human
Can you write me a poem about jacopone da todi in the style of Charles Brockden Brown?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about jacopone da todi in the style of Charles Brockden Brown:
  this literature, which although ranking with the greatest of the
It is to be noted also, that owing to unavoidable delay in the
literature, properly so-called, farther back than the thirteenth
century.
With the eleventh century a change for the better began in the
thirteenth century.
One phase of Provencal poetry--the political--strangely enough
"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, or 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 its effect in gentleness
Of very self; even as
Within the middle fire the heat's excess."
Florentine poet whom we shall study in the next two chapters.
most solemn and majestic of all Latin hymns, "Dies Irae."
About the year 1260, a similar movement started, that of the
themselves with whips and singing pious songs.
The most famous of the writers of these _Laudi_ in the thirteenth
Jesus, whoso with thee
Hangs not in pain and loss
Pierced on the cruel cross,
At peace can never be.
Lord, unto me be kind:
Give me that peace of mind
Which in the world so blind
And false, dwells but with thee.
Here in my heart be lit
Thy fire to feed on it,
Till burning bit by bit
It dies to live with thee.
Before we close this chapter we must say a word or two concerning
Italian literature of comparatively recent origin--Causes
therefor--Italian literature proper does not begin before the
thirteenth century--The poetry of Provence and its influence on
North Italy--The Italian troubadours--The rise of indigenous
poetry in Sicily--Transference of the movement to
Tuscany--Guido Guinicelli of Bologna--The "new school"--How it
differed from the preceding poetry--Character of literature in
North Italy--St. Francis and the religious movements--The
Flagellants--Literary effect of these movements--The
_Laudi_--Jacopone da Todi--French epic romances and their
influence in Italy.
people.
school.
poets?
literature?
thirteenth century.
It is very important in the study of any literature to have some
knowledge of the history of the country in question. Those who
wish to study more in detail the subject treated in this book,
should read some book on the history of Italy. For the early
period of the literature, the best authority is Gaspary, who
wrote in German,--but the first volume of whose book has just
been translated into English, and published in the Bohn Library.
An indispensable book is Rossetti's "Dante and his Circle,"
which contains many excellent translations from the early poets
 His last words were, "Welcome, sister death."
following beautiful sonnet, so well translated by Shelley:
Guido, I would that Lapo, thou and I,
Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend
A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly,
With winds at will where'er our thoughts might wend,
And that no change, nor any evil chance
Should mar our joyous voyage; but it might be,
That even satiety should still enhance
Between our hearts their strict community:
And that the bounteous wizard then would place
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love,
Companions of our wandering, and would grace
With passionate talk, wherever we might rove,
Our time, and each were as content and free
As I believe that thou and I should be.
Whatso is fair in lady's face or mind,
And gentle knights caparison'd and gay,
Singing of sweet birds unto love inclined,
And gallant barks that cut the watery way;
The white snow falling without any wind,
The cloudless sky at break of early day,
The crystal stream, with flowers the meadow lined,
Silver, and gold, and azure for array:
To him that sees the beauty and the worth
Whose power doth meet and in my lady dwell,
All seem as vile, their price and lustre gone.
And, as the heaven is higher than the earth,
So she in knowledge doth each one excel,
Not slow to good in nature like her own.
"Ah! from what agony of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,--
This medieval miracle of song."
"They, of whom I sprang,
And I, had there our birthplace,"
that is, in a certain quarter of Florence--
"Thus much
Suffice of my forefathers; who they were,
And whence they hither came, more honorable
It is to pass in silence than to tell."
At this time, in addition to the two great parties of Guelphs and
Thus begins the poignant story of Dante's exile. We know but few
"Thou shalt leave each thing
Beloved most dearly: this is the first shaft
Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove
How salt the savor is of other's bread;
How hard the passage, to descend and climb
By other's stairs. But that shall gall thee most,
Will be the worthless and vile company,
With whom thou must be thrown into these straits.
For all ungrateful, impious all, and mad,
Shall turn 'gainst thee: but in a little while,
Theirs, and not thine, shall be the crimson'd brow,
Their course shall so evince their brutishness,
To have ta'en thy stand apart shall well become thee.
"First refuge thou must find, first place of rest,
In the great Lombard's courtesy, who bears,
Upon the ladder perch'd, the sacred bird.
He shall behold thee with such kind regard,
That 'twixt ye two, the contrary to that
Which 'falls 'twixt other men, the granting shall
Forerun the asking."
"This is not the way of coming home, my father! Yet, if you or
other find one not beneath the fame of Dante and his honor, that
will I gladly pursue. But if by no such way can I enter
Florence, then Florence shall I never enter. And what then! Can
I not behold the sun and the stars from every spot of earth?
Shall I not be able to meditate on the sweetest truths in every
place beneath the sky, unless I make myself ignoble, yea,
ignominious to the people and state of Florence? Nor shall bread
be wanting."
"Methinks I see thee stand with pallid cheeks
By Fra Ilario in his diocese,
As on the convent walls in golden streaks
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease.
And as he asks what there the stranger seeks
Thy voice along the cloisters whispers 'peace.'"
It is this inspiring combination of noble qualities in Dante's
For the general reader, however, the most interesting of Dante's
writings, after the Divine Comedy, is the New Life, a strange and
Dante tells us in quaint and scholastic language how he first saw
So gentle and so noble doth appear
My lady when she passes through the street,
That none her salutation dare repeat
And all eyes turn from her as if in fear.
She goes her way, and cannot help but hear
The praise of all,--yet modest still and sweet;
Something she seems come down from heaven,--her seat,
To earth a miracle to show men here.
So pleasing doth she seem unto the eye,
That to the heart a sweetness seems to move,
A sweetness only known to those who feel.
And from her lips a spirit seems to steal,--
A gentle spirit, soft and full of love,--
That whispers to the souls of all men,--"sigh."
"How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! How is
she become a widow, she that was great among the  nations!"--
Oh, pilgrims who move on with steps so slow,
Musing perchance of friends now far away;
So distant is your native land, oh say!
As by your actions ye do seem to show?
For lo! you weep and mourn not when you go,
Through these our city streets, so sad to-day;
Nor unto us your meed of pity pay,
Bowed as we are 'neath heavy weight of woe.
If while I speak you will but wait and hear,--
Surely,--my heart in sighing whispers me,--
That then you shall go on with sorrow deep.
Florence has lost its Beatrice dear;
And words that tell what she was wont to be,
Are potent to make all that hear them weep.
Early Tuscan poetry--Guido Cavalcanti, a contemporary of
Florence--Dante born 1265; his education; his love for Beatrice;
marriage and home life; an exile; dies in Ravenna 1321.
Dante's time?
indication of their contents.
No poet in Italian literature is better adapted to special study
than Dante, nor is any so profitable. The material is abundant.
The reader should provide himself with Scartazzini's Companion
to Dante, translated by A. J. Butler, or Symond's Introduction
to Dante. These will furnish all necessary facts concerning the
life and works of the poet. It must be remembered that the
Divine Comedy is a difficult poem, and that it takes many
readings and much study to master it. It will be best to begin
by reading Maria F. Rossetti's A Shadow of Dante, which gives a
general outline of the story with copious extracts. Then one of
the numerous translations should be taken up and studied
carefully, canto by canto--Cary's, Longfellow's, and Norton's
translations (the latter in prose) are the best. An edition of
Cary's translation has been made by the writer of this book
(published by T. Y. Crowell & Co.), with special reference to
the general reader. It contains an introduction, Rossetti's
translation of the New Life, and a revised reprint of Cary's
version of the Divine Comedy furnished with a popular commentary
in the form of foot notes. The number of essays and critical
estimates of Dante in English is legion; perhaps the best three
are those by Carlyle (in Heroes and Hero Worship), Dean Church,
and Lowell. Of especial value is Dinsmore's Aids to the Study of
 The soul of Beatrice.
 Dante's sister.
"You and I would rather see that angel,
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
Would we not? than read a fresh Inferno."
"Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye:
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Entering in they are met with the sound of sighs, moans, and
"The wretched souls of those, who lived
Without or praise or blame, with that ill band
Of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved,
Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves
Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth
Not to impair his luster; nor the depth
Of Hell receives them, lest the accursed tribe
Should glory thence with exultation vain."
"Speak not of them, but look and pass them by,"
has become proverbial.
"When they together short discourse had held,
They turned to me, with salutation kind
Beckoning me; at the which my master smiled:
Nor was this all; but greater honor still
They gave me, for they made me of their tribe;
And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band.
"Far as the luminous beacon on we passed,
Speaking of matters, then befitting well
To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot
Of a magnificent castle we arrived,
Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round
Defended by a pleasant stream. O'er this
As o'er dry land we passed. Next, through seven gates,
I with those sages entered, and we came
Into a mead with lively verdure fresh.
"There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around
Majestically moved, and in their port
Bore eminent authority: they spake
Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet.
"We to one side retired, into a place
Open and bright and lofty, whence each one
Stood manifest to view. Incontinent,
There on the green enamel of the plain
Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight
I am exalted in my own esteem."
"When I had heard my sage instructor name
Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpowered
By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind
Was lost; and I began: 'Bard! willingly
I would address those two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind.' He thus:
'Note thou, when nearer they to us approach.
Then by that love which carries them along,
Entreat; and they will come.' Soon as the wind
Swayed them toward us, I thus framed my speech:
'O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrained.' As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;
Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks,
They, through the ill air speeding: with such force
My cry prevailed, by strong affection urged.
"'O gracious creature and benign! who go'st
Visiting, through this element obscure,
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbrued;
If, for a friend, the King of all, we owned,
Our prayer to him should for thy peace arise,
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.
Of whatso'er to hear or to discourse
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind,
As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth,
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams.
"'Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:
Love, that denial takes from none beloved,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not.
Love brought us to one death: Caina waits
The soul, who spilt our life.' Such were their words;
At hearing which, downward I bent my looks,
And held them there so long, that the bard cried:
'What art thou pondering?' I in answer thus:
'Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire
Must they at length to that ill pass have reached!'
"Then turning, I to them my speech addressed,
And thus began: 'Francesca! your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what and how Love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes?' She replied:
'No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens
Thy learn'd instructor yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one who weeps and tells his tale. One day
For our delight we read of Launcelot,
How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Oft times by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished for smile so rapturously kissed
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kissed. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more.' While thus one spirit spake,
The other wailed so sorely, that heart-struck
I, through compassion fainting, seemed not far
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground."
"The good instructor spake: 'Now seest thou, son!
The souls of those, whom anger overcame.
This, too, for certain know, that underneath
The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs
Into these bubbles make the surface heave,--
As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn.
Fixed in the slime, they say: "Sad once were we,
In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun,
Carrying a foul and lazy mist within:
Now in these murky settlings are we sad."
Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats,
But word distinct can utter none.'"
"'There on the filthy waters,' he replied,
'E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see,
If the marsh-gendered fog conceal it not.'
"Never was arrow from the cord dismissed,
That ran its way so nimbly through the air,
As a small bark, that through the waves I spied
Toward us coming, under the sole sway
Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud:
'Art thou arrived, fell spirit?'--'Phlegyas, Phlegyas,
This time thou criest in vain,' my lord replied;
'No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er
The slimy pool we pass.' As one who hears
Of some great wrong he hath sustained, whereat
Inly he pines: So Phlegyas inly pined
In his fierce ire. My guide, descending, stepped
Into the skiff, and bade me enter next,
Close at his side; nor, till my entrance, seemed
The vessel freighted. Soon as both embarked,
Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow,
More deeply than with others it is wont."
"And thus the good instructor: 'Now, my son
Draws near the city, that of Dis is named,
With its grave denizens, a mighty throng.'
"I thus: 'The minarets already, sir!
There, certes, in the valley I descry,
Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire
Had issued.' He replied: 'Eternal fire,
That inward burns shows them with ruddy flame
Illumed; as in this nether hell thou seest.'
"We came within the fosses deep, that moat
This region comfortless. The walls appeared
As they were framed of iron. We had made
Wide circuit, ere a place we reached, where loud
The mariner cried vehement: 'Go forth:
The entrance is here.' Upon the gates I spied
More than a thousand, who of old from heaven
Were shower'd. With ireful gestures, 'Who is this,'
They cried, 'that, without death first felt, goes through
The regions of the dead?' My sapient guide
Made sign that he for secret parley wished;
Whereat their angry scorn abating, thus
They spake: 'Come thou alone; and let him go,
Who hath so hardily entered this realm.
Alone return he by his witless way;
If well he know it, let him prove. For thee,
Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark
Hast been his escort.' Now bethink thee, reader!
What cheer was mine at sound of those curst words.
I did believe I never should return."
avarice, wrath, and melancholy) all belong to the category of
"On Alpine summits, when the wind is hushed."
"'If thou,' he answer'd, 'follow but thy star,
Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven;
Unless in fairer days my judgment erred.
And if my fate so early had not chanced,
Seeing the heavens thus bounteous to thee, I
Had gladly given thee comfort in thy work.
But that ungrateful and malignant race,
Who in old times came down from Fiesole,
Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,
Will for thy good deeds show thee enmity.'"
To which the poet answers with noble courage:
"This only would I have thee clearly note:
That, so my conscience have no plea against me,
Do Fortune as she list, I stand prepared,
Not new or strange such earnest to my ear.
Speed Fortune then her wheel, as likes her best;
The clown his mattock; all things have their course."
subdivided into ten concentric rings, or ditches, with the floor
gradually descending to a well in the center, thus resembling the
"But I there
Still lingered to behold the troop, and saw
Thing, such as I may fear without more proof
To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,
The boon companion, who her strong breastplate
Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within,
And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt
I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,
A headless trunk, that even as the rest
Of the sad flock paced onward. By the hair
It bore the severed member, lantern-wise
Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said,
'Woe's me!' The spirit lighted thus himself;
And two there were in one, and one in two.
How that may be, he knows who ordereth so.
"When at the bridge's foot direct he stood,
His arm aloft he reared, thrusting the head
Full in our view, that nearer we might hear
The words, which thus it utter'd: 'Now behold
This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st
To spy the dead: behold, if any else
Be terrible as this. And, that on earth
Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John
The counsel mischievous. Father and son
I set at mutual war. For Absalom
And David more did not Ahitophel,
Spurring them on maliciously to strife.
For parting those so closely knit, my brain
Parted, alas! I carry from its source,
That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law
Of retribution fiercely works in me.'"
In the eighth pit are the souls of evil counselors, so completely
"Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn
Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire
That labors with the wind, then to and fro
Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds,
Threw out its voice, and spake: when I escaped
From Circe, who beyond a circling year
Had held me near Caieta by her charms,
Ere thus AEneas yet had named the shore;
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
Of my old father, nor return of love,
That should have crowned Penelope with joy,
Could overcome in me the zeal I had
To explore the world, and search the ways of life,
Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sailed
Into the deep, illimitable main,
With but one bark, and the small faithful band
That yet cleaved to me. As Iberia far,
Far as Marocco, either shore I saw,
And the Sardinian and each isle beside
Were I and my companions, when we came
To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd
The boundaries not to be o'erstepp'd by man
The walls of Seville to my right I left,
On the other hand already Ceuta past.
'O brothers!' I began, 'who to the West
Through perils without number now have reached;
To this the short remaining watch, that yet
Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof
Of the unpeopled world, following the track
Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang:
Ye were not formed to live the life of brutes,
But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.'
With these few words I sharpened for the voyage
The mind of my associates, that I then
Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn
Our poop we turned, and for the witless flight
Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left.
Each star of the other pole night now beheld,
And ours so low, that from the ocean floor
It rose not. Five times re-illumed, as oft
Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon,
Since the deep way we entered, when from far
Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought
Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seized us straight;
But soon to mourning changed. From the new land
A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side
Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round
With all the waves; the fourth time lifted up
The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed:
And over us the booming billow closed."
"His jaws uplifting from their fell repast,
That sinner wiped them on the hairs o' the head,
Which he behind had mangled, then began:
'Thy will obeying, I call up afresh
Sorrow past cure; which, but to think of, wrings
My heart, or ere I tell on 't. But if words,
That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear
Fruit of eternal infamy to him,
The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once
Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be
I know not, nor how here below art come:
But Florentine thou seemest of a truth,
When I do hear thee. Know, I was on earth
Ruggieri. Why I neighbor him so close,
Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts
In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en
And after murdered, need is not I tell.
What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,
How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,
And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate
Within that mew, which for my sake the name
Of famine bears, where others yet must pine,
Already through its opening several moons
Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep
That from the future tore the curtain off.
This one, methought, as master of the sport,
Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf, and his whelps,
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight
Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs
Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged
Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.
After short course the father and the sons
Seemed tired and lagging, and methought I saw
The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke,
Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard
My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask
For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang
Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;
And if not now, why use thy tears to flow?
Now had they wakened; and the hour drew near
When they were wont to bring us food; the mind
Of each misgave him through his dream, and I
Heard, at its outlet underneath locked up
The horrible tower: whence, uttering not a word,
I look'd upon the visage of my sons.
I wept not: so all stone I felt within.
They wept: and one, my little Anselm, cried,
"Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet
I shed no tear, nor answered all that day
Nor the next night, until another sun
Came out upon the world. When a faint beam
Had to our doleful prison made its way,
And in four countenances I descried
The image of my own, on either hand
Through agony I bit; and they, who thought
I did it through desire of feeding, rose
O' the sudden, and cried, "Father, we should grieve
Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gavest
These weeds of miserable flesh we wear;
And do thou strip them off from us again."
Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down
My spirit in stillness. That day and the next
We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!
Why open'dst not upon us? When we came
To the fourth day, then Gaddo at my feet
Outstretched did fling him, crying, "Hast no help
For me, my father!" There he died; and e'en
Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three
Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth:
Whence I betook me, now grown blind, to grope
Over them all, and for three days aloud
Called on them who were dead. Then, fasting got
The mastery of grief.' Thus having spoke,
Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth
He fasten'd like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone,
Firm and unyielding. Oh, thou Pisa! shame
Of all the people, who their dwelling make
In that fair region, where the Italian voice
Is heard; since that thy neighbors are so slack
To punish, from their deep foundations rise
The mouth of Arno; that each soul in thee
May perish in the waters. What if fame
Reported that thy castles were betrayed
By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou
To stretch his children on the rack. For them,
Brigata, Uguccione, and the pair
Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,
Their tender years, thou modern Thebes, did make
Uncapable of guilt. Onward we passed,
Where others, skarfed in rugged folds of ice.
Not on their feet were turned, but each reversed."
arch-traitors, Judas, Brutus, and Cassius.
The first cantos of Purgatory are of wonderful beauty, and their
loveliness is heightened by contrast, coming as it does after the
gradually becoming brighter as the dawn advances:
"Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread
O'er the serene aspect of the pure air,
High up as the first circle, to mine eyes
Unwonted joy renew'd, soon as I 'scaped
Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom,
That had mine eyes and bosom fill'd with grief.
The radiant planet, that to love invites,
Made all the Orient laugh, and veiled beneath
The Pisces' light, that in his escort came.
"To the right hand I turned, and fixed my mind
On the other pole attentive, where I saw
Four stars ne'er seen before save by the ken
Of our first parents. Heaven of their rays
Seemed joyous. O thou northern site! bereft
Indeed, and widowed, since of these deprived."
As they stand watching this scene, a venerable old man (Cato, the
"The dawn had chased the matin hour of prime,
Which fled before it, so that from afar
I spied the trembling of the ocean stream.
"We traversed the deserted plain, as one
Who, wandered from his track, thinks every step
Trodden in vain till he regain the path.
"When we had come where yet the tender dew
Strove with the sun, and in a place where fresh
The wind breathed o'er it, while it slowly dried;
Both hands extended on the watery grass
My master placed, in graceful act and kind.
Whence I of his intent before apprized,
Stretched out to him my cheeks suffused with tears.
There to my visage he anew restored
That hue which the dun shades of hell concealed.
"Then on the solitary shore arrived,
That never sailing on its waters saw
Man that could after measure back his course,
He girt me in such manner as had pleased
Him who instructed; and O strange to tell!
As he selected every humble plant,
Wherever one was plucked another there
Resembling, straightway in its place arose."
"Meanwhile we lingered by the water's brink,
Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought
Journey, while motionless the body rests.
When lo! as, near upon the hour of dawn,
Through the thick vapors Mars with fiery beam
Glares down in west, over the ocean floor;
So seemed, what once again I hope to view,
A light, so swiftly coming through the sea,
No winged course might equal its career.
From which when for a space I had withdrawn
Mine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide,
Again I looked, and saw it grown in size
And brightness: then on either side appeared
Something, but what I knew not, of bright hue,
And by degrees from underneath it came
Another. My preceptor silent yet
Stood, while the brightness, that we first discerned,
Opened the form of wings: then when he knew
The pilot, cried aloud, 'Down, down; bend low
Thy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands:
Now shalt thou see true ministers indeed.
Lo! how all human means he sets at nought;
So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail
Except his wings, between such distant shores.
Lo! how straight up to heaven he holds them reared,
Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes,
That not like mortal hairs fall off or change.'
"As more and more toward us came, more bright
Appeared the bird of God, nor could the eye
Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down.
He drove ashore in a small bark so swift
And light, that in its course no wave it drank.
The heavenly steersman at the prow was seen,
Visibly written Blessed in his looks.
Within, a hundred spirits and more there sat.
All with one voice together sang, with what
In the remainder of that hymn is writ.
Then soon as with the sign of holy cross
He blessed them, they at once leaped out on land:
He, swiftly as he came, returned. The crew,
There left, appear'd astounded with the place,
Gazing around, as one who sees new sights.
"From every side the sun darted his beams,
And with his arrowy radiance from mid heaven
Had chased the Capricorn, when that strange tribe,
Lifting their eyes toward us: 'If ye know,
Declare what path will lead us to the mount.'
"Them Vergil answered: 'Ye suppose, perchance,
Us well acquainted with this place: but here,
We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst
We came, before you but a little space,
By other road so rough and hard, that now
The ascent will seem to us as play.' The spirits,
Who from my breathing had perceived I lived,
Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude
Flock round a herald sent with olive branch,
To hear what news he brings, and in their haste
Tread one another down; e'en so at sight
Of me those happy spirits were fixed, each one
Forgetful of its errand to depart
Where, cleansed from sin, it might be made all fair.
"Then one I saw darting before the rest
With such fond ardor to embrace me, I
To do the like was moved. O shadows vain!
Except in outward semblance: thrice my hands
I clasped behind it, they as oft return'd
Empty into my breast again. Surprise
I need must think was painted in my looks,
For that the shadow smiled and backward drew.
To follow it I hastened, but with voice
Of sweetness it enjoined me to desist.
Then who it was I knew, and pray'd of it,
To talk with me it would a little pause.
It answered: 'Thee as in my mortal frame
I loved, so loosed from it I love thee still,
And therefore pause: but why walkest thou here?'
"'Not without purpose once more to return,
Thou find'st me, my Casella, where I am,
Journeying this way;' I said: 'but how of thee
Hath so much time been lost?' He answered straight
"'No outrage hath been done to me, if he,
Who when and whom he chooses takes, hath oft
Denied me passage here; since of just will
His will he makes. These three months past indeed,
He, whoso chose to enter, with free leave
Hath taken; whence I wandering by the shore
Where Tiber's wave grows salt, of him gain'd kind
Admittance, at that river's mouth, toward which
His wings are pointed; for there always throng
All such as not to Acheron descend.'
"Then I: '"If new law taketh not from thee
Memory or custom of love-tuned song,
That whilom all my cares had power to 'swage:
Please thee therewith a little to console
My spirit, that encumber'd with its frame,
Traveling so far, of pain is overcome.'
"'Love, that discourses in my thoughts,' he then
Began in such soft accents, that within
The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide,
And all who came with him, so well were pleased,
That seemed nought else might in their thoughts have room.
"Fast fixed in mute attention to his notes
We stood, when lo! that old man venerable
What negligence detains you loitering here?
Run to the mountain to cast off those scales,
That from your eyes the sight of God conceal.'
"As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food
Collected, blade or tares, without their pride
Accustomed, and in still and quiet sort,
If aught alarm them, suddenly desert
Their meal, assailed by more important care;
So I that new-come troop beheld, the song
Deserting, hasten to the mountain side,
As one who goes, yet, where he tends, knows not.
Nor with less hurried step did we depart."
"Comely and fair and gentle of aspect,"
who was slain at Benevento, in 1266; and likewise Buonconte da
'From Campaldino's field what force or chance
Drew thee, that ne'er thy sepulture was known?'
"'Oh!' answered he, 'at Casentino's foot
A stream there courseth, named Archiano, sprung
In Apennine above the hermit's seat.
E'en where its name is cancel'd, there came I,
Pierced in the throat, fleeing away on foot,
And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech
Fail'd me; and, finishing with Mary's name,
I fell, and tenantless my flesh remain'd.
I will report the truth; which thou again
Tell to the living. Me God's angel took,
Whilst he of hell exclaimed: "O thou from heaven:
Say wherefore hast thou robb'd me? Thou of him
The eternal portion bear'st with thee away,
For one poor tear that he deprives me of.
But of the other, other rule I make."
"'Thou know'st how in the atmosphere collects
That vapor dank, returning into water
Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it.
That evil will, which in his intellect
Still follows evil, came; and raised the wind
And smoky mist, by virtue of the power
Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon
As day was spent, he covered o'er with cloud,
From Pratomagno to the mountain range;
And stretched the sky above; so that the air
Impregnate changed to water. Fell the rain;
And to the fosses came all that the land
Contained not; and, as mightiest streams are wont,
To the great river, with such headlong sweep,
Rushed, that nought stayed its course. My stiffened frame
Laid at his mouth, the fell Archiano found,
And dashed it into Arno; from my breast
Loosening the cross, that of myself I made
When overcome with pain. He hurled me on,
Along the banks and bottom of his course;
Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt."
"Ah, slavish Italy! thou inn of grief!
Vessel without a pilot in loud storm!
Lady no longer of fair provinces,
But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit,
Even from the pleasant sound of his dear land
Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen
With such glad cheer: while now thy living ones
In thee abide not without war; and one
Malicious gnaws another; aye, of those
Whom the same wall and the same moat contains.
Seek, wretched one! around thy seacoasts wide;
Then homeward to thy bosom turn; and mark,
If any part of thee sweet peace enjoy.
What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand
Refitted, if thy saddle be unprest?
Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame.
Ah, people! thou obedient still shouldst live,
And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit,
If well thou marked'st that which God commands."
"Betwixt the steep and plain, a crooked path
Led us traverse into the ridge's side,
Where more than half the sloping edge expires.
Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refined,
And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood
Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds
But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers
Placed in that fair recess, in color all
Had been surpassed, as great surpasses less.
Nor nature only there lavish'd her hues.
But of the sweetness of a thousand smells
A rare and undistinguished fragrance made.
"'Salve Regina,' on the grass and flowers,
Here chanting, I beheld those spirits sit,
Who not beyond the valley could be seen."
"The king of simple life and plain,"
Henry III. of England. The scene that follows is one of the most
celebrated, as well as beautiful in the Divine Comedy:
"Now was the hour that wakens fond desire
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart
Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell,
And pilgrim newly on his road with love
Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day:
When I, no longer taking heed to hear,
Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark
One risen from its seat, which with its hand
Audience implored. Both palms it joined and raised,
Fixing its steadfast gaze toward the east,
As telling God, 'I care for nought beside.'
"'Te Lucis Ante,' so devoutly then
Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain,
That all my sense in ravishment was lost.
And the rest after, softly and devout,
Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze
Directed to the bright supernal wheels.
"I saw that gentle band silently next
Look up, as if in expectation held,
Pale and in lowly guise; and, from on high,
I saw, forth issuing descend beneath,
Two angels, with two flame-illumined swords,
Broken and mutilated of their points.
Green as the tender leaves but newly born,
Their vesture was, the which, by wings as green
Beaten, they drew behind them, fanned in air.
A little over us one took his stand;
The other lighted on the opposing hill;
So that the troop were in the midst contained.
Well I descried the whiteness on their heads;
But in their visages the dazzled eye
Was lost, as faculty that by too much
Is overpowered. 'From Mary's bosom both
Are come,' exclaimed Sordello, 'as a guard
Over the vale, 'gainst him, who hither tends,
The serpent.' Whence not knowing by which path
He came, I turned me round; and closely pressed
All frozen, to my leader's trusted side."
"My insatiate eyes
Meanwhile to heaven had traveled, even there
Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel
Nearest the axle: When my guide inquired:
'What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?'
"I answered: 'The three torches, with which here
The pole is all on fire.' He then to me:
'The four resplendent stars, thou saw'st this morn,
Are there beneath; and these, risen in their stead.'
"While yet he spoke, Sordello to himself
Drew him, and cried: 'Lo there our enemy!'
And with his hand pointed that way to look.
"Along the side, where barrier none arose
Around the little vale, a serpent lay,
Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food,
Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake
Came on, reverting oft his lifted head;
And, as a beast that smooths its polished coat,
Licking his back. I saw not, nor can tell,
How those celestial falcons from their seat
Moved, but in motion each one well descried.
Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes,
The serpent fled; and, to their stations, back
The angels up return'd with equal flight."
"Attentively I turned,
Listening the thunder that first issued forth;
And 'We praise thee, O God,' methought I heard,
In accents blended with sweet melody.
The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound
Of choral voices, that in solemn chant
With organ mingle, and, now high and clear
Come swelling, now float indistinct away."
"There, was storied on the rock
The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attired
In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped
Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appeared amid all these to say:
'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:
'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thou
Dost not return?'--'Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.'--'What to thee is other's good,
If thou neglect thy own?'--'Now comfort thee;'
At length he answers. 'It beseemeth well
My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'
"He whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
The like not found on earth. Fondly I gazed
Upon those patterns of meek humbleness,
Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake."
"The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from.
"Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth."
"Was a father to me, and to those
My betters, who have ever used the sweet
And pleasant rhymes of love."
"The escorting spirits turned with gentle looks
Toward me; and the Mantuan spake: 'My son,
Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death.
Remember thee, remember thee, if I
Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee; now I come
More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now?
Of this be sure; though in its womb that flame
A thousand years contained thee, from thy head
No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth,
Approach; and with thy hands thy vesture's hem
Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief.
Lay now all fear, oh! lay all fear aside.
Turn hither, and come onward undismayed.'
"I still, though conscience urged, no step advanced.
"When still he saw me fixed and obstinate,
Somewhat disturb'd he cried: 'Mark now, my son,
From Beatrice thou art by this wall
Divided.' As at Thisbe's name the eye
Of Pyramus was open'd (when life ebbed
Fast from his veins), and took one parting glance,
While vermeil dyed the mulberry; thus I turned
To my sage guide, relenting, when I heard
The name that springs forever in my breast.
"He shook his forehead; and, 'How long,' he said,
'Linger we now?' then smiled, as one would smile
Upon a child that eyes the fruit and yields.
Into the fire before me then he walked;
And Statius, who erewhile no little space
Had parted us, he prayed to come behind.
"I would have cast me into molten glass
To cool me, when I entered; so intense
Raged the conflagrant mass. The sire beloved,
To comfort me, as he proceeded, still
Of Beatrice talked. 'Her eyes,' saith he,
'E'en now I seem to view.' From the other side
A voice, that sang did guide us; and the voice
Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth,
There where the path led upward. 'Come,' we heard,
'Come, blessed of my father.' Such the sounds
That hailed us from within a light; which shone
So radiant, I could not endure the view."
"Each of us had made
A stair his pallet; not that will, but power,
Had failed us, by the nature of that mount
Forbidden further travel. As the goats
That late have skipt and wanton'd rapidly
Upon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'en
Their supper on the herb, now silent lie
And ruminate beneath the umbrage brown,
While noon-day rages; and the goatherd leans
Upon his staff, and leaning watches them:
And as the swain, that lodges out all night
In quiet by his flock, lest beast of prey
Disperse them: even so all three abode;
I as a goat, and as the shepherds they,
Close pent on either side by shelving rock.
"A little glimpse of sky was seen above;
Yet by that little I beheld the stars,
In magnitude and lustre shining forth
With more than wonted glory. As I lay,
Gazing on them, and in that fit of musing
Sleep overcame me, sleep, that bringeth oft
Tidings of future hap. About the hour,
As I believe, when Venus from the east
First lighten'd on the mountain, she whose orb
Seems alway glowing with the fire of love,
A lady young and beautiful, I dreamed,
Was passing o'er a lea; and, as she came,
Methought I saw her ever and anon
Bending to cull the flowers; and thus she sang:
'Know ye, whoever of my name would ask,
That I am Leah: for my brow to weave
A garland, these fair hands unwearied ply.
To please me at the crystal mirror, here
I deck me. But my sister Rachel, she
Before her glass abides the livelong day
Her radiant eyes beholding, charmed no less,
Than I with this delightful task. Her joy
In contemplation, as in labor mine.'
"And now as glimmering dawn appeared, that breaks
More welcome to the pilgrim still, as he
Sojourns less distant on his homeward way,
Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fled
My slumber; whence I rose, and saw my guide
Already risen. 'That delicious fruit,
Which through so many a branch the zealous care
Of mortals roams in quest of, shall this day
Appease thy hunger.' Such the words I heard
From Vergil's lip; and never greeting heard,
So pleasant as the sounds. Within me straight
Desire so grew upon desire to mount,
Thenceforward at each step I felt the wings
Increasing for my flight. When we had run
O'er all the ladder to its topmost round,
As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fixed
His eyes, and thus he spake: 'Both fires, my son,
The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen;
And art arrived, where of itself my ken
No further reaches. I, with skill and art,
Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take
For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way,
O'ercome the straiter. Lo! the sun, that darts
His beam upon thy forehead: lo! the herb,
The arborets and flowers, which of itself
This land pours forth profuse. Till those bright eyes
With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste
To succor thee, thou mayst or seat thee down,
Or wander where thou wilt.'"
The descriptions of the landscape in the earthly paradise are of
"Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade
With lively greenness the new-springing day
Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search
Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank;
Along the champain leisurely my way
Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides
Delicious odor breathed. A pleasant air,
That intermitted never, never veered,
Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind
Of softest influence: at which the sprays,
Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part
Where first the holy mountain casts his shade;
Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still
Upon their top the feathered quiristers
Applied their wonted art, and with full joy
Welcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrill
Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays
Kept tenor; even as from branch to branch,
Along the piny forests on the shore
Of Chiassi, rolls the gathering melody,
When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed
The dripping south. Already had my steps,
Though slow, so far into that ancient wood
Transported me, I could not ken the place
Where I had entered; when, behold! my path
Was bounded by a rill, which, to the left,
With little rippling waters bent the grass
That issued from its brink. On earth no wave,
How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have
Some mixture in itself, compared with this,
Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it rolled,
Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er
Admits or sun or moon-light there to shine.
"My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyes
Passed onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey
The tender may-bloom, flush'd through many a hue,
In prodigal variety: and there,
As object, rising suddenly to view,
That from our bosom every thought beside
With the rare marvel chases, I beheld
A lady all alone, who, singing, went,
And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way
Was all o'er painted. 'Lady beautiful!
Thou, who (if looks, that used to speak the heart,
Are worthy of our trust) with love's own beam
Dost warm thee,' thus to her my speech I framed;
'Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend
Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song.
Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,
I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd
Proserpine, in that season, when her child
The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring.'
"As when a lady, turning in the dance,
Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce
One step before the other to the ground;
Over the yellow and vermilion flowers
Thus turned she at my suit, most maiden-like
Veiling her sober eyes; and came so near,
That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.
Arriving where the limpid waters now
Laved the green swerd, her eyes she deigned to raise,
That shot such splendor on me, as I ween
Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son
Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart.
Upon the opposite bank she stood and smiled;
As through her graceful fingers shifted still
The intermingling dyes, which without seed
That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream
Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet,
The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er
(A curb forever to the pride of man),
Was by Leander not more hateful held
For floating, with inhospitable wave,
'Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by me
That flood, because it gave no passage thence.
"'Strangers ye come; and haply in this place,
That cradled human nature in her birth,
Wondering, ye not without suspicion view
My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,
"Thou, Lord! hast made me glad," will give ye light,
Which may uncloud your minds.
"Singing, as if enamored, she resumed
And closed the song, with 'Blessed they whose sins
Are covered.' Like the wood-nymphs then, that tripped
Singly across the sylvan shadows; one
Eager to view, and one to escape the sun;
So moved she on, against the current, up
The verdant rivage. I, her mincing step
"Between us not an hundred paces trod,
The bank, on each side bending equally,
Gave me to face the Orient. Nor our way
Far onward brought us, when to me at once
She turned, and cried: 'My brother! look, and hearken.'
And lo! a sudden lustre ran across
Through the great forest on all parts, so bright,
I doubted whether lightning were abroad;
But that, expiring ever in the spleen
That doth unfold it, and this during still,
And waxing still in splendor, made me question
What it might be: and a sweet melody
Ran through the luminous air. Then did I chide,
With warrantable zeal, the hardihood
Of our first parent; for that there, where earth
Stood in obedience to the heavens, she only,
Woman, the creature of an hour, endured not
Restraint of any veil, which had she borne
Devoutly, joys, ineffable as these,
Had from the first, and long time since, been mine.
"While, through that wilderness of primy sweets
That never fade, suspense I walked, and yet
Expectant of beatitude more high;
Before us, like a blazing fire, the air
Under the green boughs glowed; and, for a song,
Distinct the sound of melody was heard."
"At the last audit, so
The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each
Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh;
As, on the sacred litter, at the voice
Authoritative of that elder, sprang
A hundred ministers and messengers
Of life eternal. 'Blessed thou, who comest!'
And, 'Oh!' they cried, 'from full hands scatter ye
Unwithering lilies:' and, so saying, cast
Flowers over head and round them on all sides.
"I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,
The eastern clime all roseate; and the sky
Opposed, one deep and beautiful serene;
And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists
Attempered, at his rising, that the eye
Long while endured the sight: thus, in a cloud
Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,
And down within and outside of the car
Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreathed,
A virgin in my view appeared, beneath
Green mantle, robed in hue of living flame.
And o'er my spirit, that so long a time
Had from her presence felt no shuddering dread,
Albeit mine eyes discerned her not, there moved
A hidden virtue from her, at whose touch
The power of ancient love was strong within me."
"In la sua voluntade e nostra pace."
(In His will is our peace.)
"Crowded with angels unnumbered
By Jacob was seen as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night."
Here Peter Damian tells of the mystery of predestination, and St.
"Short space ensued; I was not held, I say,
Long in expectance, when I saw the heaven
Wax more and more resplendent; and, 'Behold,'
Cried Beatrice, 'the triumphal hosts
Of Christ, and all the harvest gathered in,
Made ripe by these revolving spheres.' Meseemed,
That, while she spake, her image all did burn;
And in her eyes such fulness was of joy,
As I am fain to pass unconstrued by.
"As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles,
In peerless beauty, 'mid the eternal nymphs,
That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound;
In bright preeminence so saw I there
O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew
Their radiance, as from ours the starry train:
And, through the living light, so lustrous glowed
The substance, that my ken endured it not.
"Prompt I heard
Her bidding, and encountered once again
The strife of aching vision. As, erewhile,
Through glance of sunlight, streamed through broken cloud,
Mine eyes a flower-besprinkled mead have seen;
Though veiled themselves in shade: so saw I there
Legions of splendors, on whom burning rays
Shed lightnings from above; yet saw I not
The fountain whence they flowed. O gracious virtue!
Thou, whose broad stamp is on them, higher up
Thou didst exalt thy glory, to give room
To my o'erlabored sight; when at the name
Of that fair flower, whom duly I invoke
Both morn and eve, my soul with all her might
Collected, on the goodliest ardor fix'd.
And, as the bright dimensions of the star
In heaven excelling, as once here on earth,
Were, in my eyeballs livelily portrayed;
Lo! from within the sky a cresset fell,
Circling in fashion of a diadem;
And girt the star; and, hovering, round it wheel'd.
"Whatever melody sounds sweetest here,
And draws the spirit most unto itself,
Might seem a rent cloud when it grates the thunder;
Compared unto the sounding of that lyre,
Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays
The floor of heaven was crown'd. 'Angelic Love
I am, who thus with hovering flight enwheel
The lofty rapture from that womb inspired.
Where our desire did dwell: and round thee so,
Lady of Heaven! will hover; long as thou
Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy
Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere.'
"Such close was to the circling melody:
And, as it ended, all the other lights
Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name.
"The robe, that with its regal folds enwraps
The world, and with the nearer breath of God
Doth burn and quiver, held so far retired
Its inner hem and skirting over us,
That yet no glimmer of its majesty
Had stream'd unto me: therefore were mine eyes
Unequal to pursue the crowned flame,
That towering rose, and sought the seed it bore.
And like to babe that stretches forth its arms
For very eagerness toward the breast,
After the milk is taken; so outstretch'd
Their wavy summits all the fervent band,
Through zealous love to Mary: then, in view,
There halted; and 'Regina Coeli' sang
So sweetly, the delight hath left me never."
"Here vigor failed the towering fantasy:
But yet the will rolled onward, like a wheel
In even motion, by the love impell'd,
That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars."
Germany; Longfellow and Lowell in America, attribute the title of
Visionary journeys to the unseen world in the Middle Ages--How
Dante differs from them--The Ptolemaic system--Year of Dante's
supposed journey--Entrance to Hell--Souls of the Ignoble--Limbo
and the Unbaptized--Circle II and the Licentious--III and IV,
Gluttons and Misers--V, The Styx--VI, Heretics--VII, The
Violent: River of blood, Wood of Suicides, Sandy Plain--VIII,
The Fraudulent--IX, The Traitors. Purgatory and its seven
terraces--The Earthly Paradise--The Supreme
Vision--Characteristic features of the Divine Comedy--Its beauty
and greatness.
his journey?
sin were there punished?
arch-traitors.
(See Chapter II.)
 Compare with what is said in Chapter 1.
 One of the divisions of the last circle, where traitors are
punished.
 Dis--the emperor of the infernal regions, according to the
ancients.
 Two islands in the Mediterranean near the mouth of the Arno.
 The sun's.
 Symbol of active life, as Rachel is of contemplative life.
 Forest near Ravenna.
 Carducci says Dante is a "most great poet because he is a great
man, and a great man because he had a great conscience."
After the death of his parents, in 1326, Petrarch settled down in
"E'en where the founts of pleasure flow,
A bitter something bubbles up."
mystical--a woman, in fact,
"Not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food."
wretchedness.
"The stars, the elements, and Heaven have made
With blended powers a work beyond compare;
All their consenting influence, all their care,
To frame one perfect creature lent their aid.
Whence Nature views her loveliness displayed
With sun-like radiance sublimely fair;
Nor mortal eye can the pure splendor bear:
Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace arrayed.
The very air illumed by her sweet beams
Breathes purest excellence; and such delight
That all expression far beneath it gleams.
No base desire lives in that heavenly light,
Honor alone and virtue!--fancy's dreams
Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright."
"Sun never rose so beautiful and bright
When skies above most clear and cloudless showed,
Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glowed
With tints so varied, delicate, and light,
As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,
The day I first took up this am'rous load,
That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode--
Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!
Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bend
So sweetly, every other face obscure
Has from that hour till now appeared to me.
The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,
From whom life since has never been secure,
Whom still I madly yearn again to see."
"High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind,
On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,
A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,
A happy spirit in a pensive air;
Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined
All gifts and graces in this lady fair,
True honor, purest praises, worth refined,
Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.
Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,
With natural beauty dignified address.
Gestures that still a silent grace express,
And in her eyes I know not what strange light,
That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,
Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear."
"Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold
To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn
Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mold?
What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told
Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?
Whence came so many graces to adorn
That brow more fair than summer skies unfold?
Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control
The song divine which wastes my life away?
(Who can with trifles now my senses move?)
What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul
Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray
To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?"
He is especially fond of describing the scenes where she is, thus
"Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,
Which the fair shape, who seems
To me sole woman, haunted at noontide;
Fair bough, so gently fit,
(I sigh to think of it),
Which lent a pillar to her lovely side;
And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,
O'er which her folded gown
Flow'd like an angel's down;
And you, O holy air and hushed,
Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed:
Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,
To my last words, my last and my lamenting.
"How well I call to mind,
When from those boughs the wind
Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;
And there she sat, meek-eyed,
In midst of all that pride,
Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower
Some to her hair paid dower,
And seemed to dress the curls,
Queenlike, with gold and pearls;
Some, snowing, on her drapery stopped,
Some on the earth, some on the water dropped;
While others, fluttering from above,
Seemed wheeling round in pomp, and saying, 'Here reigns Love.'
How often then I said,
Inward, and filled with dread,
'Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!'
For at her look the while,
Her voice, and her sweet smile,
And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;
So that, with long-drawn sighs,
I said, as far from men,
'How came I here, and when?'
I had forgotten; and alas!
Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;
And from that time till this, I bear
Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere."
"Never was bird, spoiled of its young, more sad,
Nor wild beast in his lair more lone than me,
Now that no more that lovely face I see,
The only sun my fond eyes ever had.
In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:
My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;
The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,
And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.
Sleep is indeed, as has been well expressed,
Akin to death, for it the heart removes
From the dear thought in which alone I live.
Land above all with plenty, beauty blessed!
Ye flowery plains, green banks, and shady groves!
Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!"
expression in sentiments diametrically opposite. Thus at times he
"Lady, in your bright eyes
Soft glancing round, I mark a holy light,
Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;
And to my practised sight,
From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,
Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.
This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,
And urges me to seek the glorious goal;
This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,
Nor can the human tongue
Tell how those orbs divine o'er all my soul
Exert their sweet control,
Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,
And when the year puts on his youth again,
Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain."
"Father of heaven! after the days misspent,
After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;
Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent
On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
That so my foe, spreading with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foiled, and held at nought.
E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,
That I have bowed me to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty most tried.
Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills:
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;
How on the cross this day a Savior died."
This state of his mind, divided against itself, finds its best
"Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought
So strong a pity for myself appears,
That often it has brought
My harass'd heart to new yet natural tears;
Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,
Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings
With which the spirit springs,
Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;
But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,
Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:
And so indeed in justice should it be;
Able to stay, who went and fell, that he
Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain.
But, lo! the tender arms
In which I trust are open to me still,
Though fears my bosom fill
Of other's fate, and my own heart alarms,
Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.
"Song! I am here, my heart the while more cold
With fear than frozen snow,
Feels in its certain core death's coming blow;
For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'd
Of my vain life the better portion by:
Worse burden surely ne'er
Tried mortal man than that which now I bear;
Though death be seated nigh,
For future life still seeking councils new,
I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue."
"Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led
My raptured heart at will, now here, now there?
Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere,
Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed?
Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?
The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?
Where, grouped in one rich form, the beauties rare,
Which long their magic influence o'er me shed?
Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess
My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs,
And all my thoughts their constant record found?
Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?--
Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes
(Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drowned."
"Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays
She, whom I seek but find on earth no more:
There, fairer still and humbler than before,
I saw her, in the third heaven's blessed maze.
She took me by the hand, and 'Thou shalt trace,
If hope not errs,' she said, 'this happy shore;
I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore,
And ere its evening closed my day's brief space.
What human heart conceives, my joys exceed:
Thee only I expect, and (what remain
Below) the charms, once objects of thy love,'
Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?
Such of her soft and hallowed tones the chain,
From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move."
But, when spring returns, it brings a renewal of his grief:
"The spring returns, with all her smiling train;
The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,
The glistening dewdrops hang on bending flowers,
And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:
And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,
Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:
All nature feels the kindling fire of love,
The vital force of spring's returning reign.
But not to me returns the cheerful spring!
O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,
Nor nature's smiles to thee impart relief,
Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:
She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,
Adieu! ye birds, ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!"
His only comfort now is in thinking that he, too, must soon die:
"Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled,
A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seen
Its only good; its hours (how few serene!)
The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed:
Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred,
Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been;
I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen
Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.
Her form decayed--its beauty still survives,
For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom,
With which each day I more enamored grow:
Thus though my locks are blanched, my hope revives
In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom:
Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!"
"The chosen angels, and the spirits blest,
Celestial tenants, on that glorious day
My lady joined them, thronged in bright array
Around her, with amaze and awe imprest.
'What splendor, what new beauty stands confest
Unto our sight?'--among themselves they say;
'No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clay
To our high realms has risen so fair a guest.'
Delighted to have changed her mortal state,
She ranks amid the purest of her kind;
And ever and anon she looks behind,
To mark my progress and my coming wait;
Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast;
'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste."
"Bright Virgin! and immutable as bright,
O'er life's tempestuous ocean the sure star
Each trusting mariner that truly guides,
Look down, and see amid this dreadful storm
How I am tost at random and alone,
And how already my last shriek is near,
Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile,
My soul keeps all her trust;
Virgin! I thee implore
Let not thy foe have triumph in my fall;
Remember that our sin made God himself,
To free us from its chain,
Within thy virgin womb our image on Him take!
"Virgin! what tears already have I shed,
Cherished what dreams and breathed what prayers in vain,
But for my own worse penance and sure loss;
Since first on Arno's shore I saw the light
Till now, whate'er I sought, wherever turn'd,
My life has passed in torment and in tears,
For mortal loveliness in air, act, speech,
Has seized and soiled my soul:
O Virgin! pure and good,
Delay not till I reach my life's last year;
Swifter than shaft and shuttle are, my days
'Mid misery and sin
Have vanished all, and now Death only is behind!
Difference between the Medieval and Modern World--Dante's
position between the two--Petrarch, 1304-74, the real founder of
modern civilization--Latin works--Fame rests on his Italian
poetry--How this differed from the Sicilian and Tuscan
schools--Laura and Petrarch's love--Her influence upon his life.
civilization?
predecessors?
poetry.
A collection of translations of Petrarch's Italian poems,
together with an extended life of the poet, is published in the
Bohn Library. Very important are the Latin letters of Petrarch;
an English translation of a number of these was published a
short time ago by Putnam & Co., of New York.
 Best translated literally, "world pain."
Boccaccio differed from Petrarch in being an ardent admirer and
literature; and, above all, of a lovable and gentle disposition;
He died December 21, 1375, in Certaldo, not far from Florence.
The framework of the Decameron is as follows: During the terrible
conversation and story-telling.
All this is expressed in an admirable prose style, with perfect
The following story, which I have translated with some slight
A long time ago there lived a certain marquis of Saluzzo, named
Walter, who spent his time chiefly in hunting, with never a
thought of marriage. His vassals not liking this state of
affairs often urged him to take to himself a wife, so that in
case of death, he might not be without an heir, nor they without
a master. To all this Walter made answer as follows: "My
friends, you urge me to do that which I had resolved not to do,
considering how difficult it is to find a proper mate, and how
hard is the life of him who finds one not suited to him. Yet
since it pleases you to bind me with these chains, I will
agree--on this condition, however, that I choose my wife myself,
so that if evil come to me, I may have no one to blame but
myself. But bear this in mind: if you do not honor her as
becomes your lady, you shall prove to your cost how grievous a
thing it is to have forced me to wed against my own desire."
Now for some time past Walter had been much attracted by the
gentle manners of a poor but beautiful village maiden, who lived
near his castle; and it seemed to him that with her he could be
happy. Hence without seeking further he sent for her father, and
agreed with him to take his daughter as his wife. This being
settled, Walter called together his friends and vassals and said
to them: "Friends, it has pleased you to ask me to take to
myself a wife, and I have yielded, more to please you, however,
than through any desire of my own. You will remember that you
agreed to be satisfied and treat as your lady whomsoever I
should choose. The time has now come when I intend to keep my
promise, and I desire that you keep yours. I have found a young
lady to my liking whom I intend to marry, and I shall bring her
home in a few days. See to it that the wedding feast be a fair
one and that you receive her honorably." The good men, all
rejoicing, answered that they were indeed pleased, and that
whoever his bride might be, they would honor her in all things
as their lady.
After this Walter prepared a bountiful wedding feast and invited
thereto his many friends and relatives and all the gentle folk
round about. He had many rich and beautiful gowns made fit to
adorn the figure of the young girl whom he proposed to wed; and
likewise rings, and girdles, and a fair rich crown, in short all
things that a new bride might require.
Now when the day fixed for the wedding had come, Walter mounted
his horse and said to his followers: "Gentlemen, it is time to
go for the bride." And setting out with all his company he came
to the village, and the house of the young girl's father, where
they found her returning in great haste from the fountain, in
order that she, with the other women-folk of the village, might
go and see the coming of their lord's bride. When Walter saw her
he called her by name--that is, Griselda--and asked her where
her father was; to whom she answered shamefacedly, "My lord, he
is in the house." Then Walter dismounted, and ordering his
followers to remain outside, went alone into the humble cottage,
where he found her father--whose name was Giannucolo--and said
to him: "I have come to wed Griselda; but first I wish to ask
her something in your presence." And he asked her if she would
always try to please him, if he took her for his wife; and if
she would promise not to be angry, whatever he might say or do;
and many other similar things; to all of which she made answer:
Then Walter, taking her by the hand, led her outside, and having
called for the gowns he had prepared, he had her clothed
therewith, and upon her head he placed a crown, and then as all
present marveled mightily, he said: "My lords, this is she whom
I intend shall be my wife"; and then turning to her who stood
blushing and full of wonder, he said: "Griselda, will you take
me for your husband?" To which she answered as before, "Yes, my
lord." "Then," said he, "I will take you for my wife"; and in
presence of all he wed her, and setting her upon a palfrey, he
led her home.
The young bride was, as we have already said, beautiful in face
and person, and withal so attractive, pleasing, and
gentle-mannered, that she did not seem to have been a
shepherdess, but the daughter of a noble lord; so that she made
all those who had known her before, to marvel greatly. Moreover,
she was so obedient to her husband, and so attentive to his
comfort, that he held himself the happiest man in the world. In
similar manner she was so kind and gracious towards her
husband's subjects that they loved and honored her one and all,
always praying for her health and happiness.
Shortly after the birth of his first child, a daughter, a
strange fancy entered the mind of Walter, and he resolved to
prove the patience and obedience of his wife, by subjecting her
to many cruel trials. In the first place, he wounded her spirit
by harsh words, feigning to be much disturbed in mind, and
declaring that his vassals were ill-content with her on account
of her low birth, and especially now that they saw that she bore
children; wherefore they were sullen and did nothing but murmur.
Hearing which words, Griselda, without changing countenance,
said: "My lord, do with me as you think best for your own honor
and happiness, and I will be content; for I know I was not
worthy of all this honor to which you, by your courtesy, have
brought me." This answer was very pleasing to Walter, who thus
saw that her new honors had not puffed her up with pride.
A short time after, having said to his wife that his subjects
could not endure her daughter, he sent one of his servants to
her who, with mournful countenance, said, "My lady, if I would
not die, I must do that which my lord commands me. He has
ordered me to take your little daughter and to----" and he said
no more. The lady, hearing these words, and seeing the face of
the servant, and remembering the words of her husband, believed
that the servant had been ordered to kill her child; whereupon
quickly taking the little one from the cradle, she kissed and
prayed over it, with unchanged countenance, in spite of the
great sorrow she felt in her heart; and placing it in the arms
of the servant, said: "Here, do what thy lord and mine has
commanded thee to do. But see to it that the child be not
devoured by birds or wild beasts, unless indeed he commands thee
so to do."
The servant took the girl and reported to Walter what the lady
had said. He, marveling greatly at her constancy, sent both
servant and child to a certain lady in Bologna, a relative of
his, begging her to bring it up and educate it carefully,
without, however, revealing its parentage.
Some years after this Griselda gave birth to a son, to the great
joy of Walter. But not being satisfied with what he already had
done, he wounded Griselda's feelings still more, saying to her
one day, "My lady, since this our child was born, I have not
been able to live with my subjects, so bitterly do they rebel
against the thought that some day a grandson of Giannucolo shall
rule over them. Wherefore, if I do not wish to be driven out, I
shall have to leave you and take another wife." Griselda heard
these words with patient mind, and only answered: "My lord, do
you think how you may best satisfy your own pleasure; have no
thought concerning me, for I desire only to see you happy."
A few days after, Walter sent for the son as he had done for the
daughter before, and feigning again to have it slain, he sent
it to Bologna to be brought up together with his daughter. At
all of which Griselda made no other sign, nor said anything more
than she had done when her daughter had been taken away. And
once more Walter marveled to himself and declared that no other
woman could do what she did, for he knew well that she loved her
children dearly. His vassals, believing that he had put his
children to death, blamed him strongly as a most cruel man, and
had great compassion on their lady. She, however, never
complained, but said always to those who condoled with her on
the loss of her children, that what seemed good to their father
seemed good to her.
Many years after the birth of his daughter, Walter, thinking it
time to make a final test of Griselda's long suffering, declared
openly that he could endure her no longer as his wife, and that
he had acted as a foolish boy when he had taken her. Wherefore
he would now make overtures to the pope for leave to divorce
her, and take another wife. The lady, hearing these things, and
foreseeing that she should have to return to her father's house,
and perchance keep sheep as before, seeing another woman married
to him whom she loved so much, grieved deeply in her heart.
Nevertheless, as in the other blows of fortune, she disposed
herself to bear this also with firm countenance.
Not long after, Walter caused false letters to come from Rome,
and told his subjects that the pope had granted him a
dispensation to leave Griselda and take a new wife. Then calling
her before him in the presence of many others, he said to her:
"Griselda, by special dispensation granted me by the pope, I am
able now to leave you and take another wife; and inasmuch as my
ancestors have been great gentlemen and lords of this country,
while yours have always been laborers, I intend that you shall
no longer be my wife, but shall return to your father's house,
bearing with you the dowry which you brought." Hearing these
words, Griselda, with the greatest difficulty, kept back her
tears, being in this stronger than the common run of women, and
answered: "My lord, I have always known that my humble condition
was in no wise suited to your exalted rank; and what I have been
to you, I recognize as coming from God and your courtesy. Nor
have I ever regarded all these honors as given to me, but only
loaned. If it please you then to take them back, it is my duty
to be willing to give them up. Here is the ring with which you
married me; take it."
Walter, who had more desire to weep than anything else, stood
there with hard face and said: "Go, but see to it that you take
with you one garment only." Whereupon she, dressed in a single
garment, barefooted and bareheaded, left her husband's castle,
and returned to her father, followed by the tears and compassion
of all who saw her. Giannucolo, who had never been quite able to
believe that Walter could be content to take his daughter as his
wife, and who expected her return every day, had kept her
clothes which she had put off on the morning of her marriage.
Now Griselda put them on again and gave herself up to the little
duties of her father's house, bearing the cruel assaults of
hostile fortune with firm mind.
In the meantime Walter declared to his vassals that he had
chosen for his wife the daughter of a certain count of Panago
(who was the husband of the lady in Bologna, to whom he had sent
his children); and ordering great preparations for the wedding
to be made, he sent for Griselda, and when she had come, he
said: "I am about to bring home the lady whom I have chosen for
my wife. You know that I have no one here who can arrange all
the things needful for so great a feast. Wherefore do you put
everything in order, and call in to help you the women you think
best, and receive them as if you were still the lady here. Then
after the wedding is all over you may return home."
Although these words were like so many stabs to the heart of
Griselda, who could not lay aside her love for him as easily as
she had laid aside her good fortune, she answered: "My lord, I
am ready." And dressed in her peasant costume, she entered the
house, whence she had shortly before gone forth, and began to
sweep and put in order the rooms, and to prepare the food,
setting her own hands to everything as if she were but a common
servant of the house. Nor did she rest till all was properly
arranged and prepared for the wedding. And then, inviting in
the name of Walter all the ladies of the country round about,
she began to prepare the feast, and when the wedding day had
come, although she was dressed in coarse garments, she received
all the ladies who came with ladylike bearing and smiling face.
Walter, who had caused his children to be diligently brought up
in Bologna in the house of his relative, wife of the count of
Panago (his son being six years old and his daughter twelve, the
latter being the most beautiful creature ever seen), had sent to
the count of Panago, begging him to bring his children to
Saluzzo, and to say to all that the girl was to marry Walter.
The count did as he was requested, and with the two children and
a noble company arrived about noon at Saluzzo, where all the
peasants and neighbors from round about were waiting for the new
bride. She was received by the ladies, and Griselda, dressed as
she was, came forward to meet her cheerfully, saying: "Welcome
to my lady."
Walter, who now thought he had sufficient evidence of the
long-suffering of his wife, called her to him, and in the
presence of all, said to her: "What think you of our bride?" "My
lord," said Griselda, "she seems fair indeed to look upon; and
if she is as wise as beautiful, which I well believe, I doubt
not that you will live with her the happiest gentleman in the
world. But I beseech you for one thing: do not wound her spirit,
as you have that of your other wife. For I do not believe she
can stand it, young as she is, and so delicately brought up."
Walter, seeing that she firmly believed the girl was to be his
wife, and that yet she spoke thus kindly of her, set her down
beside him, and said: "Griselda, it is time now that you receive
the rewards of your patience, and that those who have reputed me
cruel, may know that what I did was to teach you how to be a
wife, and to prepare for myself a life of perpetual peace and
quiet with you as my loving and faithful companion. Therefore
take with joyful mind this girl, whom you thought to be my
bride, and her brother, for your children and mine. These are
they whom you and many others long have thought I had cruelly
slain. I am your husband, who love you above all things else;
and I indeed can boast that no other man has so great reason to
be content with his wife as I;" and thus speaking he embraced
and kissed her, and raising her who was now weeping for joy, he
led her to where the daughter sat, listening in amazement to all
these things, and embraced her and her brother tenderly. Then
all the ladies, rejoicing greatly, rose from the table and went
with Griselda to her room, and dressed her in a rich gown, such
as befitted a lady, which she ever seemed, even in her rags, and
led her back again to the hall, and then all, rejoicing,
continued the feast. The count of Panago went back to Bologna,
and Walter, taking Giannucolo from his work-shop, kept him in
state as his father-in-law, so that he lived in great comfort
and honor to the end of his life. And the marquis himself,
having found his daughter a noble husband, lived long and
happily with Griselda, holding her ever in love and esteem.
Development of Italian prose later than that of
poetry--Boccaccio its founder (1313-75)--Friendship for
Petrarch--Service in introducing Greek language into Western
Europe--His influence upon Chaucer and Shakespeare--The
Decameron--He founds Italian prose style and the modern novel.
Owing to the immorality of some of the stories of the Decameron
the English translations of the whole book are not to be
recommended. A selection, however, fit for the general public
has been made by Joseph Jacobs, and published by John Lane.
"Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven."
twentieth canto.
Pulci, in his Morgante, follows closely the popular poetry of his
completing it.
It is practically impossible to give a clear yet brief outline of
Among the crowd of minor episodes three stand out with especial
These two were posted on a rampart's height,
With more to guard the encampment from surprise,
When 'mid the equal intervals, at night,
Medoro gazed on heaven with sleepy eyes.
In all his talk, the stripling, woful wight,
Here cannot choose, but of his lord devise,
The royal Dardinel; and evermore
Him, left unhonored on the field, deplore.
Then, turning to his mate, cries: "Cloridane,
I cannot tell thee what a cause of woe
It is to me, my lord upon the plain
Should lie, unworthy food for wolf or crow!
Thinking how still to me he was humane,
Meseems, if in his honor I forego
This life of mine, for favors so immense
I shall but make a feeble recompense.
"That he may lack not sepulture, will I
Go forth, and seek him out among the slain;
And haply God may will that none shall spy
Where Charles's camp lies hushed. Do thou remain;
That, if my death be written in the sky,
Thou may'st the deed be able to explain.
So that if Fortune foil so fair a feat,
The world, through Fame, my loving heart may weet."
Seeing that nought would bend him, nought would move,
"I too will go," was Cloridan's reply,
"In such a glorious act myself will prove;
As well such famous death I covet, I:
What other thing is left me, here above,
Deprived of thee, Medoro mine? To die
With thee in arms is better, on the plain,
Than afterwards of grief, should'st thou be slain."
The horrid mixture of the bodies there
Which heaped the plain where roved these comrades sworn,
Might well have rendered vain their faithful care
Amid the mighty piles, till break of morn,
Had not the moon, at young Medoro's prayer,
Out of a gloomy cloud put forth her horn.
Medoro to the heavens upturns his eyes
Towards the moon, and thus devoutly cries:
"O holy goddess! whom our fathers well
Have styled as of a triple form, and who
Thy sovereign beauty dost in heaven, and hell,
And earth, in many forms reveal; and through
The greenwood holt, of beast and monster fell,
--A huntress bold--the flying steps pursue,
Show where my king, amid so many lies,
Who did, alive, thy holy studies prize."
At the youth's prayer from parted cloud outshone
(Were it the work of faith or accident)
The moon, as fair, as when Endymion
She circled in her naked arms: with tent,
Christian or Saracen, was Paris-town
Seen in that gleam, and hill and plain's extent.
With these Mount Martyr and Mount Lery's height,
This on the left, and that upon the right.
The silvery splendor glistened yet more clear,
There where renowned Almontes's son lay dead.
Faithful Medoro mourned his master dear,
Who well agnized the quartering white and red,
With visage bathed in many a bitter tear
(For he a rill from either eyelid shed),
And piteous act and moan, that might have whist
The winds, his melancholy plaint to list;
Hurrying their steps, they hastened, as they might,
Under the cherished burden they conveyed;
And now approaching was the lord of light,
To sweep from heaven the stars, from earth the shade,
When good Zerbino, he, whose valiant sprite
Was ne'er in time of need by sleep down-weighed,
From chasing Moors all night, his homeward way
Was taking to the camp at dawn of day.
He has with him some horsemen in his train,
That from afar the two companions spy.
Expecting thus some spoil or prize to gain,
They, every one, towards that quarter his.
"Brother, behoves us," cries young Cloridane,
"To cast away the load we bear, and fly:
For 'twere a foolish thought (might well be said)
To lose _two_ living men, to save _one_ dead;"
And dropt the burden, weening his Medore
Had done the same by it, upon his side;
But that poor boy, who loved his master more,
His shoulders to the weight, alone, applied;
Cloridan hurrying with all haste before,
Deeming him close behind him or beside;
Who, did he know his danger, him to save
A thousand deaths, instead of one, would brave.
So far was Cloridan advanced before,
He heard the boy no longer in the wind;
But when he marked the absence of Medore,
It seemed as if his heart was left behind.
"Ah! how was I so negligent (the Moor
Exclaimed), so far beside myself, and blind,
That I, Medoro, should without thee fare,
Nor know when I deserted thee or where?"
So saying, in the wood he disappears,
Plunging into the maze with hurried pace;
And thither, whence he lately issued, steers,
And, desperate, of death returns in trace.
Cries and the tread of steeds this while he hears,
And word and threat of foemen, as in chase;
Lastly Medoro by his voice is known,
Disarmed, on foot, 'mid many horse, alone.
A hundred horsemen who the youth surround,
Zerbino leads, and bids his followers seize
The stripling; like a top, the boy turns round
And keeps him as he can: among the trees,
Behind oak, elm, beech, ash, he takes his ground,
Nor from the cherished load his shoulders frees.
Wearied, at length, the burden he bestowed
Upon the grass, and stalked about his load.
Cloridan, who to aid him knows not how,
And with Medoro willingly would die,
But who would not for death this being forego,
Until more foes than one should lifeless lie,
Ambushed, his sharpest arrow to his bow
Fits, and directs it with so true an eye,
The feathered weapon bores a Scotchman's brain,
And lays the warrior dead upon the plain.
In the meantime--
By chance arrived a damsel at the place,
Who was (though mean and rustic was her wear)
Of royal presence and of beauteous face,
And lofty manners, sagely debonair:
Her have I left unsung so long a space,
That you will hardly recognize the fair.
Angelica, in her (if known not) scan,
The lofty daughter of Cathay's great khan.
When fair Angelica the stripling spies,
Nigh hurt to death in that disastrous fray,
Who for his king, that there unsheltered lies,
More sad than for his own misfortune lay,
She feels new pity in her bosom rise,
Which makes its entry in unwonted way.
Touched was her haughty heart, once hard and curst,
And more when he his piteous tale rehearsed.
And calling back to memory her art,
For she in Ind had learned chirurgery,
(Since it appears such studies in that part
Worthy of praise and fame are held to be,
And, as an heirloom, sires to sons impart,
With little aid of books, the mystery)
Disposed herself to work with simples' juice,
Till she in him should healthier life produce.
Turning him round, he there, on many a tree,
Beheld engraved, upon the woody shore,
What as the writing of his deity
He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore.
This was a place of those described by me,
Whither ofttimes, attended by Medore,
From the near shepherd's cot had wont to stray
The beauteous lady, sovereign of Cathay.
In a hundred knots, amid those green abodes,
In a hundred parts, their cyphered names are dight;
Whose many letters are so many goads,
Which Love has in his bleeding heart-core pight.
He would discredit in a thousand modes,
That which he credits in his own despite;
And would parforce persuade himself, _that_ rhind
Other Angelica than his had signed.
All night about the forest roved the count,
And, at the break of daily light, was brought
By his unhappy fortune to the fount,
Where his inscription young Medoro wrought.
To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount,
Inflamed his fury so, in him was nought
But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite;
Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion bright.
Cleft through the writing; and the solid block,
Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped.
Wo worth each sapling and that caverned rock,
Where Medore and Angelica were read!
So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock
Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed.
And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure,
From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure.
For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop
Cast without cease into the beauteous source;
Till, turbid from the bottom to the top,
Never again was clear the troubled course.
At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop,
(When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force,
Serves not his fury more) he falls, and lies
Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs.
Wearied and woe-begone, he fell to ground,
And turned his eyes toward heaven; nor spake he aught,
Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round
The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought
His rest anew; nor ever ceased his wound
To rankle, till it marred his sober thought.
At length, impelled by frenzy, the fourth day,
He from his limbs tore plate and mail away.
restlessness, and wanders far and wide:
Now right, now left, he wandered, far and wide,
Throughout all France, and reached a bridge one day;
Beneath which ran an ample water's tide,
Of steep and broken banks: a turret gray
Was builded by the spacious river's side,
Discerned, from far and near, and every way.
What here he did I shall relate elsewhere,
Who first must make the Scottish prince my care.
Rodamonte, the truculent and hitherto unconquerable enemy of the
Christians, and with his fall the war and the poem are ended.
feeling of his times; Ariosto represents the worldliness of the
Progress of the revival of learning--Florence the center of the
movement--Poggio Bracciolini; Pico della Mirandola; Politian;
their services to scholarship--The chivalrous romance in
Satires--His Orlando Furioso reflects the age.
period.
into Italian literature?
literature?
The best English book on the Renaissance is that by J. A.
Symonds. For the romatic poets, Leigh Hunt's book, "Stories from
the Italian Poets," should be read. The first canto of Pulci's
Morgante Maggiore was translated by Byron and may be found in
his works. A complete translation of Orlando Furioso, translated
by Rose, is published in the Bohn Library.
He was born March 11, 1544, at Sorrento, near Naples, the son of
authorities, which he was accused of having written.
The important period of his life begins in 1565, when he went to
In February, 1579, Tasso once more returned to Ferrara, this time
"Like spirits of the wandering wind,
Who seek for rest, yet rest can never find."
The poem begins with the usual invocation:
I sing the pious arms and Chief, who freed
The Sepulcher of Christ from thrall profane:
Much did he toil in thought, and much in deed;
Much in the glorious enterprise sustain;
And hell in vain opposed him; and in vain
Afric and Asia to the rescue poured
Their mingled tribes;--Heaven recompensed his pain,
And from all fruitless sallies of the sword,
True to the Red-Cross flag his wandering friends restored.
O, thou, the Muse, that not with fading palms
Circlest thy brows on Pindus, but among
The Angels warbling their celestial psalms,
Hast for thy coronal a golden throng
Of everlasting stars! make thou my song
Lucid and pure; breathe thou the flame divine
Into my bosom; and forgive the wrong,
If with grave truth light fiction I combine,
And sometimes grace my page with other flowers than thine.
Six summers now were past, since in the East
Their high Crusade the Christians had begun;
And Nice by storm, and Antioch had they seized
By secret guile, and gallantly when won,
Held in defiance of the myriads dun,
Prest to its conquest by the Persian king;
Tortosa sacked, when now the sullen sun
Entered Aquarius, to breme winter's wing
The quartered hosts give place, and wait the coming spring.
Of generous thoughts and principles sublime,
Amongst them in the city lived a maid.
The flower of virgins, in her ripest prime,
Supremely beautiful! but that she made
Never her care, or beauty only weighed
In worth with virtue; and her worth acquired
A deeper charm from blooming in the shade;
Lovers she shunned, nor loved to be admired.
But from their praises turned, and lived a life retired.
Although she was unconscious of love herself, there was a noble
Thus she prepares a public death to meet,
A people's ransom at a tyrant's shrine:
Oh glorious falsehood! beautiful deceit!
Can Truth's own light thy loveliness outshine?
To her bold speech misdoubting Aladine
With unaccustomed temper calm replied:
"If so it were, who planned the rash design,
Advised thee to it, or became thy guide?
Say, with thyself who else his ill-timed zeal allied?"
"Of this my glory not the slightest part
Would I," said she, "with one confederate share;
I needed no adviser; my full heart
Alone sufficed to counsel, guide, and dare."
"If so," he cried, "then none but thou must bear
The weight of my resentment, and atone
For the misdeed." "Since it has been my care,"
She said, "the glory to enjoy alone,
'T is just none share the pain; it should be all mine own."
To this the tyrant, now incensed, returned,
"Where rests the Image?" and his face became
Dark with resentment: she replied, "I burned
The holy image in the holy flame,
And deemed it glory; thus at least no shame
Can e'er again profane it--it is free
From further violation; dost thou claim
The spoil or spoiler? this behold in me;
But that, whilst time rolls round, thou never more shall see
Doomed in tormenting fire to die, they lay
Hands on the maid; her arms with rough cords twining,
Rudely her mantle chaste they tear away,
And the white veil that o'er her drooped declining:
This she endured in silence unrepining,
Yet her firm breast some virgin tremors shook;
And her warm cheek, Aurora's late outshining,
Waned into whiteness, and a color took,
Like that of the pale rose, or lily of the brook.
In midst of their distress, a knight behold,
(So would it seem) of princely port! whose vest,
And arms of curious fashion, grained with gold,
Bespeak some foreign and distinguished guest;
The silver tigress on the helm impressed,
Which for a badge is borne, attracts all eyes,--
A noted cognizance, the accustomed crest
Used by Clorinda, whence conjectures rise,
Herself the stranger is--nor false is their surmise.
All feminine attractions, aims, and parts,
She from her childhood cared not to assume;
Her haughty hand disdained all servile arts,
The needle, distaff, and Arachne's loom;
Yet, though she left the gay and gilded room
For the free camp, kept spotless as the light
Her virgin fame, and proud of glory's plume,
With pride her aspect armed; she took delight
Stern to appear, and stern, she charmed the gazer's sight.
The odorous air, morn's messenger, now spread
Its wings to herald, in serenest skies,
Aurora issuing forth, her radiant head
Adorned with roses plucked in Paradise;
When in full panoply the hosts arise,
And loud and spreading murmurs upward fly,
Ere yet the trumpet sings; its melodies
They miss not long, the trumpet's tuneful cry
Gives the command to march, shrill sounding to the sky.
Winged is each heart, and winged every heel;
They fly, yet notice not how fast they fly;
But by the time the dewless meads reveal
The fervent sun's ascension in the sky,
Lo, towered Jerusalem salutes the eye!
A thousand pointing fingers tell the tale;
"Jerusalem!" a thousand voices cry,
"All hail, Jerusalem!" hill, down, and dale
Catch the glad sounds, and shout, "Jerusalem, all hail!"
Meanwhile Clorinda rushes to assail
The Prince, and level lays her spear renowned;
Both lances strike, and on the barred ventayle
In shivers fly, and she remains discrowned
For, burst its silver rivets, to the ground
Her helmet leaped (incomparable blow!)
And by the rudeness of the shock unbound,
Her sex to all the field emblazoning so,
Loose to the charmed winds her golden tresses flow.
heroine.
In the meantime Satan has called together his followers for
On high were the clear stars; the gentle Hours
Walked cloudless through the galaxy of space,
And the calm moon rose, lighting up the flowers
With frost of living pearl: like her in grace,
Th' enamored maid from her illumined face
Reflected light where'er she chanced to rove;
And made the silent Spirit of the place,
The hills, the melancholy moon above,
Seeing the Camp, she whispered: "O ye fair
Italian tents! how amiable ye show!
The breathing winds that such refreshment bear,
Ravish my soul, for 't is from you they blow
So may relenting Heaven on me bestow,--
On me, by froward Fate so long distressed,--
A chaste repose from weariness and woe,
As in your compass only lies my quest;
As 'tis your arms alone can give my spirit rest."
Ah, little does she think, while thus she dreams,
What is prepared for her by Fortune's spite!
She is so placed, that the moon's placid beams
In line direct upon her armor light;
So far remote into the shades of night
The silver splendor is conveyed, and she
Surrounded is with brilliancy so bright,
That whosoe'er might chance her crest to see,
Would of a truth conclude it must Clorinda be.
She slept, till in her dreaming ear, the bowers
Whispered, the gay birds warbled of the dawn;
The river roared; the winds to the young flowers
Made love; the blithe bee wound its dulcet horn:
Roused by the mirth and melodies of morn,
Her languid eyes she opens, and perceives
The huts of shepherds on the lonely lawn;
Whilst seeming voices, 'twixt the waves and leaves
Call back her scattered thoughts,--again she sighs and grieves.
Her plaints were silenced by soft music, sent
As from a rural pipe, such sounds as cheer
The Syrian shepherd in his summer tent,
And mixed with pastoral accents, rude but clear
She rose and gently, guided by her ear,
Came where an old man on a rising ground
In the fresh shade, his white flocks feeding near,
Twig baskets wove, and listened to the sound
Trilled by three blooming boys, who sate disporting round.
As the deep Euxine, though the wind no more
Blows, that late tossed its billows to the stars,
Stills not at once its rolling and its roar,
But with its coasts long time conflicting jars;
Thus, though their quickly-ebbing blood debars
Force from their blades as vigor from their arms,
Still lasts the frenzy of the flame which Mars
Blew in their breasts; sustained by whose strong charms,
Yet heap they strokes on strokes, yet harms inflict on harms.
But now, alas! the fatal hour arrives
That must shut up Clorinda's life in shade;
In her fair bosom deep his sword he drives;
'Tis done--life's purple fountain bathes the blade;
The golden flowered cymar of light brocade,
That swathed so tenderly her breasts of snow,
Is steeped in the warm stream: the hapless maid
Feels her end nigh; her knees their strength forego,
And her enfeebled frame droops languishing and low.
He, following up the thrust with taunting cries,
Lays the pierced Virgin at his careless feet;
She as she falls, in mournful tones outsighs,
Her last faint words, pathetically sweet;
Which a new spirit prompts, a spirit replete
With charity, and faith, and hope serene,
Sent dove-like down from God's pure mercy-seat;
Who, though through life his rebel she had been,
Would have her die a fond, repentant Magdalene.
"Friend, thou hast won; I pardon thee, and oh
Forgive thou me! I fear not for this clay,
But my dark soul--pray for it, and bestow
The sacred right that laves all stains away:"
Like dying hymns heard far at close of day,
Sounding I know not what in the soothed ear
Of sweetest sadness, the faint words make way
To his fierce heart, and, touched with grief sincere,
Streams from his pitying eye the involuntary tear.
Not distant, gushing from the rocks, a rill
Clashed on his ear; to this with eager pace
He speeds--his hollow casque the waters fill--
And back he hurries to the deed of grace;
His hands as aspens tremble, whilst they raise
The locked aventayle of the unknown knight;--
God, for thy mercy! 'tis her angel face!
Aghast and thunderstruck, he loathes the light;
Ah, knowledge best unknown! ah, too distracting sight.
Yet still he lived; and mustering all his powers
To the sad task, restrained each wild lament,
Fain to redeem by those baptismal showers
The life his sword bereft; whilst thus intent
The hallowing words he spoke, with ravishment
Her face transfigured shone, and half apart
Her bland lips shed a lively smile that sent
This silent speech in sunshine to his heart:
"Heaven gleams; in blissful peace behold thy friend depart!"
A paleness beauteous as the lily's mixt
With the sweet violet's, like a gust of wind
Flits o'er her face; her eyes on Heaven are fixt,
And heaven on her returns its looks as kind:
Speak she can not; but her cold hand, declined,
In pledge of peace on Tancred she bestows;
And to her fate thus tenderly resigned,
In her meek beauty she expires, and shows
But as a smiling saint indulging soft repose.
Clorinda, being dead, Tancred has little desire to live, but is
comforted by a vision of her in heaven:
And, clad in starry robes, the maid for whom
He mourned, appears amid his mourning dreams;
Fairer than erst, but by the deathless bloom
And heavenly radiance that around her beams,
Graced, not disguised; in sweetest act she seems
To stoop, and wipe away the tears that flow
From his dim eyes: "Behold what glory streams
Round me," she cries; "how beauteous now I show,
And for my sake, dear friend, this waste of grief forego."
Lack of true epic hitherto--Tasso (1544-95) the first to give
Italy an epic in the style of Homer and Vergil--Pathos of his
life--His works: The pastoral poem Aminta; a tragedy,
Torrismondo; Jerusalem Delivered--Long preparation for his
masterpiece--The sixteenth century the Golden Age of Italian
literature: Bembo, Sannazaro, Guarini, Berni, Machiavelli,
true epics?
she die?
how was he brought back to camp?
century.
A complete translation of Jerusalem Delivered by Wiffen is
published in the Bohn Library.
The musical drama is a peculiar Italian invention, and almost
music--the modern opera text is a debased form of this--were
translations and imitations had been made of the Greek and Latin
Yet Italy could not boast of a truly national drama before the
especial effort to master the Italian language, which he, born in
dramatic situation or stage effect.
incomparable beauty.
in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.
For the political and social condition of Italy during the
period of decline see Symond's Catholic Reaction. Alfieri's
Autobiography, an intensely interesting book, has been often
published in English. For modern literature see Howell's Modern
Italian Poets, Sewall's translations from Carducci, and Greene's
Italian Lyrists of To-day.
Fabulae praetextae, 5.
Guelphs and Ghibellines, 198, seq.
Mirandola, Pico della, 298.
Uberti, Farinata degli, 225.
political treatise on, 206.