The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.