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

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.