University of Virginia Library

DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE

With the Italian Poets preceding Him (1100—1200—1300)

A COLLECTION OF LYRICS TRANSLATED IN THE ORIGINAL METRES

I. PART I Dante's Vita Nuova, etc. Poets of Dante's Circle


282

TO MY MOTHER I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE

312

THE NEW LIFE.

[To every heart which the sweet pain doth move]

To every heart which the sweet pain doth move,
And unto which these words may now be brought

313

For true interpretation and kind thought,
Be greeting in our Lord's name, which is Love.
Of those long hours wherein the stars above
Wake and keep watch, the third was almost nought,
When Love was shown me with such terrors fraught
As may not carelessly be spoken of.
He seemed like one who is full of joy, and had
My heart within his hand, and on his arm
My lady, with a mantle round her, slept;
Whom (having wakened her) anon he made
To eat that heart; she ate, as fearing harm.
Then he went out; and as he went, he wept.

314

[All ye that pass along Love's trodden way]

All ye that pass along Love's trodden way,
Pause ye awhile and say
If there be any grief like unto mine:
I pray you that you hearken a short space
Patiently, if my case
Be not a piteous marvel and a sign.
Love (never, certes, for my worthless part,
But of his own great heart),
Vouchsafed to me a life so calm and sweet
That oft I heard folk question as I went
What such great gladness meant:—
They spoke of it behind me in the street.
But now that fearless bearing is all gone
Which with Love's hoarded wealth was given me;
Till I am grown to be
So poor that I have dread to think thereon.
And thus it is that I, being like as one
Who is ashamed and hides his poverty,
Without seem full of glee,
And let my heart within travail and moan.

315

I

[Weep, Lovers, sith Love's very self doth weep]

Weep, Lovers, sith Love's very self doth weep,
And sith the cause for weeping is so great;
When now so many dames, of such estate
In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep:
For Death the churl has laid his leaden sleep
Upon a damsel who was fair of late,
Defacing all our earth should celebrate,—
Yea all save virtue, which the soul doth keep.
Now hearken how much Love did honour her.
I myself saw him in his proper form
Bending above the motionless sweet dead,
And often gazing into Heaven; for there
The soul now sits which when her life was warm
Dwelt with the joyful beauty that is fled.

II

[Death, alway cruel, Pity's foe in chief]

Death, alway cruel, Pity's foe in chief,
Mother who brought forth grief,
Merciless judgment and without appeal!
Since thou alone hast made my heart to feel
This sadness and unweal,
My tongue upbraideth thee without relief.
And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth)
Behoves me speak the truth
Touching thy cruelty and wickedness:
Not that they be not known; but ne'ertheless
I would give hate more stress
With them that feed on love in very sooth.
Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy,
And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood;
And out of youth's gay mood
The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee.
Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me
Save by the measure of these praises given.
Whoso deserves not Heaven
May never hope to have her company.

316

[A day agone, as I rode sullenly]

A day agone, as I rode sullenly
Upon a certain path that liked me not,
I met Love midway while the air was hot,
Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be.
And for the cheer he showed, he seemed to me
As one who hath lost lordship he had got;
Advancing tow'rds me full of sorrowful thought,
Bowing his forehead so that none should see.
Then as I went, he called me by my name,
Saying: “I journey since the morn was dim
Thence where I made thy heart to be: which now
I needs must bear unto another dame.”
Wherewith so much passed into me of him
That he was gone, and I discerned not how.

318

[Song, 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love]

Song, 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love,
And go with him where my dear lady is;
That so my cause, the which thy harmonies
Do plead, his better speech may clearly prove.
Thou goest, my Song, in such a courteous kind,
That even companionless
Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere.
And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind,
First unto Love address
Thy steps; whose aid, mayhap, 'twere ill to spare,
Seeing that she to whom thou mak'st thy prayer
Is, as I think, ill-minded unto me,
And that if Love do not companion thee,
Thou'lt have perchance small cheer to tell me of.
With a sweet accent, when thou com'st to her,
Begin thou in these words,
First having craved a gracious audience:
“He who hath sent me as his messenger,
Lady, thus much records,
An thou but suffer him, in his defence.
Love, who comes with me, by thine influence
Can make this man do as it liketh him:
Wherefore, if this fault is or doth but seem
Do thou conceive: for his heart cannot move.”
Say to her also: “Lady, his poor heart
Is so confirmed in faith
That all its thoughts are but of serving thee:
'Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart.”
Then, if she wavereth,
Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be.
And in the end, beg of her modestly
To pardon so much boldness: saying too:—
“If thou declare his death to be thy due,
The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove.’

319

Then pray thou of the Master of all ruth,
Before thou leave her there,
That he befriend my cause and plead it well.
“In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth”
(Entreat him) “stay with her;
Let not the hope of thy poor servant fail;
And if with her thy pleading should prevail,
Let her look on him and give peace to him.”
Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem,
Do this: so worship shall be thine and love.

[All my thoughts always speak to me of Love]

All my thoughts always speak to me of Love,
Yet have between themselves such difference
That while one bids me bow with mind and sense,
A second saith, “Go to: look thou above”;
The third one, hoping, yields me joy enough;
And with the last come tears, I scarce know whence:
All of them craving pity in sore suspense,
Trembling with fears that the heart knoweth of.
And thus, being all unsure which path to take,
Wishing to speak I know not what to say,
And lose myself in amorous wanderings:
Until, (my peace with all of them to make,)
Unto mine enemy I needs must pray,
My Lady Pity, for the help she brings.

321

[Even as the others mock, thou mockest me]

Even as the others mock, thou mockest me;
Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is
That I am taken with strange semblances,
Seeing thy face which is so fair to see:
For else, compassion would not suffer thee
To grieve my heart with such harsh scoffs as these.
Lo! Love, when thou art present, sits at ease,
And bears his mastership so mightily
That all my troubled senses he thrusts out,
Sorely tormenting some, and slaying some,
Till none but he is left and has free range
To gaze on thee. This makes my face to change
Into another's; while I stand all dumb,
And hear my senses clamour in their rout.

[The thoughts are broken in my memory]

The thoughts are broken in my memory,
Thou lovely Joy, whene'er I see thy face;
When thou art near me, Love fills up the space,
Often repeating, “If death irk thee, fly.”
My face shows my heart's colour, verily,
Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place;
Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace,
The very stones seem to be shrieking, “Die!”
It were a grievous sin, if one should not
Strive then to comfort my bewildered mind
(Though merely with a simple pitying)
For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought
In the dead sight o'the eyes grown nearly blind,
Which look for death as for a blessed thing.

322

[At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over]

At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over
The quality of anguish that is mine
Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine,
Saying, “Is any else thus, anywhere?”
Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear;
So that of all my life is left no sign
Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine,
Leaves not the body but abideth there.
And then if I, whom other aid forsook,
Would aid myself, and innocent of art
Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope,
No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look
Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart,
And all my pulses beat at once and stop.

323

[Ladies that have intelligence in love]

Ladies that have intelligence in love,
Of mine own lady I would speak with you;
Not that I hope to count her praises through,
But telling what I may, to ease my mind.
And I declare that when I speak thereof,
Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me
That if my courage failed not, certainly
To him my listeners must be all resign'd.
Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind

324

That mine own speech should foil me, which were base;
But only will discourse of her high grace
In these poor words, the best that I can find,
With you alone, dear dames and damozels:
'Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.
An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith
To God: “Lord, in the world that Thou hast made,
A miracle in action is display'd,
By reason of a soul whose splendours fare
Even hither: and since Heaven requireth
Nought saving her, for her it prayeth Thee,
Thy Saints crying aloud continually.”
Yet Pity still defends our earthly share
In that sweet soul; God answering thus the prayer:
“My well-belovèd, suffer that in peace
Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is,
There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her:
And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say,
‘I have looked on that for which God's chosen pray.’”
My lady is desired in the high Heaven:
Wherefore, it now behoveth me to tell,
Saying: Let any maid that would be well
Esteemed keep with her: for as she goes by,
Into foul hearts a deathly chill is driven
By Love, that makes ill thought to perish there:
While any who endures to gaze on her
Must either be ennobled, or else die.
When one deserving to be raised so high
Is found, 'tis then her power attains its proof,
Making his heart strong for his soul's behoof
With the full strength of meek humility.
Also this virtue owns she, by God's will:
Who speaks with her can never come to ill.
Love saith concerning her: “How chanceth it
That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure?”
Then, gazing always, he makes oath: “Forsure,
This is a creature of God till now unknown.”
She hath that paleness of the pearl that's fit
In a fair woman, so much and not more;
She is as high as Nature's skill can soar;
Beauty is tried by her comparison.
Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon,
Spirits of love do issue thence in flame,
Which through their eyes who then may look on them
Pierce to the heart's deep chamber every one.
And in her smile Love's image you may see;
Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly.
Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech
With many ladies, when I send thee forth:
Wherefore (being mindful that thou hadst thy birth
From Love, and art a modest, simple child),
Whomso thou meetest, say thou this to each:
“Give me good speed! To her I wend along
In whose much strength my weakness is made strong.”
And if, i'the end, thou wouldst not be beguiled
Of all thy labour, seek not the defiled

325

And common sort; but rather choose to be
Where man and woman dwell in courtesy.
So to the road thou shalt be reconciled,
And find the lady, and with the lady, Love.
Commend thou me to each, as doth behove.

[Love and the gentle heart are one same thing]

Love and the gentle heart are one same thing,
Even as the wise man in his ditty saith:
Each, of itself, would be such life in death
As rational soul bereft of reasoning.

326

'Tis Nature makes them when she loves: a king
Love is, whose palace where he sojourneth
Is called the Heart; there draws he quiet breath
At first, with brief or longer slumbering.
Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind
Will make the eyes desire, and through the heart
Send the desiring of the eyes again;
Where often it abides so long enshrin'd
That Love at length out of his sleep will start.
And women feel the same for worthy men.
 

Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, “Within the gentle heart Love shelters him.” (See page 432.)

[My lady carries love within her eyes]

My lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessèd oftenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.

327

[You that thus wear a modest countenance]

I

You that thus wear a modest countenance
With lids weigh'd down by the heart's heaviness,
Whence come you, that among you every face
Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance?
Have you beheld my lady's face, perchance,
Bow'd with the grief that Love makes full of grace?
Say now, “This thing is thus”; as my heart says,
Marking your grave and sorrowful advance.
And if indeed you come from where she sighs
And mourns, may it please you (for his heart's relief)
To tell how it fares with her unto him
Who knows that you have wept, seeing your eyes,
And is so grieved with looking on your grief
That his heart trembles and his sight grows dim.

328

II

Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing
Of our dear lady unto none but us?
For though thy voice confirms that it is thus,
Thy visage might another witness bring.
And wherefore is thy grief so sore a thing
That grieving thou mak'st others dolorous?
Hast thou too seen her weep, that thou from us
Canst not conceal thine inward sorrowing?
Nay, leave our woe to us: let us alone:
'Twere sin if one should strive to soothe our woe,
For in her weeping we have heard her speak:
Also her look's so full of her heart's moan
That they who should behold her, looking so,
Must fall aswoon, feeling all life grow weak.

329

[A very pitiful lady, very young]

A very pitiful lady, very young,
Exceeding rich in human sympathies,
Stood by, what time I clamour'd upon Death;
And at the wild words wandering on my tongue
And at the piteous look within mine eyes
She was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.
So by her weeping where I lay beneath,
Some other gentle ladies came to know
My state, and made her go:
Afterward, bending themselves over me,
One said, “Awaken thee!”
And one, “What thing thy sleep disquieteth?”
With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,
The while my lady's name rose to my lips:
But utter'd in a voice so sob-broken,
So feeble with the agony of tears,
That I alone might hear it in my heart;
And though that look was on my visage then
Which he who is ashamed so plainly wears,
Love made that I through shame held not apart,

330

But gazed upon them. And my hue was such
That they look'd at each other and thought of death;
Saying under their breath
Most tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”
Then unto me: “What dream
Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”
And when I was a little comforted,
“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.
“I was a-thinking how life fails with us
Suddenly after such a little while;
When Love sobb'd in my heart, which is his home.
Whereby my spirit wax'd so dolorous
That in myself I said, with sick recoil:
‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’
And therewithal such a bewilderment
Possess'd me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;
And in my brain did cease
Order of thought, and every healthful thing.
Afterwards, wandering
Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went,
Some certain women's faces hurried by,
And shrieked to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’
“Then saw I many broken hinted sights
In the uncertain state I stepp'd into.
Meseem'd to be I know not in what place,
Where ladies through the streets, like mournful lights,
Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten'd you,
By their own terror, and a pale amaze:
The while, little by little, as I thought,
The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,
And each wept at the other;
And birds dropp'd in mid-flight out of the sky;
And earth shook suddenly;
And I was 'ware of one, hoarse and tired out,
Who ask'd of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said? ...
Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’
“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,
I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,
In a long flight flying back Heavenward;
Having a little cloud in front of them,
After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna’;
And if they had said more, you should have heard.
Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:
Come and behold our lady where she lies.’
These 'wildering phantasies
Then carried me to see my lady dead.
Even as I there was led,
Her ladies with a veil were covering her;
And with her was such very humbleness
That she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’
“And I became so humble in my grief,
Seeing in her such deep humility,
That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing good
Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,
Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:
Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.

331

Lo! I do so desire to see thy face
That I am like as one who nears the tomb;
My soul entreats thee, Come.’
Then I departed, having made my moan;
And when I was alone
I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:
‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’
... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”

332

[I felt a spirit of love begin to stir]

I felt a spirit of love begin to stir
Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;
And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain,
(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),
Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!”
And in his speech he laugh'd and laugh'd again.
Then, while it was his pleasure to remain,
I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,
And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice
Approach me, this the other following,
One and a second marvel instantly.
And even as now my memory speaketh this,
Love spake it then: “The first is christen'd Spring;
The second Love, she is so like to me.”

334

[My lady looks so gentle and so pure]

My lady looks so gentle and so pure
When yielding salutation by the way,
That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,
And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.
And still, amid the praise she hears secure,
She walks with humbleness for her array;
Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay
On earth, and show a miracle made sure.
She is so pleasant in the eyes of men
That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain
A sweetness which needs proof to know it by:
And from between her lips there seems to move
A soothing essence that is full of love,
Saying for ever to the spirit, “Sigh!”

[For certain he hath seen all perfectness]

For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Who among other ladies hath seen mine:
They that go with her humbly should combine
To thank their God for such peculiar grace.
So perfect is the beauty of her face
That it begets in no wise any sign
Of envy, but draws round her a clear line
Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:
Not she herself alone is holier
Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above.
From all her acts such lovely graces flow
That truly one may never think of her
Without a passion of exceeding love.

335

[Love hath so long possessed me for his own]

Love hath so long possessed me for his own
And made his lordship so familiar
That he, who at first irked me, is now grown
Unto my heart as its best secrets are.
And thus, when he in such sore wise doth mar
My life that all its strength seems gone from it,
Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit
Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar.
Love also gathers to such power in me
That my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing,
Always soliciting
My lady's salutation piteously.
Whenever she beholds me, it is so,
Who is more sweet than any words can show.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

337

[The eyes that weep for pity of the heart]

The eyes that weep for pity of the heart
Have wept so long that their grief languisheth,
And they have no more tears to weep withal:
And now, if I would ease me of a part
Of what, little by little, leads to death,
It must be done by speech, or not at all.
And because often, thinking, I recall
How it was pleasant, ere she went afar,
To talk of her with you, kind damozels,
I talk with no one else,
But only with such hearts as women's are.
And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,—
That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,
And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.
Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,
The kingdom where the angels are at peace;
And lives with them: and to her friends is dead.
Not by the frost of winter was she driven
Away, like others; nor by summer-heats;
But through a perfect gentleness, instead.
For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead
Such an exceeding glory went up thence
That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,
Until a sweet desire
Entered Him for that lovely excellence,
So that He bade her to Himself aspire;
Counting this weary and most evil place
Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.
Wonderfully out of the beautiful form
Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;
And is in its first home, there where it is.
Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm
Upon his face, must have become so vile
As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.
Out upon him! an abject wretch like this

338

May not imagine anything of her,—
He needs no bitter tears for his relief.
But sighing comes, and grief,
And the desire to find no comforter,
(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief,)
To him who for a while turns in his thought
How she hath been among us, and is not.
With sighs my bosom always laboureth
In thinking, as I do continually,
Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;
And very often when I think of death,
Such a great inward longing comes to me
That it will change the colour of my face;
And, if the idea settles in its place,
All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:
Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,
I do become so shent
That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.
Afterward, calling with a sore lament
On Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”
And calling on her, I am comforted.
Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,
Come to me now whene'er I am alone;
So that I think the sight of me gives pain.
And what my life hath been, that living dies,
Since for my lady the New Birth's begun,
I have not any language to explain.
And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,
I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.
All joy is with my bitter life at war;
Yea, I am fallen so far
That all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”
Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.
But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,
Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.
Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,
To the dames going and the damozels
For whom and for none else
Thy sisters have made music many a day.
Thou, that art very sad and not as they,
Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.

339

[Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs]

Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs,
Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.
Mark how they force their way out and press through;
If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.
Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes
Oftener refuse than I can tell to you
(Even though my endless grief is ever new,)
To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.
Also in sighing ye shall hear me call
On her whose blessed presence doth enrich
The only home that well befitteth her:
And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all
Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech
That mourns its joy and its joy's minister.

[Whatever while the thought comes over me]

Whatever while the thought comes over me
That I may not again
Behold that lady whom I mourn for now,
About my heart my mind brings constantly
So much of extreme pain
That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou?
Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bow
Beneath, until we win out of this life,
Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth:
So that I call on Death
Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife,
Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim
And bare; and if one dies, I envy him.
For ever, among all my sighs which burn,
There is a piteous speech
That clamours upon death continually:
Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn
Since first his hand did reach
My lady's life with most foul cruelty.
But from the height of woman's fairness, she,

340

Going up from us with the joy we had,
Grew perfectly and spiritually fair;
That so she spreads even there
A light of Love which makes the Angels glad,
And even unto their subtle minds can bring
A certain awe of profound marvelling.

[That lady of all gentle memories]

That lady of all gentle memories
Had lighted on my soul;—whose new abode
Lies now, as it was well ordained of God,
Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.
Love, knowing that dear image to he his,
Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow'd,
Unto the sighs which are its weary load
Saying, “Go forth.” And they went forth, I wis;
Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;
With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe
Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.
And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath
Came whispering thus: “O noble intellect!
It is a year to-day that thou art gone.”

Second Commencement

That lady of all gentle memories
Had lighted on my soul;—for whose sake flowed
The tears of Love; in whom the power abode
Which led you to observe while I did this.
Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.

341

[Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring]

Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring
Into thy countenance immediately
A while agone, when thou beheldst in me
The sickness only hidden grief can bring;
And then I knew thou wast considering
How abject and forlorn my life must be;
And I became afraid that thou shouldst see
My weeping, and account it a base thing.
Therefore I went out from thee; feeling how
The tears were straightway loosened at my heart
Beneath thine eyes' compassionate control;
And afterwards I said within my soul:
“Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpart
Of the same Love who holds me weeping now.”

[Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth]

Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth
Were never yet shown forth so perfectly
In any lady's face, chancing to see
Grief's miserable countenance uncouth,
As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe,
When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me;
Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee,
My heart might almost wander from its truth.
Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes
From gazing very often upon thine
In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep;
And at such time, thou mak'st the pent tears rise
Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine;
Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.

342

[“The very bitter weeping that ye made]

The very bitter weeping that ye made
So long a time together, eyes of mine,
Was wont to make the tears of pity shine
In other eyes full oft, as I have said.
But now this thing were scarce rememberèd
If I, on my part, foully would combine
With you, and not recall each ancient sign
Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed.
It is your fickleness that doth betray
My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus
What while a lady greets me with her eyes.
Except by death, we must not any way
Forget our lady who is gone from us.”
So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.

343

[A gentle thought there is will often start]

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

344

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

Woe's me! by dint of all these sighs that come
Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove,
Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to move
Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome,
They wept so long that now they are grief's home,
And count their tears all laughter far above;
They wept till they are circled now by Love
With a red circle in sign of martyrdom.
These musings, and the sighs they bring from me,
Are grown at last so constant and so sore
That love swoons in my spirit with faint breath;
Hearing in those sad sounds continually
The most sweet name that my dead lady bore,
With many grievous words touching her death.

345

[Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively]

Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively
As if in thought of distant things, I pray,
Is your own land indeed so far away—
As by your aspect it would seem to be—
That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free
Though passing through the mournful town mid-way;
Like unto men that understand to-day
Nothing at all of her great misery?
Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,
And listen to my words a little space,
At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.
It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;
Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace
That men weep hearing it, and have no choice.

346

[Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space]

Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space
Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above;
A new perception born of grieving Love
Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.
When it hath reached unto the end, and stays,
It sees a lady round whom splendours move
In homage; till, by the great light thereof
Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.
It sees her such, that when it tells me this
Which it hath seen, I understand it not,
It hath a speech so subtile and so fine.
And yet I know its voice within my thought
Often remembereth me of Beatrice:
So that I understand it, ladies mine.
THE END OF THE NEW LIFE

347

[DANTE ALIGHIERI]

I
TO BRUNETTO LATINI

Sonnet

Sent with the Vita Nuova

Master Brunetto, this my little maid
Is come to spend her Easter-tide with you;
Not that she reckons feasting as her due,—
Whose need is hardly to be fed, but read.
Not in a hurry can her sense be weighed,
Nor mid the jests of any noisy crew:
Ah! and she wants a little coaxing too
Before she'll get into another's head.
But if you do not find her meaning clear,
You've many Brother Alberts hard at hand,
Whose wisdom will respond to any call,
Consult with them and do not laugh at her;
And if she still is hard to understand,
Apply to Master Janus last of all.
 

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

II
Sonnet

Of Beatrice de' Portinari, on All Saints' Day

Last All Saints' holy-day, even now gone by,
I met a gathering of damozels:
She that came first, as one doth who excels,
Had Love with her, bearing her company:
A flame burned forward through her steadfast eye,
As when in living fire a spirit dwells:
So, gazing with the boldness which prevails
O'er doubt, I knew an angel visibly.
As she passed on, she bowed her mild approof
And salutation to all men of worth,
Lifting the soul to solemn thoughts aloof.
In Heaven itself that lady had her birth,
I think, and is with us for our behoof:
Blessed are they who meet her on the earth.
 

This and the six following pieces (with the possible exception of the canzone at page 349) seem so certainly to have been written at the same time as the poetry of the Vita Nuova, that it becomes difficult to guess why they were omitted from that work. Other poems in Dante's Canzoniere refer in a more general manner to his love for Beatrice, but each among those I allude to bears the impress of some special occasion.


348

III
Sonnet

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

Whence come you, all of you so sorrowful?
An it may please you, speak for courtesy.
I fear for my dear lady's sake, lest she
Have made you to return thus filled with dule.
O gentle ladies, be not hard to school
In gentleness, but to some pause agree,
And something of my lady say to me,
For with a little my desire is full.
Howbeit it be a heavy thing to hear:
For Love now utterly has thrust me forth,
With hand for ever lifted, striking fear.
See if I be not worn unto the earth;
Yea, and my spirit must fail from me here,
If, when you speak, your words are of no worth.
 

See the Vita Nuova, at page 327.

IV
Sonnet

To the same Ladies; with their Answer

Ye ladies, walking past me piteous-eyed,
Who is the lady that lies prostrate here?
Can this be even she my heart holds dear?
Nay, if it be so, speak, and nothing hide.
Her very aspect seems itself beside,
And all her features of such altered cheer
That to my thinking they do not appear
Hers who makes others seem beatified.
“If thou forget to know our lady thus,
Whom grief o'ercomes, we wonder in no wise,
For also the same thing befalleth us.
Yet if thou watch the movement of her eyes,
Of her thou shalt be straightway conscious.
O weep no more; thou art all wan with sighs.”

349

V
Ballata

He will gaze upon Beatrice

Because mine eyes can never have their fill
Of looking at my lady's lovely face,
I will so fix my gaze
That I may become blessed, beholding her.
Even as an angel, up at his great height
Standing amid the light,
Becometh bless'd by only seeing God:—
So, though I be a simple earthly wight,
Yet none the less I might,
Beholding her who is my heart's dear load,
Be bless'd, and in the spirit soar abroad.
Such power abideth in that gracious one;
Albeit felt of none
Save of him who, desiring, honours her.

VI
Canzone

A Complaint of his Lady's scorn

Love, since it is thy will that I return
'Neath her usurped control
Who is thou know'st how beautiful and proud;
Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding burn
Thy flame within her soul
That she rejoice not when my cry is loud.
Be thou but once endowed
With sense of the new peace, and of this fire,
And of the scorn wherewith I am despised,
And wherefore death is my most fierce desire;
And then thou'lt be apprised
Of all. So if thou slay me afterward,
Anguish unburthened shall make death less hard.
O Lord, thou knowest very certainly
That thou didst make me apt
To serve thee. But I was not wounded yet,
When under heaven I beheld openly
The face which thus hath rapt
My soul. Then all my spirits ran elate
Upon her will to wait.
And she, the peerless one who o'er all worth
Is still her proper beauty's worshipper,
Made semblance then to guide them safely forth:
And they put faith in her:
Till, gathering them within her garment all,
She turned their blessed peace to tears and gall.

350

Then I (for I could hear how they complained,)
As sympathy impelled,
Full oft to seek her presence did arise.
And mine own soul (which better had refrained)
So much my strength upheld
That I could steadily behold her eyes.
This in thy knowledge lies,
Who then didst call me with so mild a face
That I hoped solace from my greater load:
And when she turned the key on my dark place,
Such ruth thy grace bestowed
Upon my grief, and in such piteous kind,
That I had strength to bear, and was resign'd.
For love of the sweet favour's comforting
Did I become her thrall;
And still her every movement gladdened me
With triumph that I served so sweet a thing:
Pleasures and blessings all
I set aside, my perfect hope to see:
Till her proud contumely—
That so mine aim might rest unsatisfied—
Covered the beauty of her countenance.
So straightway fell into my living side,
To slay me, the swift lance:
While she rejoiced and watched my bitter end,
Only to prove what succour thou wouldst send.
I therefore, weary with my love's constraint,
To death's deliverance ran,
That out of terrible grief I might be brought:
For tears had broken me and left me faint
Beyond the lot of man,
Until each sigh must be my last, I thought.
Yet still this longing wrought
So much of torment for my soul to bear,
That with the pang I swooned and fell to earth.
Then, as in trance, 'twas whispered at mine ear,
How in this constant girth
Of anguish, I indeed at length must die:
So that I dreaded Love continually.
Master, thou knowest now
The life which in thy service I have borne:
Not that I tell it thee to disallow
Control, who still to thy behest am sworn.
Yet if through this my vow
I remain dead, nor help they will confer,
Do thou at least, for God's sake, pardon her.
 

This poem seems probably referable to the time during which Beatrice denied her salutation to Dante. (See the Vita Nuova, at page 317 et seq.)


351

VII
Canzone

He beseeches Death for the Life of Beatrice

Death, since I find not one with whom to grieve,
Nor whom this grief of mine may move to tears,
Whereso I be or whitherso I turn:
Since it is thou who in my soul wilt leave
No single joy, but chill'st it with just fears
And makest it in fruitless hopes to burn:
Since thou, Death, and thou only, canst decern
Wealth to my life, or want, at thy free choice:—
It is to thee that I lift up my voice,
Bowing my face that's like a face just dead.
I come to thee, as to one pitying,
In grief for that sweet rest which nought can bring
Again, if thou but once be entered
Into her life whom my heart cherishes
Even as the only portal of its peace.
Death, how most sweet the peace is that thy grace
Can grant to me, and that I pray thee for,
Thou easily mayst know by a sure sign,
It in mine eyes thou look a little space
And read in them the hidden dread they store,—
If upon all thou look which proves me thine.
Since the fear only maketh me to pine
After this sort,—what will mine anguish be
When her eyes close, of dreadful verity,
In whose light is the light of mine own eyes?
But now I know that thou wouldst have my life
As hers, and joy'st thee in my fruitless strife.
Yet I do think this which I feel implies
That soon, when I would die to flee from pain,
I shall find none by whom I may be slain.
Death, if indeed thou smite this gentle one
Whose outward worth but tells the intellect
How wondrous is the miracle within,—
Thou biddest Virtue rise up and begone,
Thou dost away with Mercy's best effect,
Thou spoil'st the mansion of God's sojourning.
Yea, unto nought her beauty thou dost bring
Which is above all other beauties, even
In so much as befitteth one whom Heaven
Sent upon earth in token of its own.
Thou dost break through the perfect trust which hath
Been alway her companion in Love's path:
The light once darkened which was hers alone,
Love needs must say to them he ruleth o'er,
“I have lost the noble banner that I bore.”

352

Death, have some pity then for all the ill
Which cannot choose but happen if she die,
And which will be the sorest ever known.
Slacken the string, if so it be thy will,
That the sharp arrow leave it not,—thereby
Sparing her life, which if it flies is flown.
O Death, for God's sake, be some pity shown!
Restrain within thyself, even at its height,
The cruel wrath which moveth thee to smite
Her in whom God hath set so much of grace.
Show now some ruth if 'tis a thing thou hast!
I seem to see Heaven's gate, that is shut fast,
Open, and angels filling all the space
About me,—come to fetch her soul whose laud
Is sung by saints and angels before God.
Song, thou must surely see how fine a thread
This is that my last hope is holden by,
And what I should be brought to without her.
Therefore for thy plain speech and lowlihead
Make thou no pause: but go immediately,
(Knowing thyself for my heart's minister,)
And with that very meek and piteous air
Thou hast, stand up before the face of Death,
To wrench away the bar that prisoneth
And win unto the place of the good fruit.
And if indeed thou shake by thy soft voice
Death's mortal purpose,—haste thee and rejoice
Our lady with the issue of thy suit.
So yet awhile our earthly nights and days
Shall keep the blessed spirit that I praise.

VIII
Sonnet

On the 9th of June 1290

Upon a day, came Sorrow in to me,
Saying, “I've come to stay with thee a while;”
And I perceived that she had ushered Bile
And Pain into my house for company.
Wherefore I said, “Go forth—away with thee!”
But like a Greek she answered, full of guile,
And went on arguing in an easy style.
Then, looking, I saw Love come silently,
Habited in black raiment, smooth and new,
Having a black hat set upon his hair;
And certainly the tears he shed were true.
So that I asked, “What ails thee, trifler?”
Answering he said: “A grief to be gone through;
For our own lady's dying, brother dear.”

353

IX
TO CINO DA PISTOIA

Sonnet

He rebukes Cino for Fickleness

I thought to be for ever separate,
Fair Master Cino, from these rhymes of yours;
Since further from the coast, another course,
My vessel now must journey with her freight.
Yet still, because I hear men name your state
As his whom every lure doth straight beguile,
I pray you lend a very little while
Unto my voice your ear grown obdurate.
The man after this measure amorous,
Who still at his own will is bound and loosed,
How slightly Love him wounds is lightly known.
If on this wise your heart in homage bows,
I pray you for God's sake it be disused,
So that the deed and the sweet words be one.
 

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

CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He answers Dante, confessing his unsteadfast heart

Dante, since I from my own native place
In heavy exile have turned wanderer,
Far distant from the purest joy which e'er
Had issued from the Fount of joy and grace,
I have gone weeping through the world's dull space,
And me proud Death, as one too mean, doth spare;
Yet meeting Love, Death's neighbour, I declare
That still his arrows hold my heart in chase.
Nor from his pitiless aim can I get free,
Nor from the hope which comforts my weak will,
Though no true aid exists which I could share.
One pleasure ever binds and looses me;
That so, by one same Beauty lured, I still
Delight in many women here and there.

354

X
TO CINO DA PISTOIA

Sonnet

Written in Exile

Because I find not whom to speak withal
Anent that lord whose I am as thou art,
Behoves that in thine ear I tell some part
Of this whereof I gladly would say all.
And deem thou nothing else occasional
Of my long silence while I kept apart,
Except this place, so guilty at the heart
That the right has not who will give it stall.
Love comes not here to any woman's face,
Nor any man here for his sake will sigh,
For unto such, “Thou fool!” were straightway said.
Ah! Master Cino, how the time turns base,
And mocks at us, and on our rhymes says “Fie!”
Since truth has been thus thinly harvested.

CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He answers the foregoing Sonnet, and prays Dante, in the name of Beatrice, to continue his great Poem

I know not, Dante, in what refuge dwells
The truth, which with all men is out of mind;
For long ago it left this place behind,
Till in its stead at last God's thunder swells.
Yet if our shifting life most clearly tells
That here the truth has no reward assign'd,—
'Twas God, remember, taught it to mankind,
And even among the fiends preached nothing else.
Then, though the kingdoms of the earth be torn,
Where'er thou set thy feet, from Truth's control,
Yet unto me thy friend this prayer accord:—
Beloved, O my brother, sorrow-worn,
Even in that lady's name who is thy goal,
Sing on till thou redeem thy plighted word!
 

That is, the pledge given at the end of the Vita Nuova. This may perhaps have been written in the early days of Dante's exile, before his resumption of the interrupted Commedia.


355

XI
Sonnet

Of Beauty and Duty

Two ladies to the summit of my mind
Have clomb, to hold an argument of love.
The one has wisdom with her from above,
For every noblest virtue well designed:
The other, beauty's tempting power refined
And the high charm of perfect grace approve:
And I, as my sweet Master's will doth move,
At feet of both their favours am reclined.
Beauty and Duty in my soul keep strife,
At question if the heart such course can take
And 'twixt two ladies hold its love complete.
The fount of gentle speech yields answer meet,
That Beauty may be loved for gladness' sake,
And Duty in the lofty ends of life.

XII
Sestina

Of the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigni

To the dim light and the large circle of shade
I have clomb, and to the whitening of the hills,
There where we see no colour in the grass.
Nathless my longing loses not its green,
It has so taken root in the hard stone
Which talks and hears as though it were a lady.
Utterly frozen is this youthful lady,
Even as the snow that lies within the shade;
For she is no more moved than is the stone
By the sweet season which makes warm the hills
And alters them afresh from white to green,
Covering their sides again with flowers and grass.
When on her hair she sets a crown of grass
The thought has no more room for other lady;
Because she weaves the yellow with the green
So well that Love sits down there in the shade,—
Love who has shut me in among low hills
Faster than between walls of granite-stone.
She is more bright than is a precious stone;
The wound she gives may not be healed with grass:
I therefore have fled far o'er plains and hills
For refuge from so dangerous a lady;
But from her sunshine nothing can give shade,—
Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green.

356

A while ago, I saw her dressed in green,—
So fair, she might have wakened in a stone
This love which I do feel even for her shade;
And therefore, as one woos a graceful lady,
I wooed her in a field that was all grass
Girdled about with very lofty hills.
Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills
Before Love's flame in this damp wood and green
Burn, as it burns within a youthful lady,
For my sake, who would sleep away in stone
My life, or feed like beasts upon the grass,
Only to see her garments cast a shade.
How dark soe'er the hills throw out their shade,
Under her summer-green the beautiful lady
Covers it, like a stone covered in grass.
 

I have translated this piece both on account of its great and peculiar beauty, and also because it affords an example of a form of composition which I have met with in no Italian writer before Dante's time, though it is not uncommon among the Provencal poets (see Dante, De Vulg. Eloq.). I have headed it with the name of a Paduan lady, to whom it is surmised by some to have been addressed during Dante's exile; but this must be looked upon as a rather doubtful conjecture, and I have adopted the name chiefly to mark it at once as not referring to Beatrice.

XIII
Sonnet

A Curse for a fruitless Love

My curse be on the day when first I saw
The brightness in those treacherous eyes of thine,—
The hour when from my heart thou cam'st to draw
My soul away, that both might fail and pine:
My curse be on the skill that smooth'd each line
Of my vain songs,—the music and just law
Of art, by which it was my dear design
That the whole world should yield thee love and awe.
Yea, let me curse mine own obduracy,
Which firmly holds what doth itself confound—
To wit, thy fair perverted face of scorn:
For whose sake Love is oftentimes forsworn
So that men mock at him: but most at me
Who would hold fortune's wheel and turn it round.
 

I have separated this sonnet from the pieces bearing on the Vita Nuova, as it is naturally repugnant to connect it with Beatrice. I cannot, however, but think it possible that it may have been the bitter fruit of some bitterest moment in those hours when Dante endured her scorn.


357

GUIDO CAVALCANTI

I
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He interprets Dante's Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova

Unto my thinking, thou beheld'st all worth,
All joy, as much of good as man may know,
If thou wert in his power who here below
Is honour's righteous lord throughout this earth.
Where evil dies, even there he has his birth,
Whose justice out of pity's self doth grow.
Softly to sleeping persons he will go,
And, with no pain to them, their hearts draw forth.
Thy heart he took, as knowing well, alas!
That Death had claimed thy lady for a prey:
In fear whereof, he fed her with thy heart.
But when he seemed in sorrow to depart,
Sweet was thy dream; for by that sign, I say,
Surely the opposite shall come to pass.
 

See the Vita Nuova, at page 312.

This may refer to the belief that, towards morning, dreams go by contraries.

II
Sonnet

To his Lady Joan, of Florence

Flowers hast thou in thyself, and foliage,
And what is good, and what is glad to see;
The sun is not so bright as thy visàge;
All is stark naught when one hath looked on thee;
There is not such a beautiful personage
Anywhere on the green earth verily;
If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage
Comforteth him, and no more fear hath he.
Thy lady friends and maidens ministering
Are all, for love of thee, much to my taste:
And much I pray them that in everything
They honour thee even as thou meritest,
And have thee in their gentle harbouring:
Because among them all thou art the best.

358

III
Sonnet

He compares all Things with his Lady, and finds them wanting

Beauty in woman; the high will's decree;
Fair knighthood armed for manly exercise;
The pleasant song of birds; love's soft replies;
The strength of rapid ships upon the sea;
The serene air when light begins to be;
The white snow, without wind that falls and lies;
Fields of all flower; the place where waters rise;
Silver and gold; azure in jewellery:—
Weighed against these, the sweet and quiet worth
Which my dear lady cherishes at heart
Might seem a little matter to be shown;
Being truly, over these, as much apart
As the whole heaven is greater than this earth.
All good to kindred natures cleaveth soon.

IV
Sonnet

A Rapture concerning his Lady

Who is she coming, whom all gaze upon,
Who makes the air all tremulous with light,
And at whose side is Love himself? that none
Dare speak, but each man's sighs are infinite.
Ah me! how she looks round from left to right,
Let Love discourse: I may not speak thereon.
Lady she seems of such high benison
As makes all others graceless in men's sight.
The honour which is hers cannot be said;
To whom are subject all things virtuous,
While all things beauteous own her deity.
Ne'er was the mind of man so nobly led,
Nor yet was such redemption granted us
That we should ever know her perfectly.

V
Ballata

Of his Lady among other Ladies

With other women I beheld my love;—
Not that the rest were women to mine eyes,
Who only as her shadows seemed to move.
I do not praise her more than with the truth,
Nor blame I these if it be rightly read.
But while I speak, a thought I may not soothe
Says to my senses: “Soon shall ye be dead,
If for my sake your tears ye will not shed.”
And then the eyes yield passage, at that thought,
To the heart's weeping, which forgets her not.

359

VI
TO GUIDO ORLANDI

Sonnet

Of a consecrated Image resembling his Lady

Guido, an image of my lady dwells
At San Michele in Orto, consecrate
And duly worshipped. Fair in holy state
She listens to the tale each sinner tells:
And among them that come to her, who ails
The most, on him the most doth blessing wait.
She bids the fiend men's bodies abdicate;
Over the curse of blindness she prevails,
And heals sick languors in the public squares.
A multitude adores her reverently:
Before her face two burning tapers are;
Her voice is uttered upon paths afar.
Yet through the Lesser Brethren's jealousy
She is named idol; not being one of theirs.
 

The Franciscans, in profession of deeper poverty and humility than belonged to other Orders, called themselves Fratres minores.

GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Madrigal

In answer to the foregoing Sonnet

If thou hadst offered, friend, to blessed Mary
A pious voluntary,
As thus: “Fair rose, in holy garden set”:
Thou then hadst found a true similitude:
Because all truth and good
Are hers, who was the mansion and the gate
Wherein abode our High Salvation,
Conceived in her, a Son,
Even by the angel's greeting whom she met.
Be thou assured that if one cry to her,
Confessing, “I did err,”
For death she gives him life; for she is great.
Ah! how mayst thou be counselled to implead
With God thine own misdeed,
And not another's? Ponder what thou art;
And humbly lay to heart
That Publican who wept his proper need.
The Lesser Brethren cherish the divine
Scripture and church-doctrine;
Being appointed keepers of the faith
Whose preaching succoureth:
For what they preach is our best medicine.

360

VII
Sonnet

Of the Eyes of a certain Mandetta, of Thoulouse, which resemble those of his Lady Joan, of Florence

A certain youthful lady in Thoulouse,
Gentle and fair, of cheerful modesty,
Is in her eyes, with such exact degree,
Of likeness unto mine own lady, whose
I am, that through the heart she doth abuse
The soul to sweet desire. It goes from me
To her; yet, fearing, saith not who is she
That of a truth its essence thus subdues.
This lady looks on it with the sweet eyes
Whose glance did erst the wounds of Love anoint
Through its true lady's eyes which are as they.
Then to the heart returns it, full of sighs,
Wounded to death by a sharp arrow's point
Wherewith this lady speeds it on its way.

VIII
Ballata

He reveals, in a Dialogue, his increasing Love for Mandetta

Being in thought of love, I chanced to see
Two youthful damozels.
One sang: “Our life inhales
All love continually.”
Their aspect was so utterly serene,
So courteous, of such quiet nobleness,
That I said to them: “Yours, I may well ween,
'Tis of all virtue to unlock the place.
Ah! damozels, do not account him base
Whom thus his wound subdues:
Since I was at Thoulouse,
My heart is dead in me.”
They turned their eyes upon me in so much
As to perceive how wounded was my heart;
While, of the spirits born of tears, one such
Had been begotten through the constant smart.
Then seeing me, abashed, to turn apart,
One of them said, and laugh'd:
“Love, look you, by his craft
Holds this man thoroughly.”
But with grave sweetness, after a brief while,
She who at first had laughed on me replied,
Saying: “This lady, who by Love's great guile
Her countenance in thy heart has glorified,
Look'd thee so deep within the eyes, Love sigh'd
And was awakened there.
If it seem ill to bear,
In him thy hope must be.”

361

The second piteous maiden, of all ruth,
Fashioned for sport in Love's own image, said:
“This stroke, whereof thy heart bears trace in sooth,
From eyes of too much puïssance was shed,
Whence in thy heart such brightness enterèd,
Thou mayst not look thereon.
Say, of those eyes that shone
Canst thou remember thee?”
Then said I, yielding answer therewithal
Unto this virgin's difficult behest:
“A lady of Thoulouse, whom Love doth call
Mandetta, sweetly kirtled and enlac'd,
I do remember to my sore unrest.
Yea, by her eyes indeed
My life has been decreed
To death inevitably.”
Go, Ballad, to the city, even Thoulouse,
And softly entering the Daurade, look round
And softly call, that so there may be found
Some lady who for compleasaunce may choose
To show thee her who can my life confuse.
And if she yield thee way,
Lift thou thy voice and say:
“For grace I come to thee.”
 

The ancient church of the Daurade still exists at Thoulouse. It was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics adorning it.

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Sonnet

He imagines a pleasant Voyage for Guido, Lapo Gianni, and himself, with their three Ladies

Guido, I wish that Lapo, thou, and I,
Could be by spells conveyed, as it were now,
Upon a barque, with all the winds that blow
Across all seas at our good will to hie.
So no mischance nor temper of the sky
Should mar our course with spite or cruel slip;
But we, observing old companionship,
To be companions still should long thereby.
And Lady Joan, and Lady Beatrice,
And her the thirtieth on my roll, with us
Should our good wizard set, o'er seas to move
And not to talk of anything but love:
And they three ever to be well at ease,
As we should be, I think, if this were thus.
 

That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies of Florence, referred to in the Vita Nuova; among whom Lapo Gianni's lady, Lagia, would seem to have stood thirtieth.


362

IX
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

Guido answers the foregoing Sonnet, speaking with shame of his changed Love

If I were still that man, worthy to love,
Of whom I have but the remembrance now,
Or if the lady bore another brow,
To hear this thing might bring me joy thereof.
But thou, who in Love's proper court dost move,
Even there where hope is born of grace,—see how
My very soul within me is brought low:
For a swift archer, whom his feats approve,
Now bends the bow, which Love to him did yield,
In such mere sport against me, it would seem
As though he held his lordship for a jest.
Then hear the marvel which is sorriest:—
My sorely wounded soul forgiveth him,
Yet knows that in his act her strength is kill'd.

X
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He reports, in a feigned Vision, the successful Issue of Lapo Gianni's Love

Dante, a sigh that rose from the heart's core
Assailed me, while I slumbered, suddenly:
So that I woke o'the instant, fearing sore
Lest it came thither in Love's company:
Till, turning, I beheld the servitor
Of Lady Lagia: “Help me,” so said he,
“O help me, Pity.” Though he said no more,
So much of Pity's essence entered me,
That I was ware of Love, those shafts he wields
A-whetting, and preferred the mourner's quest
To him, who straightway answered on this wise:
“Go tell my servant that the lady yields,
And that I hold her now at his behest:
If he believe not, let him note her eyes.”

363

XI
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He mistrusts the Love of Lapo Gianni

I pray thee, Dante, shouldst thou meet with Love
In any place where Lapo then may be,
That there thou fail not to mark heedfully
If Love with lover's name that man approve;
If to our Master's will his lady move
Aright, and if himself show fealty:
For ofttimes, by ill custom, ye may see
This sort profess the semblance of true love.
Thou know'st that in the court where Love holds sway
A law subsists, that no man who is vile
Can service yield to a lost woman there.
If suffering aught avail the sufferer,
Thou straightway shalt discern our lofty style,
Which needs the badge of honour must display.

XII
Sonnet

On the Detection of a false Friend

Love and the Lady Lagia, Guido and I,
Unto a certain lord are bounden all,
Who has released us—know ye from whose thrall?
Yet I'll not speak, but let the matter die:
Since now these three no more are held thereby,
Who in such homage at his feet did fall
That I myself was not more whimsical,
In him conceiving godship from on high.
Let Love be thanked the first, who first discern'd
The truth; and that wise lady afterward,
Who in fit time took back her heart again;
And Guido next, from worship wholly turn'd;
And I, as he. But if ye have not heard,
I shall not tell how much I loved him then.
 

I should think, from the mention of Lady Lagia, that this might refer again to Lapo Gianni, who seems (one knows not why) to have fallen into disgrace with his friends. The Guido mentioned is probably Guido Orlandi.


364

XIII
Sonnet

He speaks of a third Love of his

O thou that often hast within thine eyes
A Love who holds three shafts,—know thou from me
That this my sonnet would commend to thee
(Come from afar) a soul in heavy sighs,
Which even by Love's sharp arrow wounded lies.
Twice did the Syrian archer shoot, and he
Now bends his bow the third time, cunningly,
That, thou being here, he wound me in no wise.
Because the soul would quicken at the core
Thereby, which now is near to utter death,
From those two shafts, a triple wound that yield
The first gives pleasure, yet disquieteth;
And with the second is the longing for
The mighty gladness by the third fulfill'd.

XIV
Ballata

Of a continual Death in Love

Though thou, indeed, hast quite forgotten ruth,
Its steadfast truth my heart abandons not;
But still its thought yields service in good part
To that hard heart in thee.
Alas! who hears believes not I am so.
Yet who can know? of very surety, none.
From Love is won a spirit, in some wise,
Which dies perpetually:
And, when at length in that strange ecstasy
The heavy sigh will start,
There rains upon my heart
A love so pure and fine,
That I say: “Lady, I am wholly thine.”
 

I may take this opportunity of mentioning that, in every case where an abrupt change of metre occurs in one of my translations, it is so also in the original poem.


365

XV
Sonnet

To a Friend who does not pity his Love

If I entreat this lady that all grace
Seem not unto her heart an enemy,
Foolish and evil thou declarest me,
And desperate in idle stubbornness.
Whence is such cruel judgment thine, whose face,
To him that looks thereon, professeth thee
Faithful, and wise, and of all courtesy,
And made after the way of gentleness?
Alas! my soul within my heart doth find
Sighs, and its grief by weeping doth enhance,
That, drowned in bitter tears, those sighs depart:
And then there seems a presence in the mind,
As of a lady's thoughtful countenance
Come to behold the death of the poor heart.

XVI
Ballata

He perceives that his highest Love is gone from him

Through this my strong and new misaventure,
All now is lost to me
Which most was sweet in Love's supremacy.
So much of life is dead in its control,
That she, my pleasant lady of all grace,
Is gone out of the devastated soul:
I see her not, nor do I know her place;
Nor even enough of virtue with me stays
To understand, ah me!
The flower of her exceeding purity.
Because there comes—to kill that gentle thought
With saying that I shall not see her more—
This constant pain wherewith I am distraught,
Which is a burning torment very sore,
Wherein I know not whom I should implore.
Thrice thanked the Master be
Who turns the grinding wheel of misery!
Full of great anquish in a place of fear
The spirit of my heart lies sorrowing,
Through Fortune's bitter craft. She lured it here,
And gave it o'er to Death, and barbed the sting;
She wrought that hope which was a treacherous thing;
In Time, which dies from me,
She made me lose mine hour of ecstasy.
For you, perturbed and fearful words of mine,
Whither yourselves may please, even thither go;
But always burthened with shame's troublous sign,
And on my lady's name still calling low.
For me, I must abide in such deep woe
That all who look shall see
Death's shadow on my face assuredly.

366

XVII
Sonnet

Of his Pain from a new Love

Why from the danger did mine eyes not start,—
Why not become even blind,—ere through my sight
Within my soul thou ever couldst alight
To say: “Dost thou not hear me in thy heart?”
New torment then, the old torment's counterpart,
Filled me at once with such a sore affright,
That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not quite
Mine eyes and me! O help us where thou art!
Thou hast so left mine eyes, that love is fain—
Even Love himself—with pity uncontroll'd
To bend above them, weeping for their loss:
Saying: “If any man feel heavy pain,
This man's more painful heart let him behold:
Death has it in her hand, cut like a cross.”

GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Prolonged Sonnet

He finds fault with the Conceits of the foregoing Sonnet

Friend, well I know thou knowest well to bear
Thy sword's-point, that it pierce the close-locked mail:
And like a bird to flit from perch to pale:
And out of difficult ways to find the air:
Largely to take and generously to share:
Thrice to secure advantage: to regale
Greatly the great, and over lands prevail.
In all thou art, one only fault is there:
For still among the wise of wit thou say'st
That Love himself doth weep for thine estate;
And yet, no eyes no tears: lo now, thy whim!
Soft, rather say: This is not held in haste;
But bitter are the hours and passionate
To him that loves, and love is not for him.
For me, (by usage strengthened to forbear
From carnal love,) I fall not in such snare.

367

GIANNI ALFANI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Sonnet

On the part of a Lady of Pisa

Guido, that Gianni who, a day agone,
Sought thee, now greets thee (ay and thou mayst laugh!)
On that same Pisan beauty's sweet behalf
Who can deal love-wounds even as thou hast done.
She asked me whether thy good will were prone
For service unto Love who troubles her,
If she to thee in suchwise should repair
That, save by him and Gualtier, 'twere not known:—
For thus her kindred of ill augury
Should lack the means wherefrom there might be plann'd
Worse harm than lying speech that smites afar.
I told her that thou hast continually
A goodly sheaf of arrows to thy hand,
Which well should stead her in such gentle war.
 

From a passage in Ubaldini's Glossary (1640) to the “Documenti d'Amore” of Francesco Barberino (1300), I judge that Guido answered the above sonnet, and that Alfani made a rejoinder, from which a scrap there printed appears to be taken. The whole piece existed, in Ubaldini's time, among the Strozzi MSS.

BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Sonnet

He writes to Guido, telling him of the Love which a certain Pinella showed on seeing him

Unto that lowly lovely maid, I wis,
So poignant in the heart was thy salute,
That she changed countenance, remaining mute.
Wherefore I asked: “Pinella, how is this?
Hast heard of Guido? know'st thou who he is?”
She answered, “Yea;” then paused, irresolute;
But I saw well how the love-wounds acute
Were widened, and the star which Love calls his
Filled her with gentle brightness perfectly.
“But, friend, an't please thee, I would have it told,”
She said, “how I am known to him through thee.
Yet since, scarce seen, I knew his name of old,—
Even as the riddle is read, so must it be.
Oh! send him love of mine a thousand-fold!”

368

XVIII
TO BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA

Sonnet

Guido answers, commending Pinella, and saying that the Love he can offer her is already shared by many noble Ladies.

The fountain-head that is so bright to see
Gains as it runs in virtue and in sheen,
Friend Bernard; and for her who spoke with thee,
Even such the flow of her young life has been:
So that when Love discourses secretly
Of things the fairest he has ever seen,
He says there is no fairer thing than she,
A lowly maid as lovely as a queen.
And for that I am troubled, thinking of
That sigh wherein I burn upon the waves
Which drift her heart,—poor barque, so ill bested!—
Unto Pinella a great river of love
I send, that's full of sirens, and whose slaves
Are beautiful and richly habited.

DINO COMPAGNI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Sonnet

He reproves Guido for his Arrogance in Love

No man may mount upon a golden stair,
Guido my master, to Love's palace-sill:
No key of gold will fit the lock that's there,
Nor heart there enter without pure goodwill.
Not if he miss one courteous duty, dare
A lover hope he should his love fulfil;
But to his lady must make meek repair,
Reaping with husbandry her favours still.
And thou but know'st of Love (I think) his name:
Youth holds thy reason in extremities:
Only on thine own face thou turn'st thine eyes;
Fairer than Absalom's account'st the same;
And think'st, as rosy moths are drawn by flame,
To draw the women from their balconies.
 

It is curious to find these poets perpetually rating one another for the want of constancy in love. Guido is rebuked, as above, by Dino Compagni; Cino da Pistoia by Dante (p. 353); and Dante by Guido (p. 370), who formerly, as we have seen (p. 363), had confided to him his doubts of Lapo Gianni.


369

XIX
TO GUIDO ORLANDI

Sonnet

In praise of Guido Orlandi's Lady

A lady in whom love is manifest—
That love which perfect honour doth adorn—
Hath ta'en the living heart out of thy breast,
Which in her keeping to new life is born:
For there by such sweet power it is possest
As even is felt of Indian unicorn:
And all its virtue now, with fierce unrest,
Unto thy soul makes difficult return.
For this thy lady is virtue's minister
In suchwise that no fault there is to show,
Save that God made her mortal on this ground.
And even herein His wisdom shall be found:
For only thus our intellect could know
That heavenly beauty which resembles her.
 

In old representations, the unicorn is often seen with his head in a virgin's lap.

GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Sonnet

He answers the foregoing Sonnet, declaring himself his Lady's Champion

To sound of trumpet rather than of horn,
I in Love's name would hold a battle-play
Of gentlemen in arms on Easter Day;
And, sailing without oar or wind, be borne
Unto my joyful beauty; all that morn
To ride round her, in her cause seeking fray
Of arms with all but thee, friend, who dost say
The truth of her, and whom all truths adorn.
And still I pray Our Lady's grace above,
Most reverently, that she whom my thoughts bear
In sweet remembrance own her Lord supreme.
Holding her honour dear, as doth behove,—
In God who therewithal sustaineth her
Let her abide, and not depart from Him.

370

XX
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He rebukes Dante for his way of Life, after the Death of Beatrice.

I come to thee by daytime constantly,
But in thy thoughts too much of baseness find:
Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind,
And for thy many virtues gone from thee.
It was thy wont to shun much company,
Unto all sorry concourse ill inclin'd:
And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and kind,
Had made me treasure up thy poetry.
But now I dare not, for thine abject life,
Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes;
Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst know.
Ah! prythee read this sonnet many times:
So shall that evil one who bred this strife
Be thrust from thy dishonoured soul and go.
 

This interesting sonnet must refer to the same period of Dante's life regarding which he has made Beatrice address him in words of noble reproach when he meets her in Eden. (Purg. C. xxx.)

XXI
Ballata

Concerning a Shepherd-maid

Within a copse I met a shepherd-maid,
More fair, I said, than any star to see.
She came with waving tresses pale and bright,
With rosy cheer, and loving eyes of flame,
Guiding the lambs beneath her wand aright.
Her naked feet still had the dews on them,
As, singing like a lover, so she came;
Joyful, and fashioned for all ecstasy.
I greeted her at once, and question made
What escort had she through the woods in spring.
But with soft accents she replied and said
That she was all alone there, wandering;
Moreover: “Do you know, when the birds sing,
My heart's desire is for a mate,” she said.
While she was telling me this wish of hers,
The birds were all in song throughout the wood.
“Even now then,” said my thought, “the time recurs,
With mine own longing to assuage her mood.”
And so, in her sweet favour's name, I sued
That she would kiss there and embrace with me.

371

She took my hand to her with amorous will,
And answered that she gave me all her heart,
And drew me where the leaf is fresh and still,
Where spring the wood-flowers in the shade apart.
And on that day, by Joy's enchanted art,
There Love in very presence seemed to be.
 

The glossary to Barberino, already mentioned, refers to the existence, among the Strozzi MSS., of a poem by Lapo di Farinata degli Uberti, written in answer to the above ballata of Cavalcanti. As this respondent was no other than Guido's brother-in-law, one feels curious to know what he said to the peccadilloes of his sister's husband. But I fear the poem cannot yet have been published, as I have sought for it in vain at all my printed sources of information.

XXII
Sonnet

Of an ill-favoured Lady

Just look, Manetto, at that wry-mouthed minx;
Merely take notice what a wretch it is;
How well contrived in her deformities,
How beastly favoured when she scowls and blinks.
Why, with a hood on (if one only thinks)
Or muffle of prim veils and scapularies,—
And set together, on a day like this,
Some pretty lady with the odious sphinx;—
Why, then thy sins could hardly have such weight,
Nor thou be so subdued from Love's attack,
Nor so possessed in Melancholy's sway,
But that perforce thy peril must be great
Of laughing till the very heart-strings crack:
Either thou'dst die, or thou must run away.

XXIII
TO POPE BONIFACE VIII

Sonnet

After the Pope's Interdict, when the great Houses were leaving Florence

Nero, thus much for tidings in thine ear.
They of the Buondelmonti quake with dread,
Nor by all Florence may be comforted,
Noting in thee the lion's ravenous cheer;
Who more than any dragon giv'st them fear,
In ancient evil stubbornly array'd;
Neither by bridge nor bulwark to be stay'd,
But only by King Pharaoh's sepulchre.
O in what monstrous sin dost thou engage,—
All these which are of loftiest blood to drive
Away, that none dare pause but all take wing!
Yet sooth it is, thou might'st redeem the pledge
Even yet, and save thy naked soul alive,
Wert thou but patient in the bargaining.

372

XXIV
Ballata

In Exile at Sarzana

Because I think not ever to return,
Ballad, to Tuscany,—
Go therefore thou for me
Straight to my lady's face,
Who, of her noble grace,
Shall show thee courtesy.
Thou seekest her in charge of many sighs,
Full of much grief and of exceeding fear.
But have good heed thou come not to the eyes
Of such as are sworn foes to gentle cheer:
For, certes, if this thing should chance,—from her
Thou then couldst only look
For scorn, and such rebuke
As needs must bring me pain;—
Yea, after death again
Tears and fresh agony.
Surely thou knowest, Ballad, how that Death
Assails me, till my life is almost sped:
Thou knowest how my heart still travaileth
Through the sore pangs which in my soul are bred:—
My body being now so nearly dead,
It cannot suffer more.
Then, going, I implore
That this my soul thou take
(Nay, do so for my sake,)
When my heart sets it free.
Ah! Ballad, unto thy dear offices
I do commend my soul, thus trembling;
That thou mayst lead it, for pure piteousness,
Even to that lady's presence whom I sing.
Ah! Ballad, say thou to her, sorrowing,
Whereso thou meet her then:—
“This thy poor handmaiden
Is come, nor will be gone,
Being parted now from one
Who served Love painfully.”
Thou also, thou bewildered voice and weak,
That goest forth in tears from my grieved heart,
Shalt, with my soul and with this ballad, speak
Of my dead mind, when thou dost hence depart,
Unto that lady (piteous as thou art!)
Who is so calm and bright,
It shall be deep delight
To feel her presence there.
And thou, Soul, worship her
Still in her purity.

373

XXV
Canzone

A Song of Fortune

Lo! I am she who makes the wheel to turn;
Lo! I am she who gives and takes away;
Blamed idly, day by day,
In all mine acts by you, ye humankind:
For whoso smites his visage and doth mourn,
What time he renders back my gifts to me,
Learns then that I decree
No state which mine own arrows may not find.
Who clomb must fall:—this bear ye well in mind,
Nor say, because he fell, I did him wrong.
Yet mine is a vain song:
For truly ye may find out wisdom when
King Arthur's resting-place is found of men.
Ye make great marvel and astonishment
What time ye see the sluggard lifted up
And the just man to drop,
And ye complain on God and on my sway.
O humankind, ye sin in your complaint:
For He, that Lord who made the world to live,
Lets me not take or give
By mine own act, but as He wills I may.
Yet is the mind of man so castaway,
That it discerns not the supreme behest.
Alas! ye wretchedest,
And chide ye at God also? Shall not He
Judge between good and evil righteously?
Ah! had ye knowledge how God evermore,
With agonies of soul and grievous heats,
As on an anvil beats
On them that in this earth hold high estate,—
Ye would choose little rather than much store,
And solitude than spacious palaces;
Such is the sore disease
Of anguish that on all their days doth wait.
Behold if they be not unfortunate,
When oft the father dares not trust the son!
O wealth, with thee is won
A worm to gnaw for ever on his soul
Whose abject life is laid in thy control!
If also ye take note what piteous death
They ofttimes make, whose hoards were manifold,
Who cities had and gold
And multitudes of men beneath their hand;
Then he among you that most angereth
Shall bless me, saying, “Lo! I worship thee
That I was not as he
Whose death is thus accurst throughout the land.”
But now your living souls are held in band

374

Of avarice, shutting you from the true light
Which shows how sad and slight
Are this world's treasured riches and array
That still change hands a hundred times a-day.
For me,—could envy enter in my sphere,
Which of all human taint is clean and quit,—
I well might harbour it
When I behold the peasant at his toil.
Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear,
He leaves his perfect furrow as he goes,
And gives his field repose
From thorns and tares and weeds that vex the soil:
Thereto he labours, and without turmoil
Entrusts his work to God, content if so
Such guerdon from it grow
That in that year his family shall live:
Nor care nor thought to other things will give.
But now ye may no more have speech of me,
For this mine office craves continual use:
Ye therefore deeply muse
Upon those things which ye have heard the while:
Yea, and even yet remember heedfully
How this my wheel a motion hath so fleet,
That in an eyelid's beat
Him whom it raised it maketh low and vile.
None was, nor is, nor shall be of such guile,
Who could, or can, or shall, I say, at length
Prevail against my strength.
But still those men that are my questioners
In bitter torment own their hearts perverse.
Song, that wast made to carry high intent
Dissembled in the garb of humbleness,—
With fair and open face
To Master Thomas let thy course be bent.
Say that a great thing scarcely may be pent
In little room: yet always pray that he
Commend us, thee and me,
To them that are more apt in lofty speech:
For truly one must learn ere he can teach.
 

This and the three following Canzoni are only to be found in the later collections of Guido Cavalcanti's poems. I have included them on account of their interest, if really his, and especially for the beauty of the last among them; but must confess to some doubts of their authenticity.

XXVI
Canzone

A Song against Poverty

O poverty, by thee the soul is wrapp'd
With hate, with envy, dolefulness, and doubt.
Even so be thou cast out,
And even so he that speaks thee otherwise.
I name thee now, because my mood is apt
To curse thee, bride of every lost estate,
Through whom are desolate
On earth all honourable things and wise.
Within thy power each blest condition dies:

375

By thee, men's minds with sore mistrust are made
Fantastic and afraid:—
Thou, hated worse than Death, by just accord,
And with the loathing of all hearts abhorr'd.
Yea, rightly art thou hated worse than Death,
For he at length is longed for in the breast.
But not with thee, wild beast,
Was ever aught found beautiful or good.
For life is all that man can lose by death,
Not fame and the fair summits of applause;
His glory shall not pause,
But live in men's perpetual gratitude.
While he who on thy naked sill has stood,
Though of great heart and worthy everso,
He shall be counted low.
Then let the man thou troublest never hope
To spread his wings in any lofty scope.
Hereby my mind is laden with a fear,
And I will take some thought to shelter me.
For this I plainly see:—
Through thee, to fraud the honest man is led;
To tyranny the just lord turneth here,
And the magnanimous soul to avarice.
Of every bitter vice
Thou, to my thinking, art the fount and head;
From thee no light in any wise is shed,
Who bringest to the paths of dusky hell.
I therefore see full well,
That death, the dungeon, sickness, and old age,
Weighed against thee, are blessèd heritage.
And what though many a goodly hypocrite,
Lifting to thee his veritable prayer,
Call God to witness there
How this thy burden moved not Him to wrath.
Why, who may call (of them that muse aright)
Him poor, who of the whole can say, 'Tis Mine?
Methinks I well divine
That want, to such, should seem an easy path.
God, who made all things, all things had and hath;
Nor any tongue may say that He was poor,
What while He did endure
For man's best succour among men to dwell:
Since to have all, with Him, was possible.
Song, thou shalt wend upon thy journey now:
And, if thou meet with folk who rail at thee,
Saying that poverty
Is not even sharper than thy words allow,—
Unto such brawlers briefly answer thou,
To tell them they are hypocrites; and then
Say mildly, once again,
That I, who am nearly in a beggar's case,
Might not presume to sing my proper praise.

376

XXVII
Canzone

He laments the Presumption and Incontinence of his Youth

The devastating flame of that fierce plague,
The foe of virtue, fed with others' peace
More than itself foresees,
Being still shut in to gnaw its own desire;
Its strength not weakened, nor its hues more vague,
For all the benison that virtue sheds,
But which for ever spreads
To be a living curse that shall not tire:
Or yet again, that other idle fire
Which flickers with all change as winds may please:
One whichsoe'er of these
At length has hidden the true path from me
Which twice man may not see,
And quenched the intelligence of joy, till now
All solace but abides in perfect woe.
Alas! the more my painful spirit grieves,
The more confused with miserable strife
Is that delicious life
Which sighing it recalls perpetually:
But its worst anguish, whence it still receives
More pain than death, is sent, to yield the sting
Of perfect suffering,
By him who is my lord and governs me;
Who holds all gracious truth in fealty,
Being nursed in those four sisters' fond caress
Through whom comes happiness.
He now has left me; and I draw my breath
Wound in the arms of Death,
Desirous of her: she is cried upon
In all the prayers my heart puts up alone.
How fierce aforetime and how absolute
That wheel of flame which turned within my head,
May never quite be said,
Because there are not words to speak the whole.
It slew my hope whereof I lack the fruit,
And stung the blood within my living flesh,
To be an intricate mesh
Of pain beyond endurance or control;
Withdrawing me from God, who gave my soul
To know the sign where honour has its seat
From honour's counterfeit.
So in its longing my heart finds not hope,
Nor knows what door to ope;
Since, parting me from God, this foe took thought
To shut those paths wherein He may be sought.

377

My second enemy, thrice armed in guile,
As wise and cunning to mine overthrow
As her smooth face doth show,
With yet more shameless strength holds mastery.
My spirit, naked of its light and vile,
Is lit by her with her own deadly gleam,
Which makes all anguish seem
As nothing to her scourges that I see.
O thou the body of grace, abide with me
As thou wast once in the once joyful time;
And though thou hate my crime,
Fill not my life with torture to the end;
But in thy mercy, bend
My steps, and for thine honour, back again;
Till, finding joy through thee, I bless my pain.
Since that first frantic devil without faith
Fell, in thy name, upon the stairs that mount
Unto the limpid fount
Of thine intelligence,—withhold not now
Thy grace, nor spare my second foe from death.
For lo! on this my soul has set her trust;
And failing this, thou must
Prove false to truth and honour, seest thou!
Then, saving light and throne of strength, allow
My prayer, and vanquish both my foes at last;
That so I be not cast
Into that woe wherein I fear to end.
Yet if it is ordain'd
That I must die ere this be perfected,—
Ah! yield me comfort after I am dead.
Ye unadornèd words obscure of sense,
With weeping and with sighing go from me,
And bear mine agony
(Not to be told by words, being too intense,)
To His intelligence
Who moved by virtue shall fulfil my breath
In human life or compensating death.

XXVIII
Canzone

A Dispute with Death

O sluggish, hard, ingrate, what doest thou?
Poor sinner, folded round with heavy sin,
Whose life to find out joy alone is bent.
I call thee, and thou fall'st to deafness now;
And, deeming that my path whereby to win
Thy seat is lost, there sitt'st thee down content,
And hold'st me to thy will subservient.
But I into thy heart have crept disguised:
Among thy senses and thy sins I went,
By roads thou didst not guess, unrecognised.
Tears will not now suffice to bid me go,
Nor countenance abased, nor words of woe.”

378

DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE

Now, when I heard the sudden dreadful voice
Wake thus within to cruel utterance,
Whereby the very heart of hearts did fail,
My spirit might not any more rejoice,
But fell from its courageous pride at once,
And turned to fly, where flight may not avail.
Then slowly 'gan some strength to re-inhale
The trembling life which heard that whisper speak,
And had conceived the sense with sore travail;
Till in the mouth it murmured, very weak,
Saying: “Youth, wealth, and beauty, these have I:
O Death! remit thy claim,—I would not die.”
Small sign of pity in that aspect dwells
Which then had scattered all my life abroad
Till there was comfort with no single sense:
And yet almost in piteous syllables,
When I had ceased to speak, this answer flow'd:
“Behold what path is spread before thee hence;
Thy life has all but a day's permanence.
And is it for the sake of youth there seems
In loss of human years such sore offence?
Nay, look unto the end of youthful dreams.
What present glory does thy hope possess,
That shall not yield ashes and bitterness?”
But, when I looked on Death made visible,
From my heart's sojourn brought before mine eyes,
And holding in her hand my grievous sin,
I seemed to see my countenance, that fell,
Shake like a shadow: my heart uttered cries,
And my soul wept the curse that lay therein.
Then Death: “Thus much thine urgent prayer shall win:—
I grant thee the brief interval of youth
At natural pity's strong soliciting.”
And I (because I knew that moment's ruth
But left my life to groan for a frail space)
Fell in the dust upon my weeping face.
So, when she saw me thus abashed and dumb,
In loftier words she weighed her argument,
That new and strange it was to hear her speak;
Saying: “The path thy fears withhold thee from
Is thy best path. To folly be not shent,
Nor shrink from me because thy flesh is weak,
Thou seest how man is sore confused, and eke
How ruinous Chance makes havoc of his life,
And grief is in the joys that he doth seek;
Nor ever pauses the perpetual strife
'Twixt fear and rage; until beneath the sun
His perfect anguish be fulfilled and done.”
“O Death! thou art so dark and difficult,
That never human creature might attain
By his own will to pierce thy secret sense;
Because, foreshadowing thy dread result,

379

He may not put his trust in heart or brain,
Nor power avails him, nor intelligence.
Behold how cruelly thou takest hence
These forms so beautiful and dignified,
And chain'st them in thy shadow chill and dense,
And forcest them in narrow graves to hide;
With pitiless hate subduing still to thee
The strength of man and woman's delicacy.”
“Not for thy fear the less I come at last,
For this thy tremor, for thy painful sweat.
Take therefore thought to leave (for lo! I call)
Kinsfolk and comrades, all thou didst hold fast,—
Thy father and thy mother,—to forget
All these thy brethren, sisters, children, all.
Cast sight and hearing from thee; let hope fall;
Leave every sense and thy whole intellect,
These things wherein thy life made festival:
For I have wrought thee to such strange effect
That thou hast no more power to dwell with these
As living man. Let pass thy soul in peace.”
Yea, Lord. O thou, the Builder of the spheres,
Who, making me, didst shape me, of thy grace,
In thine own image and high counterpart;
Do thou subdue my spirit, long perverse,
To weep within thy will a certain space,
Ere yet thy thunder come to rive my heart.
Set in my hand some sign of what thou art,
Lord God, and suffer me to seek out Christ,—
Weeping, to seek Him in thy ways apart;
Until my sorrow have at length suffic'd
In some accepted instant to atone
For sins of thought, for stubborn evil done.
Dishevelled and in tears, go, song of mine,
To break the hardness of the heart of man:
Say how his life began
From dust, and in that dust doth sink supine:
Yet, say, the unerring spirit of grief shall guide
His soul, being purified,
To seek its Maker at the heavenly shrine.

380

CINO DA PISTOIA

I
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He interprets Dante's Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova

Each lover's longing leads him naturally
Unto his lady's heart his heart to show;
And this it is that Love would have thee know
By the strange vision which he sent to thee.
With thy heart therefore, flaming outwardly,
In humble guise he fed thy lady so,
Who long had lain in slumber, from all woe
Folded within a mantle silently.
Also, in coming, Love might not repress
His joy, to yield thee thy desire achieved,
Whence heart should unto heart true service bring.
But understanding the great love-sickness
Which in thy lady's bosom was conceived,
He pitied her, and wept in vanishing.
 

See ante, page 312.

II
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Canzone

On the Death of Beatrice Portinari

Albeit my prayers have not so long delay'd,
But craved for thee, ere this, that Pity and Love
Which only bring our heavy life some rest;
Yet is not now the time so much o'erstay'd
But that these words of mine which tow'rds thee move
Must find thee still with spirit dispossess'd,
And say to thee: “In Heaven she now is bless'd,
Even as the blessèd name men called her by;”
While thou dost ever cry,
“Alas! the blessing of mine eyes is flown!”
Behold, these words set down
Are needed still, for still thou sorrowest.
Then hearken; I would yield advisedly
Some comfort: Stay these sighs; give ear to me.

381

We know for certain that in this blind world
Each man's subsistence is of grief and pain,
Still trailed by fortune through all bitterness.
Blessèd the soul which, when its flesh is furl'd
Within a shroud, rejoicing doth attain
To Heaven itself, made free of earthly stress.
Then wherefore sighs thy heart in abjectness,
Which for her triumph should exult aloud?
For He the Lord our God
Hath called her, hearkening what her Angel said,
To have Heaven perfected.
Each saint for a new thing beholds her face,
And she the face of our Redemption sees,
Conversing with immortal substances.
Why now do pangs of torment clutch thy heart
Which with thy love should make thee overjoy'd,
As him whose intellect hath passed the skies?
Behold, the spirits of thy life depart
Daily to Heaven with her, they so are buoy'd
With their desire, and Love so bids them rise.
O God! and thou, a man whom God made wise,
To nurse a charge of care, and love the same!
I bid thee in His Name
From sin of sighing grief to hold thy breath,
Nor let thy heart to death,
Nor harbour death's resemblance in thine eyes.
God hath her with Himself eternally,
Yet she inhabits every hour with thee.
Be comforted, Love cries, be comforted!
Devotion pleads, Peace, for the love of God!
O yield thyself to prayers so full of grace;
And make thee naked now of this dull weed
Which 'neath thy foot were better to be trod;
For man through grief despairs and ends his days.
How ever shouldst thou see the lovely face
If any desperate death should once be thine?
From justice so condign
Withdraw thyself even now; that in the end
Thy heart may not offend
Against thy soul, which in the holy place,
In Heaven, still hopes to see her and to be
Within her arms. Let this hope comfort thee.
Look thou into the pleasure wherein dwells
Thy lovely lady who is in Heaven crown'd,
Who is herself thy hope in Heaven, the while
To make thy memory hallowed she avails;
Being a soul within the deep Heaven bound,
A face on thy heart painted, to beguile
Thy heart of grief which else should turn it vile.
Even as she seemed a wonder here below,
On high she seemeth so,—
Yea, better known, is there more wondrous yet.
And even as she was met
First by the angels with sweet song and smile,
Thy spirit bears her back upon the wing,
Which often in those ways is journeying.

382

Of thee she entertains the blessèd throngs,
And says to them: “While yet my body thrave
On earth, I gat much honour which he gave,
Commending me in his commended songs.”
Also she asks alway of God our Lord
To give thee peace according to His word.

III
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He conceives of some Compensation in Death

Dante, whenever this thing happeneth,—
That Love's desire is quite bereft of Hope,
(Seeking in vain at ladies' eyes some scope
Of joy, through what the heart for ever saith,)—
I ask thee, can amends be made by Death?
Is such sad pass the last extremity?—
Or may the Soul that never feared to die
Then in another body draw new breath?
Lo! thus it is through her who governs all
Below,—that I, who entered at her door,
Now at her dreadful window must fare forth.
Yea, and I think through her it doth befall
That even ere yet the road is travelled o'er
My bones are weary and life is nothing worth.
 

Among Dante's Epistles there is a Latin letter to Cino, whch I should judge was written in reply to this Sonnet.

IV
Madrigal

To his Lady Selvaggia Vergiolesi; likening his Love to a Search for Gold

I am all bent to glean the golden ore
Little by little from the river-bed;
Hoping the day to see
When Crœsus shall be conquered in my store.
Therefore, still sifting where the sands are spread,
I labour patiently:
Till, thus intent on this thing and no more,—
If to a vein of silver I were led,
It scarce could gladden me.
And, seeing that no joy's so warm i'the core
As this whereby the heart is comforted
And the desire set free,—
Therefore thy bitter love is still my scope,
Lady, from whom it is my life's sore theme
More painfully to sift the grains of hope
Than gold out of that stream.

383

V
Sonnet

To Love, in great Bitterness

O love, O thou that, for my fealty,
Only in torment dost thy power employ,
Give me, for God's sake, something of thy joy,
That I may learn what good there is in thee.
Yea, for, if thou art glad with grieving me,
Surely my very life thou shalt destroy
When thou renew'st my pain, because the joy
Must then be wept for with the misery.
He that had never sense of good, nor sight,
Esteems his ill estate but natural,
Which so is lightlier borne: his case is mine.
But, if thou wouldst uplift me for a sign,
Bidding me drain the curse and know it all,
I must a little taste its opposite.

VI
Sonnet

Death is not without but within him

This fairest lady, who, as well I wot,
Found entrance by her beauty to my soul,
Pierced through mine eyes my heart, which erst was whole,
Sorely, yet makes as though she knew it not;
Nay turns upon me now, to anger wrought;
Dealing me harshness for my pain's best dole,
And is so changed by her own wrath's control,
That I go thence, in my distracted thought
Content to die; and, mourning, cry abroad
On Death, as upon one afar from me;
But Death makes answer from within my heart.
Then, hearing her so hard at hand to be,
I do commend my spirit unto God;
Saying to her too, “Ease and peace thou art.”

384

VII
Sonnet

A Trance of Love

Vanquished and weary was my soul in me,
And my heart gasped after its much lament,
When sleep at length the painful languor sent.
And, as I slept (and wept incessantly),—
Through the keen fixedness of memory
Which I had cherished ere my tears were spent,
I passed to a new trance of wonderment;
Wherein a visible spirit I could see,
Which caught me up, and bore me to a place
Where my most gentle lady was alone;
And still before us a fire seemed to move,
Out of the which methought there came a moan
Uttering, “Grace, a little season, grace!
I am of one that hath the wings of Love.”

VIII
Sonnet

Of the Grave of Selvaggia, on the Monte della Sambuca

I was upon the high and blessed mound,
And kissed, long worshipping, the stones and grass,
There on the hard stones prostrate, where, alas!
That pure one laid her forehead in the ground.
Then were the springs of gladness sealed and bound,
The day that unto Death's most bitter pass
My sick heart's lady turned her feet, who was
Already in her gracious life renown'd.
So in that place I spake to Love, and cried:
“O sweet my god, I am one whom Death may claim
Hence to be his; for lo! my heart lies here.”
Anon, because my Master lent no ear,
Departing, still I called Selvaggia's name.
So with my moan I left the mountain-side.

385

IX
Canzone

His Lament for Selvaggia

Ay me, alas! the beautiful bright hair
That shed reflected gold
O'er the green growths on either side the way:
Ay me! the lovely look, open and fair,
Which my heart's core doth hold
With all else of that best-remembered day;
Ay me! the face made gay
With joy that Love confers;
Ay me! that smile of hers
Where whiteness as of snow was visible
Among the roses at all seasons red!
Ay me! and was this well,
O Death, to let me live when she is dead?
Ay me! the calm, erect, dignified walk;
Ay me! the sweet salute,—
The thoughtful mind,—the wit discreetly worn;
Ay me! the clearness of her noble talk,
Which made the good take root
In me, and for the evil woke my scorn;
Ay me! the longing born
Of so much loveliness,—
The hope, whose eager stress
Made other hopes fall back to let it pass,
Even till my load of love grew light thereby!
These thou hast broken, as glass,
O Death, who makest me, alive, to die!
Ay me! Lady, the lady of all worth;—
Saint, for whose single shrine
All other shrines I left, even as Love will'd;—
Ay me! what precious stone in the whole earth,
For that pure fame of thine
Worthy the marble statue's base to yield?
Ay me! fair vase fulfill'd
With more than this world's good,—
By cruel chance and rude
Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains
Where Death has shut thee in between hard stones!
Ay me! two languid fountains
Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns.
Ay me! sharp Death! till what I ask is done
And my whole life is ended utterly,—
Answer—must I weep on
Even thus, and never cease to moan Ay me?

386

X
TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI

Sonnet

He owes nothing to Guido as a Poet

What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thee,
Thou Guido, that thou ever say'st I thieve?
'Tis true, fine fancies gladly I receive,
But when was aught found beautiful in thee?
Nay, I have searched my pages diligently,
And tell the truth, and lie not, by your leave.
From whose rich store my web of songs I weave
Love knoweth well, well knowing them and me.
No artist I,—all men may gather it;
Nor do I work in ignorance of pride,
(Though the world reach alone the coarser sense;)
But am a certain man of humble wit
Who journeys with his sorrow at his side,
For a heart's sake, alas! that is gone hence.
 

I have not examined Cino's poetry with special reference to this accusation; but there is a Canzone of his in which he speaks of having conceived an affection for another lady from her resemblance to Selvaggia. Perhaps Guido considered this as a sort of plagiarism de facto on his own change of love through Mandetta's likeness to Giovanna.

XI
Sonnet

He impugns the verdicts of Dante's Commedia

This book of Dante's, very sooth to say,
Is just a poet's lovely heresy,
Which by a lure as sweet as sweet can be
Draws other men's concerns beneath its sway;
While, among stars' and comets' dazzling play,
It beats the right down, lets the wrong go free,
Shows some abased, and others in great glee,
Much as with lovers is Love's ancient way.
Therefore his vain decrees, wherein he lied,
Fixing folks' nearness to the Fiend their foe,
Must be like empty nutshells flung aside.
Yet through the rash false witness set to grow,
French and Italian vengeance on such pride
May fall, like Antony's on Cicero.

387

XII
Sonnet

He condemns Dante for not naming, in the Commedia, his friend Onesto di Boncima, and his Lady Selvaggia

Among the faults we in that book descry
Which has crowned Dante lord of rhyme and thought,
Are two so grave that some attaint is brought
Unto the greatness of his soul thereby.
One is, that holding with Sordello high
Discourse, and with the rest who sang and taught,
He of Onesto di Boncima nought
Has said, who was to Arnauld Daniel nigh.
The other is, that when he says he came
To see, at summit of the sacred stair,
His Beatrice among the heavenly signs,—
He, looking in the bosom of Abraham,
Saw not that highest of all women there
Who joined Mount Sion to the Apennines.
 

Between this poet and Cino various friendly sonnets were interchanged, which may be found in the Italian collections. There is also one sonnet by Onesto to Cino, with his answer, both of which are far from being affectionate or respectful. They are very obscure, however, and not specially interesting.

The Provencal poet, mentioned in C. xxvi of the Purgatory.

That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on the Monte della Sambuca.


388

DANTE DA MAIANO

I
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He interprets Dante Alighieri's Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the Vita Nuova

Of that wherein thou art a questioner
Considering, I make answer briefly thus,
Good friend, in wit but little prosperous:
And from my words the truth thou shalt infer,—
So hearken to thy dream's interpreter.
If, sound of frame, thou soundly canst discuss
In reason,—then, to expel this overplus
Of vapours which hath made thy speech to err,
See that thou lave and purge thy stomach soon.
But if thou art afflicted with disease,
Know that I count it mere delirium.
Thus of my thought I write thee back the sum:
Nor my conclusions can be changed from these
Till to the leach thy water I have shown.
 

See ante, page 312.

II
Sonnet

He craves interpreting of a Dream of his

Thou that art wise, let wisdom minister
Unto my dream, that it be understood.
To wit: A lady, of her body fair,
And whom my heart approves in womanhood,
Bestowed on me a wreath of flowers, fair-hued
And green in leaf, with gentle loving air;
After the which, meseemed I was stark nude
Save for a smock of hers that I did wear.
Whereat, good friend, my courage gat such growth
That to mine arms I took her tenderly:
With no rebuke the beauty laughed unloth,
And as she laughed I kissed continually.
I say no more, for that I pledged mine oath,
And that my mother, who is dead, was by.

389

GUIDO ORLANDI TO DANTE DA MAIANO

Sonnet

He interprets the Dream related in the foregoing Sonnet

On the last words of what you write to me
I give you my opinion at the first,
To see the dead must prove corruption nursed
Within you, by your heart's own vanity.
The soul should bend the flesh to its decree:
Then rule it, friend, as fish by line amerced.
As to the smock, your lady's gift, the worst
Of words were not too bad for speech so free.
It is a thing unseemly to declare
The love of gracious dame or damozel,
And therewith for excuse to say, I dream'd.
Tell us no more of this, but think who seem'd
To call you: mother came to whip you well.
Love close, and of Love's joy you'll have your share
 

There exist no fewer than six answers by different poets, interpreting Dante da Maiano's dream. I have chosen Guido Orlandi's, much the most matter-of-fact of the six, because it is diverting to find the writer again in his antagonistic mood. Among the five remaining answers, in all of which the vision is treated as a very mysterious matter, one is attributed to Dante Alighieri, but seems so doubtful that I have not translated it. Indeed, it would do the greater Dante, if he really wrote it, little credit as a lucid interpreter of dreams; though it might have some interest, as giving him (when compared with the sonnet at page 388) a decided advantage over his lesser namesake in point of courtesy.

III
Sonnet

To his Lady Nina, of Sicily

So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me,
Gentle my lady, from the first of all,
That counting every other blessing small
I gave myself up wholly to know thee:
And since I was made thine, thy courtesy
And worth, more than of earth, celestial,
I learned, and from its freedom did enthrall
My heart, the servant of thy grace to be.
Wherefore I pray thee, joyful countenance,
Humbly, that it incense or irk thee not,
If I, being thine, do wait upon thy glance.
More to solicit, I am all afraid:
Yet, lady, twofold is the gift, we wot,
Given to the needy unsolicited.

390

IV
Sonnet

He thanks his Lady for the Joy he has had from her

Wonderful countenance and royal neck,
I have not found your beauty's parallel!
Nor at her birth might any yet prevail
The likeness of these features to partake.
Wisdom is theirs, and mildness: for whose sake
All grace seems stol'n, such perfect grace to swell;
Fashioned of God beyond delight to dwell
Exalted. And herein my pride I take
Who of this garden have possession,
So that all worth subsists for my behoof
And bears itself according to my will.
Lady, in thee such pleasaunce hath its fill
That whoso is content to rest thereon
Knows not of grief, and holds all pain aloof.

391

CECCO ANGIOLIERI, DA SIENA

I
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

On the last Sonnet of the Vita Nuova

Dante Alighieri, Cecco, your good friend
And servant, gives you greeting as his lord,
And prays you for the sake of Love's accord,
Love being the Master before whom you bend,)
That you will pardon him if he offend,
Even as your gentle heart can well afford.
All that he wants to say is just one word
Which partly chides your sonnet at the end.
For where the measure changes, first you say
You do not understand the gentle speech
A spirit made touching your Beatrice:
And next you tell your ladies how, straightway,
You understand it. Wherefore (look you) each
Of these your words the other's sense denies.
 

See ante, page 346.

II
Sonnet

He will not be too deeply in Love

I am enamoured, and yet not so much
But that I'd do without it easily;
And my own mind thinks all the more of me
That Love has not quite penned me in his hutch.
Enough if for his sake I dance and touch
The lute, and serve his servants cheerfully:
An overdose is worse than none would be:
Love is no lord of mine, I'm proud to vouch.
So let no woman who is born conceive
That I'll be her liege slave, as I see some,
Be she as fair and dainty as she will.
Too much of love makes idiots, I believe:
I like not any fashion that turns glum
The heart, and makes the visage sick and ill.

392

III
Sonnet

Of Love in Men and Devils

The man who feels not, more or less, somewhat
Of love in all the years his life goes round
Should be denied a grave in holy ground
Except with usurers who will bate no groat:
Nor he himself should count himself a jot
Less wretched than the meanest beggar found.
Also the man who in Love's robe is gown'd
May say that Fortune smiles upon his lot.
Seeing how love has such nobility
That if it entered in the lord of Hell
'Twould rule him more than his fire's ancient sting;
He should be glorified to eternity,
And all his life be always glad and well
As is a wanton woman in the spring.

IV
Sonnet

Of Love, in honour of his mistress Becchina

Whatever good is naturally done
Is born of Love as fruit is born of flower:
By Love all good is brought to its full power:
Yea, Love does more than this; for he finds none
So coarse but from his touch some grace is won,
And the poor wretch is altered in an hour.
So let it be decreed that Death devour
The beast who says that Love's a thing to shun.
A man's just worth the good that he can hold,
And where no love is found, no good is there;
On that there's nothing that I would not stake.
So now, my Sonnet, go as you are told
To lovers and their sweethearts everywhere,
And say I made you for Becchina's sake.

V
Sonnet

Of Becchina, the Shoemaker's Daughter

Why, if Becchina's heart were diamond,
And all the other parts of her were steel,
As cold to love as snows when they congeal
In lands to which the sun may not get round;
And if her father were a giant crown'd
And not a donkey born to stitching shoes,
Or I were but an ass myself;—to use
Such harshness, scarce could to her praise redound.
Yet if she'd only for a minute hear,
And I could speak if only pretty well,
I'd let her know that I'm her happiness;
That I'm her life should also be made clear,
With other things that I've no need to tell;
And then I feel quite sure she'd answer Yes.

393

VI
Sonnet

To Messer Angiolieri, his Father

If I'd a sack of florins, and all new,
(Packed tight together, freshly coined and fine,)
And Arcidosso and Montegiovi mine,
And quite a glut of eagle-pieces too,—
It were but as three farthings to my view
Without Becchina. Why then all these plots
To whip me, daddy? Nay, but tell me—what's
My sin, or all the sins of Turks, to you?
For I protest (or may I be struck dead!)
My love's so firmly planted in its place,
Whipping nor hanging now could change the grain.
And if you want my reason on this head,
It is that whoso looks her in the face,
Though he were old, gets back his youth again.
 

Perhaps the names of his father's estates.

VII
Sonnet

Of the 20th June 1291

I'm full of everything I do not want,
And have not that wherein I should find ease;
For alway till Becchina brings me peace
The heavy heart I bear must toil and pant;
That so all written paper would prove scant
(Though in its space the Bible you might squeeze,)
To say how like the flames of furnaces
I burn, remembering what she used to grant.
Because the stars are fewer in heaven's span
Than all those kisses wherewith I kept tune
All in an instant (I who now have none!)
Upon her mouth (I and no other man!)
So sweetly on the twentieth day of June
In the new year twelve hundred ninety-one.
 

The year, according to the calendar of those days, began on the 25th March. The alteration to 1st January was made in 1582 by the Pope, and immediately adopted by all Catholic countries, but by England not till 1752. There is some added vividness in remembering that Cecco's unplatonic love-encounter dates eleven days after the first death-anniversary of Beatrice (9th of June 1291), when Dante tells us that he “drew the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets.” (See ante, p. 340.)


394

VIII
Sonnet

In absence from Becchina

My heart's so heavy with a hundred things
That I feel dead a hundred times a-day;
Yet death would be the least of sufferings,
For life's all suffering save what's slept away;
Though even in sleep there is no dream but brings
From dream-land such dull torture as it may.
And yet one moment would pluck out these stings,
If for one moment she were mine to-day
Who gives my heart the anguish that it has.
Each thought that seeks my heart for its abode
Becomes a wan and sorrow-stricken guest:
Sorrow has brought me to so sad a pass
That men look sad to meet me on the road;
Nor any road is mine that leads to rest.

IX
Sonnet

Of Becchina in a rage

When I behold Becchina in a rage,
Just like a little lad I trembling stand
Whose master tells him to hold out his hand;
Had I a lion's heart, the sight would wage
Such war against it, that in that sad stage
I'd wish my birth might never have been plann'd,
And curse the day and hour that I was bann'd
With such a plague for my life's heritage.
Yet even if I should sell me to the Fiend,
I must so manage matters in some way
That for her rage I may not care a fig;
Or else from death I cannot long be screen'd.
So I'll not blink the fact, but plainly say
It's time I got my valour to grow big.

395

X
Sonnet

He rails against Dante, who had censured his homage to Becchina

Dante Alighieri in Becchina's praise
Won't have me sing, and bears him like my lord.
He's but a pinchbeck florin, on my word;
Sugar he seems, but salt's in all his ways;
He looks like wheaten bread, who's bread of maize;
He's but a sty, though like a tower in height;
A falcon, till you find that he's a kite;
Call him a cock!—a hen's more like his case.
Go now to Florence, Sonnet of my own,
And there with dames and maids hold pretty parles,
And say that all he is doth only seem.
And I meanwhile will make him better known
Unto the Count of Provence, good King Charles;
And in this way we'll singe his skin for him.
 

This may be either Charles II., King of Naples and Count of Provence, or more probably his son Charles Martel, King of Hungary. We know from Dante that a friendship subsisted between himself and the latter prince, who visited Florence in 1295, and died in the same year, in his father's lifetime (Paradise, C. viii.)

XI
Sonnet

Of his four Tormentors

I'm caught, like any thrush the nets surprise,
By Daddy and Becchina, Mammy and Love.
As to the first-named, let thus much suffice,—
Each day he damns me, and each hour thereof;
Becchina wants so much of all that's nice,
Not Mahomet himself could yield enough;
And Love still sets me doting in a trice
On trulls who'd seem the Ghetto's proper stuff.
My mother don't do much because she can't,
But I may count it just as good as done,
Knowing the way and not the will's her want.
To-day I tried a kiss with her—just one—
To see if I could make her sulks avaunt:
She said, “The devil rip you up, my son!”

396

XII
Sonnet

Concerning his Father

The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear
My father (to my praise, not to my shame,)
Will make him live more than Methusalem;
Of this I've long ago been made aware.
Now tell me, Nature, if my hate's not fair.
A glass of some thin wine not worth a name
One day I begged (he has whole butts o'the same,)
And he had almost killed me, I declare.
“Good Lord, if I had asked for vernage-wine!”
Said I; for if he'd spit into my face
I wished to see for reasons of my own.
Now say that I mayn't hate this plague of mine!
Why, if you knew what I know of his ways,
You'd tell me that I ought to knock him down.
 

I have thought it necessary to soften one or two expressions in this sonnet.

XIII
Sonnet

Of all he would do

If I were fire, I'd burn the world away;
If I were wind, I'd turn my storms thereon;
If I were water, I'd soon let it drown;
If I were God, I'd sink it from the day;
If I were Pope, I'd never feel quite gay
Until there was no peace beneath the sun;
If I were Emperor, what would I have done?—
I'd lop men's heads all round in my own way.
If I were Death, I'd look my father up;
If I were Life, I'd run away from him;
And treat my mother to like calls and runs.
If I were Cecco (and that's all my hope),
I'd pick the nicest girls to suit my whim,
And other folk should get the ugly ones.

XIV
Sonnet

He is past all Help

For a thing done, repentance is no good,
Nor to say after, Thus would I have done:
In life, what's left behind is vainly rued;
So let a man get used his hurt to shun;
For on his legs he hardly may be stood
Again, if once his fall be well begun.
But to show wisdom's what I never could;
So where I itch I scratch now, and all's one.
I'm down, and cannot rise in any way;
For not a creature of my nearest kin
Would hold me out a hand that I could reach.
I pray you do not mock at what I say;
For so my love's good grace may I not win
If ever sonnet held so true a speech!

397

XV
Sonnet

Of why he is unhanged

Whoever without money is in love
Had better build a gallows and go hang;
He dies not once, but oftener feels the pang
Than he who was cast down from Heaven above.
And certes, for my sins, it's plain enough,
If Love's alive on earth, that he's myself,
Who would not be so cursed with want of pelf
If others paid my proper dues thereof.
Then why am I not hanged by my own hands?
I answer: for this empty narrow chink
Of hope;—that I've a father old and rich,
And that if once he dies I'll get his lands;
And die he must, when the sea's dry, I think.
Meanwhile God keeps him whole and me i'the ditch.

XVI
Sonnet

Of why he would be a Scullion

I am so out of love through poverty
That if I see my mistress in the street
I hardly can be certain whom I meet,
And of her name do scarce remember me.
Also my courage it has made to be
So cold, that if I suffered some foul cheat,
Even from the meanest wretch that one could beat,
Save for the sin I think he should go free.
Ay, and it plays me a still nastier trick;
For, meeting some who erewhile with me took
Delight, I seem to them a roaring fire.
So here's a truth whereat I need not stick;—
That if one could turn scullion to a cook,
It were a thing to which one might aspire.

XVII
Prolonged Sonnet

When his Clothes were gone

Never so bare and naked was church-stone
As is my clean-stripped doublet in my grasp;
Also I wear a shirt without a clasp,
Which is a dismal thing to look upon.
Ah! had I still but the sweet coins I won
That time I sold my nag and staked the pay,
I'd not lie hid beneath the roof to-day
And eke out sonnets with this moping moan.
Daily a thousand times stark mad am I
At my dad's meanness who won't clothe me now,
For “How about the horse?” is still his cry.
Till one thing strikes me as clear anyhow,—
No rag I'll get. The wretch has sworn, I see,
Not to invest another doit in me.
And all because of the fine doublet's price
He gave me, when I vowed to throw no dice,
And for his damned nag's sake! Well, this is nice!

398

XVIII
Sonnet

He argues his case with Death

Gramercy, Death, as you've my love to win,
Just be impartial in your next assault;
And that you may not find yourself in fault,
Whate'er you do, be quick now and begin.
As oft may I be pounded flat and thin
As in Grosseto there are grains of salt,
If now to kill us both you be not call'd,—
Both me and him who sticks so in his skin.
Or better still, look here; for if I'm slain
Alone,—his wealth, it's true, I'll never have,
Yet death is life to one who lives in pain;
But if you only kill Saldagno's knave,
I'm left in Siena (don't you see your gain?)
Like a rich man who's made a galley-slave.
 

He means, possibly, that he should be more than ever tormented by his creditors on account of their knowing his ability to pay them; but the meaning seems very uncertain.

XIX
Sonnet

Of Becchina, and of her Husband

I would like better in the grace to be
Of the dear mistress whom I bear in mind
(As once I was) than I should like to find
A stream that washed up gold continually:
Because no language could report of me
The joys that round my heart would then be twin'd,
Who now, without her love, do seem resign'd
To death that bends my life to its decree.
And one thing makes the matter still more sad:
For all the while I know the fault's my own,
That on her husband I take no revenge,
Who's worse to her than is to me my dad.
God send grief has not pulled my courage down,
That hearing this I laugh; for it seems strange.

399

XX
Sonnet

To Becchina's rich Husband

As thou wert loth to see, before thy feet,
The dear broad coin roll all the hill-slope down,
Till, gathering it from rifted clods, some clown
Should rub it oft and scarcely render it;—
Tell me, I charge thee, if by generous heat
Or clutching frost the fruits of earth be grown,
And by what wind the blight is o'er them strown,
And with what gloom the tempest is replete.
Yet daily, in good sooth, as morn by morn
Thou hear'st the voice of thy poor husbandman
And those loud herds, his other family,—
I know, as surely as Becchina's born
With a kind heart, she does the best she can
To filch at least one new-bought prize from thee.
 

This puzzling sonnet is printed in Italian collections with the name of Guido Cavalcanti. It must evidently belong to Angiolieri, and it has certain fine points which make me unwilling to omit it; though partly as to rendering, and wholly as to application, I have been driven on conjecture.

XXI
Sonnet

On the Death of his Father

Let not the inhabitants of Hell despair,
For one's got out who seemed to be locked in;
And Cecco's the poor devil that I mean,
Who thought for ever and ever to be there.
But the leaf's turned at last, and I declare
That now my state of glory doth begin:
For Messer Angiolieri's slipped his skin,
Who plagued me, summer and winter, many a year.
Make haste to Cecco, Sonnet, with a will,
To him who no more at the Abbey dwells;
Tell him that Brother Henry's half dried up.
He'll never more be down-at-mouth, but fill
His beak at his own beck, till his life swells
To more than Enoch's or Elijah's scope.
 

It would almost seem as if Cecco, in his poverty, had at last taken refuge in a religious house under the name of Brother Henry (Frate Arrigo), and as if he here meant that Brother Henry was now decayed, so to speak, through the resuscitation of Cecco. (See Introduction to Part I., p. 307.)

In the original words, “Ma di tal cibo imbecchi lo suo becco,” a play upon the name of Becchina seems intended, which I have conveyed as well as I could.


400

XXII
Sonnet

He would slay all who hate their Fathers

Who utters of his father aught but praise,
'Twere well to cut his tongue out of his mouth;
Because the Deadly Sins are seven, yet doth
No one provoke such ire as this must raise.
Were I a priest, or monk in anyways,
Unto the Pope my first respects were paid,
Saying, “Holy Father, let a just crusade
Scourge each man who his sire's good name gainsays.”
And if by chance a handful of such rogues
At any time should come into our clutch,
I'd have them cooked and eaten then and there,
If not by men, at least by wolves and dogs.
The Lord forgive me! for I fear me much
Some words of mine were rather foul than fair.

XXIII
TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He writes to Dante, then in exile at Verona, defying him as no better than himself

Dante Alighieri, if I jest and lie,
You in such lists might run a tilt with me:
I get my dinner, you your supper, free;
And if I bite the fat, you suck the fry;
I shear the cloth and you the teazle ply;
If I've a strut, who's prouder than you are?
If I'm foul-mouthed, you're not particular;
And you're turned Lombard, even if Roman I.
So that, 'fore Heaven! if either of us flings
Much dirt at the other, he must be a fool:
For lack of luck and wit we do these things.
Yet if you want more lessons at my school,
Just say so, and you'll find the next touch stings—
For, Dante, I'm the goad and you're the bull.

401

GUIDO ORLANDI

Sonnet

Against the “White” Ghibellines

Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites;
And they go following now after the kind
Of creatures we call crabs, which, as some find,
Will only seek their natural food o'nights.
All day they hide; their flesh has such sore frights
Lest Death be come for them on every wind,
Lest now the Lion's wrath be so inclined
That they may never set their sin to rights.
Guelf were they once, and now are Ghibelline:
Nothing but rebels henceforth be they named,—
State-foes, as are the Uberti, every one.
Behold, against the Whites all men must sign
Some judgment whence no pardon can be claim'd
Excepting they were offered to Saint John.
 

Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Guido Cavalcanti and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their poems.

I.e. Florence.

That is, presented at the high altar on the feast-day of St. John the Baptist; a ceremony attending the release of criminals, a certain number of whom were annually pardoned on that day in Florence. This was the disgraceful condition annexed to that recall to Florence which Dante received when in exile at the court of Verona; which others accepted, but which was refused by him in a memorable epistle still preserved.

LAPO GIANNI

I
Madrigal

What Love shall provide for him

Love, I demand to have my lady in fee.
Fine balm let Arno be;
The walls of Florence all of silver rear'd,
And crystal pavements in the public way.
With castles make me fear'd,
Till every Latin soul have owned my sway.
Be the world peaceful; safe throughout each path;
No neighbour to breed wrath;
The air, summer and winter, temperate.
A thousand dames and damsels richly clad
Upon my choice to wait,
Singing by day and night to make me glad.
Let me have fruitful gardens of great girth,
Filled with the strife of birds,
With water-springs, and beasts that house i'the earth.
Let me seem Solomon for lore of words,
Samson for strength, for beauty Absalom.
Knights as my serfs be given;
And as I will, let music go and come;
Till at the last thou bring me into Heaven.

402

II
Ballata

A Message in charge for his Lady Lagia

Ballad, since Love himself hath fashioned thee
Within my mind where he doth make abode,
Hie thee to her who through mine eyes bestow'd
Her blessing on my heart, which stays with me.
Since thou wast born a handmaiden of Love,
With every grace thou should'st be perfected,
And everywhere seem gentle, wise, and sweet.
And for that thine aspect gives sign thereof,
I do not tell thee, “Thus much must be said”:—
Hoping, if thou inheritest my wit,
And com'st on her when speech may ill befit,
That thou wilt say no words of any kind:
But when her ear is graciously inclin'd,
Address her without dread submissively.
Afterward, when thy courteous speech is done,
(Ended with fair obeisance and salute
To that chief forehead of serenest good,)
Wait thou the answer which, in heavenly tone,
Shall haply stir between her lips, nigh mute
For gentleness and virtuous womanhood.
And mark that, if my homage please her mood,
No rose shall be incarnate in her cheek,
But her soft eyes shall seem subdued and meek,
And almost pale her face for delicacy.
For, when at last thine amorous discourse
Shall have possessed her spirit with that fear
Of thoughtful recollection which in love
Comes first,—then say thou that my heart implores
Only without an end to honour her,
Till by God's will my living soul remove:
That I take counsel oftentimes with Love;
For he first made my hope thus strong and rife,
Through whom my heart, my mind, and all my life,
Are given in bondage to her seigniory.
Then shalt thou find the blessed refuge girt
I'the circle of her arms, where pity and grace
Have sojourn, with all human excellence:
Then shalt thou feel her gentleness exert
Its rule (unless, alack! she deem thee base):
Then shalt thou know her sweet intelligence:
Then shalt thou see—O marvel most intense!—
What thing the beauty of the angels is,
And what are the miraculous harmonies
Whereon Love rears the heights of sovereignty.
Move, Ballad, so that none take note of thee,
Until thou set thy footsteps in Love's road.
Having arrived, speak with thy visage bow'd,
And bring no false doubt back, or jealousy.

403

DINO FRESCOBALDI

I
Sonnet

Of what his Lady is

This is the damsel by whom love is brought
To enter at his eyes that looks on her;
This is the righteous maid, the comforter,
Whom every virtue honours unbesought.
Love, journeying with her, unto smiles is wrought,
Showing the glory which surrounds her there;
Who, when a lowly heart prefers its prayer,
Can make that its transgression come to nought.
And, when she giveth greeting, by Love's rule,
With sweet reserve she somewhat lifts her eyes
Bestowing that desire which speaks to us.
Alone on what is noble looks she thus,
Its opposite rejecting in like wise,
This pitiful young maiden beautiful.

II
Sonnet

Of the Star of his Love

That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse
Not yet forsakes me with its lovely light:
It gave me her who from her heaven's pure height
Gives all the grace mine intellect demands.
Thence a new arrow of strength is in my hands
Which bears good will whereso it may alight;
So barbed, that no man's body or soul its flight
Has wounded yet, nor shall wound any man's.
Glad am I therefore that her grace should fall
Not otherwise than thus; whose rich increase
Is such a power as evil cannot dim.
My sins within an instant perished all
When I inhaled the light of so much peace.
And this Love knows; for I have told it him.

404

GIOTTO DI BONDONE

Canzone

Of the Doctrine of Voluntary Poverty

Many there are, praisers of Poverty;
The which as man's best state is register'd
When by free choice preferred,
With strict observance having nothing here.
For this they find certain authority
Wrought of an over-nice interpreting.
Now as concerns such thing,
A hard extreme it doth to me appear,
Which to commend I fear,
For seldom are extremes without some vice.
Let every edifice,
Of work or word, secure foundation find;
Against the potent wind,
And all things perilous, so well prepar'd
That it need no correction afterward.
Of poverty which is against the will,
It never can be doubted that therein
Lies broad the way to sin.
For oftentimes it makes the judge unjust;
In dames and damsels doth their honour kill;
And begets violence and villanies,
And theft and wicked lies,
And casts a good man from his fellows' trust.
And for a little dust
Of gold that lacks, wit seems a lacking too.
If once the coat give view
Of the real back, farewell all dignity.
Each therefore strives that he
Should by no means admit her to his sight,
Who, only thought on, makes his face turn white.
Of poverty which seems by choice elect,
I may pronounce from plain experience,—
Not of mine own pretence,—
That 'tis observed or unobserved at will.
Nor its observance asks our full respect:
For no discernment, nor integrity,
Nor lore of life, nor plea
Of virtue, can her cold regard instil.
I call it shame and ill
To name as virtue that which stifles good.
I call it grossly rude,
On a thing bestial to make consequent
Virtue's inspired advènt
To understanding hearts acceptable:
For the most wise most love with her to dwell.
Here mayst thou find some issue of demur:
For lo! our Lord commendeth poverty.
Nay, what His meaning be
Search well: His words are wonderfully deep,

405

Oft doubly sensed, asking interpreter.
The state for each most saving, is His will
For each. Thine eyes unseal,
And look within, the inmost truth to reap.
Behold what concord keep
His holy words with His most holy life.
In Him the power was rife
Which to all things apportions time and place.
On earth He chose such case;
And why? 'Twas His to point a higher life.
But here, on earth, our senses show us still
How they who preach this thing are least at peace,
And evermore increase
Much thought how from this thing they should escape.
For if one such a lofty station fill,
He shall assert his strength like a wild wolf,
Or daily mask himself
Afresh, until his will be brought to shape;
Ay, and so wear the cape
That direst wolf shall seem like sweetest lamb
Beneath the constant sham.
Hence, by their art, this doctrine plagues the world:
And hence, till they be hurl'd
From where they sit in high hypocrisy,
No corner of the world seems safe to me.
Go, Song, to some sworn owls that we have known
And on their folly bring them to reflect:
But if they be stiff-neck'd,
Belabour them until their heads are down.

SIMONE DALL' ANTELLA

Prolonged Sonnet

In the last Days of the Emperor Henry VII

Along the road all shapes must travel by,
How swiftly, to my thinking, now doth fare
The wanderer who built his watchtower there
Where wind is torn with wind continually!
Lo! from the world and its dull pain to fly,
Unto such pinnacle did he repair,
And of her presence was not made aware,
Whose face, that looks like Peace, is Death's own lie.
Alas, Ambition, thou his enemy,
Who lurest the poor wanderer on his way,
But never bring'st him where his rest may be,—
O leave him now, for he is gone astray
Himself out of his very self through thee,
Till now the broken stems his feet betray,
And, caught with boughs before and boughs behind,
Deep in thy tangled wood he sinks entwin'd.

406

GIOVANNI QUIRINO TO DANTE ALIGHIERI

Sonnet

He commends the work of Dante's life, then drawing to its close; and deplores his own deficiencies

Glory to God and to God's Mother chaste,
Dear friend, is all the labour of thy days:
Thou art as he who evermore uplays
That heavenly wealth which the worm cannot waste:
So shalt thou render back with interest
The precious talent given thee by God's grace:
While I, for my part, follow in their ways
Who by the cares of this world are possess'd.
For, as the shadow of the earth doth make
The moon's globe dark, when so she is debarr'd
From the bright rays which lit her in the sky,—
So now, since thou my sun didst me forsake,
(Being distant from me), I grow dull and hard,
Even as a beast of Epicurus' sty.

DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GIOVANNI QUIRINO

Sonnet

He answers the foregoing Sonnet; saying what he feels at the approach of Death

The King by whose rich grace His servants be
With plenty beyond measure set to dwell
Ordains that I my bitter wrath dispel
And lift mine eyes to the great consistory;
Till, noting how in glorious quires agree
The citizens of that fair citadel,
To the Creator I His creature swell
Their song, and all their love possesses me.
So, when I contemplate the great reward
To which our God has called the Christian seed,
I long for nothing else but only this.
And then my soul is grieved in thy regard,
Dear friend, who reck'st not of thy nearest need,
Renouncing for slight joys the perfect bliss.


APPENDIX TO PART I

I
Forese Donati


408

I
Dante Alighieri to Forese Donati

He taunts Forese, by the nickname of Bicci

O Bicci, pretty son of who knows whom
Unless thy mother Lady Tessa tell,—
Thy gullet is already crammed too well,
Yet others' food thou needs must now consume.
Lo! he that wears a purse makes ample room
When thou goest by in any public place,
Saying, “This fellow with the branded face
Is thief apparent from his mother's womb.”
And I know one who's fain to keep his bed
Lest thou shouldst filch it, at whose birth he stood
Like Joseph when the world its Christmas saw.
Of Bicci and his brothers it is said
That with the heat of misbegotten blood
Among their wives they are nice brothers-in-law.

II
Forese Donati to Dante Alighieri

He taunts Dante ironically for not avenging Geri Alighieri

Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son;
Nay, that revenge alone might warrant it,
Which thou didst take, so clever and complete,
For thy great-uncle who awhile agone
Paid scores in full. Why, if thou hadst hewn one
In bits for it, 'twere early still for peace!
But then thy head's so heaped with things like these
That they would weigh two sumpter-horses down.
Thou hast taught us a fair fashion, sooth to say,—
That whoso lays a stick well to thy back,
Thy comrade and thy brother he shall be.
As for their names who've shown thee this good play,
I'll tell thee, so thou'lt tell me all the lack
Thou hast of help, that I may stand by thee.

409

III
Dante Alighieri to Forese Donati

He taunts him concerning his Wife

To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough,
(Bicci,—Forese as he's called, you know,—)
You'd fancy she had wintered, sure enough,
Where icebergs rear themselves in constant snow:
And Lord! if in mid-August it is so,
How in the frozen months must she come off?
To wear her socks abed avails not,—no,
Nor quilting from Cortona, warm and tough.
Her cough, her cold, and all her other ills,
Do not afflict her through the rheum of age,
But through some want within her nest, poor spouse!
This grief, with other griefs, her mother feels,
Who says, “Without much trouble, I'll engage,
She might have married in Count Guido's house!”

IV
Forese Donati to Dante Alighieri

He taunts him concerning the unavenged Spirit of Geri Alighieri

The other night I had a dreadful cough
Because I'd got no bed-clothes over me;
And so, when the day broke, I hurried off
To seek some gain whatever it might be.
And such luck as I had I tell you of.
For lo! no jewels hidden in a tree
I find, nor buried gold, nor suchlike stuff,
But Alighieri among the graves I see,
Bound by some spell, I know not at whose 'hest,—
At Solomon's, or what sage's who shall say?
Therefore I crossed myself towards the east;
And he cried out: “For Dante's love I pray
Thou loose me!” But I knew not in the least
How this were done, so turned and went my way.

411

III
Giovanni Boccaccio


412

I
To one who had censured his public Exposition of Dante

If Dante mourns, there wheresoe'er he be,
That such high fancies of a soul so proud
Should be laid open to the vulgar crowd,
(As, touching my Discourse, I'm told by thee,)
This were my grievous pain; and certainly
My proper blame should not be disavow'd;
Though thereof somewhat, I declare aloud
Were due to others, not alone to me.
False hopes, true poverty, and therewithal
The blinded judgment of a host of friends,
And their entreaties, made that I did thus.
But of all this there is no gain at all
Unto the thankless souls with whose base ends
Nothing agrees that's great or generous.

II
Inscription for a portrait of Dante

Dante Alighieri, a dark oracle
Of wisdom and of art, I am; whose mind
Has to my country such great gifts assign'd
That men account my powers a miracle.
My lofty fancy passed as low as Hell,
As high as Heaven, secure and unconfin'd;
And in my noble book doth every kind
Of earthly lore and heavenly doctrine dwell.
Renownèd Florence was my mother,—nay,
Stepmother unto me her piteous son,
Through sin of cursed slander's tongue and tooth.
Ravenna sheltered me so cast away;
My body is with her,—my soul with One
For whom no envy can make dim the truth.

III
To Dante in Paradise, after Fiammetta's death

Dante, if thou within the sphere of Love,
As I believe, remain'st contemplating
Beautiful Beatrice, whom thou didst sing
Erewhile, and so wast drawn to her above;—
Unless from false life true life thee remove
So far that Love's forgotten, let me bring
One prayer before thee: for an easy thing
This were, to thee whom I do ask it of.

413

I know that where all joy doth most abound
In the Third Heaven, my own Fiammetta sees
The grief which I have borne since she is dead.
O pray her (if mine image be not drown'd
In Lethe) that her prayers may never cease
Until I reach her and am comforted.

IV
Of Fiammetta singing

Love steered my course, while yet the sun rode high,
On Scylla's waters to a myrtle-grove:
The heaven was still and the sea did not move;
Yet now and then a little breeze went by
Stirring the tops of trees against the sky:
And then I heard a song as glad as love,
So sweet that never yet the like thereof
Was heard in any mortal company.
“A nymph, a goddess, or an angel sings
Unto herself, within this chosen place,
Of ancient loves;” so said I at that sound.
And there my lady, 'mid the shadowings
Of myrtle-trees, 'mid flowers and grassy space,
Singing I saw, with others who sat round.

V
Of his last sight of Fiammetta

Round her red garland and her golden hair
I saw a fire about Fiammetta's head;
Thence to a little cloud I watched it fade,
Than silver or than gold more brightly fair;
And like a pearl that a gold ring doth bear,
Even so an angel sat therein, who sped
Alone and glorious throughout heaven, array'd
In sapphires and in gold that lit the air.
Then I rejoiced as hoping happy things,
Who rather should have then discerned how God
Had haste to make my lady all His own,
Even as it came to pass. And with these stings
Of sorrow, and with life's most weary load
I dwell, who fain would be where she is gone.

414

VI
Of three Girls and of their Talk

By a clear well, within a little field
Full of green grass and flowers of every hue,
Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew)
Their loves. And each had twined a bough to shield
Her lovely face; and the green leaves did yield
The golden hair their shadow; while the two
Sweet colours mingled, both blown lightly through
With a soft wind for ever stirred and still'd.
After a little while one of them said,
(I heard her,) “Think! If, ere the next hour struck,
Each of our lovers should come here to-day,
Think you that we should fly or feel afraid?”
To whom the others answered, “From such luck
A girl would be a fool to run away.”
End of Part I