University of Virginia Library


vii

TO THE READER.

This Poem, in the Italian's measure made,
Commended be, if it some deal observe
The law which on his verse the master laid,
From which the most do in our language swerve,
Who have put forth the triple rime to essay,
(Many of greater name than I deserve:)
That round the stanza still the structure play,
At end arrested somewhat: this his law,
Who gave such wondrous music to his lay.
And I, O Reader, filled with hope and awe,
To try the stretched metre of such song,
Shall tell in brief the cause that me did draw.
Upon occasion given, being then young,
It chanced me to read the histories
Which to the thousandth year from Christ belong.

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Chronicles read I, filled with prodigies,
Wars, tumults, earthquake, famine, pestilence,
Which ran round that dread sum of centuries:
For all looked that the world should cease from thence,
Then dreadful expectation hung in air,
And excitation quickened mortal sense.
Wherefore, as in the sunset's reddening glare
The shapes of earth stand stronger on the sky,
So saw I life enhanced, as it were,
And lifted in that light of misery:
And thought to set my thoughts of man's estate
The better in those colours wild and high:
To track the dark intricate coils of Fate,
The infinite of pain, the brief of joy,
The better round that far and mystic date.
And if thou marvel, if thou feel annoy,
Marking how garrulous and low the style
Which for such argument I dare employ,
Bethink thee of those chroniclers erewhile;
How their thin words drop portents, like a vein
Too weak to hold the blood: and thou wilt smile.

ix

For one of them, imagined of their train,
Is for the writer of the history shown,
An old monk, filled with memories of pain.
Herein the stories are not all my own:
But what I found I carried without stint
From every place, nor of that age alone,
But whatso served me best: that so by dint
Of many others might one tale be made:
I took of all, and rolled it in my mint:
Of iron old and new I forged this blade.