Black yellow smoke-dried visages, — ^you'd say They thought their haste at going all too fleet Their empty victual-waggons up the street Over the bridge dreadfully sound and sway ; Their eyes, as hanged men's, turning the wrong way ; And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet One sees the ribs and all the skeletons Of their gaunt horses ; and a sorry sight Are the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones. They are ashamed, and march throughout the night ; Stumbling, for hunger, on their marrowbones ; Like barrels rolling, jolting, in this plight. Their arms all gone, not even their swords are saved ; And each as silent as a man being shaved. £ E 4i8 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. I. Blank Verse.* A Virgin declares her Beauties, DO not conceive that I shall here recount All my own beauty : yet I promise you That you, by what I tell, shall understand All that befits and that is well to know. My bosom, which is very softly made, Of a white even colour without stain, Bears two fair apples, fragrant, sweetly-savoured. Gathered together from the Tree of Life The which is in the midst of Paradise. And these no person ever yet has touched ; For out of nurse's and of mother's hands I was, when God in secret gave them me. These ere I yield I must know well to whom ; And for that I would not be robbed of them, * Extracted from his long treatise, in unrhj-med verse and in prose, * Of the Government and Conduct of Women;* {Del Reggi- mento e dd Costumi delle Donne,) FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 419 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. My girdle, clipping pleasure round about. Over my clear dress even unto my knees Hangs down with sweet precision tenderly ; And under it Virginity abides. Faithful and simple and of plain belief She is, with her fair garland bright like gold ; And very fearful if she overhears Speech of herself ; the wherefore ye perceive That I speak soft lest she be made ashamed. Lo I this is she who hath for company The Son of God and Mother of the Son ; Lo 1 this is she who sits with many in heaven ; Lo ! this is she with whom are few on earth. FRANCESCO DA BARSEfllNO. L II. Sentenze," Of Sloth against Sin. THERE is a vice which oft I've heard men praise ; and divers fonns 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 ma/st not avail ; And do not breed worse ai! By adding one more voice to strife begun.' Another, with this one, Avers, * I could but bear a small expense. Or yield a slight defence.' A third says this, ' I could but offer words.' J FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO, 421 Or one, whose tongue records Unwillingly his own base heart, will say, * 111 not be led astray To bear a hand in others' life or death.' They have it in their teeth ! For unto this each man is pledged and bound ; And this thing shall be found Entered against him at the Judgment Day. 422 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO, 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. FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. ^l^ What truly thou dost see Turn in thy mind, and faithfully report ; And in the plainest sort Thy wisdom may, proffer thy counselling. There is another thing Belongs hereto, the which is on this wise. If one should ask advice Of thine for his own need whatever it be, — This is my word to thee : — Deny it if it be not clearly of use : Or turn to some excuse That may avail, and thou shalt have done well. 424 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. IV. Sentenze, Of Importunities and Troublesome Persons, THERE is a vice prevails Concerning which I'll set you on your guard ; And other four, which hard It were (as may be thought) that I should blame. Some think that still of them — Whatever is said — some ill speech lies beneath ; And this to them is death : Whereby we plainly may perceive their sins. And now let others wince. One sort there is, who, thinking that they please, (Because no wit's in these,) Where'er you go, will stick to you all day, And answer, (when you say, * Don*t let me tire you out !') * Oh never mind — Say nothing of the kind, — It's quite a pleasure to be where you are !* FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO, 425 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 bome with it, — Will thmk youVe 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 That's said to you attend in your reply, And let the rest go by, — It's quite a chance if he remembers them. ^B(26 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. VP^fl ^^ Yet do not, all the same, ^T Deny your ear Co any speech of weight 1 But if importunate The speaker is, and wUl 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 j And by such means you'll pass Upon your way and be well rid of him. 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. 1 Yet if they be of these Whom sometimes it is hard to understand, FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO, 427 Let some slight cause be plann'd, And seem to go, — so you shall learn their will : And if but one sit still As 'twere in thought, — then go, unless he call. Lastly, if insult gall Your friend, this is the course that you should take. At first 'tis well you make As much lament thereof as you think fit, — Then speak no more of it, Unless himself should bring it up again ; And then no more refrain From full discourse, but say his grief is yours. 428 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. V. Sentenze. Of Caution. SAY, wouldst thou guard thy son, That sorrow he may shun ? Begin at the beginning And let him keep from sinning. Wouldst guard thy house ? One door Make to it, and no more. Wouldst guard thine orchard- wall ? Be free of fruit to all. FAZIO DEGU UBERTL 429 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL I. Canzone. His Portrait of his Lady^ Angiola of Verona. I LOOK at the crisp go'den-threaded hair Whereof, to thrall my heart, Love twists a net ; Using at times a string of pearls for bait. And sometimes with a single rose therein. I look into her eyes which unaware Through mine own eyes to my heart penetrate ; Their splendour, that is excellently great, To the sun's mdiance 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 ! 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?' 430 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL I look at the amorous beautiful mouth, The spacious foreh ad which her locks enclose, The small white leelh, the straight and shapely nose, And the clear brows of a sweet pencilling. 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 anus caught And kiss it till the mark were left behind?' Then, urgently : ' The eyelids of thy mind Open thou : if such loveliness be given To sight here, — what of that which she doth hide ? Only the wondrous ride FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 431 Ot sun and planets through the visible heaven Tells us that therebeyond 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. In all thy veins were bom a life made new Which thou couldst find no language to declare. Behold if any picture can compare Vith 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, bashfiil, and in all things temperate. Her virtue holds its state ; In whose least act there is that gift express'd Which of all reverence makes ber 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 432 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL She bends and mingles arms and locks in play. Even as all lesser lights vanish away, When the sun moves, before his dazzling face, So is this lady brighter than all these. How should she fail to please, — Love's self being no more than her loveliness ? In all her ways some beauty springs to view ; All that she loves to do Tends alway to her honour's single scope ; And only from good deeds she draws her hope/ Song, thou canst surely say, without pretence. That since the first fair woman ever made, Not one can have 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 !) is pity absent thence ? FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 433 II. Extract from the * Dittamondo.** (Lib. IV. Cap. 23.) Of England^ and of its Marvels, NOW to Great Britain we must make our way, Unto which kingdom Brutus gave its name What time he won it from the giants' rule. Tis thought at first its name was Albion, And Anglia, from a damsel, afterwards. The island is so great and rich and fair. It conquers others that in Europe be, Even as the sun surpasses other stars. Many and great sheep-pastures bountifully * 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 Dittamcndo, or * Song of the World,* in which he will find his own country endowed with some astounding properties. How- ever, 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 F F 434 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. Nature has set there, and herein more bless'd, That they can hold themselves secure from wolves. Jet also doth the hollow land enrich, (Whose properties my guide Solinus here Told me, and how its colour comes to it ;) And pearls are found in great abundance too. The people are as white and comely-faced As they of Ethiop land are black and fotd. 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 confirmed, That it is fit to note it as I heard ; — To wit, there is a certain islet here what I have given relating to Great Britain, there is a table of the Saxon dynasty, and some surprising facts about Scotland and Ire- land ; as well as a curious passage written in French, and purporting to be an account, given by a royal courier, of Edward the Third's invasion of France. I felt half disposed to include these, but was afraid of overloading with such matter a selection made chiefly for the sake of poetic beauty. I should mention that the Dittantondo, like Dante's great poem, it written in terza ritna ; 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. FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 435 Among the rest, where folk are bom with tails, Short, as are found in stags and such-like beasts.* 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 fruitf 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, * Mediaeval Britons would seem really to have been credited with this slight peculiarity. At the siege of Damietta, Coeur-dc- Lion's bastard brother is said to have pointed oat the prudence of deferring the assault, and to have received for rejoinder from the French crusaders, ' See now these faint hearted English with the tails ! ' To which the Englishman replied, * You will need stout hearts to keep near our tails when the assault is made.' t This is the Barnacle-tree, often described in old books of travels 9xA. natural history, and which Sir Thomas Browne classes gravely among his *■ Vulgar Errors.' 436 FAZIO DEGU UBERTL Stnmgoore and Listenois and Northumberland, I chose with my companion to behold.* We went to London, and I saw the Tower Where Gnenevere her honour did defend, Widi tibe Thames river wiiich runs close to it I saw the castle which by force was ta'en Widi die three shields by gallant Lancelot, The second year that he did deeds of arms. I beheld Camdot 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 * What follows relates to the Romances of the Round Table. The only allusion here which I cannot trace to the Mori cf Arthur is one where *Rech* and *Nida' are spoken of: it seems however that, by a perversion hardly too corrupt for Fazio, these might be the Geraint and Enid whose story occurs in the Mabinogion^ and has been used by Tennyson in his Idylls of the King. Why Fazio should have * joyed to see* Merlin's stone *for another's love' seems in- scrutable; imless indeed the words * per amor altruV are a mere idiom, and Merlin himself is meant ; and even then Merlin, in his compulsory niche under the stone, may hardly have been grateful for such friendly interest. I should not omit, in this second edition, to acknowledge several obligations, as regards the above extract from the DUtamondo^ to the unknown author of an acute and kindly article in the Spectator for January 1 8th, 1862, FAZIO DEC LI UBERTL 437 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 liide. 438 mZlO DMGU UBSRTL III. Extract from the * DirrAMimDo/ (Lib. IV. Cap. 25). Of the Dukes rf Normandy^ and thena rf Ae Kings 0/ England, from WUiiam the Hrst to Edward ^ Third. THOU well hast heard that RoUo had two scms, One William Longsword, and die odier Richard, Whom diou now know'st to the marrow, as I do** Daring and watchful, as a leopard is, Was William, fair in body and in face, Ready at all times, never slow to act. He fought great battles, but at last was slain By the earl of Flanders ; so that in his place Richard his §on 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 : * 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 VirgU bears to Dante in the CamnutUa, FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 439 And thereon following, I proceed to tell How William, who was Robert's son, did make The realm of England his co-heritage. 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 TTius did this kingdom change its signiory ; And know that all the kings it since has had Only from this man take their origin. Therefore, that thou may'st 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 fether 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. L JO FAZIO DEGU VBERTI. Ar.d having wandered from his compiaiiy, Him by mischance a servant of his own Hit with an anow, chat ht fell and died. Aad after him Henry the First was king, Hk brother, but therewith the father's like. Being wcQ with God and just in peace and w Nest Stephen, od his death, the kingdom seized. Bat wi& 9QR strife ; of whom thus mucfa be said. That he was frank and good is told of tiim And afta Um aaother Henry reigned. Who, when the war in France was waged and d ISssed beyond seas with the first Frederick. Then Richard came, who. after heavy toil At sea, was captive made in Germany, Leaving the Sepolchre to join fais host Who being dead, fiiD heai-y was the wrath Of J ohn his brother ; and so wdl he took Revenge, that still a moan is made of it. This John in kingly largesse and in war Delighted, when the kingdoca fell to him ; Hunting and riding ever in hot haste. Handsome in body and most poor in heart, Henry his son and heir succeeded him, Of whom to speak I count it wretchedness. Yet there's some good to say of him, I grant ; Because of him was the good Edward bom, Whose valour stiU is famous in the world. The same was he who, being without dread Of the Old Man's Assassins, captured them. FAZIO DEGLI UBERTL 441 And who repaid the jester if he lied.* The same was he who over seas wrought scathe So many times to Malekdar, and bent Unto the Christian rule whole provinces. He was a giant of his body, and great And proud to view, and of such strength of soul As never saddens with adversity. His reign was long ; and when his death befell, The second Edward mounted to the throne, Who was of one kind with his grandfather. I say from what report still says of him. That he was evil, of base intellect. And would not be advised by any man. Conceive, good heart 1 that how to thatch a roof With straw, — conceive! — he held himself expert, And therein constantly would take delight ! By fraud he seized the Earl of Lancaster, And what he did with him I sav not here. But that he left him neither town nor tower. And thiswise, step by step, thou ma/st 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. * This may either refer to some special inddeiU or merely mean generally that he would not sufTer lying even in a jester. 443 FRANCO SACC^fiTTl. FRANCO ^CC^j^L * I. Ballata. His Ihlk wiih^m^iam Fm^ff^^li. * 'VT'E graceful peasimtTgixk and moiuitaiiiriiiaids^ X Whence coi&e ye homewajfd through these eveo^ shades?' * We come from where the forest skirts the hill ; A very little cottage is our home, Where with our father and our mother still We live, and love our life, nor wish to roam. Back every evening from the field we come And bring with us our sheep from pasturing there.' * Where, tell me, is the hamlet of your birth, Whose fruitage is the sweetest by so much ? Ye seem to me as creatures worship-worth, The shining of your countenance is such. No gold about your clothes, coarse to the touch, Nor silver ; yet with such an angel's air I FRANCO SACCHETTI. 443 ' 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 honorable. In very truth, now, does it like ye well To live so poorly on the hill-side here?' ' Better it liketh one of us, pardi^ Behind her flock to seek the pasture-stance, Far better than it liketh one of ye To ride unto yom: curtained rooms and dance. We seek no riches neither golden chance Save wealth of flowers to weave into our hair.' Ballad, if I were now as once I was, I'd make myself a shepherd on some hill. And, without telling any one, would pass Where these girls went, and follow at their will ; And * Mary * and * Martin ' we would murmur still, And I would be for ever where they were. 444 FRANCO SACCHETTL II. Catch. On a Fine Day, * T> E stirring, girls ! we ought to have a run : jLJ Look, did you ever see so fine a day ? Fling spindles right away. And rocks and reels and wools : Now don't be fools, — To-day your spinning's done. Up with you, up with you !' So, one by one. They caught hands, catch who can, Then singing, singing, to the river they ran. They ran, they ran To the river, the river ; And the merry-go-round Carries them at a bound To the mill o'er the river. ' Miller, miller, miller. Weigh me this lady And this other. Now, steady !' * You weigh a hundred, you, And this one weighs two/ FRANCO SACCHETTL 445 * Why, dear, you do get stout !' * You think so, dear, no doubt : Are you in a decline ?* * Keep your temper, and I'll keep mine.' *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 ! Well, whafs 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. 446 FRANCO SACCHETTL 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 ! look there !' delightedly. * O here it is !' * AVhaf s that ?' ' A lily, love.' * And there are violets !' * Further for roses ! Oh the lovely pets — The darling beauties ! Oh the nasty thorn ! Look here, my hand's all torn !* * What's that that jumps?* * Oh don't! it's a grass- hopper !' * Come run, come run, Here's bluebells !' * Oh what fun !' * Not that way ! Stop her !' * Yes, this way !' * Pluck them, then !' * Oh, Fve 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 !' * Oh shan't we hear the vesper-bell, I wonder?' FRANCO SACCHETTL 447 * Why, It's not nones, you silly little thing ; And don't you hear the nightingales that sing Fly away O die away V * O I hear something ! Hush !' * Why, where ? what is it then ?' * Ah ! in that bush !' So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it, Till with the stir they make Out skurries a great snake. * O Lord ! O me ! Alack ! Ah me ! alack !' They scream, and then all run and scream again. And then in heavy drops down comes the rain. Each running at the other in a fright, Each trying to get before the other, and crying And flying, stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right ; One sets her knee There where her foot should be ; One has her hands and dress All smothered up with mud in a fine mess ; And one 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 stood quite still to have a perfect view, And never noticed till I got wet through. 448 ANONYMOUS POEMS, ANONYMOUS POEMS. I. Sonnet. A Lady laments for her lost Lover ^ by similitude of a Falcon, ALAS for me, who loved a falcon well ! So well I loved him, I was nearly dead : Ever at my low call he bent his head, And ate of mine, not much, but all that fell. Now he has fled, how high I cannot tell. Much higher now than ever he has fled, And is in a fair garden housed and fed ; Another lady, alas ! shall love him well. O my own falcon whom I taught and rear'd ! Sweet bells of shining gold I gave to thee That in the chase thou shouldst not be afeard. Now thou hast risen like the risen sea. Broken thy jesses loose, and disappear'd, As soon as thou wast skilled in falconry. ANONYMOUS POEMS. 449 II. Ballata. One speaks of the Beginning of his Love. THIS fairest one of all the stars, whose flame, For ever lit, my imier spirit fills, Came to me first one day between the hills. I wondered very much ; but God the Lord Said, * From Our Virtue, lo ! this light is poufd.' So in a dream it seemed that I was led 'Bf a great Master to a garden spread YTiUti lilies underfoot and overhead. GG 4fa AHONYMOUS POEMS.^ Ballata. Om speaks rfJds Fahe Laiy. WHEN &e last gieyaess dwells dirougfaoat die air And die first star ^peafs^ Ai^>eaitd to me a ladr Tciy fiur. I seemed to know her well \fj lier sweet air; And, gazing. I was heis. To hor^our her. I followed her : and then .... Ah ! what diou givest, God give thee again, Whenever thou remain'st as I remain. ANONYMOUS POEMS, 45" IV. Ballata. One speaks of his Feigned and Rial Love, FOR no love borne by me, Neither because I care To find that thou art £ur, — 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 ndioso sees May like thee more than her. This vest will one prefer And one another vest. To me she seems the best. And I am hers, and let what will be, be. For no love borne by me, Neither because I care To find that thou art fair, — To give another ^diu, I gaze on thee. ANONYMOUS POEMS. 453 V. Ballata. Of True and False Singing, ALITIXE wild bird sometimes at my car Sings his own little 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 no\. And each of them can trill out what he calls His ballads, canzonets, and madrigals. The world with masters is so covered o'er, There is no room for pupils any more. INDEX OF FIRST LINES. {ENGLISH AND ITALIAN) A CERTAIN yoathfiil lady in Thoulouse Una gioidne donna di Tolosa • A day agone as I rode sullenly Cavalcando Valirierper un cammhto A finesh content of fresh enamouring Novella gioia e nova innamoranMa A gentle thought there is will often start GenHl pensiero cheparla di vui . A lady in whom love is manifest La bella donna dove Amor si mosira Alas for me who loved a fidcon well Tapina me che amava uno sparviero Albeit my prayers have not so long delay'd AzijMgna ched io nCaggiopwkper tempo A little wild bird sometimes at my ear AugdUtto sdvaggio per stagione . All my thoughts always speak to me c^Xove TutH li miei pensier parlan ePAmore All the whole world is living without war T^iUo lo mondo vive senza guerra All ye that pass along Love*s trodden wiqr O voi che per la via d^amorpatsaU Along the road all shapes must travel by Per qtuUa via che Palire forme vanno PAQS 139 41 416 loa 159 448 184 453 49 36 «38 4J« INDEX OF FIRST LINES. A nan dionld hold in Tery deir eiteem Among Jttf dion^ts I coant it wondprfid Among tihe danoen I bdhdd her dance Among the iantts we in diat book deacijr And eveiy Wedneaday as tbe swift d^rs moipe And in September O ndiat keen ddig^ DiStUiminviieSiMUmti And now take dioii|^ my Sonnet tAo is be SoneUo mio^ anda ^ U dmti • And on the momw at fiist peep o^ the dqr MlUt d09l$dH€ Oi P09W€ mm gWff^ • As I walked thinking thzooi^ a fittie grove Piassanth conj^emsierftr $m iatekdif As thon wot k)th to see belbre thy fiDdk Senon H cdggia la iita SaniaUna . A spirit of Love with Love's intelligence Ispirito tPAmor con i$UelUtto A thing is in my mind Venuto n^l in talewto • • At whiles yea oftefltimes I muse over S^ssefiate venemi alia nunte A very pitifiil lady very young Donna pietosa e di navMa daU . Ay me alas the beautiful bright hair Ohinik lasso quelle ireccie Honde • Ballad since Love himself hath fiashioned thee BcUlata poi che H compose Amore . Beauty in woman the high will*s decree Bdt^ di donna e di saccente core • Because I find not whom to speak withal Poich to non irovo ch\ tneco ragioni 360 4" 379 39" 446 414 303 55 193 133 124 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Because I think not cvcr to return Perch' to non spcro di tomar giammai . Because mine eyes can never have their fiU Paichi saziar ^on posso gli occhi mid Because ye made your backs your shields it came ^^^fiP^ r fare scudoddU rem Being in thought of love I chanced to see ^^^ in pensier tP amor quatuT io trovai • Be st'irring girls we ought to have a run State su donne che eUbbiam noifare • Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space OUre la spera chepik larga gira . By a clear well within a little field Intomo ad unafinte in un praidlo • By the long sojourning Per lunga dimoroHMa • . Canst thou indeed be he diat still would nng Sei tu colui cJC hat trattato sovente Dante Alighieri a dark oracle Dante Alighieri son Minerva oscura Dante Alighieii Cecco your good friend Dante Alighier Cecco tuo servo e ctmieo Dante Alighierr if I jest and lie Dante Alighier s* io son Hon h^Uardo . Dante Alighieri in Becchina's praise Lassar vuol Io trovare di Becchina Dante a sigh that rose from the heart's 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 PoiclC iofui Dante dal mio natal sito Dante whenever this thing happeneth Dante quando per cctso s' abbandona Death alway cruel Pit/s foe in chief Morte villana di Pieth nemica 457 i66 "4 366 140 108 253 355 68 250 204 226 213 HS 251 123 187 39 458 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 2>eadi since I find not one with whom to grieve MorUfoklC to turn trovo a cut mi dtigUa Death why hast thou made life so hard to bear Morteperehi ni haifaUo A gran gturra Do not conceive that I shall here recount Non intendktU cJC to qui U vi dica Each lover's longing leads him naturally Naturaiminte chere ogfd amadore . Even as the day when it is 3ret at davming Canu lo giorno quando i al matHno Even as the moon among the stars doth shed Cofne U stdle sopra la Diana Even as the others mock thou meekest me Con V altre donne mia vista gabbate Fair sir this love of ours Messer lo nottro amove Flowers hast thou in thyself and foliage Az/ete in vai lifiori e la verdura . For a thing done repentance is no good A cosafaita gi^ non valpeniire • For certain he hath seen all perfectness Vede perfettamente cgni salute . For grief I am about to sing Di dolor mi conviene cantare For January I give you vests of skins Jo dona vai nel mese di Gennaio . For July in Siena by the willow -tree Di Luglio in Siena sulla saliciata For August be your dwelling thirty towers D'Agosto ji w do trtnta castella , For no love borne by me Non per ben ch^ io ti vogiia For Thursday be the tournament prepared Ed ogfd Giovedi torniimento Friend well I know thou knowest well to bear Amice saccio ben che sai limare ii8 337 4x8 413 5* 34a 132 217 83 286 371 377 378 451 388 154 INDEX OF FIRST UNES, Glory to God and to God*s Mother chaste Lode di Dio € della Madre pmra • Gxamercy Death as yoa'Te my lo?« to win MorU mini si H prugo i m* i in irai9 Gnido an image of my lady dwells Unafigura della donna mia • Guido I wish that Lapo thov and I Gmdo vorrei chetut Lapo td to . Gnido that Gianni who a day agone Guido pid Gianni che a tef^ Palirieri Hard is it for a man to please all men Grevepno^ nam piacere a hUta genie He that has grown to wisdom hurries not Uomo cK i saggio non eorrt leggiero Her £Eice has made my life most proud and glad Lo viso mi fa andare allegramente I am all bent to glean the golden ore lo mi son dato iuUo a tragger oro . I am enamoured and yet not so much lo sono innamorato ma non tanto I am afar bat near thee is my heart - Lontan vi son mapresso 1/ i lo core I am so passing rich in poverty Eo son si ricco della povertate I am so oat of love through poverty La poverty m* hasi disamorato • I come to thee by daytime constantly lo v^gno ilgiomo a te infinite volte I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir lomi sentU svfgliar dentro dal core If any his own foolishness might see Cki conoscesse si la sua fallanta • If any man would know the very cause Se alcun volesse la eagion saver e . If any one had anything to say Chi Messer Ugolin hiasma 0 riprende 459 PAaa 239 221 136 H3 Z55 300 297 319 188 «>S 402 341 219 161 77 329 299 409 460 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. If as thou say'st thy love tormented tfaee Se vi stringesse quanto diU amore . If Dante mourns there wheresoe'er he be Se Dante piange dove cJC d si Ha • If I'd a sack of florins and all new S to avessi un sacco difiorini If I entreat this lady that all grace •S" ioprego questa donna chepietaie If I were fire I'd bum the world away S* iofossifoco arderei lo mondo • If I were still that man worthy to love S^ iofossi guello che d^amorfii degno If thou hadst offered friend to blessed Maiy Se avessi ditto amico di Maria If you could see &ir brother how dead beat Fratel se tu vedessi qtiesta gente . I give you horses for your games in May Di Maggio ^ vi do molti cavagli . I give you meadow-lands in April fair D''Aprile vi do la gentil campagna I have it in my heart to serve God so lo nC aggio posto in core a Dio servire I hold him verily of mean emprise Tegno difolle impresa alio ver dire I know not Dante in what refuge dwells Dante io non ado in qual albergo suoni I laboured these six years Sei anni ho 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 Becchina Amore e mia madre I'm full of everything I do not want lo ho tutte le cose cJC io non voglio In February I give you gallant sport Di Febbraio vi dono bella caccia . pAei 363 250 209 150 2X6 144 137 417 375 374 30S 29s 125 326 429 214 210 372 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. In March I give yon plenteous fisheries Di Marxo sivi do unapeschiera • In June I give you a close-wooded fell Di Giugno dowi una montagneUa I play this sweet prelude Dolce cominciamento • • • I pray thee Dante shouldst thou meet with Love Se vedi Amore anai Hprego Dante • I thought to be for ever sepamte lo mi credea del HUto esserpartito I've jolliest merriment for Saturday E U Sahato dileUe ed allegrama • I was upon the high and blessed mound lofui in sulV alto e in ml heato monte I would l^e better in the grace to be lo vorrei innann in grazia riiomare Just look Manetto at that wry-mouthed minx Guarda Manetto quella sgrignuiUMMa • Ladies that have intdligence of Love Donne che avete tntelletto d^ Amort Lady my wedded thought La mia amorosa mente • • Lady of Heaven the Mother glorified Donna dd eido gloriosa madre . • Lady with all the pains that I can take Donna io foneraggio lo podere . Last All-Saints' holy-day even now gone by Di donne io vidi una gentile sckiera 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 Novemhre petriuolo e il hagno Let Friday be your highest hunting-tide Ed ogni Venerdt gran caccia eforU * Let not the inhabitants of hell despair Non si disperin quelliddlo Inferno 461 373 376 400 146 122 390 192 222 164 58 347 34X> 398 III 3S2 381 389 224 462 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Lo I am she who makes the wheel to turn lo son la donna eke volgo la rota • Love and the gentle heart are one same thing Amore e corgentil son una cosa . Love and the Lady Lagia Guido and I Amore e Monna Lagia e Guido ed io Love hath so long possessed me for his own Si lungamente m^ha tenuio Amore Love I demand to have my lady in fee Amore io chero mia ihnna in domino Love's pallor and the semblance of deep mth Color d* amore e di pieth sembianti • Love since it is thy will that I return PerM ti place Amore cJC io ritomi Love steered my course while yet the Sun rode high Guidommi Amor ardendo ancora U Sole . Love taking leave my heart then leaveth me Amor ^ eo parto U cor si parte e dole Love will not have me cry Amor non vuol c)C io clami Many there are praisers of poverty Molti son quel che lodan pcvertade Marvellously elate Maravigliosamente . • Master Bertuccio you are called to account Messer Bertuccio a dritto uom vi cagiona • Master Brunetto this my little maid Messer Brunetto questa pulzdletta • Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring Videro gli occhi miei quanta pietate • My body resting in a haunt of mine Poso il corpo in un loco miopig^iando My curse be on the day when first I saw Io maladico il di cfC io vidi imprima My heart's so heavy with a himdred things Io ho si tristo il cor di cose cento . PIOI 168 63 147 85 229 99 "5 252 364 313 23s 309 408 no 98 356 130 211 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. My lady carrks lore within her ejres Nigii oecHf^ria la mim damna amen My lady looks lo gentle and so pore TanU gmiiU i tanto pnata part , My lady mine I send ■ Madomta mia a tfoi manda My lady thy delightful high command Madonna vostro aUero piacimenia Nero thus modi for tidings in thine ear Nooetta H so dire odi Ntrono Never so bare and naked was church-stone Ndtemph santo non vid* to nudpUtra Never was j<^ or good that did not soothe Oioia ni hen non i sensa eon/brio Next for October to some sheltered coign Di Oitohre nd canti cK ha buono daUo No man may mount upon a golden stair Non vi H numtaper iscala d* oro Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites Color di cenerJatH son It BiancH Now these four things if thou Quatiro cose cH vttole Now to Great Britain we must make our way Ora sipassa nella Gran Bretagna Now when it flowereth Oramai quandojlore % Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer Quando la luna e la sUlla diana . O Bicd pretty son of who knows whom Biccinotfdfyfittoldinonsoeui • Often the day had a most joyful mom Spesso di gioia nasce ed incomenna Of that wherein thou art a questioner Di cib che siaio sd dimandalore O Lady amorous Donna amorosa • • • 463 64 83 316 330 165 aao 344 380 158 227 423 433 306 38s ^43 357 29S 395 464 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. rxa O Love O thou that for my fealty 0 tu Amore che n^ haifatto tnarHre . . • 189 O Love who all this while hast uiged me on Amor che lungamenU nC hoi nunato • . • 392 On the last words of what you write to me Al motto diredan prima ragione • • • • aoo O Poverty by thee the soul is wrapped O Poverty come tu set un manto • • • • l^% O sluggish hard ingrate what doest thou O lento pigro ingrato ignar che fat . ^ . •179 O thou that often hast within thine eyes O tu cheporti negii occhi sovente . . • • 148 Pass and let pass this counsel I would give Per consiglio ti do dipassa pasta . • . • 410 Prohibiting all hope Leuandomi speranxa • • . • • 365 Remembering this how Love Membrando cib che Amore • . • • 320 Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son Ben so che fosti fi^iuol d^ AlighUri • . • 243 Round her red garland and her golden hair Sovra lifior vermigli e i capd d* oro • • • 2$2 Sapphire nor diamond nor emerald Diamante ni smeraldo ni zaffino . • .312 Say wouldst thou guard thy son Vuoi guardar tuo figliuolo . . . . • 428 Set Love in order thou that lovest me Ordina qtiesf Amore 0 tu che nC ami . • 284 So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me Si nC abbellio la vostra gran piacenza . . . 302 Song 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love Ballata io vo che tu ritruozn Amore • . .46 Stay now with me and listen to my sighs Venite a intender li sospiri miei . • • '93 Such wisdom as a little child displays Saver che sente un picciolo faniitio . . . 350 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. That lady of all gentle memories Era venuia nella menie rnia That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse Qtust^ altissima steUa che ri vede . The devastating flame of that fierce plague V ardenie fiamtna deUa fiera pesie The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear Upessimo € il crudel odio M ioporto The eyes that weep for pity of the heart GH occhi iUderUi per piei^ del core • The flower of virtue is the heart's content Ficr di virtk si P getifi/ coraggio • The fountain-head that is so bright to see Ciascuna fresca e doles foniatuUa « The King by whose rich grace His servants be Lo Re che inerta i sun send a ristoro The lofty worth and lovely excellence Lo gran valore e Upregio amoroso The man who feels not more or less somewhat Chi non settle d* Amore o ianto o quanta The other night I had a dreadful cough V aUra notU mi venne una gran tosse The sweetly-flavoured face La doke ciera piacente The thoughts are broken in my memory Cid che m* ineontra nella mente more The very bitter weeping that ye made V amaro htgrimar che xm faceste . There is a time to mount to humble thee Tempo vien di scdire e di scendere • There is a vice which oft Un vizio i che laudaio • There is a vice prevails Far che un vizio pur repU • There is among my thoughts the joyous plan lo ho petisato difare un gioidlo . 46s PASS 215 89 «57 240 323 206 333 53 100 289 420 424 384 H H ^ INDEX OF FIRST ZMES. TMnik a brief iridic on tibe most maivoBoiMiwrli TJWs book of DiMifce^ft veiy toodi lo (Mqt ^ Tbit fiteit lidy who as wdl I wol OM»to iS^gjfUhi <^SMMia rJ^ Tbis fidieil one of all the steis wbose flifiie Tbis it tbe damad by wbom Lov^ is bioii|^ QjMtiallagioiriMitiack^amargtddd * Tboo 8weetlf«D(dQiiig fiesb icdrase Iboa that art wise let wisdom miidrter .FrovuaH saggjia adnln viskm \ Tboii wen bast beszd Qiat RoDo bad two sc»is C&me udk* M due figlmoU Me R0^ Tboagh thicm indeed bast qmte foi^gottte fttdi Sin^hMddtuUo.obBaf^mernfk Tbroiig^ this my strong and new misaventnie Lafirte e naua mia disaweniura ' To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song £ U Mariedi It do un nwrvo mondo To every heart which the sweet pairi doth move A ciascuf^ alma presa e gentil core To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough Chi udisse tossir la malfatata » To see the green returning Quando veggio ritmerdire . To sound of trumpet rather than of horn A suon di tromba innanzi die di corno To the dim light and the large circle of shade Al poco giorno ed aX gran cerchio d* otnbra Two ladies to the summit of my mind Due donne in cima della mente mia , Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth Vedesti al mio parere ogni valore * .ti . -^i* ■ ,». • 1^ .3\ • 233 •» ' -^^ m «^ IS' 386 33 244 335 160 127 136 131 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Unto that lowly lovely maid I wis A queOa amorosetta foroidla • Unto the blithe and lordly fellowship AUa brigttia nobile e cartese » Upon a day came Sorrow in to me Uh di n venne a me MdancoHa . Upon that cruel season when onr Lord Quella crudd stagion cheagiudiean Vanquished and weary was my soul in me Vinta e lassa eragih P amma mia Weep Lovers sith Love's very self doth weep Piaf^eU omanHpai chepiange Amore Were ye but constant Gnelfs in war or peace Cosifaceste voi o guerra o pace Wert thou as prone to yield unto my prayer CoAfosn tu acconcia di danarmi Whatever good is naturally done Qualunque ben si fit naturcdmente Whatever while the thought comes over me Qtumtunque volte lasso mi rimembra What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thee Quai son le cose vostre cK io vi tolgo Whence come you all of you so sorrowiiil Onde vemte voi cost pensose When God had finished Master Messerin Quando Iddio Messier Messerin fece When I behold Becchina in. a rage Quando veggio Becchina corrucciata When Lacy draws her mantle round her face Chi vedesse a Zoicia un var cappuzzo When the last greyness dwells throughout the air Quando V aria comincia afarsi bruna . Whether all grace have failed I scarce may scan Non so a merci che mo vene a meno Whoever without money is in love Chi i senia denari innamoralo 467 pA«a . 156 . 369 121 361 191 38 367 $ 41S m t 207 • 1 % 94 • 195 • 1 112 • i 407 • 4 212 • « 290 • 1 450 • • 362 • J 218 .A/&. ^M 468 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Who U slie coming whom all gnzt upon Chiiqualachevien(h-cgn'ttem!amira 134 Whoso abandons peace for war-Reeliing Chi va chertndo guirra e lassa fiui 3S> VHio utters of his father ought but praise CMS due di sue padre allro che on»re 1!S Whj from the danger did not mine eyes start Perthi nunfiira a me gU eccki disp<»,H ■S3 1 Why if Bccchioa's heart were diamond J Se di SneHia il eorfosie diamante aoS \ Within a copse 1 met a shepherd -maid In un bostMto tnniai pastertlta . ,6, i Within the gentle heart Love sheltere him Al car gentil riparf Sempre Amere 291 Wilh other women I beheld my love lo iiidi dcnne eon la donna tnia . I3S Woe's me by dint of all these sighs that come Lojsofia-firtaA'^KHiia^ri . 10* i I'isff mirabU gola morgonata !03 j Vea let me praise my lady whom 1 love lo vo del ver la mia donna lodare =M j Ye graceful peasai^-girls and mountain-maid ( Vaghe le monlatiitie e.paslarelle . w 1 ^m Ve ladies walking past me piteous-eyed ^H Vffi dmne eke pitloso altv mestrate "3 ^H Ve pilgrim-follt advancing pensively B DthptrtgrinichcpmsoHaitdale . 106 " 67 «^' Madonna mslr^ altera eanoieenxa ■ 35» 1 ^^^1 Lmdon: Pnnicdby JohhStvjikgbwavs, CiuIeSi Lclcestn Sq. la J t I I i M 't\ I 'I' I This book should be returned to the Library on or before the last date stamped below. A fine of five cents a day is incurrer! by retaining it beyond the specified time. Please return promptly. i|^«'