'f 
 
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 OF 
 
 ANITA D. S. BLAKE 
 
 
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Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive 
 
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 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/earlyitalianpoetOOrossricli 
 
THE EAKLY ITALIAN POETS. 
 
THE EARLY ITALIAN POETS 
 
 FKOM CIULLO D'ALCAMO TO 
 
 DANTE ALIGHIERI 
 
 (1100-1200-1300) 
 
 IN THE OBIOINAL ICETBES ' 
 
 TOGETHER WITH DANTE'S VITA NUOVA 
 TRANSLATED BY D. G. ROSSETTI 
 
 Pabt 1. Poets chiefly bbfobe Dante 
 Pabt II. Dakte and his Cibcle 
 
 Rossetti was 33 when this book was first published, 
 though he had been working on the translation ever 
 since he was 15, He sent the first draft of the trans- 
 lations to Leigh Hunt for criticism in 1847. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO. 65, CORNHDJ.. 
 
 1861. 
 
 Tht rights of trmulation and reprodttction, as regards all editorial parts 
 of this work, are reserved. 
 
WHATEVER IS MINE IN THIS BOOK 
 
 IS INSCRIBED TO MY WIFE. 
 
 D. O. i?., 1861. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I NEED not dilate here on the characteristics of 
 the first epoch of Italian Poetry ; since the extent 
 of my translated selections is sufficient to afford a 
 complete view of it. Its great beauties may often 
 remain unapproached in the versions here attempted ; 
 but, at the same time, its imperfections are not all 
 to be charged to the translator. Among these I may 
 refer to its limited range of subject and continual 
 obscurity, as well as to its monotony in the use of 
 rhymes or frequent substitution of assonances. But 
 to compensate for much that is incomplete and in- 
 experienced, these poems possess, in their degree, 
 beauties of a kind which can never again exist in art ; 
 and offer, besides, a treasure of grace and variety in 
 the formation of their metres. Nothing but a strong 
 impression, first of their poetic value, and next of 
 the biographical interest of some of them (chiefly 
 of those in my second division), would have inclined 
 me to bestow the time and trouble which have re- 
 sulted in this collection. 
 
 Much has been said, and in many respects justly, 
 against the value of metrical translation. But I think 
 it woidd be admitted that the tributary art might 
 find a not illegitimate use in the case of poems which 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 come down to us in such a form as do these early 
 Italian ones. Struggling originally with corrupt 
 dialect and imperfect expression, and hardly kept 
 alive through centuries of neglect, they have reached 
 that last and worst state in which the coup-de-grace 
 has almost been dealt them by clumsy transcription 
 and pedantic superstructure. At this stage the task 
 of talking much more about them in any language 
 is hardly to be entered upon ; and a translation (in- 
 volving, as it does, the necessity of settling many 
 points without discussion,) remains perhaps the most 
 direct form of commentary. 
 
 The life-blood of rhymed translation is this, — ^that 
 a good poem shall not be turned into a bad one. 
 The only true motive for putting poetry into a fresh 
 language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far as 
 possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry 
 not being an exact science, literality of rendering is 
 altogether secondary to this chief aim. I say litera lity, 
 — not fidelity, which is by no means the same thing. 
 When literality can be combined with what is thus 
 the primary condition of success, the translator is 
 fortunate, and must strive his utmost to unite them ; 
 when such object can only be attained by paraphrase, 
 that is his only path. 
 
 Any merit possessed by these translations is de- 
 rived from an effort to follow this principle ; and, in 
 some degree, from the fact that such painstaking in 
 arrangement and descriptive heading as is often 
 indispensable to old and especially to " occasional " 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 poetry, has here been bestowed on these poets for the 
 first time. 
 
 That there are many defects in these translations, 
 or that the above merit is their defect, or that they have 
 no merits but only defects, are discoveries so sure to be 
 made if necessary (or perhaps here and there in any 
 case), that I may safely leave them in other hands. 
 The collection has probably a wider scope than some 
 readers might look for, and includes now and then 
 (though I believe in rare instances) matter which 
 may not meet with universal approval ; and whose 
 introduction, needed as it is by the hterary aim of 
 my work, is I know inconsistent with the principles 
 of pretty bookmaking. My wish has been to give 
 a full and truthful view of early Italian poetry; 
 not to make it appear to consist only of certain 
 elements to the exclusion of others equally belonging 
 to it. 
 
 Of the difficulties I have had to encounter, — the 
 causes of imperfections for which I have no other 
 excuse, — it is the reader's best privilege to remain 
 ignorant ; but I may perhaps be pardoned for briefly 
 referring to such among these as concern the exi- 
 gencies of translation. The task of the translator 
 (and with all humility be it spoken) is one of some 
 self-denial. Often would he avail himself of any 
 special grace of his own idiom and epoch, if only his 
 will belonged to him : oft«n would some cadence 
 serve him but for his author's structure — some struc- 
 ture but for his author's cadence : often the beautiftd 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 turn of a stanza must be weakened to adopt some 
 rhyme which will tally, and he sees the poet revelling 
 in abundance of language where himself is scantily 
 supplied. Now he would slight the matter for the 
 music, and now the music for the matter ; but no, 
 he must deal to each alike. Sometimes too a flaw 
 in the work galls him, and he would fain remove it, 
 doing for the poet that which his age denied him ; 
 but no, — it is not in the bond. His path is like that 
 of Aladdin through the enchanted vaults : many are 
 the precious fruits and flowers which he must pass 
 by unheeded in search for the lamp alone ; happy 
 if at last, when brought to light, it does not prove 
 that his old lamp has been exchanged for a new one, — 
 glittering indeed to the eye, but scarcely of the same 
 virtue nor with the same genius at its summons. 
 
 In relinquishing this work (which, small as* it is, 
 is the only contribution I expect to make to our 
 English knowledge of old Italy), I feel, as it were, 
 divided from my youth. The first associations I 
 have are connected with my father's devoted studies, 
 which, from his own point of view, have done so 
 much towards the general investigation of Dante's 
 writings. Thus, in those early days, all around me 
 partook of the influence of the great Florentine ; till, 
 from viewing it as a natural element, I also, growing 
 older, was di-awn within the circle. I trust that 
 from this the reader may place more confidence in a 
 work not carelessly undertaken, though produced in 
 the spare-time of other pursuits more closely followed. 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 He should perhaps be told that it has occupied the 
 leisure moments of not a few years ; thus affording, 
 often at long intervals, every opportunity for consi- 
 deration and revision ; and that on the score of care, 
 at least, he has no need to mistrust it. 
 
 Nevertheless, I know there is no great stir to 
 be njade by launching afresh, on high -seas busy 
 with new traffic, the ships which have been long 
 outstripped and the ensigns which are grown strange. 
 The feeling of self-doubt inseparable from such an 
 attempt has been admirably expressed by a great 
 living poet, in words which may be applied exactly 
 to my humbler position, though relating in his case 
 to a work all his own. 
 
 " Still,^what if I approach the august sphere 
 
 Named now with oijy one name, — disentwine 
 
 That under current soft and argentine 
 
 From its fierce mate in the majestic mass 
 
 Leaven'd as the sea whose fire was mix'd with glass 
 
 In John's transcendent vision, — launch once more 
 
 That lustre ? Dante, pacer of the shore 
 
 Where glutted Hell disgorges filthiest gloom, 
 
 Uubitten by its whirring sulphur-spume — 
 
 (3r whence the grieved and obscure waters slope 
 
 Into a darkness quieted by hope — 
 
 Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God's eye 
 
 In gracious twilights where His chosen lie, — 
 
 I would do this ! If I should falter now ! — ." 
 
 {Sordello, by Robert Browwino, B. i.) 
 
 It may be well to conclude this short preface with 
 a list of the works which have chiefly contributed to 
 the materials of the present volume. 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 I. Poeti del primo secolo della Lingua Ita- 
 liana. 2 vol. (Firenze. 1816.) 
 
 II. Kaccolta di Rime antiche Toscane. 4 v6l. 
 (Palermo. 1817.) 
 
 III. Manuale della Letteratura del primo Secolo. 
 del Prof. V.Nannucci. 3 vol. (Firenze. 1843.) 
 
 IV. Poesie Italiane inedite di dugento autori : 
 raccolte da Francesco Trucchi. 4 vol. (Prato. 
 1846.)* 
 
 V. Opere Minori di Dante. Edizione di P. I. 
 Fraticelli. (Firenze. 1843, <fec.) 
 
 VI. Kime di Guido Cavalcanti ; raccolte da A. 
 Cicciaporci. (Firenze. 1813.) 
 
 VII. Vita e Poesie di Messer Cino da Pistoia. 
 Edizione di S. Ciampi. (Pisa. 1813.) 
 
 VIII. Docmnenti d'Amore; di Francesco da 
 Barberino. Annotati da F. Ubaldini. (Roma. 
 1640.) 
 
 IX. Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle Donne ; 
 di Francesco da Barberino. (Roma. 1815.) 
 
 X. n Dittamondo di Fazio degli Uberti. (Milano. 
 1826.) 
 
 * This work contains, in its first and second volumes, by- 
 far the best edited collection I know of early Italian poetry. 
 Unfortunately it is only a supplement to the previous ones, 
 giving poems till then unpublished. A reprint of the whole 
 mass by the same editor, with such revision and further 
 additions as he could give it, would be ver>' desirable. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE. 
 
 TABLE OF Poets n» Part I xxiii 
 ClULLO d'AlCAMO. 
 
 Dialogue. Lover and Lady 1 
 
 FOLCACHIERO DE* FoLCACHIERI. 
 
 Canzone. He dwells on h'u Condition through Love 13 
 
 LODOVICO DELUA VeRNACCIA. 
 
 Sonnet. lie exhorts the State to Vigilance ... 16 
 Saint Francis of Assisi. 
 
 Cantica. Our Lord Christ: of order .... 17 
 Frederick IL, Emperor. 
 
 Canzone. Of his iMdy in Bondage 19 
 
 Enzo, King of Sardinia. 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Fitness of Seasons 22 
 
 GuiDO GUINICELLI. 
 
 Sonnet. Concerning Lucy 23 
 
 Canzone. Of the Gentle Heart ...... 24 
 
 Sonnet. He will praise his Lady 27 
 
 Canzone. He perceives his Rashness in Love^ but 
 
 has no choice 28 
 
 Sonnet. Of Moderation and Tolerance .... 30 
 
 Sonnet. Of Human Presumption 31 
 
 GuERZO DI MONTECANTI. 
 
 Sonnet. He is out of heart with his Time ... 32 
 Inghilfredi, Siciliano. 
 
 Canzone. He rebukes the Evil of that Time . . 33 
 
 RiNALDO d'AqUINO. 
 
 Canzone. He is resolved to be joyful in Love . . 36 
 Canzone. A Ladyy in Spring, repents of her Cold- 
 ness . . .' 39 
 
 Jacopo da Lentino. 
 
 Sonnet. Of his Lady in Heaven 41 
 
 Canzonetta. Of his Lady, and of her Portrait . 42 
 
 Sonnet. No Jewel is worth his Lady 45 
 
xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Canzonetta. He will neither boast nor lament to 
 
 his Lady 46 
 
 Canzonetta. Of his Lady, and of his making her 
 
 Likeness 49 
 
 Sonnet. Of his Lady's Face 52 
 
 Canzone. At the end of his Hope 53 
 
 Mazzeo di Ricco, da Messina. 
 
 Canzone. He solicits his Lady's Pity 56 
 
 Canzone. After six years' Service he renounces his 
 
 Lady 59 
 
 Sonnet. Of Self-seeing 62 
 
 Pannuccio DAL Baono Pisano. 
 
 Canzone. Of his Change through Love .... 63 
 
 GlACOMINO PUGLIESI. 
 
 Canzonetta. Of his Lady in absence .... 66 
 
 Canzonetta. To his Lady, in Spring .... 68 
 
 Canzone. Of his dead Lady 70 
 
 Fra Guittone d'Arezzo. 
 
 Sonnet. To the Blessed Virgin Mary .... 73 
 
 Bartolomeo di Sant' Angelo. 
 
 Sonnet. He jests concerning his Poverty ... 74 
 
 Saladino da Pavia. 
 
 Dialogue. Lover and Lady 75 
 
 BONAGGIUNTA UrBICIANI, DA LuCCA. 
 
 Canzone. Of the true End of Love ; with a Prayer 
 
 to his Lady .... * 77 
 
 Canzonetta. How he dreams of his Lady ... 80 
 
 Sonnet. Of Wisdom and Foresight 83 
 
 Sonnet. Of Continence in Speech 84 
 
 Meo Abbracciavacca, da Pistoia. 
 
 Canzone. He will be silent and watchfulin his Love 85 
 
 Ballata. His Life is by Contraries 88 
 
 Ubaldo di Marco. 
 
 Sonnet. Of a lady's Love for him 89 
 
 SiMBUONO GlUDICE. 
 
 Canzone, He finds that Love has beguiled him, but 
 
 will trust in his Lady 90 
 
 Masolino da Todi. 
 
 Sonnet, Of Work and Wealth 93' 
 
 Onesto di Boncima, Bolognese. 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Last Judgment 94 
 
 Sonnet. He wishes that he could meet his Lady alone 95 
 Terino da.Castel Fiorentino. 
 
 Sonnet. To Onesto di Boncima, in answer to the 
 
 Foregoing 96 
 
 Maestro Migliore, da Fiorenza. 
 
 Sonnet. He declares all Love to he Grief ... 97 
 Dello da Signa. 
 
CONTENTS. XT 
 
 Page 
 Ball ATA. His Creed of Ideal Low 98 
 
 FoLGORE DA SaN GemINIANO. 
 
 Sonnet. To the Guelph Faction 99 
 
 Sonnet. To the Same 100 
 
 Sonnet. Of Virtue 101 
 
 Twelve Sonnets. Of the Months 102 
 
 Seven Sonnets. Of the Week 117 
 
 GuiDO delle Coi^nne. 
 
 Canzone. To Love and to his Lady 125 
 
 Pier Moronelli, di Fiorenza. 
 
 Canzonetta. a bitter Song to his Lady . . . 128 
 
 CiuNCio Fiorentino. 
 
 Canzone. Of his Love; with the Figures of a Stagy 
 
 of Water^ and of an Eagle 131 
 
 Kuggieri di Amici, Siciliano. 
 
 Canzonetta. For a Renewal of Favours . . . 133 
 
 Carnino Ghiberti, da Fiorenza. 
 
 Canzone. Being absent from his Lody^ he fears Death 135 
 
 Prinzivallk Doria. 
 
 Canzone. Of his Love, with the Figure of a sudden 
 
 Storm 138 
 
 RlSTICO DI FiLlPPO. 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Making of Master Messerin . . 140 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Safety oJ Messer Fasio .... 141 
 
 Sonnet. Of Messer Vgolino 142 
 
 Pucciarello di Fiorenza. 
 
 Sonnet. OfExyedieney 143 
 
 Albertuccio della Viola. 
 
 Canzone. Of his Lady dancing 144 
 
 TOMMASO BCZZUOLA, DA FaENZA. 
 
 Sonnet. He is in au>e of his Lady 146 
 
 NOFFO BONAGUIDA. 
 
 Sonnet. He is enjoined to pure Love 147 
 
 Lippo Paschi de' Bardi. 
 
 Sonnet. He solicits a Lady's Favours .... 148 
 Ser Pace, Notaio da Fiorenza. 
 
 Sonnet. A Return to Love 149 
 
 NiCCOLO DEC LI AlBIZZI. 
 
 Prolonged Sonnet. When the Troops were returti- 
 
 ingfrom Milan . 150 
 
 Frances(o da Barberino. 
 
 Blank Verse. A Virgin declares her Beauties 151 
 
 Sentenze. Of Sbth against Sin 153 
 
 Sentenze. Of Sins in Speech 155 
 
 Sentenze. Of Importunities and Troublesome Per- 
 sons 157 
 
 Sentenze. Of Caution 161 
 
 Fazio dlgu Uberti. 
 
xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Canzone. His Portrait of his Lady Angiola of 
 
 Verona 162 
 
 Extract from the " Dittamondo." Of England 
 
 and of its Marvels 166 
 
 Extract from the " Dittamondo." Of the Dukes 
 
 of Normandy, and thence of the Kings of England, 
 
 from William I. to Edward III 171 
 
 Franco Sacchetti. 
 
 Ballata. His Talk with certain Peasant Girls . 175 
 
 Catch. On a Fine Day 177 
 
 Catch. On a Wet Day 179 
 
 Anonymous Poems. 
 
 Sonnet. A Lady laments for her lost Lover, by 
 
 similitude of a Falcon 181 
 
 Ballata. One speaks of the Beginning of his Love 182 
 Ballata. One speaks of his false Lady .... 183 
 Ballata. One speaks of his feigned and real Love 184 
 Ballata. Of True and False Singing .... 186 
 
 PART II. DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. 
 
 Introduction to Part II. 189 
 
 Dante Alighieri. 
 
 The Nevv Life. (La Vita Nuova.) 223 
 
 Sonnet (to Brunetto Latini). Sent with the 
 
 Vita Nuova 310 
 
 Sonnet. Of Beatrice de' Portinari, on All Saint's 
 
 Day 311 
 
 Sonnet. To certain Ladies; when Beatrice was 
 
 lamenting her Father's Death 312 
 
 Sonnet. To the same Ladies; with their Answer . 313 
 Ballata. He will gaze upon Beatrice .... 314 
 Canzone. He beseeches Death for the Life of Bea- 
 trice 315 
 
 Sonnet. On the 9th of June, 1290 318 
 
 Sonnet (to Cino da Pistoia). He rebukes Cino 
 
 for Fickleness 319 
 
 Sonnet (to Cino da Pistoia). Wntten in Exile 321 
 
 Sonnet. Of Beauty and Duty 323 
 
 Sestina. Of the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigni . . 324 
 Sonnet. To the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigni . . 327 
 Sonnet (to Guido Cavalcanti). He imagines a 
 pleasant voyage for Guido, Lapo Gianni, and 
 
 himself, with their three Ladies 340 
 
 Sonnet (to Giovanni Quirino). He answers the 
 foregoing Sonnet ( by Quirino) ; saying what he 
 feels at the approach of Death 436 
 
CONTENTS, xvii 
 
 Page 
 GviDO Cavalcanti. 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He interprets 
 
 Dante's Dream, related in the first Sonnet of the 
 
 Vita Nuova 328 
 
 Sonnet. To his Lady Joan, of Florence .... 329 
 Sonnet. He compares all things with his Lady^and 
 
 finds them wanting 330 
 
 Sonnet. A Rapture concerning his Lady . . . 331 
 Ballata. Of his Lady among other Ladies . . . 332 
 Sonnet (to Guido Orlandi). Of a consecrated 
 
 Image resembling his Lady 333 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Eyes of a certain Mandetta, of Thou- 
 
 lousey which resemble those of his Lady Joan of 
 
 Florence 336 
 
 Ballata. He revealsy in a Dialogue, his increasing 
 
 love for Mandetta 337 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He answers the 
 foregoing Sonnet {bu Dante), speaking with 
 
 shame of his changed Love 341 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He irports, in a 
 
 feigned Visioti, the successful issue of Lapo 
 
 Gianni's Love 342 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He mistrusts the 
 
 love of Lapo Gianni 343 
 
 Sonnet. On the Detection of a false Friend . . 344 
 Sonnet. He speaks of a third Love of his . . • 345 
 Ballata. Of a continual Death in Love . . . . 346 
 Sonnet. To a Friend who does not pity his Love . 347 
 Ballata. He perceives that his highest Love is gone 
 
 from him 348 
 
 Sonnet. Of his Painfvm a new Love .... 350 
 Sonnet (to Bernardo da Bologna). He answers 
 
 Bernardo, commending P\nella, and saying 
 
 that the Love he can ofier her it already shared by 
 
 many noble Ladies 354 
 
 Sonnet (to Guido Orlanoi). In Praise of Guido 
 
 Orlandi' s Lady 356 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Aughieri). Herebukes Dante 
 
 for his way of Life after the Death of Beatrice . 358 
 Ballata. Concerning a Shepherd-maid .... 359 
 
 Sonnet. Of an ill-favoured Lady 361 
 
 Sonnet. To a newly-enriched Man ; reminding him 
 
 of the wants of the Poor 36'i 
 
 Sonnet (to Pope Boniface VIII). After the 
 
 Pope's Interdict, when the Great Houses were 
 
 leaving Florence 363 
 
 Ballata. In Exile at Sarzana 364 
 
 Canzone. A Song oj Fortune 366 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Cakzone. a Song against Poverty 370 
 
 Canzone. He laments the Presumption and Incon- 
 tinence of his Youth 373 
 
 Canzone. A Dispute with Death 377 
 
 CiNO DA PiSTOIA. 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He answers Dante^ 
 
 confessing his unsteadfast Heart 320 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He answers the 
 
 foregoing Sonnet (by Dante), and prays him, in 
 
 the name of Beatrice, to continue his great Poem 322 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He interprets 
 
 Dante's Dream related in the first Sonnet of the 
 
 Vita Nuova 381 
 
 Canzone (to Dante Alighieri). On the Death 
 
 of Beatrice Portinari 382 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He conceives of 
 
 some Compensation in Death 385 
 
 Madrigal. To his Lady Selvaggia Vergiolesi ; 
 
 likening his Love to a search for Gold . . . 386 
 Sonnet. To Love, in great Bitterness .... 387 
 Sonnet. Death is not tvithout but within him . . 388 
 
 Sonnet. A Trance of Love 389 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Grave of Selvaggia, on the Monte 
 
 della Sambuca 390 
 
 Canzone. His Lament for Selvaggia 391 
 
 Sonnet (to Guido Cavalcanti). He owes nothing 
 
 to Guido ax a Poet 393 
 
 Sonnet. He impugns the verdicts of Dante's Com- 
 
 media .... 394 
 
 Sonnet. He condemns Dante for not naming, in the 
 Commedia, hisfriend Onesto di BoTicitna, and his 
 
 Lady Selvaggia 395 
 
 Dante da Maiano. 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). He interprets 
 Dante Alighieri's Dream, related in the first 
 
 Sonnet of the Vita Nuova 396 
 
 Sonnet. He craves interpreting of a Dream of his . 397 
 Sonnet. To his Lady Nina, ^'Sicily .... 400 
 Sonnet. He thanks his Lady for the Joy he has had 
 
 from her 401 
 
 Cecco Angiolieri, da Siena. 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Alighieri). On the last Son- 
 net of the Vita Nuova 402 
 
 Sonnet. He will not be too deeply in Love , . . 403 
 
 Sonnet. Of Love in Men and Devils 404 
 
 Sonnet. Of Love, in honour of his Mistress Becchina 405 
 Sonnet. Of Becchina the Shoemaker's Daughter . 406 
 Sonnet. 2 o Messer Angiolieri, his Father . . . 407 
 
CONTENTS. xix 
 
 Page 
 
 Sonnet. Of the ^Oth June, 1^1 408 
 
 Sonnet. In absence from Becchina 409 
 
 Sonnet. Of Becchina in a Rage ...... 410 
 
 Sonnet. He raili against Dante, who had censured 
 
 his homage to Becchina 411 
 
 Sonnet. 0/ his Four Tormentors 412 
 
 Sonnet. Concerning his Father 413 
 
 Sonnet. Of all he would do 414 
 
 Sonnet. He is past all Help 415 
 
 Sonnet. Of why he is unhanged 416 
 
 Sonnet. OJ why he would be a Seutlion .... 417 
 Sonnet, ne argues his case with Death .... 418 
 Sonnet. ^ Becchina, and of her Hu^nd . . . 419 
 
 Sonnet. On the Death oJ his Father 420 
 
 Sonnet. He would slait all who hate their Fathers 421 
 Sonnet (to Dante Aligiiieri). He writes to 
 Dante, then in exile at Verona, defying him as 
 
 no better than himself 422 
 
 GuiDO Orlandi. 
 
 Madrigal (to Gvioo Cavalcanti). In answer 
 
 to the foregoing Sonnet (by Cavateanti) . . ■ 334 
 Prolonged Sonnet (to Giido Cavalcanti). He 
 Jinds fault with the Conceits of the foregoing 
 
 Sonnet {by Cavalcanti) 351 
 
 Sonnet (to Of ido Cavalcanti). He answers the 
 foregoine Sonnet (by Cavalcanti), declaring 
 
 himself nis Lady's Champion 357 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante da Maiano). He interprets the 
 Dream related in the foregoing Soruiet {by 
 
 Dante da Maiano) 398 
 
 Sonnet. Against the " White" Ghibeilines . . . 423 
 Bernardo da Bolocna. 
 
 Sonnet (to Outdo Cavalcanti). He writes to 
 Guido, telling him of the love which a certain 
 
 Pinella showed on seeing him 353 
 
 Gianni Alfam. 
 
 Sonnet (to Guido Cavalcanti). On the part of 
 
 aUdyofPisa 352 
 
 DiNO COMPACNI. 
 
 Sonnet (to Guido Cavalcanti). He reproves 
 
 Guido for his arrogance in Love 355 
 
 Lapo Gianni. 
 
 Madrigal. What Love shall provide for him . . 425 
 Ballata. a Message in charge for his Lady Lagia 427 
 
 DiNO Frescobaldi. 
 
 Sonnet. Of what his Lady is 429 
 
 Sonnet. Of the Star of his Lave 430 
 
 Giotto di Bondone. 
 
XX CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 Canzone. On the Doctrine of Voluntary Poverty . 431 
 
 SiMONE DALl' AnTELLA. 
 
 Prolonged Sonnet. In the last Days of the 
 
 Emperor Henry VII. ... * 434 
 
 Giovanni Quirino. 
 
 Sonnet (to Dante Aliohieri). He commends 
 the work of Dante's life, then drawing to its 
 close ; and deplores his own dejiciencies . . . 435 
 
 APPENDIX TO PART II. 
 
 I. Fohese Donati. — Cecco d'Ascoli 437 
 
 Sonnet (Dante to Forese). He taunts Forese 
 
 hy the nickname of Bicci 439 
 
 Sonnet (Forese to Dante). He taunts Dante 
 
 ironically for not avenging Geri Alighieri . . 440 
 
 Sonnet ('Dante to Forese). He taunts him con- 
 cerning his Wife 440 
 
 Sonnet (Forese to Dante). He taunts him con- 
 cerning the unavenged Spirit of Geri Alighieri . 441 
 
 II. Giovanni Boccaccio 446 
 
 Sonnet. To one who liad censured his public Ex- 
 position of Dante 447 
 
 Sonnet. Inscription for a Portrait of Dante . . 447 
 Sonnet. To Dante in Paradise, after Fiammetta's 
 
 death 448 
 
 Sonnet. Of Fiammetta singing 449 
 
 Sonnet. Of his last Sight of Fiammetta . . . . 449 
 
 Sonnet, (ff three GirU and of their Talk . . . 450 
 
PART I. 
 POETS CHIEFLY BEFORE DANTE. 
 
TABLE OF POETS IN PAET I. 
 
 I. 
 
 CIULLO D'ALCAMO, 1172-78. 
 Ciullo is a popular form of the name Vin- 
 cenzo, and Alcamo an Arab fortress some miles 
 from Palermo. The Dialogue which is the only 
 known production of this poet holds here the place 
 generally accorded to it as the earliest Italian poem 
 (exclusive of one or two dubious inscriptions) which 
 has been preserved to our day. Arguments have 
 sometimes been brought to prove that it must be as- 
 signed to a later date than the poem by Folcachiero, 
 which follows it in this volume ; thus ascribing the 
 first honours of Italian poetry to Tuscany, and not 
 to Sicily, as is commonly supposed. Trucchi, how- 
 ever, (in the preface to his valuable collection,) 
 states his belief that the two poems are about con- 
 temporaneous, fixing the date of that by Ciullo 
 between 1172 and 1178, — chiefly from the fact that 
 the fame of Saladin, to whom this poet alludes, was 
 most in men's mouths during that interval. At first 
 sight, any casual reader of the original would sup- 
 pose that this poem must be unquestionably the 
 earliest of all, as its language is far the most un- 
 formed and dijQficult; but much of this might, of course. 
 
xxiv TABLE OF POETS 
 
 be dependent on the inferior dialect of Sicily, mixed 
 however in this instance (as far as I can judge) 
 with mere nondescript patois. 
 
 II. FOLCACHIERO DE' FoLCACHIERI, KnIGHT OF 
 
 Siena, 1177. 
 
 The above date has been assigned with probabi- 
 lity to Folcachiero's Canzone, on account of its first 
 line where the whole world is said to bo " living 
 without war;" an assertion which seems to refer 
 its production to the period of the celebrated peace 
 concluded at Venice between Frederick Barbarossa 
 and Pope Alexander III. 
 
 III. LODOVICO BELLA VeRNACCIA, 1200. 
 
 IV. Saint Francis OF Assisi; born,1182,died, 
 1226. 
 
 His baptismal name was Giovanni, and his father 
 was Bernardone Moriconi, whose mercantile pur- 
 suits he shared till the age of twenty-five ; after 
 which his life underwent the extraordinary change 
 which resulted in his canonization, by Gregory IX., 
 three years after his death, and in the formation of 
 the Eeligious Order called Franciscans. 
 
 V. Frederick II., Emperor; born, 1194, 
 DIED, 1250. 
 
 The life of Frederick II., and his excommunica- 
 tion and deposition from the Empire by Innocent 
 IV., to whom, however, he did not succumb, are 
 matters of history which need no repetition. In- 
 tellectually, he was in all ways a highly-gifted and 
 accomplished prince ; and lovingly cultivated the 
 Itahan language, in preference to the many others 
 
IN PART I. XXV 
 
 with which he was famihar. The poem of his which 
 I give has great passionate beauty ; yet I beheve 
 that an allegorical interpretation may here probably 
 be admissible ; and that the lady of the poem may 
 be the Empire, or perhaps the Church herself, held 
 in bondage by the Pope. 
 
 VI. Enzo, Kino op Sahdinia ; born, 1225, 
 DIED, 1272. 
 
 The unfortunate Enzo was a natural son of Fre- 
 derick II., and was born at Palermo. By his own 
 warlike enterprise, at an early age (it is said at 
 fifteen !) he subjugated the Island of Sardinia, and 
 was made King of it by his father. Afterwards he 
 joined Frederick in his war against the Church, 
 and displayed the highest promise as a leader ; but 
 at the age of twenty-five wa§ taken prisoner by the 
 Bolognese, whom no threats or promises from the 
 Emperor could induce to set him at liberty. He 
 died in prison at Bologna, after a confinement of 
 nearly twenty-three yeai*s. A hard fate indeed for 
 one who, while moving among men, excited their 
 hopes and homage, still on record, by his great mili- 
 tary genius and brilliant gifts of mind and person. 
 
 VII. GUIDO GUINICELLI, 1220. 
 
 This poet, certainly the greatest of his time, be- 
 longed to a noble and even princely Bolognese family. 
 Nothing seems known of his life, except that he was 
 married to a lady named Beatrice, and that in 1274, 
 having adhered to the imperial cause, he was sent 
 into exile, but whither cannot be learned. He died 
 two yeai-s afterwards. The highest praise has been 
 bestowed by Dante on Guinicelli, in the Commediay 
 (Purg. C. xxvi.) in the Convito, and in the De 
 
xxn TABLE OF POETS 
 
 Vulgari Eloquio; and many instances might be 
 cited in which the works of the great Florentine 
 contain reminiscences of his Bolognese predecessor; 
 especially the third canzone of Dante's Oonvito may 
 be compared with Guide's most famous one " On the 
 Gentle Heart." 
 
 VIII. GUERZO DI MONTECANTI, 1220. 
 
 IX. Inghilfredi, Siciliano, 1220. 
 
 X. RmALDO d'Aqutno, 1250. 
 
 I have placed this poet, belonging to a Neapoli- 
 tan family, under the date usually assigned to him ; 
 but Trucchi states his belief that he flourished much 
 earlier, and was a contemporary of Folcachiero ; 
 partly on account of two lines in one of his poems 
 which say, — 
 
 " Lo Imperadore con pace 
 Tutto il mondo mantene." 
 
 If SO, the mistake would be easily accounted for, as 
 there seem to have been various raemberg of the 
 family named Rinaldo, at different dates. 
 
 XI. Jacopo da Lentino, 1250. 
 
 This Sicilian poet is generally called " the No- 
 tary of Lentino." The low estimate expressed of him, 
 as well as of Bonaggiunta and Guittone, by Dante 
 (Purg. C. xxiv.), must be understood as referring in 
 great measure to their want of grammatical purity 
 and nobility of style, as we may judge when this 
 passage is taken in conjunction with the principles 
 of the De Vulgari Eloquio. However, Dante also 
 attributes his own superiority to the fact of his writing 
 only when love (or natural impulse) really prompted 
 
IN PART I. xxvii 
 
 him, — the highest certainly of all laws relating to 
 art:-^ 
 
 " lo mi son un che quando 
 Amor mi spira, note, e in quel mode 
 Ch'ei delta dentro, vo significando." 
 
 A translation does not suffer fiom such offences of 
 dialect as may exist in its original; and I think 
 my readers will agree that, chargeable as he is with 
 some conventionality of sentiment, the Notary of 
 Lentino is often not without his claims to beauty 
 and feeling. There is a peculiar charm in the son- 
 net which stands first among my specimens. 
 
 XII. Mazzeo di Ricco, da Messina, 1250. 
 
 XIII. Pannuccio DAL Bagno, Pisano, 1250. 
 
 XIV. GiACOHiNo PuoLiEsi, Kniqht OP Prato, 
 1250. 
 
 Of this poet there seems nothing to be learnt ; 
 but he deserves special notice as possessing rather 
 more poetic individuality than usual, and also as 
 furnishing the only instance, among Dante's prede- 
 cessors, of a poem (and a very beautiful one) writ- 
 ten on a lady's death. 
 
 XV. Fra GuiTTONE d'Arezzo, 1250. 
 Guittone was not a monk, but derived the prefix 
 
 to his name from the fact of his belonging to the 
 religious and mihtary order of Cavalien Gau- 
 denti. He seems to have enjoyed a greater literary 
 reputation than almost any writer of his day ; but 
 certainly his poems, of which many have been 
 preserved, cannot be said to possess merit of a pro- 
 minent kind ; and Dante shows by various allusions 
 
xxviii TABLE OF POETS 
 
 that he considered them much over-rated. The sonnet 
 I have given is somewhat remarkable, from Petrarch^s 
 having transplanted its last line into his Trionfi 
 d^ Amove (cap. III). Guittone is the author of a 
 series of Italian letters to various eminent persons, 
 which are the earliest known epistolary writings in 
 the language. 
 
 XVI. Babtolomeo di Sant' Angelo, 1250. 
 
 XVII. Saladino da Pavia, 1250. 
 
 XVIII. BONAGGIUNTA UeBICIANI, DA LuCCA, 
 
 1250. 
 
 XIX. Meg Abbkacciavacca, da Pistoia, 
 1250. 
 
 XX. Ubaldo di Marco, 1250. 
 
 XXI. SiMBUONO GlUDICE, 1250. 
 
 XXII. Masolino da Todi, 1250. 
 
 XXIII. Onesto di Boncima, Bolognese, 
 1250. 
 
 Onesto was a doctor of laws, and'an early friend 
 of Cino da Pistoia. He was living as late as 1301, 
 though his career as a poet may be fixed somewhat 
 further back. 
 
 XXrV. Tebino da Castel Fiobentino, 1250. 
 
 XXV. Maestbo Migliobe, da Fiobenza, 
 1250. 
 
 XXVI. Dello da Signa, 1250. 
 
 XXVII. Folgobe da San Geminiano, 1260. 
 
IN PART I. ixix 
 
 XXVIII. GUIDO DELLE CoLONNE, 1250. 
 
 This Sicilian poet has few equals among his con- 
 temporaries, and is ranked high by Dante in his 
 treatise De Vulfjarl Eloquio. He visited England 
 and wrote in I^atin a Historia de reyihus et rebus 
 AnglicB, as well as a Historia destructionis Trojce. 
 
 XXIX. PlEB MOBONELU, DI FlOHENZA, 1250. 
 
 XXX. ClUNCIO FlOBENTINO, 1250. 
 
 XXXL RuGGiBBi DI Aiaci, Siciliano, 1250. 
 
 XXXII. Cabnino Ghibebti, da Fiobenza, 
 1250. 
 
 XXXni. Pbinzivalle Dobia, 1250. 
 
 Prinzivalle commenced by writing Italian poetry, 
 but aftenvards composed verses entirely in Provengal, 
 for the love of Beatrice, Countess of Provence. He 
 \\Tote also, in Provencal prose, a treatise " On the 
 dainty madness of Love," and another " On the 
 War of Charles, King of Naples, against the tyrant 
 Manfiedi." He held various high offices, and died 
 at Naples in 1276. 
 
 XXXIV. RusTico DI FiLippo ; bobn about 
 1200, DIED, 1270. 
 
 The writings of this Tuscan poet (called also 
 Rustico Barbuto) show signs of more vigour and 
 versatility tlian was common in his day, and he pro- 
 bably began writing in Italian verse even before 
 many of those already mentioned. In his old age, 
 he, though a Ghibelline, received the dedication of 
 the Tesoretto from the Guelf Brunette Latini, who 
 there pays him unqualified homage for surpassing 
 
XXX TABLE OF POETS 
 
 worth in peace and war. It is strange that more 
 should not be known regarding this doubtless re- 
 markable man. His compositions have sometimes 
 much humour, and on the whole convey the im- 
 pression of an active and energetic nature. More- 
 over, Trucchi pronounces some of them to be as pure 
 in language as the poems of Dante or Guido Caval- 
 canti, though written thirty or forty years earlier. 
 
 XXXV. PUCCIABELLO DI FlORENZA, 1260. 
 
 XXXVI. Albeetuccio della Viola, 1260. 
 
 XXXVII. TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FaENZA, 
 
 1280. 
 
 XXXVIII. NOPFO BONAGUIDA, 1280. 
 
 XXXIX. Lippo Paschi de' Bardi, 1280. 
 XL. Ser Pace, Notaio da Fiorenza, 1280. 
 
 XLI. NiccoLo DEGLi Albizzi, 1300. 
 
 The noble Florentine family of Albizzi produced 
 writers of poetry in more than one generation. The 
 vivid and admirable sonnet which I have translated 
 is the only one I have met with by Niccolo. I must 
 confess my inability to tra<je the circumstances which 
 gave rise to it. 
 
 XLII. Francesco da Barberino; born, 
 1264, DIED, 1348. 
 
 With the exception of Brunetto Latini, (whose 
 poems are neither very poetical nor well adapted for 
 extract,) Francesco da Barberino shows by far the 
 most sustained productiveness among the poets who 
 preceded Dante, or were contemporaries of his youth. 
 
IN PART I. xxxi 
 
 Though bom only one year in advance of Dante, 
 Barberino seems to have undertaken, if not com- 
 pleted, his two long poetic treatises, some yeai-s be- 
 fore the commencement of the Commedia. 
 
 This poet was bom at Barberino di \'aldelsa, of a 
 noble family, his father being Neri di Rinuccio da 
 Barberino. Up to the year of his father's death, 
 1296, he pursued the study of law chiefly in Bologna 
 and Padua ; but afterwaixls removed to Florence for 
 the same purpose, and became one of the many 
 distinguished disciples of Bmnetto Latini, who pro- 
 bably had more influence than any other one man in 
 forming the youth of his time to the great things 
 they accomplished. After this he travelled in France 
 and elsewhere ; and on his return to Italy in 1313, 
 was the first who, by special favour of Pope Clement 
 v., received the gi'ade of Doctor of Laws in Florence. 
 Both as lawyer and as citizen, he held great tmsts 
 and discharged them honoui*ably. He was twice 
 married, the name of his second wife being Barna 
 di Tano, and had several children. At the age of 
 eighty-four he died in the groat Plague of Florence. 
 Of the two works which Barberino has left, one 
 bears the title of Documenii cVAmore, literally " Do- 
 cuments of Love," but perhaps more properly ren- 
 dered as " Laws of Courtesy ; " while the other is 
 called Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle Donnej 
 " Of the Government and Conduct of Women." 
 They may be described, in the main, as manuals of 
 good breeding, or social chivalry, the one for men 
 and the other for women. Mixed with vagueness, 
 tediousness, and not seldom witk artless absurdity, 
 they contain much simple wisdom, much curious re- 
 cord of manners, and (as my specimens show) ocea- 
 
xxxli TABLE OF POETS 
 
 sional poetic sweetness or power, though these last 
 are far from being their most prominent merits. 
 The first-named treatise, however, has much more 
 of such qualities than the second ; and contains, 
 moreover, passages of homely humour which startle 
 by their truth as if written yesterday. At the same 
 time, the second book is quite as well worth reading, 
 for the sake of its authoritative ^linuteness in mat- 
 ters which ladies, now-a-days, would probably con- 
 sider their own undisputed region ; and also for the 
 quaint gravity of certain surprising prose anecdotes 
 of real life, with which it is interspersed. Both 
 these works remained long unprinted, the first edi- 
 tion of the Documenti d^ Amove being that edited 
 by Ubaldini in 1640, at which time he reports the 
 JReggimento, 6fc., to be only possessed by his 
 age " in name and in desire." This treatise was 
 afterwards brought to light, but never printed till 
 1815. I should not forget to state that Barberino 
 attained some knowledge of drawing, and that 
 Ubaldini had seen his original MS. of the Docu- 
 menti, containing, as he says, skilful miniatures by 
 the author. 
 
 Barberino never appears to have taken a very 
 active part in politics, but he inclined to the Imperial 
 and Ghibelline party. This contributes with other 
 things to render it rather singular that we find no 
 poetic correspondence or apparent communication of 
 any kind between him and his many great countrymen, 
 contemporaries of his long life, and with whom he 
 had more than one bond of sympathy. His career 
 stretched from Dante, Guide Cavalcanti, and Cino 
 da Pistoia, to Petrarca and Boccaccio ; yet only in 
 one respectful but not enthusiastic notice of him by 
 
IN PART I. xxxui 
 
 the last-named writer ( Genealogia degli Dei), do we 
 ever meet with an allusion to him by any of the 
 greatest men of his time. Nor in his own writings, 
 as far as I remember, are they ever referred to. 
 His epitaph is said to have been written by Boccaccio, 
 but this is doubtful. On reviewing the present series, 
 I am sorry, on the whole, not to have included more 
 specimens of Bai'berino, whose writings, though not 
 very easy to tackle in the mass, would afford an 
 excellent field for selection and summary. 
 
 XLIII. Fazio Deoli Uberti, 1326-60. 
 
 The dates of this poet's birth and death are not 
 ascertainable, but I have set against his name two 
 dates which result from his writings as belonging to 
 his lifetime. He was a member of that great house 
 of the Uberti, which was driven from Floi-ence on 
 the expulsion of the Ghibellines in 1267, and which 
 was ever afterwards specially excluded by name from 
 the various amnesties offered from time to time to 
 the exiled Florentines. His grandfather was Farinata 
 degli Uberti, whose stem nature, unyielding even 
 amid penal fires, has been recorded by Dante in the 
 tenth canto of the Inferno. Farinata's son Lapo, 
 himself a poet, was the fatlier of Fazio {i. e. Boni- 
 fazio), who was no doubt born in the lifetime of Dante, 
 and in some place of exile, but where is not known. 
 In his youth he was enamoured of a certain Vero- 
 nese lady named Angiola, and was afterwards 
 married, but whether to her or not is again among 
 the uncertainties. Certain it is that he had a son 
 named Leopardo, who, after his father's death at 
 Verona, settled in Venice, where his descendants 
 maintained an honourable rank for the space of two 
 
xxxiv TABLE OF POETS 
 
 succeeding centuries. Though Fazio appears to have 
 suffered sometimes from poverty, he enjoyed high 
 reputation as a poet, and is even said, on the autho- 
 rity of various early writers, to have puhhcly received 
 the laurel crown ; but in what city of Italy this took 
 place, we do not learn. 
 
 There is much beauty in several of Fazio's lyrical 
 poems, of "which, however, no great number have 
 been preserved. The finest of all is the Canzone 
 which I have translated ; whose excellence is such 
 as to have procured it the high honour of being at- 
 tributed to Dante, so that it is to be found in most 
 editions of the Canzoniere ; and as far as poetic 
 beauty is concerned, it must be allowed to hold 
 even there an eminent place. Its style, however, 
 (as Monti was the first to point out) is more par- 
 ticularizing than accords with the practice of Dante ; 
 while, though certainly more perfect than any other 
 poem by Fazio, its manner is quite his ; bearing 
 especially a strong resemblance throughout in struc- 
 ture to one canzone, where he speaks of his love 
 with minute reference to the seasons of the year. 
 Moreover, Fraticelli tells us that it is not attributed 
 to Dante in any one of the many ancient MSS. he had 
 seen, but has been fathered on him solely on the autho- 
 rity of a printed collection of 1518. This contested 
 Canzone is well worth fighting for ; and the victor 
 would deserve to receive his prize at the hands of a 
 peerless Queen of Beauty, for never was beauty 
 better described. I believe we may decide that 
 the triumph belongs by right to Fazio. 
 
 An exile by inheritance, Fazio seems to have 
 acquired restless tastes ; and in the latter years of 
 his life (which was prolonged to old age), he tra- 
 
IN PART I. XXXV 
 
 veiled over a great part of Europe, and composed 
 his longpqem entitled 11 Dittamondo, — " The Song 
 of the World," or, more exactly, " Words of the 
 World." This work, though by no means con- 
 temptible in point of execution, certainly falls far 
 short of its conception, which is a grand one ; the 
 topics of which it treats in great measure, — geogra- 
 phy and natural history, — rendering it in those days 
 the native home of all credulities and monstrosities. 
 In scheme it was intended aa an earthly parallel to 
 Dante's Sacred Poem, doing for this world what 
 he did for the other. At Fazio's death it remained 
 unfinished, but I should think by very little ; the 
 plan of the work seeming in the main accomplished. 
 The whole earth (or rather all that was then known 
 of it) is traversed, — its surface and its history, — end- 
 ing with the Holy Land, and thus bringing Man's 
 world as near as may be to God's ; that is, to the 
 point at which Dante's office begins. No conception 
 could well be nobler, or worthier even now of being 
 dealt with by a great master. To the work of such a 
 man, Fazio's work might afford such first materials as 
 have usually been furnished beforehand to the 
 greatest poets by some unconscious steward. 
 
 XL^^ Franco Sacchetti ; born, 1335, died 
 
 SHORTLY AFTER 1400. 
 
 This excellent writer is the only member of my 
 gatheiing who was bom after the death of Dante, 
 which event (in 1321) preceded Franco's birth by 
 some foiuteen years. I have introduced a few 
 specimens of his poetry, partly because their attrac- 
 tion was irresistible, but also because he is the earliest 
 Italian poet with whom playfulness is the chief 
 
xxxvi TABLE OF POETS. 
 
 characteristic ; for even with Boccaccio, in his poetry, 
 this is hardly the case. However, Franco Sacchetti 
 wrote poems also on political subjects; and had he 
 belonged more strictly to the period of which I treat, 
 there is no one who would better have deserved 
 abundant selection. Besides his poetry, he is the 
 author of a well-known series of three hundred 
 stories ; and Trucchi gives a list of prose works by 
 him which are still in MS., and whose subjects are 
 genealogical, historical, natural-historical, and even 
 theological. He was a prolific writer, and one who 
 well merits complete and careful publication. The 
 pieces which I have translated, like many others of 
 his, are written for music. 
 
 Franco Sacchetti was a Florentine noble by birth, 
 and was the son of Benci di Uguccione Sacchetti. 
 Between this family and the Alighieri there had 
 been a vendetta of long standing (spoken of here in 
 the Appendix to Part II.), but which was probably 
 set at rest before Franco's time, by the deaths of at 
 least one Alighieri and two Sacchetti. After some 
 years passed in study. Franco devoted himself to 
 commerce, like many nobles of the republic, and for 
 that purpose spent some time in Sclavonia, whose 
 uncongenial influences he has recorded in an amusing 
 poem. As his literary fame increased, he was 
 called to many important offices, was one of the 
 Priori in 1383, and for some time was deputed to 
 the government of Faenza, in the absence of its 
 lord, Astorre Manfredi. He was three times mar- 
 ried ; to Felice degli Strozzi, to Ghita Gherardini, 
 and to Nannina di Santi Bruni. 
 
 XLV. Anonymous Poems. • 
 
CIULLO D'^LCAMO. 
 
 BlALOOUE. 
 
 Lover and Lady, 
 
 He. 
 
 THOU sweetly-smelling fresh red rose 
 That near thy summer art, 
 Of whom each damsel and each dame 
 Would fain be counterpart ; 
 Oh ! from this fire to draw me forth 
 Be it in thy good heart : 
 For night or day there is no rest with me, 
 Thinking of none, my lady, but of thee. 
 
 She. 
 
 If thou hast fiel thy thoughts on me, 
 
 , Thou hast 'l...-..« .. fw^asli thing. 
 
 y^, all tuc ^ I of this world 
 
 Together migkt'st thou bring. 
 
2 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 And make thee ships, and plough the sea 
 Therewith for corn-sowing, 
 Ere any way to win me could be found : 
 For I am going to shear my locks all round. 
 
 He. 
 Lady, before thou shear thy locks 
 
 I hope I may be dead : 
 For I should lose such joy thereby 
 
 And gain such grief instead. 
 Merely to pass and look at thee, 
 Eose of the garden-bed. 
 Has comforted me much, once and again. 
 Oh ! if thou wouldst but love, what were it then ! 
 
 She. 
 Nay, though my heart were prone to love, 
 
 I would not grant it leave. 
 Hark ! should my father or his kin 
 
 But find thee here this eve, 
 Thy loving body and lost breath 
 Our moat may well receive. 
 Whatever path to come here thou dost know, 
 By the same path I counsel thee to go. 
 
 He. 
 
 And if thy kinsfolk find me here, 
 Shall I be drown'd then ? Marry, 
 
 I'll set, for price against my head, • 
 
 Two thousand agostariC; 
 
CIULLO D'ALOAMO, 
 
 I think thy father would not do't 
 For all his lands in Bari. 
 Long life to the Emperor ! Be God's the praise ! 
 Thou hear'st, my beauty, what thy servant says. 
 
 She. 
 And am I then to have no peace 
 
 Morning or evening ? 
 I have strong coffers of my own 
 And much good gold therein ; 
 So that if thou couldst offer me 
 The wealth of Saladin, 
 And add to that the Soldan's money-hoard, 
 Thy suit would not be anything toward. 
 
 He. 
 
 I have known many women, love, 
 
 WTiose thoughts were high and proud, 
 And yet have been made gentle by 
 
 Man's speech not over loud. 
 If wo but press ye long enough, 
 At length ye will be bow'd ; 
 For still a woman's weaker than a man. 
 When the end comes, recall how this began. 
 
 She. 
 God grant that I may die before 
 
 Any such end do come, — 
 Before the sight of a chaste maid 
 
 Seem to be troublesome ! 
 
4 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 I mark'd thee here all yestereve 
 Lurking about my home, 
 And now I say, Leave climbing, lest thou fall. 
 For these thy words delight me not at all. 
 
 He. 
 
 How many are the cunning chains 
 
 Thou hast wound round my heart ! 
 Only to think upon thy voice 
 Sometimes I groan apart. 
 For I did never love a maid 
 Of this world, as thou art, 
 So much as I love thee, thou crimson rose. 
 Thou wilt be mine at last : this my soul knows. 
 
 She. 
 If I could think it would be so. 
 
 Small pride it were of mine 
 That all my beauty should be meant 
 
 But to make thee to shine. 
 Sooner than stoop to that I'd shear 
 These golden tresses fine, 
 And make one of some holy sisterhood ; 
 Escaping so thy love, which is not good. 
 
 He. 
 If thou unto the cloister fly, 
 
 Thou cruel lady and cold. 
 Unto the cloister I will come 
 
 And by the cloister hold ; 
 
CIULLO D'ALCAMO. I 
 
 For such a conquest liketh me 
 Much better than much gold ; 
 At matins and at vespers I shall be 
 Still where thou art. Have I not conquerM thee ? 
 
 Shb. 
 Out and alcck ! wherefore am I 
 
 Tormented in suchwise ? 
 Lord Jesus Christ the Saviour, 
 
 In whom my beat hope lies, 
 
 give me strength that I may hush 
 This vain man's blasphemies ! 
 
 Let him seek through the earth ; 'tis long and broad ; 
 He will find fairer damsels, O my God ! 
 
 He. 
 
 1 have sought through Calabria, 
 
 Lombardy, and Tuscany, 
 Rome, Pisa, Lucca, Genoa, 
 All between sea and sea : 
 Yea, even to Babylon I went 
 And distant Barbary : 
 But not a woman found I anywhere 
 Equal to thee, who art indeed most fair. 
 
 If thou have all this love for me. 
 Thou canst no better do 
 
 Than ask me of my father dear 
 And my dear mother too : 
 
6 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 They willing, to the abbey-church 
 "We will together go, 
 And, before Advent, thou and I will wed ; 
 After the which, I'll do as thou hast said. 
 
 He. 
 
 These thy conditions, lady mine, 
 
 Are altogether nought ; 
 Despite of them, I'll make a net 
 Wlierein thou shalt be caught. 
 What, wilt thou put on wings to fly ? 
 Of wax I think they're wrought, — 
 They'll let thee fall to earth, not rise with thee : 
 So, if thou canst, then keep thyself from me. 
 
 She, 
 Think not to fright me with thy nets 
 
 And suchlike childish gear ; 
 I am safe pent within the walls 
 
 Of this strong castle here ; 
 A boy before he is a man 
 Could give me as much fear. 
 If suddenly thou get not hence again. 
 It is my prayer thou may'st be found and slain. 
 
 He. 
 Wouldst thou in very truth that I 
 
 Were slain, and for thy sake ? 
 Then let them hew me to such mince 
 
 As a man's limbs may make ! 
 
CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 But meanwhile I shall not stir hence 
 Till of that fruit I take 
 Which thou hast in thy garden, ripe enough : 
 All day and night I thirst to think thereof. 
 
 She. 
 None have partaken of that fruit, 
 
 Not Counts nor Cavaliere : 
 Though many have reach' d up for it, 
 
 Barons and great Seigneurs, 
 They all went hence in wrath because 
 They could not make it theirs. 
 Then how canst thou think to succeed alone 
 WTio hast not a thousand ounces of thine own ? 
 
 He. 
 How many nosegays I have scut 
 
 Unto thy house, sweet soul ! 
 At least till I am put to proof, 
 This scorn of thine control. 
 For if the wind, so fair for thee. 
 Turn ever and wax foul, 
 Be sure that thou shalt say when all is done, 
 " Now is my heart heavy for him that's gone." 
 
 She. 
 If by my grief thou couldst be grieved, 
 
 God send me a grief soon ! 
 I tell thee that though all my friends 
 
 Pray'd me as for a boon, 
 
8 CIULLO D'ALCAMO, 
 
 Saying, " Even for the love of us, 
 Love thou this worthless loon," — 
 Thou shouldst not have the thing that thou dost hope. 
 No, verily ; not for the realm o' the Pope. 
 
 He. 
 Now could I wish that I in truth 
 Were dead here in thy house : 
 My soul would get its vengeance then ; 
 Once known, the thing would rouse 
 A rabble, and they'd point and say, — 
 " Lo ! she that breaks her vows. 
 And, in her dainty chamber, stabs !" Love, see : 
 One strikes just thus : it is soon done, pardie ! 
 
 She. 
 If now thou do not hasten hence, 
 
 (My curse companioning,) 
 That my stout friends will find thee here 
 
 Is a most certain thing : 
 After the which, my gallant sir, 
 Thy points of reasoning 
 May chance, I think, to stand thee in small stead. 
 Thou hast no friend, sweet friend, to bring thee aid. 
 
 He. 
 Thou sayest truly, saying that 
 
 I have not any friend : 
 A landless stranger, lady mine, 
 
 None but his sword defend. 
 
CIULLO D'ALOAMO. 
 
 One year ago, my love began, 
 And now, is this the end ? 
 Oh ! the rich dress thou worest on that day 
 Since when thou art walking at my side alway ! 
 
 She. 
 So 'twas my dress enamour'd thee ! 
 
 What marvel ? I did wear 
 A cloth of samite silver-flower'd, 
 
 And gems within my hair. 
 But one more word ; if on Christ's Book 
 To wed me thou didst swear, 
 There's nothing now could win me to be thine : 
 I had r&thcr make my bed in the sea-brine. 
 
 IIe. 
 And if thou make thy bed therein, 
 Most courteous lady and bland, 
 I'll follow all among the waves. 
 Paddling with foot and hand ; 
 Then, when the sea hath done with thee, 
 I'll seek thee on the sand. 
 For I will not be conquer'd in this strife : 
 I'll wait, but win ; or losing, lose my life. 
 
 For Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
 Three times I cross myself. 
 
 Thou art no godless heretic. 
 Nor Jew, whose God's his pelf: 
 
10 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 Even as I know it then, meseems, 
 Thou needs must know thyself 
 That woman, when the breath in her doth cease, 
 Loseth all savour and all loveliness. 
 
 He. 
 
 Woe's me ! Perforce it must be said 
 
 No craft could then avail : 
 So that if thou be thus resolved, 
 
 I know my suit must fail. 
 Then have some pity, of thy grace ! 
 Thou may'st, love, very well ; 
 For though thou love not me, my love is such 
 That 'tis enough for both — yea overmuch. 
 
 She. 
 Is it even so ? Learn then that I 
 
 Do love thee from my heart. 
 To-morrow, early in the day, 
 Come here, but now depart. 
 By thine obedience in this thing 
 I shall know what thou art. 
 And if thy love be real or nothing worth ; 
 Do but go now, and I am thine henceforth. 
 
 He. 
 Nay, for such promise, my own life, 
 
 I will not stir a foot. 
 I've said, if thou wouldst tear away 
 
 My love even from its root, 
 
CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 11 
 
 I have a dagger at my side 
 
 WTiich thou may'st take to do't : 
 But as for going hence, it will not be. 
 O hate me not ! my heart is burning me. 
 
 She. 
 Think'st thou I know not that thy heart 
 
 Is hot and bums to death ? 
 Of all that thou or I can say, 
 
 But one word succoureth. 
 Till thou upon the Holy Book 
 Give me thy bounden faith, 
 God is my witness that I will not yield : 
 For with thy sword 'twere better to be kill'd. 
 
 He. 
 Then on Christ's Book, borne with me still 
 
 To read from and to pray, 
 (I took it, fairest, in a church. 
 
 The priest being gone away,) 
 I swear that my whole self shall be 
 Thine always from this day. 
 And now at once give joy for all my grief. 
 Lest my soul fly, that's thinner than a leaf. 
 
 She. 
 Now that this oath is s^orn, sweet lord. 
 
 There is no need to speak : 
 My heart, that was so strong before. 
 
 Now feels itself grow weak. 
 
12 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 If any of my words were harsh, 
 Thy pardon : I am meek 
 Now, and will give thee entrance presently. 
 It is best so, sith so it was to be. 
 
FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERI, 
 KNIGHT OF SIENA. 
 
 Canzone. 
 He dwells on his C<mdition thraagh Love, 
 
 ALL the whole world is living without war, 
 And yet I cannot find out any peace. 
 O God ! that this should be 1 
 O God ! what does the earth sustain me for ? 
 My life seems made for other lives* ill-ease : 
 All men look strange to me ; 
 Nor are the wood-flowers now 
 As once, when up above 
 The happy birds in love 
 Made such sweet verses, going from bough to bough. 
 
 And if I come where other gentlemen 
 
 Bear arms, or say of love some joyful thing, — 
 Then is my grief most sore, 
 And all my soul turns round upon me then : 
 Folk also gaze upon me, whispering, 
 
 Because I am not what I was before. 
 
14 FOLCAOHIERO DE* FOLGACHIERI. 
 
 I know not what I am. 
 
 I know how wearisome 
 
 My life is now become, 
 And that the days I pass seem all the same. 
 
 I think that I shall die ; yea, death begins ; 
 Though 'tis no set down sickness that I have, 
 
 Nor are my pains set down. 
 
 But to wear raiment seems a burden since 
 
 This came, nor ever any food I crave ; 
 
 Not any cure is known 
 To me, nor unto whom 
 
 I might commend my case : 
 
 This evil therefore stays 
 Still where it is, and hope can find no room. 
 
 I know that it must certainly be Love : 
 No other Lord, being thus set over me. 
 
 Had judged me to this curse ; 
 
 With such high hand he rules, sitting above. 
 
 That of myself he takes two parts in fee. 
 
 Only the third being hers. 
 Yet if through service I 
 
 Be justified with God, 
 
 He shall remove this load. 
 Because my heart with inmost love doth sigh. 
 
 Gentle my lady, after I am gone. 
 
 There will not come another, it may be, 
 
FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLOACHIERL 15 
 
 To show thee love like mine : 
 For nothing can I do, neither have done, 
 Except what proves that I belong to thee 
 
 And am a thing of thine. 
 Be it not said that I 
 
 Despair'd and perish'd, then ; 
 
 But pour thy grace, like rain, 
 On him who is bum'd up, yea, visibly. 
 
LODOVICO BELLA VEENACCIA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He exhorts the State to vigilance. 
 
 THINK a brief while on the most marvellous 
 arts 
 Of our high-purposed labour, citizens ; 
 And having thought, draw clear conclusion thence; 
 And say, do not ours seem but childish parts ? 
 Also on these intestine sores and smarts 
 Ponder advisedly ; and the deep sense 
 Thereof shall bow your heads in penitence, 
 And like a thorn shall grow into your hearts. 
 If, of our foreign foes, some prince or lord 
 
 Is now, perchance, some whit less troublesome, 
 ShaU the sword therefore drop into the sheath? 
 Nay, grasp it as the friend that warranteth : 
 For unto this vile rout, our foes at home, 
 Nothing is high or awful save the sword. 
 
SAINT FEANCIS OF ASSISI. 
 
 Cantica. 
 
 Our Lord Christ : of order.* 
 
 SET Love in order, thou that lovest Me. 
 Never was virtue out of order found ; 
 And though I fill thy heart desirously, 
 
 By thine own virtue I must keep My ground : 
 Wlien to My love thou dost bring charity, 
 
 Even she must come with Order girt and gown'd. 
 Look how the trees are bound 
 To order, bearing fruit ; 
 And by one thing compute, 
 In all things earthly, order's grace or gain. 
 
 All earthly things I had the making of 
 
 Were number'd and were measured then by Me; 
 
 And each was order'd to its end by Love, 
 Each kept, through order, clean for ministry. 
 
 • This speech occurs in a long poem on Divine Love, half 
 ecstatic, half scholastic, and hardlv appreciable now. The 
 passage stands well by itself, and is the only one spoken by 
 our Lord. 
 
18 SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI 
 
 Charity most of all, when known enough, 
 Is of her very nature orderly. 
 
 Lo, now ! what heat in thee, 
 Soul, can have hred this rout? 
 Thou putt'st all order out. 
 
 Even this love's heat must he its curb and rein. 
 
FREDERICK II. EMPEROR. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Of his Lady in bondage. 
 
 FOR grief I am about to sing, 
 Even as another would for joy ; . 
 
 Mine eyes which the hot tears destroy 
 Are scarce enough for sorrowing : 
 To speak of such a grievous thing 
 
 Also my tongue I must employ, 
 Saying : Woe's me, who am full of woes ! 
 
 Not while I live shall my sighs cease 
 
 For her in whom my heart found peace : 
 I am become like unto those 
 
 That cannot sleep for weariness, 
 Now I have lost my crimson rose. 
 
 And yet I will not call her lost ; 
 
 She is not gone out of the earth ; 
 
 She is but girded with a girth 
 Of hate, that clips her in like frost. 
 Thus says she every hour almost : — 
 
 " When I was boni, 'twas an ill birth ! 
 
 O that I never had been bom, 
 If I am still to fall asleep 
 
20 FREDERICK II. 
 
 "Weeping, and when I wake to weep ; 
 If he whom I most loathe and scorn 
 
 Is still to have me his, and keep 
 Smiling ahout me night and morn ! 
 
 *' O that I never had been born 
 A woman ! a poor, helpless fool, 
 Who can but stoop beneath the rule 
 
 Of him she needs must loathe and scorn ! 
 
 If ever I feel less forlorn, 
 
 I stand all day in fear and dule, 
 
 Lest he discer^ it, and with rough 
 Speech mock at me, or with his smile 
 So hard you scarce could call it guile : 
 
 No man is there to say, ' Enough.' 
 O, but if God waits a long while, 
 
 Death cannot always stand aloof ! 
 
 '•' Thou, God the Lord, dost know all this 
 
 Give me a little comfort then. 
 
 Him who is worst among bad men 
 Smite thou for me. Those limbs of his 
 Once hidden where the sharp worm is. 
 
 Perhaps I might see hope again. 
 Yet for a certain period 
 
 Would I seem like as one that saith 
 Strange things for grief, and murmureth 
 With smitten palms and hair abroad : 
 
 Still whispering under my held breath, 
 * Shall I not praise Thy name, O God?* 
 
FREDERICK II. 21 
 
 *' Thou, God the Lord, dost know all this : 
 
 It is a very weary thing 
 
 Thus to he always trembling: 
 And till the breath of his life cease, 
 The hate in him will but increase, 
 
 And with his hate my suffering. 
 Each morn I hear his voice bid them 
 
 That watch me, to be faithful spies 
 
 Lest I go forth and see the skies ; 
 Each night, to each, he saith the same ; — 
 
 And in my soul and in mine eyes 
 There is a burning heat like flame." 
 
 Thus grieves she now ; but she shall wear 
 This love of mine, whereof I spoke. 
 About her body for a cloak. 
 
 And for a garland in her hair. 
 
 Even yet: because I mean -to prove. 
 
 Not to speak only, this my love. 
 
ENZO, KING OF SAKDINIA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 On the Fitness of Seasons. 
 
 ^1 ^HERE is a time to mount ; to humble thee 
 1 A time; a time to talk, and hold thy peace; 
 A time to labour, and a time to cease ; 
 
 A time to take thy measures patiently ; 
 
 A time to watch what Time's next step may be ; 
 A time to make light count of menaces, 
 And to think over them a time there is ; 
 
 There is a time when to seem not to see. 
 
 Wherefore I hold him well-advised and sage 
 Who evermore keeps prudence facing him. 
 And lets his life slide with occasion ; 
 
 And so comports himself, through youth to age, 
 That never any man at any time 
 
 Can say. Not thus, but thus thou shouldst have 
 done. 
 
GUIDO GUINICELLI. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 , Concerning Lucy, 
 
 WHEN Lucy draws her mantle round her face, 
 So sweeter than all else she is to see, 
 That hence unto the hills there lives not he 
 Whose whole soul would not love her for her grace. 
 Then seems she like a daughter of some race 
 That holds high rule in France or Germany : 
 And a snake's head stricken off suddenly 
 Throbs never as then throbs my heart to embrace 
 Her body in these arms, even were she loth ; — 
 To kiss her lips, to kiss her cheeks, to kiss 
 The lids of her two eyes which are two flames. 
 Yet what my heart so longs for, my heart 
 blames : 
 For surely sorrow might be bred from this 
 WTiere some man's patient love abides its growth. 
 
24 GUIBO QUINICELLI. 
 
 n. 
 
 Canzone. 
 Of the gentle Heart. 
 
 WITHIN* the gentle heart Love shelters him, 
 As birds within the green shade of the 
 grove. 
 Before the gentle heart, in Nature's scheme, 
 Love was not, nor the gentle heart ere Love. 
 For with the sun, at once. 
 So sprang the light immediately ; nor was 
 Its birth before the sun's. 
 And Love hath his effect in gentleness 
 
 Of very self ; even as 
 Within the middle fire the heat's excess. 
 
 The fire of Love comes to the gentle heaii; 
 
 Like as its virtue to a precious stone ; 
 To which no star its influence can impart 
 TiU it is made a pure thing by the sun : 
 
 For when the sun hath smit 
 From out its essence that which there was vile, 
 
 The star endoweth it. 
 And so the heart created by God's breath 
 
 Pure, true, and clean from guile, 
 A woman, like a star, enamoureth. 
 
GUIDO OUINICELLI. 25 
 
 In gentle heart Love for like reason is 
 
 For which the lamp's high flame is fann'd and 
 
 bow'd: 
 Clear, piercing hright, it shines for its own bliss ; 
 Nor would it bum there else, it is so proud. 
 
 For evil natures meet 
 With Love as it were water met with fire. 
 
 As cold abhorring heat. 
 Through gentle heart Love doth a track divine, — 
 
 Like knowing like ; the same 
 As diamond runs through iron in the mine. 
 
 The sun strikes fiill upon the mud all day ; 
 
 It remains vile, nor the sun's worth is less. 
 " By race I am gentle,'' the proud man doth saj : 
 He is the mud, the sun is gentleness. 
 Let no man predicate 
 That aught the name of geotleneii should have. 
 
 Even in a king's estsle. 
 Except the heart there be a gentle man's. 
 The star-beam lights the wave, — 
 Heaven holds the star and the star's radlaDce. 
 
 God, in the understanding of high Heaven, 
 
 Bums more than in our sight the living sun : 
 There to behold His Face unveil'd is given ; 
 
 And Heaven, whose will is homage paid to One, 
 Fulfils the things which live 
 In God, from the beginning excellent. 
 So should my lady give , 
 
26 GUIDO GUINICELLL 
 
 That truth which in her eyes is glorified, 
 
 On which her heart is bent, 
 To me whose service waiteth at her side. 
 
 My lady, God shall ask, " What dared'st thou?" 
 
 (When my soul stands with all her acts review'd;) 
 " Thou passed'st Heaven, into My sight, as now. 
 To make Me of vain love similitude. 
 
 To Me doth praise belong. 
 And to the Queen of all the realm of grace 
 
 Who endeth fraud and wrong." 
 Then may I plead : '- As though from Thee he came, 
 
 Love wore an angel's face : 
 Lord, if I loved her, count it not my shame." 
 
QUI DO GUINICELLI. 27 
 
 m. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He will praise his Lady, 
 
 YEA, let me praise my lady whom I love, 
 Likening her unto the lily and rose : 
 Brighter than morning star her visage glows ; 
 She is beneath even as her Saint above : 
 She is as the air in summer which God wove 
 Of purple and of vermilUon glorious ; 
 As gold and jewels richer than man knows. 
 Love's self, being love for her, must holier prove. 
 Ever as she walks she hath a sober gi'ace. 
 
 Making bold men abash'd and good men glad ; 
 If she delight thee not, thy heart must err. 
 No man dare look on her his thoughts being base : 
 Nay, let me say even more than I have said ; — 
 No man could think base thoughts who look'd 
 on her. 
 
28 QUIDO OUINICELLL 
 
 IV. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 He perceives his Rashness in Love, but has no choice. 
 
 I HOLD him, verily, of mean emprise, 
 Whose rashness tempts a strength too great to 
 bear; 
 As I have done, alas ! who turn'd mine eyes 
 Upon those perilous eyes of the most fair. 
 Unto her eyes I bow'd ; 
 No need her other beauties in that hour 
 
 Should aid them, cold and proud : 
 As when the vassals of a mighty lord. 
 
 What time he needs his power. 
 Are all girt round him to make strong his sword. 
 
 With such exceeding force the stroke was dealt, 
 
 That by mine eyes its path might not be stayM ; 
 But deep into the heart it pierced, which felt 
 
 The pang of the sharp wound, and wax'd afraid ; 
 Then rested in strange wise, 
 As when some creature utterly outworn 
 
 Sinks into bed and lies. 
 And she the while doth in no manner care, 
 
 But goes her way in scorn. 
 Beholding herself alway proud and fair. 
 
OUIBO OUINICELLL 29 
 
 And she may be as proud as she shall please, 
 
 For she is still the fairest woman found : 
 A sun she seems among the rest ; and these 
 
 Have all their beauties in her splendour drown'd. 
 
 In her is every grace, — 
 Simplicity of wisdom, noble speech, 
 
 Accomplish'd loveliness ; 
 All earthly beauty is her diadem. 
 
 This truth my song would teach, — 
 My lady is of ladies chosen gem. 
 
 Love to my lady's service yieldeth me, — 
 Will I, or will I not, the thing is so, — 
 Nor other reason can I say or see, 
 
 Except that where it lists the wind doth blow. 
 He rules and gives no sign ; 
 Nor once from her did show of love upbuoj 
 
 This passion which is mine. 
 It is because her virtue's strength and stir 
 
 So till her full of joy 
 That I am glad to die for love of her. 
 
30 QUIDO QUINICELLL 
 
 V. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Moderation and Tolerance. 
 
 HE that has grown to wisdom hurries not, 
 But thinks and weighs what Reason bids 
 him do; 
 And after thinking he retains his thought 
 
 Until as he conceived the fact ensue. 
 Let no man to o'erweening pride be wrought, 
 
 But count his state as Fortune's gift and due. 
 He is a fool who deems that none has sought 
 The truth, save he alone, or knows it true. 
 Many strange birds are on the air abroad. 
 Nor all are of one flight or of one force, 
 But each after his kind dissimilar : 
 To each was portion'd of the breath of God, 
 
 Who gave them divers instincts from one source. 
 Then judge not thou thy fellows what they are. 
 
GUI DO OUINICELLI. 3] 
 
 TL 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Human Presumption, 
 
 AMONG my thoughts I count it wonderful, 
 How foolishness in man should be so rife 
 That masterly he takes the world to wife 
 As though no end were set unto his rule : 
 In labour alway that hia.ease be fiill, 
 
 As though there never were another life ; 
 Till Death throws all his order into strife, 
 And round his head his purposes doth puU. 
 And evermore one sees the other die, 
 
 And sees how all conditions turn to change, 
 
 Yet in no wise may the blind wretch be heal'd. 
 I therefore say, that sin can even estrange 
 Man's very sight, and his heart satisfy 
 
 To live as Hves a sheep upon the field. 
 
GUEEZO m MONTECANTI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He is out of heart with his Time. 
 
 IF any man would know the very cause 
 Which makes me to forget my speech in rhyme, 
 All the sweet songs I sang in other time, — 
 I'll tell it in a sonnet's simple clause. 
 I hourly have beheld how good withdraws 
 To nothing, and how evil mounts the while : 
 Until my heart is gnaw'd as with a file, 
 Nor aught of this world's worth is what it was. 
 At last there is no other remedy 
 But to behold the universal end ; 
 
 And so upon this hope my thoughts are urged: 
 To whom, since truth is sunk and dead at sea, 
 There has no other part or prayer remain'd. 
 Except of seeing the world's self submerged. 
 
INGHILFREDI SICILIANO. 
 
 Canzone. 
 He rebukes the Evil of that Time. 
 
 HARD is it for a man to please all men : 
 I therefore speak in doubt, 
 And as one may that looketh to be chid. 
 But who can hold his peace in these days ?— when 
 Guilt cunningly slips out, 
 
 And innocence atones for what he did ; 
 When worth is crush'd, even if it be not hid ; 
 When on crushM worth, guile sets his foot to rise ; 
 And when the things wise men have counted wise 
 Make fools to smile and stare and iift the lid. 
 
 Let none who have not wisdom govern you : 
 For he that was a fool 
 
 At first shall scarce grow wise under the sun. 
 And as it is, my whole heart bleeds anew 
 To think how hard a school 
 
 Young hope grows old at, as these seasons run. 
 Behold, sirs, we have reach'd this thing for 
 one: — 
 The lord before his servant bends the knee. 
 And service puts on lordship suddenly. 
 
 Ye speak o' the end? Ye have not yet begun. 
 
 D 
 
34 INGHILFREDI SICILIANO. 
 
 I would not have ye without counsel ta*en 
 Follow my words ; nor meant, 
 
 If one should talk and act not, to praise him. 
 But who, heing much opposed, speaks not again, 
 Confesseth himself shent 
 
 And put to silence, — hy some loud-mouth*d 
 
 mime, 
 Perchance, for whom I speak not in this 
 rhyme. 
 Strive what ye can ; and if ye cannot all, 
 Yet should not your hearts fall : 
 
 The fruit commends the flower in God's good 
 time. 
 
 (For without fruit, the flower delights not God :) 
 Wherefore let him whom Hope 
 
 Puts off, remember time is not gone by. 
 Let him say calmly : " Thus far on this road 
 A fooHsh trust buoy'd up 
 
 My soul, and made it like the butterfly 
 
 Burn'd in the flame it seeks : even so was I : 
 But now I'll aid myself; for still this trust, 
 I find, falleth to dust : 
 
 The fish gapes for the bait-hook, and doth die." 
 
 And yet myself, who bid ye do this thing, — 
 
 Am I not also spurn'd 
 
 By the proud feet of Hope continually ; 
 Till that which gave me such good comforting 
 
 I^ altogether tum'd 
 
INOHILFREDI SICILIANO. 35 
 
 Unto a fire whose heat consumeth me ? 
 
 I am so girt with grief that my thoughts be 
 Tired of themselves, and from my soul I loathe 
 Silence and converse both ; 
 
 And my own face is what I hate to see. 
 
 Because no act is meet now nor unmeet. 
 He that does evil, men applaud his name, 
 And the well-doer must put up with shame : 
 
 Yea, and the worst man sits in the best seat. 
 
RINALDO D'AQUINO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 He is resolved to be joyful in Love. 
 
 A THING is in my mind,— 
 To have my joy again, 
 Which I had almost put away from me. 
 It were in foolish kind 
 For ever to refrain ' 
 From song, and renounce gladness utterly. 
 Seeing that I am given into the rule 
 
 Of Love, whom only pleasure makes alive 
 •Whom pleasure nourishes and brings to 
 growth : 
 The wherefore sullen sloth 
 Will he not suflfer in those serving him 
 But pleasant they must seem, 
 That good folk love them and their service thrive; 
 Nor even their pain must make them sorrowful. 
 
RINALDO D' AQUINO. 37 
 
 So bear he him that thence 
 
 The praise of men be gain'd, — 
 He that would put his hope in noble Love ; 
 For by great excellence 
 Alone can be attained 
 That amorous joy which wisdom may approve. 
 The way of Love is this, righteous and just ; 
 Then whoso would be held of good account, 
 To seek the way of Love must him befit, — 
 
 Pleasure, to wit. 
 Through pleasure, man attams his worthiness : 
 For he must please 
 All men, so bearing him that Love may mount 
 In their esteem, Lovers self being in his trust. 
 
 Trustful in servitude 
 I have been and will be, 
 And loyal unto Love my whole life through. 
 A hundred-fold of good 
 Hath he not guerdoned me 
 For what I have endured of grief and woe ? 
 Since he hath given me unto one of whom 
 Thus much he said, — ^thou mightest seek for 
 aye 
 Another of such worth, so beauteous. 
 
 Joy therefore may keep house 
 In this my heart, that it hath loved so well. 
 Me seems I scarce could dwell 
 Ever in weary life or in dismay 
 If to true service still my heart gave room. 
 
38 EINALDO D' AQUINO. 
 
 Serving at her pleasaunce 
 Whose service pleasureth, 
 I am enrich'd with all the wealth of Love. 
 Song hath no utterance 
 For my life's joyful hreath 
 Since in this lady's grace my homage throve. 
 Yea, for I think it would be difficult 
 
 One should conceive my former abject case : — 
 Therefore have knowledge of me from this 
 rhyme. 
 My penance-time 
 Is all accomplish'd now, and all forgot, 
 So that no jot 
 Do I remember of mine evil days. 
 It is my lady's will that I exult. 
 
 Exulting let me take 
 My joyful comfort, then. 
 Seeing myself in so much blessedness. 
 Mine ease even as mine ache 
 Accepting, let me gain 
 No pride tow'rds Love ; but with all humbleness, 
 Even still, my pleasurable service pay. 
 For a good servant ne'er was left to pine : 
 Great shall his guerdon be who greatly bears. 
 
 But, because he that fears 
 To speak too much, by his own silence shent. 
 Hath sometimes made lament, — 
 I am thus boastful, lady ; being thine 
 For homage and obedience night and day. 
 
MINALDO D' AQUINO, 39 
 
 n. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 A Lady, in Spring, repents of her Coldness, 
 
 NOW, when it flowereth, 
 And wKen the hanks and fields 
 Are greener every day, 
 And sweet is each hird's breath, 
 In the tree where he builds 
 Singing after his way, — 
 Spring comes to us with hasty step and brief, 
 
 Everywhere in leaf. 
 And everywhere makes people laugh and play. 
 
 Love is brought unto me 
 In the scent of the flower 
 
 And in the birds' blithe noise. 
 When day begins to be, 
 I hear in every bower 
 New verses finding voice : 
 From every branch around me and above, 
 
 A minstrels' court of love, 
 The birds contend in song about love's joys. 
 
40 RINALDO D'AQUINO. 
 
 What time I hear the lark 
 And nightingale keep Spring, 
 My heart will pant and yearn 
 For love. (Ye all may mark 
 The unkindly comforting 
 Of fire that will not burn.) 
 And, being in the shadow of the fresh wood, 
 
 How excellently good 
 A thing love is, I cannot choose but learn. 
 
 Let me ask grace ; for I, 
 Being loved, loved not again. 
 Now springtime makes me love. 
 And bids me satisfy 
 
 The lover whose fierce pain 
 I thought too lightly of : 
 For that the pain is fierce I do feel now. 
 
 And yet this pride is slow 
 To free my heart, which pity would fain move. 
 
 Wherefore I pray thee, Love, 
 That thy breath turn me o'er. 
 Even as the wind a leaf ; 
 And I will set thee above 
 
 This heart of mine, that's sore 
 
 Perplex'd, to be its chief. 
 
 Let also the dear youth, whose passion must 
 
 Henceforward have good trust. 
 Be happy vrithout words ; for words bring grief. 
 
JACOPO DA LENTINO. 
 
 L 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of hi^ Lady in Heaven. 
 
 I HAVE it in my heart to serve God so 
 That into Paradise I shall repair, — 
 The holy place through the which everywhere 
 I have heard say that joy and solace flow. 
 Without my lady I were loth to go, — 
 
 She who has the bright face and the bright hair ; 
 Because if she were absent, 1 being there, 
 My pleasure would be less than nought, I know. 
 Look you, I say not thb to such intent 
 As that I there would deal in any sin : 
 I only would behold her gracious mien. 
 And beautiful soft eyes, and lovely face. 
 That so it should be my complete content 
 To see my lady joyful in her place. 
 
42 JACOPO DA LENT I NO. 
 
 II. 
 Canzonetta. 
 
 Of his Lady, and of her Portrait. 
 
 MARVELLOUSLY elate, 
 Love makes my spirit warm 
 With noble sympathies ; 
 As one whose mind is set 
 L^pon some glorious form, 
 To paint it as it is ; — 
 I verily who bear 
 Thy face at heart, most fair, 
 Am hke to him in this. 
 
 Not outwardly declared. 
 Within me dwells enclosed 
 Thine image as thou art. 
 Ah ! strangely hath it fared ! 
 I know not if thou know'st 
 The love within my heart. 
 Exceedingly afraid, 
 My hope I have not said, 
 
 But gazed on thee apart. 
 
JACOPO DA LENT I NO. 43 
 
 Eecause desire was strong, 
 I made a portraiture 
 
 In thine own likeness, love ; 
 WTien absence has giown long, 
 I gaze, till I am sure 
 
 That I behold thee move ; 
 As one who purposeth 
 To save himself by faith, 
 
 Yet sees not, nor can prove. 
 
 Then comes the burning pain ; 
 As with the man that hath 
 A fire within his breast,^ 
 When most he struggles, then 
 Most boils the flame in wrath. 
 And will not let him rest. 
 So still I buni'd and shook, 
 To pass, and not to look 
 In thy face, loveliest. 
 
 For where thou art I pass. 
 And do not lift mine eyes. 
 Lady, to look on thee : 
 But, as I go, alas ! 
 
 With bitterness of sighs 
 I mourn exceedingly. 
 Alas ! the constant woe ! 
 Myself I do not know, 
 
 So sore it troubles me. 
 
44 JACOPO DA LENT I NO, 
 
 And I have sung thy praise, 
 Lady, and many times 
 
 Have told thy beauties o'er. 
 Hast heard in anyways, 
 
 Perchance, that these my rhymes 
 Are song-craft and no more ? 
 Nay, rather deem, when thou 
 Shalt see me pass and bow, 
 These words I sicken for. 
 
 Delicate song of mine, 
 
 Go sing thou a new strain ; 
 Seek, with the first sunshine, 
 Our lady, mine and thuie, — 
 
 The rose of Love's domain. 
 Than red gold comeher. 
 
 " Lady, in Love's name hark 
 
 To Jacopo the clerk, 
 Born in Lentino here." 
 
JACOPO DA LENTINO, 45 
 
 in. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 No Jewel is worth his Lady. 
 
 SAPPHIRE, nor diamond, nor emerald, 
 Nor other precious stones past reckoning, 
 Topaz, nor pearl, nor ruby like a king, 
 Nor that most virtuous jewel, jasper callM, 
 Nor amethyst, nor onyx, nor basalt, 
 
 Each counted for a very marvellous thing, 
 Is half so excellently gladdening 
 As is ray lady's head uncoronall'd. 
 All beauty by her beauty is made dim ; 
 Like to the stars she is for loftiness ; 
 
 And with her voice she taketh away grief. 
 She is fairer than a bud, or than a leaf. 
 Christ have her well in keeping, of His grace, 
 And make her holy and beloved, like Him ! 
 
46 JAGOPO DA LENT I NO, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Canzonetta. 
 
 He will neither boast nor lament to his Lady. 
 
 LOVE will not have me cry 
 For grace, as others do ; 
 Nor as they vaunt, that I 
 
 Should vaunt my love to you. 
 For service, such as all 
 Can pay, is counted small ; 
 Nor is it much to praise 
 
 The thing which all must know ; — 
 
 Such pittance to bestow 
 On you my love delays. 
 
 Love lets me not turn shape 
 As chance or use may strike 
 
 As one may see an ape 
 Counterfeit all alike. 
 
 Then, lady, unto you 
 
 Be it not mine to sue 
 
JACOPO DA LENTINO, 47 
 
 For grace or pitying. 
 
 Many the lovers be 
 
 That of such suit are free, — 
 It is a common thing. 
 
 A gem, the more 'tis rare, 
 
 The more its cost will mount : 
 And, be it not so fair, 
 
 It is of more account. 
 So, coming from the East, 
 The sapphire is increased 
 In worth, though scarce so bright ; 
 
 I therefore seek thy face 
 
 Not to solicit grace 
 Being cheapen'd and made slight. 
 
 So is the colosmine 
 
 Now cheapen'd, which in fame 
 Was once so brave and fine, 
 
 But now is a mean gem. 
 So be such prayers for grace 
 Not heard in any place ; 
 "Would they indeed hold fast 
 
 Their worth, be they not said, 
 
 Nor by tnie lovers made 
 Before nine years be past. 
 
 Lady, sans sigh or groan, 
 My longing thou canst see ; 
 
48 JACOPO DA LENT I NO. 
 
 Much better am I known 
 
 Than to myself, to thee. 
 And is there nothing else 
 That in thy heart avails 
 For love but groan and sigh ? 
 And wilt thou have it thus, 
 This love betwixen us ? — 
 Much rather let me die. 
 
JACOPO DA LENTINO. 49 
 
 V. 
 
 Canzonetta. 
 
 Of his Ladyy and of his making her Likeness. 
 
 MY lady mine,* I send 
 These sighs in joy to thee ; 
 Though, loving till the end, 
 
 There were no hope for me 
 That I should speak my love ; 
 And I have loved indeed, 
 Though, having fearful heed, 
 It was not spoken of. 
 
 Thou art so high and great 
 
 That whom I love I fear ; 
 Which thing to circumstate 
 
 I have no messenger : 
 Wherefore to Love I pray, 
 
 On whom each lover cries. 
 
 That these my tears and sighs 
 
 Find unto thee a way. 
 \ 
 
 * Madonna mia. 
 
 B 
 
50 JACOPO DA LENT I NO. 
 
 Well have I wish'd, when I 
 At heart with sighs have ached, 
 
 That there were in each sigh 
 Spirit and intellect, 
 
 The which, where thou dost sit, 
 Should kneel and sue for aid, 
 Since I am thus afraid 
 
 And have no strength for it. 
 
 Thou, lady, killest me, 
 Yet keepest me in pain, 
 
 For thou must surely see 
 How, fearing, I am fain. 
 
 Ah ! why not send me still 
 Some solace, small and slight, 
 So that I should not quite 
 
 Despair of thy good will ? 
 
 Thy grace, all else ahove. 
 Even now while I implore, ' 
 
 Enamoureth my love 
 
 To love thee still the more. 
 
 Yet scarce should I know well 
 A greater love to gain, 
 Even if a greater pain, 
 
 Lady, were possible. 
 
 Joy did that day relax 
 
 My grief's continual stress, 
 
 "When I essay'd in wax 
 Thy beauty's life-Ukeness. 
 
J AC OP DA LENT I NO. 51 
 
 Ah ! much more beautiful 
 
 Than golden-hair'd Yseult,— 
 
 "VVlio mak'st all men exult, 
 Who bring^st all women dule. 
 
 And eertes without blame / 
 
 Thy love might fall to me, 
 Though it should chance my name 
 
 Were never heard of thee. 
 Yea, for thy love, in fine, 
 
 Lentino gave me birth, 
 
 Who am not nothing worth 
 If worthy to be thine. 
 
52 JACOPO DA LENT I NO, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 0/ his Lady's Face. 
 
 HER face has made mj life most proud and 
 glad; 
 Her face has made my life quite wearisome ; 
 It comforts me when other troubles come, 
 And amid other joys it strikes me sad. 
 Truly I think her face can drive me mad ; 
 For now I am too loud, and anon dumb. 
 There is no second face in Christendom 
 Has a like power, nor shall have, nor has had. 
 What man in living face has seen such eyes. 
 Or such a lovely bending of the head, 
 
 Or mouth that opens to so sweet a smile ? 
 In speech, my heart before her faints and dies, 
 And into Heaven seems to be spirited ; 
 So that I count me blest a certain while. 
 
JACOPO DA LENT I NO. 53 
 
 R 
 
 VIL 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 At the end of his Hope. 
 
 EMEMBERING this^how Love 
 Mocks me, and bids nie hoard 
 Mine ill rewanl that keeps mo nigh to death, — 
 IIow it doth still behove 
 I suffer the keen sword, 
 Whence undeplored I may not draNv.^y breath ; 
 In memory of this thing \ 
 Sigliing and sorrowing, 
 I am languid at the heart 
 For her to whom I bow, 
 Craving her pity now. 
 And who still turns apart. 
 
 I am dying, and through her — 
 This flower, from paradise 
 Sent in some \\'ise, that I might have no rest. 
 Truly she did not err 
 To come before his eyes 
 Who fails and dies, by her sweet smile possess'd 
 For, through her countenance 
 (Fair brows and lofty glance !) 
 
54 J AC OP DA LENT I NO. 
 
 I live ill constant dule. 
 
 Of lovers' hearts the chief 
 
 For sorrow and much grief, 
 My heart is sorrowful. 
 
 For Love has made me weep 
 With sighs that do him wrong, 
 Since, when most strong my joy, he gave this woe. 
 
 I am hroken, as a ship 
 Perishing of the song 
 Sweet, sweet and long, the song the sirens know. 
 
 The mariner forgets. 
 
 Voyaging in those straits, 
 
 And dies assuredly. 
 
 Yea, from her pride peiTerse, 
 Whf hath my heart as her's, 
 
 Even such my death must he. 
 
 I deem'd her not so fell 
 
 And hard but she would greet, 
 From her high seat, at length, the love I bring ; 
 For I have loved her well ; — 
 
 Nor that her face so sweet 
 In so much heat would keep me languishing ; 
 Seeing that she I serve 
 All honour doth deserve 
 For worth unparallell'd. 
 
 Yet what availeth moan 
 
 But for more grief alone ? 
 O God ! that it avail'd ! 
 
JACOPO DA LENT I NO, 55 
 
 Thou, my new song, shalt pray 
 To her, who for no end 
 Each day doth tend her virtues that they grow, — 
 Since she to love saith nay ; — 
 (More charms she hath attain'd 
 Than sea hath sand, and wisdom even so); — 
 Pray thou to her tliat she 
 For my love pity me. 
 Since with my love I burn, — 
 That of the fruit of love, 
 While help may come thereof, 
 ^ She give to me in turn. 
 
MAZZEO DI EICCO DA MESSINA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 He solicits his Lady^s Pity 
 
 THE lofty worth and lovely excellence, 
 Dear lady, that thou hast, 
 Hold me consuming in the fire of love ; 
 That I am much afear'd and wilder'd thence, 
 As who, being meanly placed, 
 Would win unto some height he dreameth of. 
 
 Yet, if it he decreed. 
 After the multiplying of vain thought. 
 By Fortune's favour he at last is brought 
 To his far hope, the mighty bliss indeed. 
 
 Thus, in considering thy loveliness, 
 Love maketh me afear'd, — 
 So higli art thou, joyful, and full of good ; — 
 And all the more, thy scorn being never less. 
 Yet is this comfort heard, — 
 That underneath the. water fire doth brood. 
 
MAZZEO DI RICCO. b't 
 
 Which thing would seem unfit 
 By law of nature. So may thy scorn prove 
 Changed at the l^st, through pity, into love, 
 If favourable Fortune should permit. 
 
 Lady, though I do love past utterance. 
 Let it not seem amiss, 
 Neither rebuke thou the enamour'd eyes. 
 Look thou thyself on thine own countenance, 
 From that charm unto this, 
 All thy perfection of sufficiencies. 
 
 So shalt thou rest assured 
 That tliine exceeding beauty lures me on 
 Perforce, as by the passive magnet-stone 
 The needle, of its nature's self, is lured. 
 
 Certes, it was of Love's dispiteousness 
 That I must set my life 
 On thee, proud lady, who accept'st it not. 
 And how should I attain unto thy grace, 
 That falter, thus at strife 
 To speak to thee the thing which is my thought ? 
 
 Thou, lovely as thou art, 
 I pray for God, when thou dost pass me by, 
 Look upon me : so shalt thou certify. 
 By my cheek's aihng, that which ails my heart. 
 
 So thoroughly my love doth tend toward 
 Thy love its lofty scope. 
 That I may never think to ease my pain ; 
 Because the ice, when it is frozen hard. 
 
58 MAZZEO DI RICCO, 
 
 May have no further hope 
 That it should ever become snow again. 
 But, since Love bids me bend 
 Unto thy signiory, 
 Have pity thou on me, 
 That so upon thyself all grace descend. 
 
MAZZEO DI RICCO. 
 
 59 
 
 n. 
 
 Canzone. 
 After nr years" Sermce he rentmnces his Lady. 
 
 I LABOURED these 8LT years 
 For thee, thou bitter sweet ; 
 Yea, more than it is meet 
 That speech should now rehearse 
 
 Or song should rhjino to thee ; 
 But love gains never aught 
 From thee, bj depth or length ; 
 Unto thine eyes such strength 
 And calmness thou hast taught. 
 
 That I say wearily ; 
 
 " The child is most like me. 
 Who thinks in the clear stream 
 To catch the round flat moon 
 And draw it aU a-dripping unto him,- 
 ^Tio fancies he can take into his hand 
 The flame o' the lamp, but soon 
 Screams and is nigh to swoon 
 At the sharp heat his flesh may not withstand " 
 
60 MAZZEO DI RICCO. 
 
 Though it be late to learn 
 
 How sore I was possest, 
 
 Yet do I count me blest, 
 Because I still can spurn 
 
 This thrall which is so mean. 
 For when a man, once sick. 
 
 Has got his health anew, 
 
 The fever which boil'd through 
 His veins, and made him weak, 
 Is as it had not been. 
 For all that I had seen. 
 Thy spirit, like thy face, 
 
 More excellently shone 
 Than precious crystals in an untrod place. 
 Go to : thy worth is but as glass, the cheat, 
 
 "WTiich, to gaze thereupon. 
 
 Seems crystal, even as one, 
 But only is a cunning counterfeit. 
 
 Foil'd hope has made me mad. 
 As one who, playing high. 
 Thought to grow rich thereby, 
 And loses what he had. 
 
 Yet I can now perceive 
 How true the saying is 
 
 That says : " If one turn back 
 Out of an evil track 
 Through loss which has been his, 
 
 He gains, and need not grieve." 
 To me now, by your leave, 
 
MAZZEO DI BIGCO, 61 
 
 It chances as to him 
 
 WTio of his purse is free 
 To one whose memory for such dehts is dim. 
 Long time he speaks no word thereof, being loth; 
 
 But having ask'd, when he 
 
 Is answer'd sHghtingly, 
 Tlien shall he lose his patience, and be wroth. 
 
i}2 MAZZEO DI RICCO. 
 
 v^ 
 
 m. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 Of Self -seeing. 
 
 IF any his own foolishness might see 
 As he can see his fellow's foolishness, 
 His evil speakings could not but prove less, 
 For his own fault would vex him inwardly. 
 But, by old custom, each man deems that he 
 Has to himself all this world's worthiness ; 
 And thou, perchance, in blind contentedness, 
 Scorn'st him, yet know'st not what / think of thee. 
 Wlierefore I wish it were so ordered 
 
 That each of us might know the good that's his, 
 And also the ill, — ^his honour and his shame. 
 For oft a man has on his proper head 
 
 Such weight of sins, that, did he know but this, 
 He could not for his Ufe give others blame. 
 
PANNUCCIO DAL BAGNO PISANO. 
 
 Canzone. 
 Of his CTiange through Love, 
 
 MY lady, thy delightful high command, 
 Thy wisdom's great intent, 
 The worth which ever rules thee in thy sway, 
 (Whose righteousness of strength has ta*en in hand 
 Such full accomplishment 
 As height makes worthy of more height alway,) 
 Have granted to thy servant some poor due 
 
 Of thy perfection ; who 
 From them has gain'd a proper will so fix'd. 
 
 With other thought unmix'd, 
 That nothing save thy service now impels 
 His life, and his heart longs for nothing else. 
 
 Beneath thy pleasure, lady mine, I am : 
 The circuit of my will, 
 The force of all my life, to serve thee so : 
 Never hut only this I think or name, 
 Nor ever can I fill 
 My heart with other joy that man may know. 
 And hence a sovereign blessedness I draw, 
 Who soon most clearly saw 
 
64 PANNUCGIO DAL BAGNO. 
 
 That not alone my perfect pleasure is 
 
 In this my life -service ; 
 But Love has made my soul with thine to touch 
 Till my heart feels unworthy of so much. 
 
 For all that I could strive, it were not worth 
 That I should be uplift 
 Into thy love, as certainly I know : 
 Since one to thy deserving should stretch forth 
 His love for a free gift, 
 And be full fain to serve and sit below. 
 And forasmuch as this is verity, 
 It came to pass with thee 
 That seeing how my love was not loud-tongued 
 
 Yet for thy service long'd, — 
 As only thy pure wisdom brought to pass, — 
 Thou knew'st my heart for only what it was. 
 
 Also because thou thus at once didst learn 
 This heart of mine and thine, 
 "With all its love for thee, which was and is ; 
 Thy lofty sense that could so well discern 
 Wrought even in me some sign 
 Of thee, and of itself some emphasis. 
 Which evermore might hold my purpose fast. 
 
 For lo ! thy law is pass'd 
 That this my love should manifestly be 
 
 To serve and honour thee : 
 And so I do : and my delight is full, 
 Accepted for the servant of thy rule. 
 
P ANNUO CIO DAL BAGNO. 65 
 
 Without almost, I am all rapturous, 
 Since thus my will was set 
 To serve, thou flower of joy, thine excellence: 
 Nor ever seems it anything could rouse 
 A pain or a regret, 
 But on thee dwells mine every thought and sense ; 
 Considering that from thee all virtues spread 
 
 As from a fountain-head, — 
 That in thy gift is wisdom's best avail 
 
 And honour without fail ; 
 With whom each sovereign good dwells separate 
 Fulfilling the perfection of thy state. 
 
 Lady, since I conceived 
 Thy pleasurable aspect in my heart, 
 
 My life has been apart 
 In shining brightness and the place of truth ; 
 
 WTiich till that time, good sooth. 
 Groped among shadows in a darkened place 
 
 Where many hours and days 
 It hardly ever had remembered good. 
 
 But now my servitude 
 Is thine, and I am full of joy and rest, 
 
 A man from a wild beast 
 Thou madest me, since for thy love I lived. 
 
GIACOMINO PUGLIESI, KNIGHT 
 OF PEATO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Canzonetta. 
 Of Ms Lady in absence. 
 
 TEDE sweetly-favour'd face 
 She has, and her good cheer, 
 Have fill'd me full of grace 
 
 When I have walk'd with her. 
 They did upon that day : 
 And everything that pass'd 
 Comes back from first to last 
 Now that I am away. 
 
 There went from her meek mouth 
 
 A poor low sigh which made 
 My heart sink down for drouth. 
 
 She stoop'd, and sobb'd, and said, — 
 " Sir, I entreat of you 
 
 Make little tarrying : 
 
 It is not a good thing 
 To leave one's love and go." 
 
QTACOMINO PUOLIESL 67 
 
 But when I tum'd about 
 
 Saying, " God keep you well ! " — 
 As she look'd up I thought 
 
 Her lips that were quite pale 
 Strove much to speak, but she 
 
 Had not half strength enough : 
 
 My own dear graceful love 
 Would not let go of me. 
 
 I am not so far, sweet maid, 
 
 That now the old love's unfelt : 
 I believe Tristram had 
 
 No such love for Yseult : 
 And when I see your eyes 
 
 And feel your breath again, 
 
 I shall forget this pain 
 And my whole heart will rise. 
 
68 GIACOMINO PUGLIESI. 
 
 II. 
 
 Canzonetta. 
 
 To his Lady, in Spring. 
 
 TO see tlie green returning 
 To stream-side, garden, and meadow,- 
 To hear the birds give Warning, 
 
 (The laughter of sun and shadow 
 Awaking them full of revel,) 
 
 It puts me in strength to carol 
 A music measured and level. 
 
 This grief in joy to apparel ; 
 For the deaths of lovers are evil. 
 
 Love is a foohsh riot, 
 
 And to be loved is a burden ; 
 Who loves and is loved in quiet 
 
 Has all the world for his guerdon. 
 Ladies on him take pity 
 
 Who for their sake hath trouble : 
 Yet, if any heart be a city 
 
 From Love embarred double. 
 Thereof is a joyful ditty. 
 
OIACOMINO PUGLIESL 69 
 
 That heart shall be always joyful ; — 
 
 But I in the heart, my lady, 
 Have jealous doubts unlawful, 
 
 And stubborn pride stands ready. 
 Yet love is not with a measure, 
 
 But still is willing to suffer 
 Service at his good pleasure : 
 
 The whole Love hath to offer 
 Tends to his perfect treasure. 
 
 Thine be this prelude-music 
 
 That was of thy commanding : 
 Thy gaze was not delusive, — 
 
 Of my heart thou hadst understanding. 
 Lady, by thine attemp'rance 
 
 Thou held'st my life from pining : 
 This tress thou gav'st, in semblance 
 
 Like gold of the third refining. 
 Which I do keep for remembrance. 
 
70 OIACOMINO PUOLIESL 
 
 III. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Of his dead Lady. 
 
 DEATH, why hast thou made Hfe so hard to 
 bear, 
 
 Taking my lady hence ? Hast thou no whit 
 Of shame ? The youngest flower and the most fair 
 
 Thou hast pluck'd away, and the world wanteth it. 
 O leaden Death, hast thou no pitying ? 
 Our warm love's very spring 
 
 Thou stopp'st, and endest what was holy and meet; 
 And of my gladdening 
 Mak'st a most woful thing, 
 And in my heart dost bid the bird not sing 
 
 That sang so sweet. 
 
 Once the great joy and solace that I had 
 Was more than is with other gentlemen : — 
 
 Now is my love gone hence, who made me glad. 
 With her that hope I lived in she hath ta'en. 
 
 And left me nothing but these sighs and tears, — 
 
 Nothing of the old years 
 That come not back again, 
 
Q I AC MI NO PUQLIESL 
 
 Wherein I was so happy, being her's. 
 Now to mine eyes her face no more appears, 
 Nor doth her voice make music in mine ears, 
 As it did then. 
 
 O God, why hast thou made my grief so deep ? 
 
 Why set me in the dark to grope and pine ? 
 Why parted me from her companionship, 
 
 And crush'd the hope which was a gift of thine ? 
 To think, dear, that I never any more 
 Can see thee as before ! 
 
 Wlio is it shuts thee in ? 
 "VVlio hides that smile for which my heart is sore, 
 And drowns those words that I am longing for, 
 
 Lady of mine ? 
 
 Where is my lady, and the lovely face 
 
 She had, and the sweet motion when she walk'd? 
 Her chaste, mild favour — her so delicate grace — 
 
 Her eyes, her mouth, and the dear way she 
 talk'd?— 
 Her courteous bending — her most noble air — 
 The soft fall of her hair ? . . . . 
 My lady — she who to my soul so rare 
 
 A gladness brought ! 
 Now I do never see her anywhere, 
 And may not, looking in her eyes, gain there 
 
 The blessing which I sought. 
 
72 QIACOMINO PUOLIESI. 
 
 So if I had the realm of Hungary, 
 
 With Greece, and all the Almayn even to France, 
 Or Saint Sophia's treasure-hoard, you see 
 
 All could not give me back her countenance. 
 For since the day when my dear lady died 
 From us, (with God being born and glorified,) 
 
 No more pleasaunce 
 Her image bringeth, seated at my side. 
 But only tears. Ay me ! the strength and pride 
 
 Which it brought once. 
 
 Had I my will, beloved, I would say 
 
 To God, unto whose bidding all things bow. 
 That we were still together night and day : 
 
 Yet be it done as His behests allow. 
 I do remember that while she remain'd 
 With me, she often call'd me her sweet friend ; 
 
 But does not now, 
 Because God drew her towards Him, in the end. 
 Lady, that peace which none but He can send 
 
 Be thine. Even so. 
 
FRA GUITTONE D'AEEZZO. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 To the Blessed Virgin Mary, 
 
 LADY of Heaven, the mother glorified 
 Of glory, which is Jesus, — He whose death 
 Us from the gates of Hell delivereth 
 And our first parents' error sets aside : — 
 Behold this eai*tldy Love, how his darts glide — 
 How sharpened — to what fate — throughout this 
 
 earth! 
 Pitiful Mother, partner of our birth. 
 Win these from following where his flight doth guide. 
 And O, inspire in me that holy love 
 Which leads the soul back to its origin. 
 Till of all other love the link do fail. 
 This water only can this fire reprove, — 
 Only such cure suffice for such like sin ; 
 
 As nail from out a plank is struck by nail. 
 
BARTOLOMEO DI SANT' ANGELO. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 He jests concerning his Poverty. 
 
 1AM so passing rich in poverty 
 That I could furnish forth Paris and Rome, 
 Pisa and Padua and Byzantium, 
 Venice and Lucca, Florence and Fori! ; 
 For I possess, in actual specie. 
 
 Of nihil and of nothing a great sum ; 
 And unto this my hoard whole shiploads come. 
 What between nought and zero, annually. 
 In gold and precious jewels I have got 
 
 A hundred ciphers' worth, all roundly ^^Tit ; 
 And therewithal am free to feast my friend. 
 Because I need not be afraid to spend, 
 Nor doubt the safety of my wealth a whit : — 
 No thief will ever steal thereof, God wot. 
 
SALADmO DA PAVIA. 
 
 Dialogue. 
 Ixyver and Lady, 
 
 She. 
 
 FAIR sir, this love of ours, 
 In joy begun so well, 
 I see at length to fail upon thy part : 
 Wherefore my heart sinks very heavily. 
 
 Fair sir, thi* love of ours 
 Began with amorous longing, well I ween : 
 Yea, of one mind, yea, of one heart and will 
 
 This love of ours hath been. 
 Now these are sad and still ; 
 For on thy part at length it fails, I see. 
 And now thou art gone from me. 
 Quite lost to me thou art : 
 \Mierefore my heait in this pain languisheth, 
 Which sinks it unto death thus heavily. 
 
 He. 
 
 Lady, for will of mine 
 Our love had never changed in anywise, 
 
 Had not the choice been thine 
 With so much scorn my homage to despise. 
 
76 SALADINO DA PAVIA, 
 
 I swore not to yield sign 
 Of holding 'gmnst all hope my heart-service. 
 
 Nay, let thus much suffice : — 
 
 From thee whom I hare served, 
 AH undeserved contempt is my reward, — 
 Rich prize prepared to guerdon fealty ! 
 
 She. 
 Fair sir, it oft is found 
 That ladies, who would try their lovers so. 
 
 Have for a season frownM, 
 Not from their heart hut in mere outward show. 
 
 Then chide not on such ground. 
 Since ladies oft have tried their lovers so. 
 Alas, but I will go. 
 If now it he thy wiD. 
 Yet turn thee still, alas ! for I do fear 
 Thou lov'st elsewhere, and therefore fly'st from me. 
 
 He. 
 
 Lady, there needs no doubt 
 Of my good faith, nor any nice suspense 
 
 Lest love be elsewhere sought. 
 For thine did yield me no such recompense, — 
 
 Eest thorf^ured in thought, — 
 That now, within my life's circumference, 
 
 I should not quite dispense 
 My heart from woman's laws. 
 Which for no cause give pain and sore annoy, 
 And for one joy a world of misery. 
 
BONAGGIUNTA URBrCIANI, DA LUCCA. 
 
 L 
 
 Canzone. 
 Of the true End of Love ; with a Prayer to his Lady. 
 
 NEVER was joy or good that did not soothe 
 And beget glorying, 
 Neither a glorying without perfect love, 
 ^lierefore, if one would compass of a truth 
 The flight of his soul's wing. 
 To bear a loving heart must him behove. 
 Since from the flower man still expects the fruit, 
 And, out of love, that he desireth ; 
 
 . Seeing that by good faith 
 
 Alone hath love its comfort and its joy ; 
 
 For, suffering falsehood, love were at the root 
 
 Dead of all worth, which Hving must aspire ; 
 
 Nor could it breed desire 
 
 If its reward were less than its annoy. 
 
 Even such the joy, the triumph, and pleasaunce. 
 
 Whose issue honour is. 
 And grace, and the most delicate teaching sent 
 To amorous knowledge, its inheritance ; 
 
 Because Love's properties 
 
78 BONAGQIUNTA URBIOIANL 
 
 Alter not by a true accomplishment ; 
 But it were scarcely well if one should gain, 
 Without much pain, so great a blessedness ; 
 
 He errs, when all things bless, 
 Whose heart had else been humbled to implore. 
 He gets not joy who gives no joy again ; 
 Nor can win love whose love hath little scope ; 
 Nor fully can know hope 
 Who leaves not of the thing most languished for. 
 
 Wherefore his choice must err immeasurably 
 Who seeks the image when 
 He might behold the thing substantial. 
 I at the noon have seen dark night to be. 
 Against earth's natural plan. 
 And what was good to worst abasement fall. 
 Then be thus much sufficient, lady mine ; 
 If of thy mildness pity may be born. 
 
 Count thou my grief outworn, 
 And turn into sweet joy this better ill ; 
 Lest I might change, if left too long to pine : 
 As one who, journeying, in mid path should stay. 
 And not pursue his way. 
 But should go back against his proper will. 
 
 Natheless I hope, yea trust, to make an end 
 
 Of the beginning made. 
 Even by this sign — that yet I triumph not. 
 And if in truth, against my will constrain'd. 
 
 To turn my steps essay'd, 
 
BONAOGIUNTA URBICIANI. 79 
 
 No courage have I neither strength, God wot. 
 Such is Love's rule, who thus subdueth me 
 B^ thy sweet face, lovely and delicate ; 
 
 Through which I Hve elate, 
 But in such longing that I die for love. 
 Ah ! and these words as nothing seem to be : 
 For love to such a constant fear has chid 
 My heart, that I keep hid 
 Much more than I have dared to tell thee of. 
 
80 BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI. 
 
 II. 
 Canzonetta. 
 
 How he dreams of his Lady. 
 
 LADY, my wedded thought, 
 When to thy shape 'tis wrought, 
 Can think of nothing else 
 
 But only of thy grace. 
 
 And of those gentle ways 
 Wherein thy life excels. 
 For ever, sweet one, dwells 
 Thine image on my sight, 
 
 (Even as it were the gem 
 
 Whose name is as thy name)* 
 And fills the sense with light. 
 
 Continual ponderings 
 
 That brood upon these things 
 
 Yield constant agony : 
 
 Yea, the same thoughts have crept 
 About me as I slept. 
 My spirit looks at me. 
 And asks, " Is sleep for thee? 
 
 * The lady was probably called Diamante, Margherita, or 
 some similar name. 
 
BONAOGIUNTA URBICIANL 81 
 
 Nay, mourner, do not sleep. 
 
 But fix thine eyes, for lo ! 
 
 Love's fulness thou shalt know 
 By steadfast gaze and deep." 
 
 Then, burning, I awake, 
 Sore tempted to partake 
 Of dreams that seek thy sight : 
 
 Until, being greatly stirr'd, 
 
 I turn to where I heard 
 That whisper in the night ; 
 And there a breath of light 
 Shines like a silver star. 
 
 The same is mine own soul. 
 
 Which lures me to the goal 
 Of dreams that gaze afar. 
 
 But now my sleep is lost ; 
 And through this uttermost 
 Sharp longing for thine eyes, 
 
 At length it may be said 
 
 That I indeed am mad 
 With love's extremities. 
 Yet when in such sweet wise 
 Thou passest and dost smile, 
 
 My heart so fondly bums, 
 
 That unto sweetness turns 
 Its bitter pang the while. 
 
 Even so Love rends apart 
 My spirit and my heart, 
 
82 BONAGQIUNTA URBICIANI. 
 
 Lady, in loving thee ; 
 
 Till when I see thee now, 
 
 Life beats within my brow 
 And would be gone from me. 
 So hear I ceaselessly 
 Love's whisper, well fulfill'd, — 
 
 Even I am he, even so, 
 
 Whose Jlame thy heart doth Tcnow : 
 And while I strive I yield. 
 
BONAQGIUNTA URBICIANI. 83 
 
 IIL 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Wisdom and Foresight. 
 
 SUCH wisdom as a little child displays 
 Were not amiss in certain lords of fame : 
 For, where he fell, thenceforth he shmis the place, 
 
 And, having sufFer'd blows, he feareth them. 
 Who knows not this may forfeit all he sways 
 
 At length, and find his friends go as they came. 
 O therefore on the past time turn thy face. 
 And, if thy will do err, forget the same. 
 Because repentance brings not back the past : 
 Better thy will should bend than thy life break : 
 Who knows not this, by him shall it appear. 
 And, because even from fools the wise may make 
 Wisdom, the first should count himself the last, 
 Since a dog scourged can bid the Hon fear. 
 
 I 
 
84 BONAGGIUNTA URBICIANI. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Continence in Speecli. 
 
 WHOSO abandons peace for war-seeking, 
 'Tis of all reason he should bear the 
 smart. 
 Whoso hath evil speech, his medicine 
 Is silence, lest it seem a hateful art. 
 To vex the wasps' nest is not a wise thing ; 
 
 Yet who rebukes his neighbour in good part, 
 A hundred years shall show his right therein. 
 
 Too prone to fear, one wrongs another's heart. 
 If ye but knew what may be known to me. 
 Ye would fall sorry sick, nor be thus bold 
 To cry among your fellows your ill thought. 
 Wherefore I would that every one of ye 
 
 Who thinketh ill, his ill thought should withhold : 
 If that ye would not hear it, speak it not. 
 
MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA, DA PISTOIA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Canzone. 
 He will be silent and watchful in Jiis Love. 
 
 YOUR joyful understanding, lady mine, 
 Those honours of fair life 
 Which all in you agree to pleasantness, 
 Long since to service did my heart assign ; 
 That never it has strife, 
 Nor once remembers other means of grace ; 
 But this desire alone gives light to it. 
 
 Behold, my pleasure, by your favoiu*, drew 
 Me, lady, unto you. 
 All beauty's and all joy's reflection here : 
 From whom good women also have thought fit 
 To take their life's example every day ; 
 \\Tiom also to obey 
 My wish and will have wrought, with love and fear. 
 
 With love and fear to yield obedience, I 
 Might never half deserve : 
 Yet you must know, merely to look on me, 
 How my heart holds its love and lives thereby ; 
 Though, well intent to serve, 
 
86 MEO ABBBACCIAVACCA. 
 
 It can accept Love's arrow silently. [ 
 
 'Twere late to wait, ere I would render plain 
 My heart, (thus much I tell you, as I should,) 
 Which, to be understood, 
 Craves therefore the fine quickness of your glance. 
 So shall you know my love of such high strain 
 As never yet was shown by its own will ; 
 Whose proffer is so still, 
 That love in heart hates love in countenance. 
 
 In countenance oft the heart is evident 
 Full clad in mirth's attire 
 Wherein at times it overweens to waste : 
 Which yet of selfish joy or foul intent 
 Doth hide the deep desire. 
 And is, of heavy surety, double-faced ; 
 Upon things double therefore look ye twice. 
 O ye that love ! not what is fair alone 
 Desire to make your own. 
 But a wise woman, fair in purity ; 
 Nor think that any, without sacrifice 
 Of his own nature, suffers service still ; 
 But out of high free-will ; 
 In honour propp'd, though bow'd in dignity. 
 
 In dignity as best I may, must I 
 
 The guerdon very grand, 
 The whole of it, secured in purpose, sing ? 
 Lady, whom all my heart doth magnify. 
 
 You took me in your hand, 
 
MEO ABBRACCIAVACCA. 87 
 
 Ah ! not ungraced with other guerdoning : 
 For you of your sweet reason gave me rest 
 From yearning, from desire, from potent pain ; 
 Till, now, if Death should gain 
 Me to his kingdom, it would pleasure me. 
 Having obey'd the whole of your behest. 
 
 Since you have drawn, and I am yours by lot, 
 I pray you doubt me not 
 Lest my faith swerve, for this could never be. 
 
 Could never be ; because the natural heart 
 Will absolutely build 
 Her dwelling-place within the gates of truth : 
 And, if it be no grief to bear her part, 
 Why, then by change were fill'd 
 The measure of her shame beyond all ruth. 
 And therefore no delay shall once disturb 
 My bounden service, nor bring grief to it ; 
 Nor unto you deceit. 
 True ^drtue her provision first affords. 
 Ere she yield grace, lest afterward some curb 
 Or check should come, and evil enter in : 
 For alway shame and sin 
 Stand covered, ready, full of faithful words. 
 
88 MEO ABBRACCIAVACGA, 
 
 n. 
 
 Ballata. 
 
 His Life is by Contraries. 
 
 BY the long sojourning 
 That I have made with grief, 
 I am quite changed, you see ; — 
 If I weep, 'tis for glee ; 
 I smile at a sad thing ; 
 Despair is my rehef. 
 
 Good hap makes me afraid ; 
 Ruin seems rest and shade ; 
 
 In May the year is old ; 
 With friends I am ill at ease ; 
 Among foes I find peace ; 
 
 At noonday I feel cold. 
 
 The thing that strengthens others, frightens me. 
 
 If I am grieved, I sing ; 
 
 I chafe at comforting ; 
 111 fortune makes me smile exultingly. 
 
 And yet, though all my days are thus, — despite 
 
 A shaken mind, and eyes 
 
 Which see by contraries, — 
 I know that without wings is an ill flight. 
 
UBALDO DI MARCO. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 Of a Ladxfs Love for him. 
 
 MY body resting in a haunt of mine, 
 I ranged among alternate memories ; 
 What while an unseen noble lady*s eyes 
 Were fix'd upon me, yet she gave no sign ; 
 To stay and go she sweetly did incline, 
 Always afiaid lest there were any spies ; 
 Then reach'd to me, — and smelt it in sweet wise, 
 And reach'd to me — some sprig of bloom or bine. 
 Conscious of perfume, on my side I leant, 
 And rose upon my feet, and gazed around 
 To see the plant whose flower could so beguile. 
 Finding it not, I sought it by the scent ; 
 
 And by the scent, in truth, the plant I found, 
 Ajid rested in its shadow a great while. 
 
SIMBUONO GIUDICE. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 He finds that Love has beguiled him, but will 
 trust in his Lady. 
 
 OFTEN the day had a most joyful mom 
 That bringeth grief at last 
 Unto the human heart which deem'd all well : 
 Of a sweet seed the fruit was often born 
 That hath a bitter taste : 
 Of mine own knowledge, oft it thus befell. 
 I say it for myself, who, foolishly 
 Expectant of all joy, 
 Triumphing undertook 
 To love a lady proud and beautiful, 
 For one poor glance vouchsafed in mirth to me : 
 Wherefrom sprang all annoy : 
 For, since the day Love shook 
 My heart, she ever hath been cold and cruel. 
 
 Well thought I to possess my joy complete 
 When that sweet look of her's 
 I felt upon me, amorous and kind : 
 
 Now is my hope even underneath my feet. 
 And still the arrow stirs 
 
SIMBUONO GIUDICE. 91 
 
 Within my heart — (oh hurt no skill can hind!) — 
 Which through mine eyes found entrance cunningly ; 
 In manner as through glass 
 Light pierces from the sun, 
 And hreaks it not, but wins its way beyond, — 
 As into an unalter'd miiTor, free 
 
 And still, some shape may pass. 
 Yet has my heart begun 
 To break, methinks, for I on death grow fond. 
 
 But, even though death were long'd for, the sharp 
 wound 
 I have might yet be healM, 
 And I not ahogether sink to death. 
 In mine own foolishness the curse I found. 
 Who foolish faith did yield 
 Unto mine eyes, in hope that sickeneth. 
 Yet might love still exult and not be sad — 
 (For some such utterance 
 Is at my secret heart) — 
 If from herself the cure it could obtain, — 
 Who hath indeed the power Achilles had, 
 To wit, that of his lance. 
 The wound could by no art 
 Be closed till it were touched therewith again. 
 
 So must I needs appeal for pity now' 
 From her on her own fault. 
 And in my prayer put meek humility : 
 For certes her much worth will not allow 
 
92 SIMBUONO GIUDICE. 
 
 That anything be call'd 
 Treacherousness in such an one as she, 
 In whom is judgment and true excellence. 
 Wherefore I cry for grace ; 
 Not doubting that all good, 
 Joy, wisdom, pity, must from her be shed ; 
 For scarcely should it deal in death's oflfence, 
 The so-beloved face 
 
 So watch'd for ; rather should 
 All death and ill be thereby subjected. 
 
 And since, in hope of mercy, I have bent 
 Unto her ordinance 
 Humbly my heart, my body, and my life. 
 Giving her perfect power acknowledgment, — 
 I think some kinder glance 
 She'll deign, and, in mere pity, pause from strife. 
 She surely shall enact the good lord's part : 
 When one whom force compels 
 Doth yield, he is pacified, 
 Forgiving him therein where he did err. 
 Ah ! well I know she hath the noble heart 
 Which in the lion quells 
 Obduracy of pride ; 
 Whose nobleness is for a crown on her. 
 
MASOLINO DA TODI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 Of WcyrJc and Wealth. 
 
 A MAN should hold in very dear esteem 
 The first possession that his labours gaio'd 
 For, though great riches be at length attained, 
 From that first mite they were increased to him. 
 Who followeth after his own wilful whim 
 Shall see himself outwitted in the end ; 
 Wherefore I still would have him apprehend 
 His fall, who toils not being once supreme. 
 Thou seldom shalt find folly, of the worst, 
 Holding companionship with poverty. 
 Because it is distracted of much care. 
 Howbeit, if one that hath been poor at first 
 Is brought at last to wealth and dignity, 
 Still the worst folly thou shalt find it there. 
 
ONESTO DI BONCIMA, BOLOGNESE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of the Last Judgment. 
 
 UPON that cruel season when our Lord 
 Shall come to judge the world eternally ; 
 When to no man shall anything afford 
 
 Peace in the heart, how pm-e soe*er it he ; 
 "When heaven shall break asunder at His word, 
 With a great trembling of the earth and sea ; 
 When even the just shall fear the dreadful sword,- 
 The wicked crying, " Where shall I cover me?"- 
 When no one angel in His presence stands 
 That shall not be affrighted of that wrath. 
 Except the Virgin Lady, she our guide ; — 
 How shall I then escape, whom sin commands ? 
 Out and alas on me ! There is no path 
 If in her prayers I be not justified. 
 
ONES TO DI BONO IMA. 95 
 
 n. 
 
 Sonnet, 
 
 He wishes that he could meet his Lady ahne, 
 
 WHETHER all grace have failM I scarce 
 may scan, 
 Be it of mere mischance, or art's ill sway, 
 That this-wise, Monday, Tuesday, every day. 
 Afflicts me, through her means, with bale and ban. 
 Now are my days but as a painful span ; 
 
 Nor once " Take heed of dying" did she say. 
 I thank thee for my life thus cast away, 
 Thou who hast wearied out a living man. 
 Yet, oh I my Lord, if I were bless'd no more 
 Than thus much, — clothed with thy humility, 
 To find her for a single hour alone, — 
 Such perfectness of joy would triumph o'er 
 This grief wherein I waste, that I should be 
 As a new image of Love to look upon. 
 
TEEINO DA CASTEL FIOEENTINO. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 To Onesto di Boncima, in answer to the Foregoing. 
 
 IF, as thou say'st, thy love tormented thee. 
 That thou thereby wast in the fear of death, 
 Messer Onesto, couldst thou bear to be 
 
 Far from Love's self, and breathing other breath ? 
 Nay, thou wouldst pass beyond the greater sea 
 
 (I do not speak of the Alps, an easy path). 
 For thy life's gladdening ; if so to see 
 
 That light which for my life no comfort hath. 
 But rather makes my grief the bitterer : 
 
 For I have neither ford nor bridge — no course 
 To reach my lady, or send word to her. 
 And there is not a greater pain, I think, 
 
 Than to see waters at the limpid source. 
 And to be much athirst, and not to drink. 
 
MAESTRO MIGLIORE, DA FIORENZA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He declares all Love to be Grief. 
 
 LOVE, taking leave, my heart then leaveth me. 
 And is enamour'd even while it would shun ; 
 For I have look'd so long upon the sun 
 That tlio sun*s glory is now in all I see. 
 To its first will unwilling may not be 
 
 This heart (though by its will its death be won), 
 Having remembrance of the joy forerun : 
 Yea, all hfe else seems dy\ng constantly. 
 Ay and alas ! in love is no relief. 
 
 For any man who loveth in full heart, 
 That is not rather grief than gratefulnesB. 
 Whoso desires it, the beginning is giicf ; 
 
 Also the end is grief, most grievous smart ; 
 And grief is in the middle, and is call'd grace. 
 
DELLO DA SIGNA. 
 
 Ballata. 
 His Creed of Ideal Love. 
 
 PROHIBITING all hope 
 Of tlie fulfilment of the joy of love. 
 My lady chose me for her lover still. 
 
 So am I lifted up 
 To trust her heart which piteous pulses move, 
 Her face which is her joy made visible. 
 
 Nor have I any fear 
 Lest love and service should be met with scorn, 
 Nor doubt that thus I shall rejoice the more. 
 
 For ruth is born of prayer ; 
 Also, of ruth delicious love is born ; 
 
 And service wrought makes glad the servitor. 
 
 Behold, I, serving more than others, love 
 One lovely more than aU ; 
 And, singing and exulting, look for joy 
 There where my homage is for ever paid. 
 
 And, for I know she does not disapprove 
 If on her grace I call, 
 My soul's good trust I will not yet destroy, 
 Though Love's fulfilment stand prohibited. 
 
FOLGORE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 
 
 L 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To the Quelf Factum. 
 
 BECAUSE je made jour backs your shields, it 
 came 
 To pass, ye Guelfs, that these your enemies 
 From hares grew lions : and because your eyes 
 Tum'd horaov'ard, and your spurs e'en did the same, 
 Full many an one who still might win the game 
 In fever'd tracts of exile pines and dies. 
 Ye blew your bubbles as the falcon flies. 
 And the wind broke them up and scattered them. 
 This counsel, therefore. Shape your high resolves 
 In good king Robert's humour,* and afresh 
 Accept your shames, forgive, and go your way. 
 And so her peace is made with Pisa ! Yea, 
 What cares she for the miserable flesh 
 That in the wilderness has fed the wolves ? 
 
 • See what is said ia allusion to his government of 
 Florence by Dante, {Parad. C. viu.) 
 
100 FOLQORE DA 
 
 n. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To the Same. 
 
 WERE ye but constant, Guelfs, in war or 
 peace, 
 As in divisions ye are constant still ! 
 There is no wisdom in your stubborn will. 
 Wherein all good things wane, all harms increase. 
 But each upon his fellow looks, and sees 
 And looks again, and likes his favour ill ; 
 And traitors rule ye ; and on his own sill 
 Each stirs the fire of household enmities. 
 What, Guelfs ! and is Monte Catini* quite 
 Forgot, — where still the mothers and sad wives 
 Keep widowhood, and curse the Ghibellins ? 
 O fathers, brothers, yea, all dearest kins I 
 Those men of ye that cherish kindred lives, 
 Even once again must set their teeth and fight. 
 
 * The battle of Monte Catini was fought and won by the 
 Ghibelline leader Uguccione della Faggiola against the 
 Florentines; August 29, 1315. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 101 
 
 III. 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Virtue. 
 
 THE flower of Virtue is the heart's content ; 
 And fame is Virtue's fiiiit that she doth bear; 
 And Virtue's vase is fair without and fair 
 Within ; and Virtue's min*or brooks no taint ; 
 And Virtue by her names is sage and saint ; 
 And Virtue hath a steatlfast front and clear ; 
 And Love is Virtue's constant minister ; 
 And Virtue's gift of gifts is pure descent. 
 And Virtue dwells with knowledge, and therein 
 Her cherish'd home of rest is real love ; 
 
 And Virtue's strength is in a sufi*ering will ; 
 And Virtue's work is life exempt from sin, 
 With arms that aid ; and in the sum hereof, 
 All Virtue is to render good for ill. 
 
102 FOLGORE DA 
 
 OF THE MONTHS. 
 Twelve Sonnets. 
 
 Addressed to a FellowsJiip of Sienese Nobles.* 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 UNTO the blithe and lordly Fellowship, 
 (I know not where, but wheresoe'er, I know, 
 Lordly and blithe,) be greeting ; and thereto. 
 Dogs, hawks, and a full purse wherein to dip ; 
 Quails struck i' the flight; nags mettled to the whip; 
 
 * This fellowship or club (Brigata), so highly approved 
 and encouraged by our Folgore, is the same to which, and to 
 some of its members by name, scornful allusion is made by 
 Dante (^Inferno, C xxix. 1. 130), where he speaks of the 
 hair-brained character of the Sienese. Mr. Cayley, in his 
 valuable notes on Dante, says of it : "A dozen extravagant 
 youths of Siena had put together by equal contributions 
 216,000 florins to spend in pleasuring ; they were reduced in 
 about a twelvemonth to the extremes of poverty. It was 
 their practice to give mutual entertainments twice a month ; 
 at each of which, three tables having been sumptuously 
 covered, they would feast at one, wash their hands on 
 another, and throw the last out of window." 
 
 There exists a second curious series of sonnets for the 
 months, addressed also to this club, by Cene della Chitarra 
 d'Arezzo. Here, however, all sorts of disasters and discom- 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 103 
 
 Hart-hounds, hare-hounds, and blood-hounds 
 even so ; 
 
 And o'er that realm, a crown for Niccol6, 
 Whose praise m Siena springs fi'om lip to Up. 
 Tingoccio, Atuin di Togno, and Ancaiin, 
 
 Bartolo and Mugaro and Faenot, 
 Who well might pass for children of King Ban, 
 
 Courteous and valiant more than Lancelot, — 
 To each, God speed ! How worthy every man 
 
 To hold high tournament in Camelot. 
 
 forts, in the same parstiita of which Folgore treats, are 
 imagined for the prodigals ; each sonnet, too, being composed 
 Avith the same terminations in its rhymes as the correspond- 
 ing one among his. They would seem to have been written 
 after the niin of the club, as a satirical prophecy of the year 
 to succeed the golden one. But this second series, though 
 sometimes laughable, not having the poetical merit of the 
 first, I have not included it. 
 
 My translations of Folgure's sonnets were made from the 
 versions given in the forlorn Florentine collection of 1816, 
 where editorial incompetence walks naked and not ashamed, 
 indulging indeed in gambols as of Punch, and words which 
 no voice but his could utter. Not till my book was in the 
 printer's hands, did I meet with Nannucci's Manuale del Primo 
 Secolo ( 1843), and am sorry that it is too late to avail myself 
 of lights cast here and there by him on dark passages through 
 which I had groped as I could. Nor is it only in these son- 
 nets that his suggestions might have done me service, though 
 fortunately the instances are never of much importance. 
 
104 FOLQOBE DA 
 
 JANUAEY. 
 
 FOR January I give you vests of skins, 
 And mighty fires in hall, and torches lit ; 
 
 Chambers and happy beds with all things fit ; 
 Smooth silken sheets, rough furry counterpanes ; 
 And sweetmeats baked; and one that deftly spins 
 
 Warm arras ; and Douay cloth, and store of it ; 
 
 And on this merry manner still to twit 
 The wind, when most his mastery the wind wins. 
 Or issuing forth at seasons in the day, 
 
 Ye'll fling soft handfuls of the fair white snow 
 Among the damsels standing round, in play : 
 
 And when you all are tired and all aglow, 
 Indoors again the court shall hold its sway. 
 
 And the free Fellowship continue so. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 105 
 
 FEBRUAKY. 
 
 IN February I give you gallant sport 
 Of harts and liinds and gieat wild boars ; and all 
 Your company good foresters and tall, 
 With buskins strong, with jerkins close and short ; 
 And in your leashes, hounds of brave report ; 
 And from your purses, plenteous money-fall. 
 In very spleen of misers' starveling gall, 
 Who at your generous customs snarl and snort. 
 At dusk wend homeward, ye and all yom* folk 
 All laden from the wilds, to your carouse. 
 With merriment and songs accompanied : 
 And so draw wine and let the kitchen smoke ; 
 And so be till the first watch glorious ; 
 
 Then sound sleep to you till the day be wide. 
 
106 FOLGORE DA 
 
 MAECH. 
 
 IN March I give you plenteous fisheries 
 Of lamprey and of salmon, eel and trout, 
 Dental and dolphin, sturgeon, all the rout 
 Of fish in all the streams that fill the seas. 
 With fishermen and fishinghoats at ease, 
 
 Sail-barques and arrow-barques and galeons stout. 
 To bear you, while the season lasts, far out, 
 And back, through spring, to any port you please. 
 But with fair mansions see that it be fill'd, 
 With everything exactly to your mind. 
 And every sort of comfortable folk. 
 No convent sufi'er there, nor priestly guild : 
 
 Leave the mad monks to preach after their kind 
 Their scanty truth, their hes beyond a joke. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 107 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 I GIVE you meadow-lands in April, fair 
 With over-growth of beautiful green grass ; 
 There among fountains the glad hours shall pass, 
 And pleasant ladies bring you solace there. 
 With steeds of Spain and ambling palfreys rare ; 
 Provencal songs and dances that surpass ; 
 And quaint French mummings ; and through 
 hollow brass 
 A sound of German music on the air. 
 And gardens ye shall have, that every one 
 May lie at ease about the fragrant place ; 
 
 And each with fitting reverence shall bow down 
 Unto that youth to whom I gave a crown 
 Of precious jewels like to those that grace 
 The Babylonian Kaiser, Prester John. 
 
108 FOLQOBE DA 
 
 MAY. 
 
 1GIVE you horses for your games in May, 
 And all of them well train'd unto the course,— 
 
 Each docile, swift, erect, a goodly horse ; 
 With armour on their chests, and bells at play 
 Between their brows, and pennons fair and gay ; 
 
 Fine nets, and housings meet for warriors, 
 
 Emblazon'd with the shields ye claim for yours. 
 Gules, argent, or, all dizzy at noonday. 
 And spears shall split, and fruit go flying up 
 In merry counterchange for wreaths that drop 
 
 From balconies and casements far above ; 
 And tender damsels with young men and youths 
 Shall kiss together on the cheeks and mouths ; 
 
 And every day be glad with joyftil love. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 109 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 IN June I give you a close- wooded fell, 
 With crowns of thicket coil'd about its head, 
 
 With thirty villas twelve times turreted, 
 All girdling round a little citadel ; 
 And in the midst a springhead and fair well 
 
 With thousand conduits branch'd and shining 
 speed, 
 
 Wounding the garden and the tender mead. 
 Yet to the freshen'd grass acceptable. 
 And lemons, citrons, dates, and oranges, 
 
 And all the fruits whose savour is most rare, 
 Shall shine witliin the shadow of your trees ; 
 
 And every one shall be a lover there ; 
 Until your life, so iill'd with courtesies, 
 
 Throughout the world be counted debonair. 
 
no FOLQOBE DA 
 
 JULY. 
 
 FOE July, in Siena, by the willow-tree, 
 I give you barrels of wliite Tuscan wine 
 
 In ice far down your cellars stored supine ; 
 And morn and eve to eat in company 
 Of those vast jellies dear to you and me ; 
 
 Of partridges and youngling pheasants sweet, 
 
 Boil'd capons, sovereign kids : and let their treat 
 Be veal and garlic, with whom these agree. 
 Let time slip by, till by-and-by, all day ; 
 
 And never swelter through the heat at all. 
 But move at ease at home, sound, cool, and gay ; 
 
 And wear sweet-colour'd robes that Hghtly fall; 
 And keep your tables set in fresh array. 
 
 Not coaxing spleen to be your seneschal. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. Ill 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 FOE August, be your dwelling thirty towers 
 Within an Alpine valley mountainous, 
 Where never the sea-wind may vex your house, 
 But clear life sepamte, hke a star, be yours. 
 There horses shall wait saddled at all hours, 
 That ye may mount at morning or at eve : 
 On each hand either ridge ye shall perceive, 
 A mile apart, which soon a good beast scours. 
 So alway, drawing homewards, ye shall tread 
 Your valley parted by a rivulet 
 
 Which day and night shall flow sedate and 
 smooth. 
 There all through noon ye may possess the shade. 
 And there your open purses shall entreat 
 The best of Tuscan cheer to feed your youth. 
 
112 FOLGOEE DA 
 
 SEPTEMBEE. 
 
 AND in September, O what keen delight ! 
 Falcons and astors, merlins, sparrowhawks ; 
 Decoy-birds that shall lure jour game in flocks ; 
 And hounds with bells ; and gauntlets stout and 
 
 tight ; 
 Wide pouches ; crossbows shooting out of sight ; 
 Arblasts and javelins ; balls and ball-cases ; 
 All birds the best to fly at ; moulting these. 
 Those rear'd by hand ; with finches mean and slight ; 
 And for their chase, all birds the best to fly ; 
 And each to each of you be lavish still 
 In gifts ; and robbery find no gainsaying ; 
 And if you meet with travellers going by, 
 Their purses from your purse's flow shall fill ; 
 And avarice be the only outcast thing. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 113 
 
 OCTOBEE. 
 
 NEXT, for October, to some sheltered coign 
 Floutingthe winds, I'll hope to find yon slunk ; 
 Though in bird-shooting (lest all sport be sunk), 
 Your foot still press the turf, the horse your groin. 
 At night with sweethearts in the dance you'll join. 
 And drink the blessed must, and get quite drunk. 
 There's no such life for any human trunk ; 
 And that's a truth that rings like golden coin ! 
 Then, out of bed again when morning's come, 
 Let your hands drench your face refreshingly, 
 And take your physic roast, with flask and knife. 
 Sounder and snugger you shall feel at home 
 Than lake-fish, river-fish, or fish at sea, 
 Inheriting the cream of Christian life. 
 
114 FOLQOBE DA 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 LET baths and wine-butts be November's due, 
 With thirty mule- loads of broad gold-pieces; 
 And canopy with silk the streets that freeze ; 
 And keep your drink-horns steadily in view. 
 Let every trader have his gain of you : 
 
 Clareta shall your lamps and torches send, — 
 Oaeta, citron-candies without end ; 
 And each shall drink, and help his neighbour to. 
 And let the cold be great, and the fire grand : 
 And still for fowls, and pastries sweetly wrought, 
 For hares and kids, for roast and boil'd, be sure 
 You always have your appetites at hand ; 
 
 And then let night howl and heaven fall, so nought 
 Be miss'd that makes a man's bed-furniture. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 116 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 LAST, for December, houses on the plain. 
 Ground-floors to live in, logs heap'd moun- 
 tain-high. 
 And carpets stretched, and newest games to try, 
 And torches lit, and gifts from man to man : 
 (Your host, a drunkard and a Catalan ;) 
 
 And whole dead pigs, and cunning cooks to ply 
 Each throat with tit-bits that shall satisfy ; 
 And wine-butts of Saint Galganus' brave span. 
 And be your coats well-lined and tightly bound. 
 And wrap yourselves in cloaks of strength and 
 weight, 
 With gallant hoods to put your faces through. 
 And make your game of abject vagabond 
 Abandon'd miserable reprobate 
 
 Misers ; don't let them have a chance with you. 
 
116 FOLOORE DA 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 AND now take thought, my sonnet, who is he 
 That most is full of every gentleness ; 
 And say to him (for thou shalt quickly guess 
 His name) that all his 'hests are law to me. 
 For if I held fair Paris town in fee, 
 
 And were not call'd his friend, 'twere surely less. 
 Ah ! had he but the emperor's wealth, my place 
 Were fitted in his love more steadily 
 Than is Saint Francis at Assisi. Alway 
 Commend me unto him and his, — not least 
 To Caian, held so dear in the blithe band. 
 " Folgore da San Geminiano" (say,) 
 
 " Has sent me, charging me to travel fast, 
 Because his heart went with you in your hand." 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 117 
 
 OF THE WEEK. 
 Seven Sonnets. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 THEKE is among my thoughts the joyous plan 
 To fashion a bright-jewell'd carcanet, 
 Which I upon such worthy brows would set, 
 To say, it suits them fairly as it can. 
 And now I have newly found a gentleman, 
 Of courtesies and birth commensurate, 
 Who better would become the imperial state 
 Than fits the gem within the signet's span. 
 Carlo di Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli,* 
 
 Of him I speak, — brave, wise, of just award 
 And generous service, let who list command ; 
 And lithelier limb'd than ounce or leopard. 
 He holds not money-bags, as children, holy ; 
 For Lombard Este hath no freer hand. 
 
 • That is, according to early Tuscan nomenclature ; Carlo, 
 the ton of Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli. 
 
118 FOLOORE DA 
 
 MONDAY. 
 
 The Day of Songs and Love. 
 
 NOW with the moon the day-star Lucifer 
 Departs, and night is gone at last, and day 
 Brings, making all men's spirits strong and gay, 
 
 A gentle wind to gladden the new air. 
 
 Lo ! this is Monday, the week's harbinger ; 
 Let music breathe her softest matin-lay. 
 And let the loving damsels sing to-day. 
 
 And the sun wound with heat at noontide here. 
 
 And thou, young lord, arise and do not sleep, 
 For now the amorous day inviteth thee 
 
 The harvest of thy lady's youth to reap. 
 
 Let coursers round the door, and palfreys, be, 
 With squires and pages clad delightfully ; 
 
 And Love's commandments have thou heed to keep. 
 
SAN GEMINIANO. 119 
 
 TUESDAY. 
 
 TJie Day of Batiks. 
 
 TO a new world on Tuesday shifts my song, 
 WTiere beat of drum is heard, and trumpet- 
 blast; 
 
 WTiere footmen arm'd and horsemen arm'd go past. 
 And bells say ding to bells that answer dong ; 
 Where he the fii-st and after him the throng, 
 
 Arm'd all of them with coats and hoods of steel, 
 
 Shall see their foes and make their foes to feel, 
 And so in wrack and rout drive them along. 
 Then hither, thither, di-agging on the field 
 
 His master, empty-seated goes the horse, 
 'Mid entrails strown abroad of soldiers kill'd ; 
 
 Till blow to camp those trumpeters of yours 
 Who noise awhile your triumph and are still'd. 
 
 And to your tents you come back conquerors. 
 
120 FOLQORE DA 
 
 WEDNESDAY. 
 
 The Day of Feasts. 
 
 AND every "Wednesday, as the swift days mov?, 
 Pheasant and peacock -shooting out of doors 
 
 You'll have, and multitude of hares to course. 
 And after you come home, good cheer enough; 
 And sweetest ladies at the board above, 
 
 Children of kings and counts and senators ; 
 
 And comely-favour'd youthful bachelors 
 To serve them, bearing garlands, for true love. 
 
 And still let cups of gold and silver ware, 
 Runlets of vernage-wine and wine of Greece, 
 
 Comfits and cakes be found at bidding there ; 
 And let your gifts of birds and game increase ; 
 
 And let all those who in your banquet share 
 Sit with bright faces perfectly at ease. 
 
SAN GEMINI ANO. 121 
 
 THURSDAY. 
 
 TTie Day of Jousts and Tournaments, 
 
 FOR Thursday be the tournament prepared, 
 And gentlemen in lordly jousts compete : 
 Fh^t man with man, together let them meet, — 
 By fifties and by hundreds afterward. 
 Let arms with housings each bo fitly pair'd, 
 And fitly hold your battle to its heat 
 From the third hour to vespers, after meat ; 
 Till the best-winded be at last declared. 
 Then back unto your beauties, as ye came : 
 Wliere upon sovereign beds, with wise control 
 Of leeches, shall your hurts be swathed in bands. 
 The ladies shall assist with their own hands. 
 And each be so well paid in seeing them 
 That on the morrow he be sound and whole. 
 
122 FOLGOBE DA 
 
 FEIDAY. 
 
 The Day of Hunting. 
 
 LET Friday be your highest hunting-tide, 
 — 'No hound nor brach nor mastiff absent 
 thence, — 
 Through a low wood, by many miles of dens, 
 All covert, where the cunning beasts abide : 
 Which now driven forth, at first you scatter wide, — 
 Then close on them, and rip out blood and breath : 
 Till all your huntsmens' horns wind at the death, 
 And you count up how many beasts have died. 
 Then, men and dogs together brought, you'll say : 
 Go fairly greet from us this friend and that. 
 Bid each make haste to blithest wassailings. 
 Might not one vow that the whole pack had 
 wings? 
 What ! hither. Beauty, Dian, Dragon, what ! 
 I think we held a royal hunt to-day. 
 
SA^ OEMINIANO. 123 
 
 SATUEDAY. 
 
 The Day of Hawking. 
 
 I'VE jolliest merriment for Saturday : — 
 The very choicest of all hawks to fly 
 
 That crane or heron could be stricken by, 
 As up and down you course the steep highway. 
 So shall the wild geese, in your deadly play, 
 
 Lose at each stroke a wing, a tail, a thigh ; 
 
 And man with man and horse with horse shall rie. 
 Till you all shout for glory and holiday. 
 Then, going home, you'll closely charge the cook : 
 
 " All this is for to-morrow's roast and stew : 
 Skin, lop, and truss : hang pots on every hook : 
 
 And we must have fine wine and white bread too. 
 Because tliis time we mean to feast : so look 
 
 We do not think your kitchens lost on you.'* 
 
124 FOLGORE. 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 The Day of Balls and Deeds of Arms in Florence. 
 
 AND on the morrow, at first peep o' the day 
 Which follows, and which men as Sunday 
 spell, — 
 
 Whom most him liketh,.dame or damozel, 
 Your chief shal) choose out of the sweet array. 
 So in a palace painted and made gay 
 
 Shall he converse with her whom he loves best ; 
 
 And what he wishes, his desire express'd 
 Shall bring to presence there, without gainsay. 
 And youths shall dance, and men do feats of arms, 
 
 And Florence be sought out on every side 
 From orchards and from vineyards and from farms : 
 
 That they who fill her streets fiom far and wide 
 In your fine temper may discern such charms 
 
 As shall from day to day be magnified. 
 
GUIDO DELLE COLONNE. 
 
 Canzone. 
 To Love and to his Lady. 
 
 OLOVE, who all this while hast urged me on. 
 Shaking the reins, with never any rest, — 
 Slacken for pity somewhat of thy haste ; 
 I am oppressed with languor and foredone, — 
 Having outrun the power of sufferance, — 
 
 Having much more endured than who, through 
 
 faith 
 That his heart holds, makes no account of death. 
 Love is assuredly a fair mischance, 
 And well may it be call'd a happy ill : 
 
 Yet thou, my lady, on this constant sting. 
 So sharp a thing, have thou some pity still, — 
 Howbeit a sweet thing too, unless it kill. 
 
 O comely-favourM, whose soft eyes prevail. 
 More fair than is another on this ground, — 
 Lift now my mournful heart out of its stound, 
 
 Which thus is bound for thee in great travail : 
 
 For a high gale a little rain may end. 
 
126 GUIDO BELLE COLONNE. 
 
 Also, my lady, be not anger'd thou 
 
 That Love should thee enforce, to whom all bow. 
 There is but little shame to apprehend 
 If to a higher strength the conquest be ; 
 
 And all the more to Love who conquers all. 
 Why then appal my heart with doubts of thee ? 
 Courage and patience triumph certainly. 
 
 I do not say that with such loveliness 
 
 Such pride may not beseem ; it suits thee well ; 
 For in a lovely lady pride may dwell. 
 Lest homage fail and high esteem grow less : 
 Yet pride's excess is not a thing to praise. 
 Therefore, my lady, let thy harshness gain 
 Some touch of pity which may still restrain 
 Thy hand, ere Death cut short these hours and days. 
 . The sun is very high and full of light, 
 
 And the more bright the higher he doth ride : 
 So let thy pride, my lady, and thy height, 
 Stand me in stead and turn to my dehght. 
 
 Still inmostly I love thee, labouring still 
 
 That others may not know my secret smart. 
 
 Oh ! what a pain it is for the grieved heart 
 To hold apart and not to show its ill ! 
 Yet by no will the face can hide the soul ; 
 
 And ever with the eyes the heart has need 
 
 To be in all things willingly agreed. 
 It were a mighty strength that should control 
 The heart's fierce beat, and never speak a word : 
 
GUI DO BELLE COLONNE. 127 
 
 It were a mighty strength, I say again. 
 To hide such pain, and to be sovran lord 
 Of any heart that had such love to hoard. 
 
 For Love can make the wisest turn astray ; 
 
 Love, at its most, of measure still has least ; 
 
 He is the maddest man who loves the best ; 
 It is Love's jest, to make men's hearts alway 
 So hot that they by coldness cannot cool. 
 
 The eyes unto the heart bear messages 
 
 Of the beginnings of all pain and ease : 
 And thou, my lady, in thy hand dost rule 
 Mine eyes and heart which thou hast made thine 
 own. 
 
 Love rocks my life with tempests on the deep, 
 Even as a ship round which the winds are blown : 
 Thou art my pennon that will not go down. 
 
PIER MORONELLI, DI FIORENZA. 
 
 CanzonettA. 
 
 A hitter Song to his Lady. 
 
 OLADY amorous, 
 Merciless lady, 
 Full blithely play'd ye 
 These your beguilings. 
 So with an urchin 
 A man makes merry, — 
 In mirth grows clamorous, 
 Laughs and rejoices, — 
 But when his choice is 
 To fall aweary, 
 Cheats him with silence. 
 This is Love's portion : — 
 In much wayfaring 
 With many burdens 
 He loads his servants ; 
 But at the sharing, 
 The underservice 
 And overservice 
 Are alike barren. 
 
PIER MORONELLT. 129 
 
 As mj disaster 
 Your jest I cherish, 
 And well may perish. 
 Even so a falcon 
 Is sometimes taken 
 And scantly cautell'd ; 
 Till when his master 
 At length to loose him, 
 To train and use him. 
 Is after all gone, — 
 The creature's throttled 
 And will not waken. 
 Wherefore, my lady, 
 If you will own me, 
 O look upon me ! 
 If I'm not thought on, 
 At least perceive me ! 
 
 do not leave me 
 So much forgotten ! 
 
 If, lady, truly 
 You wish my profit, 
 WTiat follows of it 
 Though still you say so ? — 
 For all your well-wishes 
 
 1 still am waiting. 
 I grow unruly, 
 
 And deem at last I'm 
 Only your pastime. 
 A child will play so, 
 
130 PIER MOBONELLL 
 
 Who greatly relishes 
 Sporting and petting 
 With a little wild bird : 
 Unaware he kills it, — 
 Then turns it, feels it, 
 Calls it with a mild word, 
 Is angry after, — 
 Then again in laughter 
 Loud is the child heard. 
 
 O my delightful 
 My own my lady, 
 Upon the Mayday 
 Which brought me to you 
 Was all my haste then 
 But a fool's venture ? 
 To have my sight full 
 Of you propitious 
 Truly my wish was, 
 And to pursue you 
 And let love chasten 
 My heart to the centre. 
 But warming, lady. 
 May end in burning. 
 Of all this yearning 
 WTiat comes, I beg you ? 
 In all your glances 
 What is't a man sees ? — 
 Fever and ague. 
 
CIUNCIO FIORENTINO. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Of his Love: with the Figures of a Stagy of Water, 
 and of an Eagle. 
 
 LADY, with all the pains that I can take^ 
 I'll sing my love rcnew'd, if I may, well, 
 And only in your praise. 
 The stag in his old age seeks out a snake 
 
 And eats it, and then drinks, (I have heard tell) 
 Fearing the hidden ways 
 Of the snake's poison, and renews his youth. 
 
 Even such a draught, in truth, 
 Was your sweet welcome, which cast out of me, 
 
 With whole cure instantly. 
 Whatever pain I felt, for my own good, 
 When first we met that I might be renew'd. 
 
 A thing that has its proper essence changed 
 By virtue of some powerful influence. 
 As water has by fire, 
 Returns to be itself, no more estranged. 
 
 So soon as that has ceased which gave offence : 
 Yea, now will more aspire 
 
132 C TUNC 10 FIORENTINO. 
 
 Than ever, as the thing it first was made. 
 
 Thine advent long delay'd 
 Even thus had almost worn me out of love, 
 
 Biding so far above : 
 But now that thou hast brought love back for me, 
 It mounts too much, — O lady, up to thee. 
 
 I have heard tell, and can esteem it true, 
 How that an eagle looking on the sun, 
 
 Rejoicing for his part 
 And bringing oft his young to look there too, — 
 If one gaze longer than another one, 
 
 On him will set his heart. 
 So I am made aware that Love doth lead 
 
 All lovers, by their need. 
 To gaze upon the brightness of their loves ; 
 
 And whosoever moves 
 His eyes the least from gazing upon her. 
 The same shall be Love's inward minister. 
 
RUGGIEEI DI AMICI, SICILIANO. 
 
 Canzonbtta. 
 
 For a Renewal of Favours. 
 
 I PLAY this sweet prelude 
 For the best heart, and queen 
 Of gentle womanhood, 
 
 From here unto Messene ; 
 Of flowers the fairest one ; 
 The star that's next the sun ; 
 
 The brightest star of all. 
 What time I look at her, 
 Mj thoughts do crowd and stir 
 
 And are made musical. 
 
 Sweetest my lady, then 
 
 Wilt thou not just permit. 
 As once I did, again 
 
 That I should speak of it? 
 My heart is burning me 
 Within, though outwardly 
 
 I seem so brave and gay. 
 Ah ! dost thou not sometimes 
 Remember the sweet rhymes 
 
 Our lips made on that day ? — 
 
134 RUQQIEUI DI AM I CI, 
 
 When I her heart did move 
 
 By kisses and by vows, 
 Whom I then calFd my love, 
 
 Fair-hair'd, with silver brows : 
 She sang there as we sat ; 
 Nor then withheld she aught 
 
 Which it were right to give ; 
 But said, " Indeed I will 
 Be thine through good and ill 
 
 As long as I may live." 
 
 And while I live, dear love, 
 
 In gladness and in need 
 Myself I will approve 
 
 To be thine own indeed. 
 If any man dare blame 
 Our loves, — ^bring him to shame, 
 
 O God ! and of this year 
 Let him not see the May. 
 Is't not a vile thing, say, 
 
 To freeze at Midsummer ? 
 
CARNINO GHIBERTI, DA FIORENZA. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Being absent from his Lady, Tie fears Death. 
 
 I AM afar, but near thee is my heart ; 
 Only soliciting 
 That this long absence seem not ill to thee : 
 For, if thou knew'st what pain and evil smart 
 
 The lack of thy sweet countenance can bring, 
 Thou wouldst remember me compassionately. 
 Even as my case, the stag's is wont to be, 
 Which, thinking to escape 
 His death, escaping whence the pack gives cry, 
 Is wounded and doth die. 
 So, in my spirit imagining thy shape, 
 
 I would fly Death, and Death overmasters me. 
 
 I am o'erpower'd of Death when, telling o'er 
 Thy beauties in my thought, 
 I seem to have that which I have not : then 
 
 I am as he who in each meteor. 
 
 Dazzled and wilder'd sees the thing he sought. 
 In such wise Love deals with me among men : — 
 Thee whom I have not, yet who dost sustain 
 
136 CARNINO GHIBERTI. 
 
 My life, he bringeth in his arms to me 
 Full oft, — yet I approach not unto thee. 
 Ah ! if we he not joiii'd i' the very flesh. 
 It cannot last hut I indeed shall die 
 
 By hurden of this love that weigheth so. 
 As an o'erladen bough, while yet 'tis fresh, 
 Breaks, and itself and fruit are lost thereby, — 
 So shall I, love, be lost, alas for woe ! 
 And, if tbis slay indeed that thus doth rive 
 My heart, how then shall I be comforted ? 
 Thou, as a lioness 
 Her cub, in sore distress 
 Might'st toil to bring me out of death alive : 
 But couldst thou raise me up, if I were dead ? 
 
 Oh ! but an' if thou wouldst, I were more glad 
 Of death than life, — thus kept 
 From thee and the true life thy face can bring. 
 So in nowise could death be harsh or bad ; 
 But it should seem to me that I had slept. 
 And was awaken'd with thy summoning. 
 Yet, sith the hope thereof is a vain thing, 
 I, in fast fealty. 
 Can like tbe Assassin* be. 
 Who, to be subject to his lord in all. 
 
 Goes and accepts his death and has no heed : 
 Even as he doth so could I do indeed. 
 Nevertheless, this one memorial — 
 
 * Alluding to the Syrian tribe of Assassins, whose chief 
 was the Old Man of the Mountain. 
 
CARNINO G HI BERT I, 137 
 
 The laSt, I send thee, for Love orders it. 
 He, this last once, wills that thus much be writ 
 In prayer that it may fall 'twixt thee and me 
 After the manner of 
 Two birds that feast theif love 
 Even unto anguish, till, if neither quit 
 The other, one must perish utterly. 
 
PRINZIVALLE DORIA. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Of his Love, with the Figure of a sudden Storm. 
 
 EVEN as the day when it is yet at dawning 
 Seems mild and kind, being fair to look upon, 
 While the birds carol underneath their awning 
 
 Of leaves, as if they never would have done ; 
 
 Which on a sudden changes, just at noon, 
 And the broad light is broken into rain 
 
 That stops and comes again ; 
 Even as the traveller, who had held his way 
 
 Hopeful and glad because of the bright weather, 
 
 Forgetteth then his gladness altogether ; 
 Even so am I, through Love, alas the day ! 
 
 It plainly is through Love that I am so. 
 
 At first, he let me still grow happier 
 Each day, and made her kindness seem to grow ; 
 
 But now he has quite changed her heart in her. 
 
 And I, whose hopes throbb'd and were all astir 
 For times when I should call her mine aloud 
 
 And in her pride be proud 
 
PRTNZIVALLE DORTA. 139 
 
 Who is more fair than gems are, ye may say, 
 Having that fairness which holds hearts in rule ; — 
 I have learnt now to count him but a fool 
 
 Who before evening says, A goodly day. 
 
 It had been better not to have begun, 
 
 Since, having known my error, 'tis too late. 
 This thing from which I suffer, thou hast done, 
 
 Lady : canst thou restore me my first state ? 
 
 The wound thou gavest canst thou medicate ? 
 Not thou, forsooth : thou hast not any art 
 
 To keep death from my heart. 
 
 lady ! where is now my life's full meed 
 
 Of peace, — mine once, and which thou took'st 
 
 away? 
 Surely it cannot now be far from day : 
 Night is already very long indeed. 
 
 The sea is much more beautiful at rest 
 
 Than when the tempest tramples over it. 
 Wherefore, to see the smile which has so bless'd 
 
 This heart of mine, deem'st thou these eyes unfit? 
 
 There is no maid so lovely, it is writ. 
 That by such stern unwomanly regard 
 
 Her face may not be marr'd. 
 
 1 therefore pray of thee, my own soul's wife. 
 That thou remember me who am forgot. 
 How shall I stand without thee ? Art thpu not 
 
 The pillar of the building of my life ? 
 
EUSTICO DI FILIPPO. 
 I. 
 
 SONXET. 
 
 Of the Making of Master Messerin. 
 
 WHEN God had finish'd Master Messerin, 
 He really thought it something to have 
 done: 
 Bird, man, and beast had got a chance in one, 
 And each felt flatter'd, it was hoped, therein. 
 For he is like a goose i' the windpipe thin, 
 And like a cameleopard high i' the loins ; 
 To which, for manhood, you'll be told, he joins 
 Some kinds of flesh-hues and a callow chin. 
 As to his singing, he affects the crow ; 
 As to his learning, beasts in general ; 
 
 And sets all square by dressing like a man. 
 God made him, having nothing else to do ; 
 And proved there is not anything at all 
 He cannot make, if that's a thing He can. 
 
RUSTICO DI FILIPPO. 141 
 
 II. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of the Safety of Messer Fazio.* 
 
 MASTER Bertuccio, you are call'd to account 
 That you guard Fazio's life from poison 
 ill: 
 And every man in Florence tells me still 
 He has no horse that he can safely mount. 
 A mighty war-horse worth a thousand pound 
 Stands in Cremona stabled at his will ; 
 Which for his honour'd person should fulfil 
 Its use. Nay, sir, I pray you be not found 
 So poor a steward. For all fame of yours 
 Is cared for best, believe me, when I say : — 
 Our Florence gives Bertuccio charge of one 
 Who rides her own proud spirit like a horse ; 
 Whom Cocciolo himself must needs obey ; 
 And whom she loves best, being her strongest son. 
 
 * I have not been able to trace the Fazio to whom this 
 sonnet refers. 
 
142 RUSTIC DI FILIPPO. 
 
 in. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Messer Ugolino.* 
 
 IF any one had anything to say 
 To the Lord Ugolino, because he's 
 
 Not staunch, and never minds his promises, 
 'Twere hardly courteous, for it is his way. 
 Courteous it were to say such sayings nay : 
 
 As thus : He's true, sir, only takes his ease 
 
 And don't care merely if it plague or please. 
 And has good thoughts, no doubt, if they would stay. 
 Now I know he's so loyal every whit 
 
 And altogether worth such a good word 
 As worst would best and best would worst befit. 
 
 He'd love his party with a dear accord 
 If only he could once quite care for it, 
 
 But can't run post for any Law or Lord. 
 
 • The character here drawn certainly suggests Count 
 Ugolino de' Gherardeschi, though it would seem that Rustico 
 died nearly twenty years before the tragedy of the Tower of 
 Famine. 
 
PUCCIARELLO DI FIORENZA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Eocpediency. 
 
 PASS and let pass, — this counsel I would give, — 
 And wrap thy cloak what way the wind may 
 blow. 
 Who cannot raise himself were wise to know 
 How best, by dint of stooping, he may thrive. 
 Take for ensample this : when the winds drive 
 Against it, how the sapling tree bends low, 
 And, once being prone, abideth even so 
 Till the hard harsh wind cease to rend and rive. 
 Wherefore, when thou behold'st thyself abased. 
 Be bhnd, deaf, dumb ; yet therewith none the less 
 Note thou in peace what thou shalt hear and 
 see. 
 Till from such state by Fortune thou be raised. 
 Then hack, lop, buffet, thrust, and so redress 
 Thine ill that it may not return on thee. 
 
A 
 
 ALBERTUCCIO BELLA VIOLA. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Of his Lady dancing. 
 
 MONG the dancers I beheld her dance, 
 Her who alone is my heart's sustenance. 
 
 So, as she danced, I took this wound of her ; 
 
 Alas ! the flower of flowers, she did not fail. 
 Woe's me ! I will be Jew and blasphemer 
 
 If the good god of Love do not prevail 
 To bring me to thy grace, oh ! thou most fair. 
 
 My lady and my lord ! alas for wail ! 
 How many days and how much suflferance ? 
 
 Oh ! would to God that I had never seen 
 Her face, nor had beheld her dancing so ! 
 
 Then had I miss'd this wound which is so keen- 
 Yea, mortal — ^for I think not to win through 
 
 Unless her love be my sweet medicine ; 
 Whereof I am in doubt, alas for woe ! 
 
 Fearing therein but such a little chance. 
 
ALBEETUCCIO BELLA VIOLA. 145 
 
 She was apparell'd in a Syrian cloth, 
 
 My lady : — oh ! but she did grace the same, 
 
 Gladdening all folk, that they were nowise loth 
 At sight of her to put their ills from them. 
 
 But upon me her power hath had such growth 
 That nought of joy thenceforth, but a live flame, 
 
 Stirs at my heart, — which is her countenance. 
 
 Sweet-smelling rose, sweet, sweet to smell and see. 
 Great solace had she in her eyes for all ; 
 
 But heavy woe is mine ; for upon me 
 
 Her eyes, as they were wont, did never fall. 
 
 Which thing if it were done advisedly, 
 
 I would choose death, that could nomore appal, 
 
 Not caring for my life's continuance. 
 
TOMMASO BUZZUOLA, DA FAENZA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 He is in awe of his Lady. 
 
 EVEN as the moon amid the stars doth shed 
 Her lovelier splendour of exceeding light,- 
 Even so my lady seems the queen and head 
 
 Among all other ladies in my sight. 
 Her human visage, like an angel's made, 
 
 Is glorious even to beauty's perfect height ; 
 And with her simple bearing soft and staid 
 
 All secret modesties of soul unite. 
 I therefore feel a dread jn loving her ; 
 Because of thinking on her excellence, 
 
 The wisdom and the beauty which she has. 
 I pray her for the sake of God, — whereas 
 I am her servant, yet in sore suspense 
 Have held my peace, — to have me in her care. 
 
•NOFFO BONAGUIDA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He M enjoined to pure Love. 
 
 A SPIRIT of Love, with Love's intelligence, 
 Maketh his sojourn alway in my breast, 
 Maintaining me in perfect joy and rest ; 
 Nor could I live an hour, were he gone thence : 
 Through whom my love hath such full permanence 
 That thereby other loves seem dispossessM. 
 I have no pain, nor am with sighs oppressed, 
 So calm is the benignant influence. 
 Because this spirit of Love, who speaks to me 
 Of my dear lady's tenderness and worth, 
 
 Says : " More than thus to love her seek thou 
 
 not. 
 Even as she loves thee in her wedded thought ; 
 But honour her in thy heart delicately : 
 For this is the most blessed joy on earth." 
 
 I 
 
LIPPO PASCHI DE' BAKDI. 
 
 Sonnet, 
 
 He solicits a Lady's Favours. 
 
 WERT thou as prone to yield unto my prayer 
 The thing, sweet virgin, which I ask of 
 thee. 
 As to repeat, with all humility, 
 " Pray you go hence, and of your speech forbear ;" — 
 Then unto joy might I my heart prepare, 
 Having my fellows in subserviency ; 
 But, for that thou contemn'st and mockest me, 
 Whether of life or death I take no care ; 
 Because my heart may not assuage its drouth 
 Nor ever may again rejoice at all 
 
 Till the sweet face bend to be felt of man, — 
 Till tenderly the beautiful soft mouth 
 
 I kiss by thy good leave ; thenceforth to call 
 Blessing and triumph Lovers extremest ban. 
 
SER PACE, NOTAIO DA FIORENZA, 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 A Return to Love. 
 
 AFRESH content of fi'esh enamouring 
 Yields me afresh, at length, the sense of 
 song, 
 Who had well-nigh forgotten Love so long : 
 But now my homage he will have me bring. 
 So that my life is now a joyful thing, 
 
 Having new-found desire, elate and strong, 
 In her to whom all grace and worth belong, 
 On whom I now attend for ministering. 
 The countenance remembering, with the limbs, 
 She was all imaged on my heart at once 
 Suddenly by a single look at her : 
 Whom when I now behold, a heat there seems 
 Within, as of a subtle fire that runs 
 
 Unto my heart, and remains burning there. 
 
NICCOLO DEGLI ALBIZZI. 
 
 Pbolonged Sonnet. 
 
 When the Troops were returning from Milan. 
 
 IF you could see, fair brother, how dead beat 
 The fellows look who come through Eome to- 
 day,— 
 Black yellow smoke-dried visages, — you'd say 
 They thought their haste at going all too fleet. 
 Their empty victual-waggons up the street 
 Over the bridge dreadfully sound and sway ; 
 Their eyes, as hang'd men's, timiing the wrong 
 way; 
 And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet. 
 One sees the ribs and all the skeletons 
 
 Of their gaunt horses ; and a sorry sight 
 Are the torn saddles, cramm'd with straw and stones. 
 They are ashamed, and march throughout the 
 night ; 
 Stumbling, for hunger, on their marrowbones ; 
 
 Like barrels rolling, jolting, in this plight. 
 Their arms all gone, not even their swords are saved ; 
 And each as silent as a man being shaved. 
 
FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 
 
 L 
 
 Blank Vebse.* 
 
 A Virgin declares her Beauties. 
 
 DO not conceive that I shall here recount 
 All my own beauty : yet I promise you 
 That you, by what I tell, shall understand 
 All that befits and that is well to know. 
 
 My bosom, which is very softly made, 
 Of a white even colour without stain, 
 Bears two fair apples, fragrant, sweetly-savoured, 
 Gather'd together from the Tree of Life 
 The which is in the midst of Paradise. 
 And these no person ever yet has touch'd ; 
 For out of nurse^s and of mother's hands 
 I was, when God in secret gave them me. 
 These ere I yield I must know well to whom ; 
 And for that I would not be i*obb'd of them, 
 I speak not aU the virtue that they have ; 
 Yet thus far speaking : — blessed wei-e the man 
 
 * Extracted from his long treatise, in unrhymed verse and 
 in prose, " Of the Government and Conduct of Women ; " 
 (De/ Reggimento e dei Cottumi delle Donne.) 
 
152 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 
 
 Who once should touch them, were it but a little ;- 
 See them I say not, for that might not be. 
 
 My girdle, clipping pleasure round about, 
 
 Over my clear dress even unto my knees 
 
 Hangs down with sweet precision tenderly ; 
 
 And under it Virginity abides. 
 
 Faithful and simple and of plain belief 
 
 She is, with her fair garland bright like gold ; 
 
 And very fearful if she overhears 
 
 Speech of herself; the wherefore ye perceive 
 
 That I speak soft lest she be made ashamed. 
 
 Lo ! this is she who hath for company 
 The Son of God and Mother of the Son ; 
 Lo ! this is she who sits with many in heaven ; 
 Lo ! this is she with whom are few on earth. 
 
FRANCESCO DA BABBEBINO. 153 
 
 n. 
 
 Sentenze.* 
 
 Of Sloth against Sin. 
 
 THERE is a vice which oft 
 I've heard men praise ; and divers forms it 
 has; 
 And it is this. Whereas 
 Some, by their wisdom, lordship, or repute, 
 
 When tumults are afoot. 
 
 Might stifle them, or at the least allay, — 
 
 These certain ones will say, 
 " The wise man bids thee fly the noise of men." 
 
 One says, " Wouldst thou maintain 
 
 Worship, — avoid where thou may'st not avail ; 
 
 And do not breed worse ail 
 By adding one more voice to strife begun." 
 
 Another, with this one. 
 
 Avers, " I could but bear a small expense. 
 
 Or yield a slight defence." 
 A third says this, " I could but offer words." 
 
 • This and the three following pieces are extracted from 
 his " Documents of Love " {Documenti dCAmore). 
 
154 FRANCESCO DA BABBEBINO, 
 
 Or one, whose tongue records > 
 
 Unmllingly his own base heart, will say, 
 " I'll not be led astray . 
 
 To bear a hand in others' life or death." 
 
 They have it in their teeth ! 
 
 For unto this each man is pledged and bound ; 
 
 And this thing shall be found 
 Enter'd against him at the Judgment Day. 
 
FRANCESCO DA BABBERINO. 155 
 
 m. 
 
 Sentenze. 
 
 Of Sins in Speech, 
 
 NOW these four things, if thou 
 Consider, are so bad that none are worse. 
 First, — among counsellors 
 To thrust thyself, when not calPd absolutely. 
 
 And in the other three 
 
 Many offend by their own evil wit. 
 
 When men in council sit. 
 One talks because he loves not to be still ; 
 
 And one to have his will ; 
 
 And one for nothing else but only show. 
 
 These rules were well to know. 
 First for the first, for the others afterward. 
 
 Where many are repair'd 
 
 And met together, never go with them 
 
 Unless thou'rt call'd by name. 
 This for the first : now for the other three. 
 
156 FRANCESCO DA BABBERINO, 
 
 What truly thou dost see 
 
 Turn in thy mind, and faithiiilly report ; 
 
 And in the plainest sort 
 Thy wisdom may, proffer thy counselling. 
 
 There is another thing 
 
 Belongs hereto, the which is on this wise. 
 
 If one should ask advice 
 Of thine for his own need whate'er it be, — 
 
 This is my word to thee : — 
 
 Deny it if it be not clearly of use ; 
 
 Or turn to some excuse 
 That may seem fair, and thou shalt have done well. 
 
FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 157 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sentenze. 
 
 Of Importunities and Troublesome Persons. 
 
 THEEE is a vice prevails 
 Concerning which I'll set you on your guard ; 
 And other four, which hard 
 It were (as may he thought) that I should hlame. 
 
 Some think that still of them — 
 
 Whate'er is said — some ill speech lies heneath ; 
 
 And this to them is death : 
 Whereby we plainly may perceive their sins. 
 
 And now let others wince. 
 
 One sort there is, who, thinking that they please, 
 
 (Because no wit's in these,) 
 Where'er you go, will stick to you all day. 
 
 And answer, (when you say, 
 
 " Don't let me tire you out ! ") " Oh never mind — 
 
 Say nothing of the kind, — 
 It's quite a pleasure to be where you are !" 
 
158 FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 
 
 A second, — when, as far 
 
 As he could follow jou, the whole day long 
 
 He's sung you his dull song, 
 And you for courtesy have borne with it, — 
 
 Will think you've had a treat. 
 
 A third will take his special snug delight, — 
 
 Some day you've come in sight 
 Of some great thought and got it well in view, — 
 
 Just then to drop on you. 
 
 A fourth, for any insult you've received 
 
 Will say he is so grieved. 
 And daily bring the subject up again. 
 
 So now I would be fain 
 
 To show you your best course at all such times ; 
 
 And counsel you in rhymes 
 That you yourself offend not in likewise. 
 
 In these four cases lies 
 
 This help : — ^to think upon your own affair. 
 
 Just showing here and there 
 By just a word that you are listening ; 
 
 And still to the last thing 
 
 That's said to you att^d in your reply, 
 
 And let the rest go by, — 
 It's quite a chance if he remembers them. 
 
FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 159 
 
 Yet do not, all the same, 
 
 Deny your ear to any speech of weight. 
 
 But if importunate 
 The speaker is, and will not be denied, 
 
 Just turn the speech aside 
 
 When you can find some plausible pretence ; 
 
 For if you have the sense, 
 By a quick question or a sudden doubt 
 
 You may so put him out 
 
 That he shall not remember where he was ; 
 
 And by such means you'll pass 
 Upon your way and be well rid of him. 
 
 And now it doth beseem 
 
 I give you the advice I promised you. 
 
 Before you have to do 
 With men whom you must meet continually, 
 
 Take notice what they be ; 
 
 And so you shall find readily enough 
 
 If you can win their love. 
 And give yourself for answer Yes or No. 
 
 And finding Yes, do so 
 
 That still the love between you may increase. 
 
 Yet if they be of these 
 Whom sometimes it is hard to understand. 
 
160 FRANCESCO DA BAHBEBINO. 
 
 Let some slight cause be plann'd, 
 
 And seem to go, — so you shall learn their will 
 
 And if but one sit still 
 As 'twere in thought, — then go, unless he call. 
 
 Lastly, if insult gall 
 
 Your friend, this is the course that you should 
 take. 
 
 At first 'tis well you make 
 As much lament thereof as you think fit, — 
 
 Then speak no more of it. 
 
 Unless himself should bring it up again ; 
 
 And then no more refrain 
 From fiiU discourse, but say his grief is yours. 
 
FRANCESCO DA BARBERINO. 161 
 
 V. 
 
 Sentenze. 
 
 Of Caution. 
 
 SAY, wouldst thou guard thy son, 
 That sorrow he may shun ? 
 Begin at the beginning 
 And let him keep from sinning. 
 Wouldst guard thy house ? One door 
 Make to it, and no more. 
 Wouldst guard thine orchard-wall ? 
 Be free of fruit to all. 
 
FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 
 
 I. 
 Canzone. 
 
 His Portrait o^ his Lady, A^giola of Verona. 
 
 1L00K at the crisp golden-threaded hair 
 Whereof, to thrall my heart, Love twists a net ; 
 Using at times a string of pearls for bait, 
 And sometimes with a single rose therein. 
 I look into her eyes which unaware 
 
 Through mine own eyes to my heart penetrate ; 
 Their splendour, that is excellently great, 
 To the sun's radiance seeming near akin. 
 Yet from herself a sweeter light to win. 
 So that I, gazing on that lovely one. 
 
 Discourse in this wise with my secret thought : — 
 " Woe's me ! why am I not, 
 Even as my wish, alone with her alone ? — 
 That hair of hers, so heavily uplaid, 
 To shed down braid by braid, 
 nd make myself two mirrors of her eyes 
 Within whose Hght all other glory dies." 
 
FAZIO DEO LI UBERTL 163 
 
 I look at the amorous beautiful mouth, 
 
 The spacious forehead which her locks enclose, 
 
 The small white teeth, the straight and shapely 
 
 nose, 
 
 And the clear brows of a sweet pencilling. 
 
 And then the thought within me gains full growth, 
 
 Saying, " Be careful that thy glance now goes 
 
 Between her lips, red as an open rose. 
 
 Quite full of every dear and precious thing ; 
 And listen to her gracious answering, 
 BoiTi of the gentle mind that in her dwells. 
 
 Which from all things can glean the nobler half. 
 Jjook thou when she doth laugh 
 How much her laugh is sweeter than aught else." 
 Thus evermore my spirit makes avow 
 Touching her mouth ; till now 
 I would give anything that I possess. 
 Only to hear her mouth say frankly, " Yes." 
 
 I look at her white easy neck, so well 
 
 From shoulders and from bosom lifted out ; 
 And at her round cleft chin, which beyond doubt 
 No fancy in the world could have designed. 
 And then, with longing grown more voluble, 
 
 " Were it not pleasant now," pursues my thought, 
 
 ** To have that neck within thy two arms caught 
 
 And kiss it till the mark were left behind?" 
 
 Then, urgently : " The eyelids of thy mind 
 
 Open thou : if such loveliness be given 
 
 To sight here, — what of that which she doth hide ? 
 
164 FA7.I0 DEGLI UBERTI. 
 
 Only the wondrous ride 
 Of sun and planets through the visible heaven 
 
 Tells us that therebeyond is Paradise. 
 
 Thus, if thou fix thine eyes, 
 Of a truth certainly thou must infer 
 That every earthly joy abides in her." 
 
 I look at the large arms, so lithe and round, — 
 At the hands, which are white and rosy too, — 
 At the long fingers, clasp'd and woven through. 
 Bright with the ring which one of them doth 
 wear. 
 Then my thought whispers : " Were thy body wound 
 Within those arms, as loving women's do, 
 In all thy veins were born a life made new 
 Which thou couldst find no language to declare. 
 Behold if any picture can compare 
 With her just limbs, each fit in shape and size, 
 Or match her angel's colour like a pearl. 
 She is a gentle girl 
 To see ; yet when it needs, her scorn can rise. 
 Meek, bashful, and in all things temperate, 
 Her virtue holds its state ; 
 In whose least act there is that gift express'd 
 Which of all reverence makes her worthiest." 
 
 Soft as a peacock steps she, or as a stork 
 Straight on herself, taller and statelier: 
 'Tis a good sight how every limb doth stu* 
 For ever in a womanly sweet way. 
 
FAZIO DEQLI UBERTL 165 
 
 " Open thy soul to see God's perfect work," 
 (My thought begins afresh,) " and look at her 
 When with some lady-friend exceeding fair 
 She bends and mingles arms and locks in play. 
 Even as all lesser lights vanish away, 
 
 When the sun moves, before his dazzling face, 
 So is this lady brighter than all these. 
 How should she fail to please, — 
 
 Love's self being no more than her loveliness ? 
 In all her ways some beauty springs to view ; 
 All that she loves to do 
 
 Tends alway to her honour's single scope ; 
 
 And only from good deeds she draws her hope." 
 
 Song, thou canst surely say, without pretence, 
 That since the first fair woman ever made, 
 Not one can have display'd 
 
 More power upon all hearts than this one doth ; 
 Because in her are both 
 Loveliness and the soul's true excellence : — 
 And yet (woe's me !) is pity absent thence ? 
 
166 FAZIO DEQLI UBEBTL 
 
 II. 
 
 EXTEACT FROM THE " DiTTAMONDO."* 
 
 (Lib. IV. Cap. 23.) 
 
 Of England, and of its Marvels. 
 
 NOW to Great Britain we must make our way, 
 Unto which kingdom Brutus gave its name 
 What time he won it from the giants' rule. 
 'Tis thought at first its name was Albion, 
 And Anglia, from a damsel, afterwards. 
 
 * I am quite sorry (after the foregoing love-song, the 
 original of which is not perhaps surpassed by any poem of its 
 class in existence) to endanger the English reader's respect 
 for Fazio by these extracts from the Dittamondo, or " Song 
 of the World," in which he will find his own country endowed 
 with some astounding properties. However, there are a few 
 fine characteristic sentences, and the rest is no more absurd 
 than other travellers' tales of that day ; while the table of our 
 Norman line of kings is not without some historical interest. 
 It must be remembered that the love-song was the work of 
 Fazio's youth, and the Dittamondo that of his old age, when 
 we may suppose his powers to have been no longer at their 
 best. Besides what I have given relating to Great Britain, 
 there is a table of the Saxon dynasty, and some surprising 
 facts about Scotland and Ireland ; as well as a curious passage 
 written in French, and purporting to be an account, given by 
 a royal courier, of Edward the Third's invasion of France. 
 
FAZia DEQLI UBERTL 167 
 
 The island is so great and rich and fair, 
 It conquers others that in Europe be, 
 Even as the sun surpasses other stars. 
 Many and great sheep-pastures bountifully 
 Nature has set there, and herein more bless'd, 
 That they can hold themselves secure from wolves. 
 Black amber* also doth the land enrich, 
 (Whose properties my guide Solinus here 
 Told me, and how its colour comes to it ;) 
 And pearls are found in great abundance too. 
 The people are as white and comely-faced 
 As they of Ethiop land arc black and foul. 
 Many hot springs and limpid fountain-heads 
 We found about this land, and spacious plains. 
 And divers beasts that dwell within thick woods. 
 Plentiful orchards too, and fertile fields 
 It has, and castle-forts, and cities fair 
 With palaces and girth of lofty walls. 
 And proud wide rivers without any fords 
 We saw, and flesh, and fish, and crops enough. 
 Justice is strong throughout those provinces. 
 
 I felt half disposed to include these, bat was afraid of over- 
 loading with such matter a selection made chiefly for the sake 
 of poetic beauty. I should mention that the Dittamondo, like 
 Dante's great poem, is written in terza rinia; but as perfect 
 literality was of primary importance in the above extracts, I 
 have departed for once from my rule of fidelity to the original 
 metre. 
 
 * The word is Gagaia, which I find described in Alberti's 
 Dictionary, as " A black, solid, hard, and shining bitumen, 
 formed within the earth, and called also black amber." Is 
 this coal ? 
 
168 FAZIO DEOLI UBERTI. 
 
 Now this I saw not ; but so strange a thing 
 
 It was to hear, and by all men confirm'd, 
 
 That it is fit to note it as I heard ; — 
 
 To wit, there is a certain islet here 
 
 Among the rest, where folk are born with tails, 
 
 Short, as are found in stags and such-like beasts.* 
 
 For this I vouch, — that when a child is freed 
 From swaddling bands, the mother without stay 
 Passes elsewhere, and 'scapes the care of it. 
 
 I put no faith herein ; but it is said 
 
 Among them, how such marvellous trees are there 
 
 That they grow birds, and this is their sole fruit.f 
 
 Forty times eighty is the circuit ta'en. 
 With ten times fifteen, if I do not err, 
 By our miles reckoning its circumference. 
 Here every metal may be dug ; and here 
 I found the people to be given to God, 
 Steadfast, and strong, and restive to constraint. 
 
 * Mediaeval Britons would seem really to have been 
 credited with this slight peculiarity. At the siege of 
 Damietta, Cceur- de-Lion's bastard brother is said to have 
 pointed out the prudence of deferring the assault, and to 
 have received for rejoinder from the French crusaders, " See 
 now these faint-hearted English with the tails!" To which 
 the Englishman replied, " You will need stout hearts to keep 
 near our tails when the assault is made." 
 
 t This is the Barnacle-tree, often described in old books of 
 travels and natural histor}', and which Sir Thomas Browne 
 classes gravely among his " Vulgar Errors." 
 
FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 169 
 
 Nor is this strange, wlien one considereth ; 
 For coui'age, beauty, and large -heartednesa, 
 Were there, as it is said, in ancient days. 
 
 North Wales, and Orkney, and the banks of Thames, 
 
 Land's End, and Stonehenge,* and Northumberland, 
 
 I chose with my companion to behold. 
 
 We went to London, and I saw the Tower » 
 
 Where Guenovere her honour did defend, 
 
 With the Thames river which runs close to it. 
 
 I saw the castle which by force was ta'en 
 
 With the three shields by gallant Lancelot, 
 
 The second year that he did deeds of arms. 
 
 I beheld Camelot despoil'd and waste ; 
 
 And was where one and the other had her birth, 
 
 The maids of Corbonek and Astolat. 
 
 Also I saw the castle where Geraint 
 
 Lay with his Enid ; likewise Merlin's stone. 
 
 Which for another's love I joy'd to see. 
 
 I found the tract where is the pine -tree well 
 
 • The words are " Listenois'* and " Strangorre," for which 
 I have substituted Land's End and Stonehenge, being unable 
 to identify them. What follows relates to the Romances of 
 the Round Table. The only allusion here which I cannot 
 trace to the Mart cT Arthur is one where " Rech" and " Nida" 
 are spoken of: it seems however that, by a perversion hardly 
 too corrupt for Fazio, these might be the Geraint and Enid 
 whose story occurs in the Mabinogion, and has been used by 
 Tennyson in his Idi/Us of the King. Why Fazio should have 
 "joyed to see" Merlin's stone "for another's love" seems 
 inscrutable; unless indeed the words " per amor altrui" are 
 a mere idiom, and Merlin himself is the person meant. 
 
170 FAZIO DEOLI UBERTI. 
 
 And where of old the knight of the black shield 
 With weeping and with laughter kept the pass, 
 What time the pitiless and bitter dwarf 
 Before Sir Gawaine's eyes discourteously 
 With many heavy stripes led him away. 
 I saw the valley which Sir Tristram won 
 When having slain the giant hand to hand 
 He set the stranger knights from prison free. 
 And last I view'd the field, at Salisbury, 
 Of that great martyrdom which left the world 
 Empty of honour, valour, and delight. 
 
 So, compassing that Island round and round, 
 I saw and hearken'd many things and more 
 ^Tiich might be fair to tell but which I hide. 
 
FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 171 
 
 in. 
 
 EXTBACT FROM THE " DiTTAMONDO" 
 
 (Lib. IV. Cap. 25.) 
 
 Of the Dukes of Normandy^ and thence of the Kings 
 of England J from William the First to Edward 
 the Third. 
 
 THOU well hast heard that RoUo had two sons, 
 One William Longsword, and the other 
 Richard, 
 Whom thou now know'st to the marrow, as I do.* 
 Daring and watchful, as a leopard is. 
 Was William, fair in body and in face, 
 Ready at all times, never slow to act. 
 He fought great battles, but at last was slain 
 By the earl of Flanders ; so that in his place 
 Richard his son was o'er the people set. 
 And next in order, lit with blessed flame 
 Of the Holy Spirit, his son followed him 
 Who justly lived 'twixt more and less midway, — 
 His father's likeness, as in shape in name. 
 
 • The speaker here is the poet's guide Solinus, (a histori- 
 cal and geographical writer of the third centurj-,) who bears 
 the same relation to him which Virgil bears to Dante in the 
 Comnu<tia. 
 
172 FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 
 
 So unto him succeeded as his heir 
 
 Robert the Frank, high-counsell'd and august : 
 
 And thereon following, I proceed to tell 
 
 How William, who was Robert's son, did make 
 
 The realm of England his co-heritage. 
 
 The same was brave and courteous certainly, 
 
 Generous and gracious, humble before God, 
 
 Master in war and versed in counsel too. 
 
 He with great following came from Normandy 
 
 And fought with Harold, and so left him slain. 
 
 And took the realm and held it at his will. 
 
 Thus did this kingdom change its signiory ; 
 
 And know that all the kings it since has had 
 
 Only from this man take their origin. 
 
 Therefore, that thou may'st quite forget its past, 
 
 I say this happen'd when, since our Lord's Love, 
 
 Some thousand years and sixty were gone by. 
 
 While the fourth Henry ruled as emperor. 
 
 This king of England fought in many wars 
 
 And wax'd through all in honour and account. 
 
 And William Rufus next succeeded him ; 
 
 Tall, strong, and comely-limb'd, but therewith proud 
 
 And grasping, and a killer of his kind. 
 
 In body he was hke his father much. 
 
 But was in nature more his contrary 
 
 Than fire and water when they come together ; 
 
 Yet so far good that he won fame in arms. 
 
 And by himself risk'd many an enterprise 
 
 All which he brought with honour to an end. 
 
FAZIO DEGLI UBERTI. 173 
 
 Also if he were bad, he gat great ill ; 
 
 For, chasing once the deer within a wood, 
 
 And having w'ander'd from his company, 
 
 Him by mischance a sen'ant of his own 
 
 Hit with an arrow, that he fell and died. 
 
 And after him Henry the First was king, 
 
 His brother, but therewith the father's like, 
 
 Being well with God and just in peace and war. 
 
 Next Stephen, on his death, the kingdom seized, 
 
 But with sore strife ; of whom thus much be said. 
 
 That lie was frank and gootl is told of him. 
 
 And after him another Henry reignM, 
 
 Who, when the war in France was waged and done, 
 
 Pass'd beyond seas with the first Frederick. 
 
 Then Richard came, who, after heavy toil 
 
 At sea, was captive made in Germany, 
 
 Leaving the Sepulchre to join his host. 
 
 Who being dead, ftill heavy was the wrath 
 
 Of John his brother ; and so well he took 
 
 Revenge, that still a moan is made of it. 
 
 This John in kingly largesse and in war 
 
 Delighted, when the kingdom fell to him ; 
 
 Hmitiug and riding ever in hot haste. 
 
 Handsome in body and most poor in heart, 
 Henry his son and heir succeeded him, 
 Of whom to speak I count it wretchedness. 
 Yet there's some good to say of him, I grant ; 
 Because of him was the good Edward bom, 
 Whose valour still is famous in the world. 
 The same was he who, being without dread 
 
174 FAZIO DEQLI UBERTI. ' 
 
 Of the Old Man's Assassins, captured them, 
 
 And who repaid the jester if he lied.* 
 
 The same was he who over seas wrought scathe 
 
 So many times to Malekdar, and bent 
 
 Unto the Christian rule whole provinces. 
 
 He was a giant of his body, and great 
 
 And proud to view, and of such strength of soul 
 
 As never saddens with adversity. 
 
 His reign was Jong ; and when his death befell. 
 The second Edward mounted to the throne. 
 Who was of one kind with his grandfather. 
 I say from what report still says of him. 
 That he was evil, of base intellect. 
 And would not be advised by any man. 
 Conceive, good heart ! that how to thatch a roof 
 With straw, — conceive ! — he held himself expert. 
 And therein constantly would take delight ! 
 By fraud he seized the Earl of Lancaster, 
 And what he did with him I say not here, 
 Biiit that he left him neither town nor tower. 
 And thiswise, step by step, thou may'st perceive 
 That I to the third Edward have advanced. 
 Who now lives strong and full of enterprise, 
 And who already has grown manifest 
 For the best Christian known of in the world. 
 Thus I have told, as thou wouldst have me tell, 
 The race of William even unto the end. 
 
 • This may either refer to some special incident or merely 
 mean generally that he would not suffer lying even in a 
 jester. 
 
FRANCO SACCHETTI. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ball ATA. 
 
 His Talk with certain Peasant-girls. 
 
 " ^^1^7'E graceful peasant-girla and mountain- 
 
 X maids, 
 
 Whence come yo homeward tlirough these evening 
 shades?'' 
 
 " We come from where the forest skirts the hill ; 
 
 A very little cottage is our home, 
 Where with our father and oiu* mother still 
 
 We live, and love our life, nor wish to roam. 
 
 Back every evening from the field we come 
 And bring with us om- sheep from pastming there." 
 
 '* Where, tell me, is the hamlet of your birth, 
 Whose fruitage is the sweetest by so much ? 
 
 Ye seem to me as creatures worship-worth. 
 The shining of your countenance is such. 
 No gold about your clothes, coarse to the touch. 
 
 Nor silver ; yet with such an angel's air ! 
 
176 FRANCO SACCHETTI. 
 
 " I think your beauties might make great complaint 
 Of being thus shown over mount and dell ; 
 
 Because no city is so excellent 
 
 But that your stay therein were honorable. 
 In very truth, now, does it like ye well 
 
 To live so poorly on the hill-side here?" 
 
 " Better it liketh one of us, pardie, 
 
 Behind her flock to seek the pasture-stance, 
 
 Far better than it liketh one of ye 
 
 To ride unto your curtain'd rooms and dance. 
 We seek no riches neither golden chance 
 
 Save wealth of flowers to weave into our hair." 
 
 Ballad, if I were now as once I was, 
 
 I'd make myself a shepherd on some hill. 
 
 And, without telling any one, would pass 
 
 Where these girls went, and follow at their will ; 
 And ** Mary" and " Martin" we would murmur 
 still. 
 
 And I would be for ever where they were. 
 
FRANCO SACQEETTL 177 
 
 n. 
 
 Catch. 
 
 On a Fine Day. 
 
 ** IJE stirring, girls ! we ought to have a run 
 
 JLJ Look, did jou ever see so fine a day ? 
 
 Fling spindles right away, 
 
 And rocks and reels and wools : 
 Now don't be fools, — 
 To-day your spinning's done. 
 Up with you, up with you ! '* So, one by one, 
 
 They caught hands, catch who can, 
 
 Then singing, singing, to the river they ran, 
 
 They ran, they ran 
 To the river, the river ; 
 
 And the merry-go-round 
 
 Carries them at a bound 
 To the mill o'er the river. 
 " Miller, miller, miller, 
 Weigh me this lady 
 And this other. Now, steady ! " 
 " You weigh a hundred, you. 
 And this one weighs two." 
 
 " "VVTiy, dear, you do get stout ! " 
 
 " You think so, dear, no doubt : 
 
 N 
 
178 FRANCO SACCHETTI. 
 
 Are you in a decline ?" 
 
 " Keep your temper, and I'll keep mine." 
 " Come, girls," (" O thank you, miUer !") 
 
 " We'll go home when you will." 
 
 So, as we cross'd the hill, 
 A clown came in great grief 
 Crying, " Stop thief! stop thief! 
 
 what a wretch I am ! " 
 
 " Well, fellow, here's a clatter ! 
 Well, what's the matter ? " 
 
 " O Lord, O Lord, the wolf has got my lamh ! 
 Now at that word of woe. 
 The beauties came and clung about me so 
 
 That if wolf had but shown himself, may be 
 
 1 too had caught a lamb that fled to me. 
 
FRANCO SACCHETTI. 179 
 
 in. 
 
 Catch. 
 
 On a WH Day. 
 
 AS I walk'd thinking through a little grove, 
 Some girls that gather'd flowers kept passing 
 me, 
 Saying, " Look here! look there!" delightedly. 
 " Oh here it is ! " " What's that ? '* "A lily, love." 
 " And there are violets ! " 
 " Further for roses ! Oh the lovely pets — 
 The darling beauties ! Oh the nasty thorn ! 
 Look here, my hand's all torn ! " 
 " What's that that jumps?" " Oh don't ! it's a 
 
 grasshopper ! " 
 " Come run, come lam, 
 Here's bluebells !" " Oh what fun !" 
 '' Not that way ! Stop her !" 
 " Yes, this way !" " Pluck them, then !" 
 " Oh, I've found mushi'ooms ! Oh look here ! " " Oh, 
 
 I'm 
 Quite sure that fiirther on we'll get wild thyme." 
 
 " Oh we shall stay too long, it's going to rain ! 
 
 There's lightning, oh there's thunder !" 
 
 " Oh shan't we hear the vesper-bell, I wonder?" 
 
180 FRANCO SACCHETTI. 
 
 " Why, it's not nones, you silly little thing ; 
 
 And don't you hear the nightingales that sing 
 
 Fly away die away ?" 
 
 " I feel so funny ! Hush!" 
 
 " Why, where? what is it then?'' '' Ah ! in that 
 
 bush!" 
 So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it, 
 Till with the stir they make 
 Out skurries a great snake. 
 " O Lord ! O me ! Alack ! Ah me ! alack !" 
 They scream, and then all run and scream again. 
 And then in heavy drops down comes the rain. 
 
 Each running at the other in a fright, 
 
 Each trying to get before the other, and crying 
 
 And flying, stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right ; 
 
 One sets her knee 
 
 There where her foot should be ; 
 
 One has her hands and dress 
 
 All smother'd up with mud in a fine mess ; 
 
 And one gets trampled on by two or three. 
 
 What's gather'd is let fall 
 
 About the wood and not pick'd up at all. 
 
 The wreaths of flowers are scatter'd on the grourfd ; 
 
 And still as screaming hustling without rest 
 
 They run this way and that and round and round, 
 
 She thinks herself in luck who runs the best. 
 
 I stood quite still to have a perfect view. 
 And never noticed till I got wet through. 
 
ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 A Lady laments for her lost Lover, by similitude 
 of a Falcon. 
 
 ALAS for me, who loved a falcon well ! 
 So well I loved him, I was nearly dead : 
 
 Ever at my low call he bent his head, 
 And ate of mine, not much, but all that fell. 
 Now he has fled, how high I cannot tell. 
 
 Much higher now than ever he has fled, 
 
 And is in a fair garden housed and fed ; 
 Another lady, alas ! shall love him well. 
 O my own falcon whom I taught and reared ! 
 
 Sweet bells of shining gold I gave to thee 
 That in the chase thou shouldst not be afeard. 
 
 Now thou hast risen like the risen sea. 
 Broken thy jesses loose, and disappeared, 
 
 As soon as thou wast skill'd in falconry. 
 
182 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 n. 
 
 Ballata. 
 
 One speaks of the Beginning of his Love. 
 
 T 
 
 HIS fairest one of all the stars, whose flame, 
 For ever lit, my inner spirit fills, 
 Came to me first one day between the hills. 
 
 I wonder'd very much ; but God the Lord 
 
 Said, " From Our Virtue, lo ! this light is pour'd." 
 
 So in a dream it seem'd that I was led 
 
 By a great Master to a garden spread 
 
 With lilies underfoot and overhead. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 183 
 
 IIL 
 Ballata.. 
 
 One speaks of his False Lady. 
 
 WHEN the last greyncss dwells throughout 
 the air 
 And the first star appears, 
 Appeared to me a lady very fair. 
 
 I seem'd to know her well by her sweet air ; 
 
 And, gazing, I was hers. 
 To honour her, I follow 'd her : and then. . . . 
 Ah ! what tliou givest, God give thee again, 
 Whenever thou remain'st as I remain. 
 
184 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 IV. 
 Ballata. 
 
 One speaks of his Feigned and Real Love. 
 
 FOE no love borne by me, 
 Neither because I care 
 To find that thou art fair, — 
 To give another pain I gaze on thee. 
 
 And now, lest such as thought that thou couldst 
 move 
 
 My heart, should read this verse, 
 I will say here, another has my love. 
 
 An angel of the spheres 
 
 She seems, and I am hers ; 
 
 Who has more gentleness 
 
 And owns a fairer face 
 Than any woman else, — at least, to me. 
 
 Sweeter than any, more in all at ease, 
 
 Lighter and loveher. 
 Not to disparage thee ; for whoso sees" 
 
 May like thee more than her. 
 
 This vest will one prefer 
 
ANONYMOUS. 185 
 
 And one another vest. 
 To me she seems the best, 
 And I am hers, and let what will be, be. 
 
 For no love borne by me, 
 Neither because I care 
 To find that thou art fair, — 
 To give another pain, I gaze on thee. 
 
lae ANONYMOUS. 
 
 V. 
 Ballata. 
 
 Of True and False Singing, 
 
 A LITTLE wild bird sometimes at my ear 
 Sings his own little verses very clear : 
 Others sing louder that I do not hear. 
 
 For singing loudly is not singing well ; 
 
 But ever by the song that's soft and low 
 The master-singer's voice is plain to tell. 
 
 Few have it, and yet all are masters now, 
 And each of them can trill out what he calls 
 His ballads, canzonets, and madrigals. 
 
 The world with masters is so cover'd o'er. 
 There is no room for pupils any more. 
 
PAKT II. 
 
 DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE. 
 
 /. DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 II. GUIDO CAVALCANTI, 
 HI. CINO DA PISTOIA. 
 IV. DANTE DA MAIANO. 
 r. CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 
 VI. GUIDO ORLANDI. 
 VII. BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. 
 VIII. GIANNI ALFANI. 
 IX. DINO COMPAGNI. 
 X. LAPO GIANNI 
 XL DINO FRESCOBALDI. 
 XII. GIOTTO DI BONDONE. 
 XIIL SIMONE DALU ANTELLA. 
 XIV. GIOVANNI QUIRING. 
 
INTRODUCTION TO PART II. 
 
 IN the second division of this vohime are included 
 all the poems I could find which seemed to have 
 value as being personal to the circle of Dante's friends, 
 and as illustrating their intercourse with each other. 
 Those who know the Italian collections from which I 
 have drawn these pieces (many of tliem most obscure) 
 will perceive how much which is in fact elucidation 
 is here attempted to be embodied in themselves, as 
 to their rendering, airangement, and heading: since 
 the Italian editors have never yet paid any of them, 
 except of course those by Dante, any such attention ; 
 but have printed and reprinted them in a jumbled 
 and disheartening foim, by which they can serve little 
 pm-pose except as testi di lingua — ilead stock by 
 whose help the makers of dictionaries may smother 
 the language with decayed words. Appealing now 
 I believe for the first time, though in a new idiom, 
 from their once living writers to such living readers 
 as they may find, they require some preliminary 
 notice. 
 
 The Vita Nuova (or Autobiography of Dante's 
 youth till about his twenty-seventh year) is already 
 well known to many in the original, or by means of 
 essays and of English versions partial or entire; 
 
190 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 though I believe there is not one of the latter which 
 has been published in any full sense of the word. It 
 is, therefore, and on all accounts, unnecessary to say 
 much more of it here than it says for itself. Wedded 
 to its exquisite and intimate beauties are personal 
 peculiarities which excite wonder and conjecture, best 
 replied to in the words which Beatrice herself is made 
 to utter in the Commedia : " Questi fu tdl nella sua 
 vita nuova." * Thus then young Dante was. All 
 that seemed possible to be done here for the work 
 was to translate it in as free and clear a form as was 
 consistent with fidelity to its meaning ; to ease it, as 
 far as possible, from notes and encumbrances ; and to 
 accompany it for the first time with those poems from 
 Dante's own lyrical series which have reference to its 
 events, as well as with such native commentary (so 
 to speak) as might be afforded by the writings of those 
 with whom its *author was at that time in familiar 
 intercourse. Not chiefly to Dante, then, of whom 
 so much is known to all or may readily be found 
 written, but to the various other members of his 
 circle, these few pages should be devoted. 
 
 It may be noted here, however, how necessary 
 a knowledge of the Vita Nuova is to the full 
 comprehension of the part borne by Beatrice in the 
 Commedia, Moreover, it is only from the perusal of 
 its earliest and then undivulged self-communings 
 that we can divine the whole bitterness of wrong 
 to such a soul as Dante's, its poignant sense of 
 abandonment, or its deep and jealous refiige in 
 memory. Above all, it is here that we find the first 
 manifestations of that wisdom of obedience, that 
 natural breath of duty, which afterwards, in the 
 
 * Purgatorio, C. xxx. 
 
PART II, 191 
 
 Comraedia, lifted up a mighty voice for warning and 
 testimony. Throughout the Vita Nuova there is a 
 strain like the fii-st falling murmur which reaches 
 the ear in some remote meadow, and prepares us to 
 look upon the sea. 
 
 Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, tells us that the 
 great poet, in later life, was ashamed of this work 
 of his youth. Such a statement hardly seems 
 reconcilable with the allusions to it made or implied 
 in the Commedia; but it is true that the Vita Nuova 
 is a book which only youth could have produced, 
 and which must chiefly remain sacred to the young; 
 to each of whom the figure of Beatrice, less Ufelike 
 than lovelike, will seem the friend of his own heart. 
 Nor is this, perhaps, its least praise. To tax its 
 author with effeminacy on account of the extreme 
 sensitiveness evinced by tliis narrative of his love, 
 would be manifestly unjust, when we find that, though 
 love alone is the theme of the Vita Nuova, war 
 already ranked among its author's experiences at the 
 period to which it relates. In the year 1289, the 
 one preceding the death of Beatrice, Dante served 
 with the foremost cavalry in the great battle of 
 Campaldino, on the eleventh of June, when the 
 Florentines defeated the people of Arezzo. In the 
 autumn of the next year, 1290, when for him, by the 
 death of Beatrice, the city as he says " sat solitary," 
 such refuge as he might find from liis grief was 
 sought in action and danger : for we learn from the 
 Commedia {Hdl, C. xxi.) that he served in the war 
 then waged by Florence upon Pisa, and was present 
 at the surrender of Caprona. He says, using the 
 reminiscence to give life to a description, in his 
 great way : — 
 
192 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 " I've seen the troops out of Caprona go 
 
 On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot 
 They found themselves with foemen compass'd so." 
 
 (Catlet's Translation.) 
 
 A word should be said here of the title of Dante's 
 autobiography. The adjective Nuovo, nuova, or 
 Novello, novella, literally New, is often used by Dante 
 and other early writers in the sense of young. This 
 has induced some editors of the Vita Nuova to explain 
 the title as meaning Early Life. I should be glad 
 on some accounts to adopt this supposition, as every- 
 thing is a gain which increases clearness to the modern 
 reader; but on consideration I think the more mystical 
 interpretation of the words, as New Life, (in reference 
 to that revulsion of his being which Dante so minutely 
 describes as having occurred simultaneously with 
 his first sight of Beatrice,) appears the primary one, 
 and therefore the most necessary to be given in a 
 translation. The probability may be that both were 
 meant, but this I cannot convey.* 
 
 * I must hazard here (to relieve the first page of my 
 translation from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning 
 of the most puzzling passage in the whole Vita Nuova, — that 
 sentence just at the outset which says," La gloriosa donna della 
 mia mente, la quale fii chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non 
 sapeanochesichiamare." On this passage all the commentators 
 seem helpless, turning it about and sometimes adopting altera- 
 tions not to be found in any ancient manuscript of the work. 
 The words mean literally, " The glorious lady of my mind who 
 was called Beatrice by many who knew not how she was 
 called." This presents the obvious difficulty that the lady's 
 name really was Beatrice, and that Dante throughout uses 
 that name himself. In the text of my version I have adopted, 
 as a rendering, the one of the various compromises which 
 seemed to give the most beauty to the meaning. But it occurs 
 to me that a less irrational escape out of the difficulty than 
 any I have seen suggested may possibly be found by linking 
 
PART IL 193 
 
 Among the poets of Dante's circle, the first in 
 order, the first in power, and the one whom Dante 
 has styled his " first friend," is Guido Cavalcanti, 
 born about 1250, and thus Dante's senior by some 
 fifteen years. It is therefore probable that there is 
 some inaccuracy about the statement, often repeated, 
 that he was Dante's fellow-pupil under Bmnetto 
 Latini ; though it seems certain that they both 
 studied, probably Guido before Dante, with the same 
 teacher. The Cavalcanti family was among the most 
 ancient in Florence ; and its importance may be 
 judged by the fact that in 1280, on the occasion of 
 one of the various missions sent from Rome with the 
 view of pacifying the Florentine factions, the name 
 of " Guido the son of Messer Cavalcante de' Caval- 
 canti" appears as one of the sureties offered by the 
 city, for the quarter of San Piero Scheraggio. His 
 father must have been notoriously a sceptic in matters 
 of religion, since we find him placed by Dante in the 
 sixth circle of Hell, in one of the fiery tombs of the 
 
 this passage with the close of the sonnet at page 275 of the 
 Vita Nuova, beginning, " I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir," 
 in the last line of which sonnet Love is made to assert that the 
 name of Beatrice is Love. Dante appears to have dwelt 
 on this fancy with some pleasure, from what is said in an 
 earlier sonnet (page 233) about " Love in his proper form" (br 
 which Beatrice seems to be meant) bending over a dead lady. 
 And it is in connection with the sonnet where the name of 
 Beatrice is said to be Love, that Dante, as if to show us that 
 the Love he speaks of is only his own emotion, enters into an 
 argument as to Love being merely an accident in substance, — 
 in other words, " Amore e il cor gentil son una cosa." This 
 conjecture may be pronounced extravagant; but the Vita 
 Nuova, when examined, proves so full of intricate and fantastic 
 analogies, even in the mere arrangement of its parts, (much 
 more than appears on any but the closest scrutiny,) that it 
 seems admissible to suggest even a whimsical solution of a 
 difficulty which remains unconquered. 
 O 
 
194 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 unbelievers. That Guido shared this heresy was' the 
 popular belief, as is plain from an anecdote in 
 Boccaccio which I shall give ; and some corroboration 
 of such reports, at any rate as applied to Guide's 
 youth, seems capable of being gathered from an 
 extremely obscure poem which I have translated on 
 that account (at page 373) as clearly as I found 
 possible. It must be admitted, however, that there 
 is to the full as much devotional as sceptical tendency 
 implied here and there in his writings ; while the 
 presence of either is very rare. We may also set 
 against such a charge the fact that Dino Compagni 
 refers, as will be seen, to his having undertaken a 
 rehgious pilgrimage. But indeed he seems to have 
 been in all things of that fitful and vehement nature 
 which would impress others always strongly, but often 
 in opposite ways. Self-reliant pride gave its colour to 
 all his moods ; making his exploits as a soldier 
 frequently abortive through the headstrong ardour of 
 partisanship, and causing the perversity of a logician 
 to prevail in much of his amorous poetry. The 
 writings of his contemporaries, as well as his own, 
 tend to show him rash in war, fickle in love, and 
 presumptuous in belief; but also, by the same con- 
 current testimony, he was distinguished by great 
 personal beauty, high accomplishments of all kinds, 
 and daring nobility of soul. Not unworthy, for all 
 the weakness of his strength, to have been the object 
 of Dante's early emulation, the first friend of his 
 youth, and his precursor and fellow-labourer in the 
 creation of Italian Poetry. 
 
 In the year 1267, when Guido cannot have been 
 much more than seventeen years of age, a last attempt 
 was made in Florence to reconcile the Guelfs and 
 
PART II. 195 
 
 Ghibellines. With tliis view several alliances were 
 formed between the leading families of the two fac- 
 tions ; and among others, the Guelf Cavalcante de* 
 Cavalcanti wedded his son Guide to a daughter of 
 the Ghibelline Farinata degli Uberti. The peace 
 was of short duration ; the utter expulsion of the 
 Ghibellines (through French intervention solicited 
 by the Guelfs) following almost immediately. In 
 the subdivision, which afterwards took place, of the 
 victorious Guelfs into so-called " Blacks" and 
 " Whites," Guido embraced the White party, which 
 tended strongly to Ghibellinism, and whose chief was 
 Yieri de' Cerchi, while Corso Donati headed the 
 opposite faction. Whether his wife was still living 
 at the time when the events of the Vita Nuova oc- 
 curred, is probably not ascertainable ; but about that 
 time Dante tells us that Guido was enamoured of a 
 lady named Glovantia or Joan, and whose Christian 
 name is absolutely all that we know of her. How- 
 ever, on the occasion of his pilgrimage to Thoulouse, 
 recorded by Dino Compagni, he seems to have con- 
 ceived a fresh passion for a lady of that city named 
 Mandetta, who first attracted him by a striking re- 
 semblance to his Florentine mistress. Thoulouse 
 had become a place of pilgrimage fi'om its laying 
 claim to the possession of the body, or part of the 
 body, of Saint James the Apostle ; though the same 
 supposed distinction had already made the shrine of 
 Compostella in Gallicia one of the most famous 
 throughout all Christendom. That this devout jour- 
 ney of Guide's had other results besides a new love, 
 will be seen by the passage from Compagni's Chro- 
 nicle. He says : — 
 " A young and noble knight named Guido, son of jSIesser 
 
196 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 Cavalcante Cavalcanti, — full of courage and courtesy, but 
 disdainful, solitary, and devoted to study,— was a foe to 
 Messer Corso (Donati) and had many times cast about to 
 do him hurt. Messer Corso feared him exceedingly, as 
 knowing him to be of a great spirit, and sought to assassi- 
 nate him on a pilgrimage which Guido made to the shrine 
 of St. James ; but he might not compass it. Wherefore, 
 having returned to Florence and being made aware of this, 
 Guido incited many youths against Messer Corso, and these 
 promised to stand by him. Who being one day on horseback 
 with certain of the house of the Cerchi, and having a javelin 
 in his hand, spurred his horse against Messer Corso, think- 
 ing to be followed by the Cerchi that so their companies 
 might engage each other ; and he running in on his horse 
 cast the javelin, which missed its aim. And with Messer 
 Corso were Simon his son, a strong and daring youth, and 
 Cecchino de- Bardi, who with many others pursued Guido 
 with drawn swords ; but not overtaking him they threw 
 stones after him, and also others were thrown at him from 
 the windows, whereby he was wounded in the hand. And 
 by this matter hate was increased. And Messer Corso 
 spoke great scorn of Messer Vieri, calling him the Ass of 
 the Gate ; because, albeit a very handsome man, he was 
 but of blunt wit and no great speaker. And therefore 
 Messer Corso would say often, ' To-day the Ass of the 
 Gate has brayed,' and so greatly disparage him ; and 
 Guido he called Cavicchia.* And thus it was spread abroad 
 of the jongleurs; and especially one named Scampolino 
 reported worse things than were said, that so the Cerchi 
 might be provoked to engage the Donati." 
 
 * A nickname chiefly chosen, no doubt, for its resemblance 
 to Cavalcanti. The word cavicchia, cavicchia, or caviglia meaiis 
 a wooden peg or pin. A passage in Boccaccio says, " He had 
 tied his ass to a strong wooden pin," (caviglia.) Thus Guido, 
 from his mental superiority, might be said to be the Pin to 
 which the Ass, Messer Vieri, was tethered at the Gate, (that 
 is, the Gate of San Pietro, near which he lived.) However, 
 it seems quite as likely that the nickname was founded on a 
 popular phrase by which one who fails in any undertaking is 
 said " to run his rear on a peg," (dare delculoin un cavicchia.) 
 The haughty Corso Donati himself went by the name of 
 Malefammi or " Do-me-harm." For an account of his death 
 in 1307, which proved in keeping with his turbulent life, see 
 Dino Compagni's Chranicle, or the Fecorone of Giovanni 
 Fiorentino (Gior. xxiv. Nov. 2.) 
 
PART II. 197 
 
 The praise which Compagni, his contemporary, 
 awards tx) Guide at the commencement of the fore- 
 going extract, receives additional value when viewed 
 in connection with the sonnet addressed to him by 
 the same writer (see page 355), where we find that 
 he could tell him of his faults. 
 
 Such scenes as the one related above had become 
 common things in Florence, which kept on its course 
 from bad to worse till Pope Boniface VIII resolved 
 on sending a legate to propose certain amendments 
 in its scheme of government by Priori or represen- 
 tatives of the various arts and companies. These 
 proposals, however, were so ill received, that the 
 legate, who arrived in Florence in the month of 
 June, 1300, departed shortly afterwards greatly in- 
 censed, leaving the city under a papal interdict. In 
 the ill-considered tumults which ensued we again 
 hear of Guide Cavalcanti. 
 
 " It happened (says Giovanni Villani in his History of 
 Florence) that in the month of December (1300) Messer 
 Corso Donnti with his followers, and also those of the house 
 of the Cerchi and their followers, g<»ino^ armed to the funeral 
 of a lady of the Frescobaldi family, this partv defying that 
 by their looks would have assailed one another ; whereby 
 all those who were at the funeral having; risen up tumul> 
 tuously and fled each to his house, the whole city got 
 under arms, both factions assembling in ^eat numbers, at 
 their respective houses. Messer Gentile de' Cerchi, Guide 
 Cavalcanti, Baldinuccio and Corso Adimari, Baschiero 
 della Tosa and Naldo Gherardini, with their comrades and 
 adherents on horse and on foot, hastened to St. Peter's 
 Gate to the house of the Donati. Not finding them 
 there they went on to San Pier Maggiore, where Messer 
 Corso was with his friends and followers ; by whom they 
 were encountered and put to flight, with many wounds and 
 with much shame to the party of the Cerchi and to their 
 adherents." 
 
 By this time we may conjecture as probable that 
 
198 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 Dante, in the arduous position which he then filled 
 as chief of the nine PHori on whom the government 
 of Florence devolved, had resigned for far other 
 cares the sweet intercourse of thought and poetry 
 which he once held with that first friend of his who 
 had now become so factious a citizen. Yet it is 
 impossible to say how much of the old feeling may 
 still have survived in Dante's mind when, at the close 
 of the year 1300 or beginning of 1301, it became 
 his duty, as a faithful magistrate of the republic, to 
 add his voice to those of his colleagues in pronounc- 
 ing a sentence of banishment on the heads of both 
 the Black and \Miite factions, Guide Cavalcanti 
 being included among the latter. The Florentines 
 had been at last provoked almost to demand this 
 course from their governors, by the discovery of a 
 conspiracy, at the head of which was Corso Donati, 
 (while among its leading members was Simone de' 
 Bardi, once the husband of Beatrice Portinari), for 
 the purpose of inducing the Pope to subject the re- 
 public to a French peace-maker (Paciere) and so 
 shamefully free it from its intestine broils. It ap- 
 pears therefore that the immediate cause of the exile 
 to which both sides were subjected lay entirely with 
 the " Black'* party, the leaders of which were 
 banished to the Castello della Pieve in the wild dis- 
 trict of Massa Trabceria, while those of the " White" 
 faction were sent to Sarzana, probably (for more 
 than one place bears the name) in the Genovesato. 
 " But this party" (writes Villani) *' remained a less 
 time in exile, being recalled on account of the un- 
 healthiness of the place, which made that Guide 
 Cavalcanti returned with a sickness, whereof he 
 clied. And of him was a great loss ; seeing that he 
 
PART II. 19^ 
 
 was a man, as in philosophy, so in many things 
 deeply versed; but therewithal to6 fastidious and 
 prone to take offence." His death apparently took 
 place in 1301. 
 
 When the discords of Florence ceased, for Guido, 
 in death, Dante also had seen their native city for 
 the last time. Before Guido's return he had under- 
 taken that embassy to Rome which bore him the 
 bitter fi-uit of unjust and perpetual exile : and it will 
 be remembered that a chief accusation against him 
 was that of favour shown to the White party on the 
 banishment of the factions. 
 
 Besides the various affectionate allusions to Guido 
 in the Vita Nuova, Dante has unmistakeably re- 
 ferred to him in at least two passages of the Com- 
 media. One of these references is to be found in 
 those famous lines of the Purgatory (C. xi.) where 
 he awards him the palm of poetry over Guido 
 Guinicelli (though also of the latter he speaks else- 
 where with higli praise,) and implies at the same 
 time, it would seem, a consciousness of his own su- 
 premacy over both. 
 
 " Lo, Cimabue thought alone to tread 
 
 The lists of painting ; now doth Giotto gain 
 
 llie praise, and darkness on his glory shed. 
 Thus hath one Guido from another ta'en 
 
 The praise of speech, and haply one hath pass'd 
 Through birth, who from their nest will chase the 
 twain."— Catlet's Translation. 
 
 The other mention of Guido is in that pathetic 
 passage of the Hell (C. x.) where Dante meets 
 among the lost souls Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti : — 
 
 " All roundabout he look'd, as though he had 
 Desire to see if one was with me else. 
 But after his surmise was all extinct, 
 
20a INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 He weeping said : ' If through this dungeon blind 
 
 Thou goest by loftiness of intellect, — 
 
 Where is my son, and wherefore not with thee ?* 
 
 And I to him : ' Of myself come I not : 
 
 He who there waiteth leads me thoro' here, 
 
 Whom haply in disdain your Guido had.'* 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Raised upright of a sudden, cried he : ' How 
 Did'st say He had? Is he not living still ? 
 Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes V 
 When he perceived a certain hesitance 
 Which I was making ere I should reply, 
 He fell supine, and forth appear'd no more." 
 
 Dante, however, conveys his answer afterwards to the 
 spirit of Guide's father, through another of the con- 
 demned also related to Guido, Farinata degli Uberti, 
 with whom he has been speaking meanwhile : — 
 
 " Then I, as in compunction for my fault, 
 Said : ' Now then shall ye tell that fallen one 
 His son is still united with the quick. 
 And, if I erst was dumb to the response, 
 I did it, make him know, because I thought 
 Yet on the error you have solved for me.' " 
 
 (Translated by W. M. Ro88ETTI.)t 
 
 * Virgil, Dante's guide through Hell. Any prejudice 
 which Guide entertained against Virgil depended, no doubt, 
 only on his strong desire to see the Latin language give place, 
 in poetry and literature, to a perfected Italian idiom. 
 
 t These passages are extracted from a literal blank verse 
 translation of the Inferno made by my brother, which is as yet 
 in MS., but which 1 trust may before long see the light ; as I 
 believe such a work not to be superfluous even now, notwith- 
 standing the many existing versions of the Commedia. It is 
 long since Mr. Gary led the way with a good but rather free 
 rendering, more perhaps in the spirit of that day than of this, 
 and accompanied by notes and other editorial matter which 
 are among the clearest and most complete that Dante's work 
 has ever received. Mr. Gayley's version, of much more recent 
 date, seems to me to have now occupied (and that without 
 much likelihood of its being superseded) the post which is 
 the first in all such cases, — that of a fine English poem render- 
 ing a great foreign one in its own metre, with all essential 
 
PART II. 201 
 
 The date which Dante fixes for his vision is Good 
 Friday of the year 1300. A year later, his answer 
 must have been different. The love and friendship 
 of his Vita Nuova had then both left him. For ten 
 years Beatrice Portinari had been dead, or (as Dante 
 says in the Convlto) " lived in heaven with the 
 angels and on earth with his soul." And now, dis- 
 tant and probably estranged from him, Guide Caval- 
 canti was gone too. 
 
 Among the Tales of Franco Sacchetti, and in 
 the Decameron of Boccaccio, are two anecdotes re- 
 lating to Guide. Sacchetti tells us how, one day 
 that he was intent on a game at chess. Guide (who 
 is described as " one who perhaps had not his equal 
 in Florence") was disturbed by a child playing 
 about, and threatened punishment if the noise con- 
 tinued. The child, however, managed slily to nail 
 Guide's coat to the chair on which he sat, and so 
 had the laugh against him when he rose soon after- 
 wards to fulfil his threat. This may serve as an 
 amusing instance of Guide's hasty temper, but 
 is rather a disappointment after its magniloquent 
 
 fidelity, for the use of English readers who read for the sake 
 of poetry. Dr. Carlyle's prose translation takes other ground, 
 that of word-for-word literality, for which it presupposes prose 
 to be indispensable. I will venture to assert that my brother's 
 work yields nothing to his, however, in minute precision of 
 this kind ; and if so, it can hardly be doubtful that its being 
 in blank verse is a great gain, even as adding the last refine- 
 ment to exactness by showing the division of the lines ; but 
 of course also on the higher poetic ground. I do not forget 
 that a version already exists, by Mr. Pollock, professing a like 
 aim with my brother's ; and must again express a hope that 
 publicity will shortly afford to all an opportunity of judging 
 the claims of the new attempt. I may here also acknowledge 
 my obligations to my brother for valuable suggestions and 
 assistance in the course of my present work. 
 
202 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 heading, which sets forth how " Guido Cavalcanti, 
 being a man of great valour and a philosopher, is 
 defeated by the cunning of a child." 
 
 The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the Decameron 
 relates a repartee of Guide's, which has all the pro- 
 found platitude of mediaeval wit. As the anecdote, 
 however, is interesting on other grounds, I translate 
 it here. 
 
 " You must know that in past times there were in our 
 city certain goodly and praiseworthy customs no one of 
 which is now left, thanks to avarice which has so increased 
 with riches that it has driven them all away. Among the 
 which was one whereby the gentlemen of the outskirts 
 were wont to assemble together in divers places through- 
 out Florence, and to limit their fellowships to a certain 
 number, having heed to compose them of such as could 
 fitly discharge the expense. Of whom to-day one, and to- 
 morrow another, and so all in turn, laid tables each on 
 his own day for all the fellowship. And in such wise 
 often they did honour to strangers of worship and also to 
 citizens. They all dressed alike at least once in the year, 
 and the most notable among them rode together through 
 the city ; also at seasons they held passages of arms, and 
 specially on the principal feast-days, or whenever any 
 news of victory or other glad tidings had reached the city. 
 And among these fellowships was one headed by Messer 
 Betto Brunelleschi, into the which Messer Betto and his 
 companions had often intrigued to draw Guido di Messer 
 Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti; and this not without cause, 
 seeing that not only he was one of the best logicians that 
 the world held, and a surpassing natural philosopher,/for the 
 which things the fellowship cared little,) but also he ex- 
 ceeded in beauty and courtesy, and was of great gifts as a 
 speaker; and everything that it pleased him to do, and 
 that best became a gentleman, he did better than any 
 other ; and was exceeding rich and knew well to solicit 
 with honourable words whomsoever he deemed worthy. 
 But Messer Betto had never been able to succeed in enlist- 
 ing him ; and he and his companions believed that this 
 ■was through Guido's much pondering which divided him 
 from other men. Also because he held somewhat of the 
 opinion of the Epicureans, it was said among the vulgar 
 
PART II. 203 
 
 sort, that his speculations were only to cast about whether 
 he might find that there was no God. Now on a certain 
 day Guido having left Or San Michele, and held along the 
 Corso degli Adimari as far as San Giovanni (which often- 
 times was his walk) ; and coming to the great marble 
 tombs which now are in the Church of Santa Reparata, 
 but were then with many others in San Giovanni; he 
 •being between the porphyry columns which are there 
 among those tombs, and the gate of San Giovanni which 
 was locked ; — it so chancftd that Messer Betto and his 
 fellowship came riding up by the Piazza di Santa Repa- 
 rata, and seemg Guido among the sepulchres, said, * Let 
 us go and engage him.' Whereupon, spurring their 
 horses in the fashion of a pleasant assault, they were on 
 him almost before he was aware, and began to say to him, 
 ' Thou, Guido, wilt none of our fellowship ; but lo now ! 
 when thou shall have found that there is no God, what 
 wilt thou have done ? ' To whom Guido, seeing himself 
 hemmed in among then, readily replied, ' Gentlemen, ye 
 are at home here, and may say what ye please to me.' 
 Wherewith, setting his hand on one of those high t<.)mbs, 
 being very light of his person, he took a leap and was 
 over on the other side ; and so having freed himself 
 from them, went his way. And they all remaine<l bewil- 
 dered, looking on one another ; and be^n to say that he 
 was but a shallow-witte<l fellow, and that the answer he 
 had made was as though one should say nothing ; seeing 
 that where they were, they had not more to do than other 
 citizens, and Guido not less than they. To whttm Messer 
 Betto turned and said thus : ' Ye yourselves are shallow- 
 witted if ye have not understood him. He has civilly and 
 in few words said to us the most uncivil thing in the 
 world ; for if ye look well to it, these tombs are the homes 
 of the dead, seeing that in them the dead are set to dwell ; 
 and here he says that we are at home ; giving us to know 
 that we and all other simple unlettered men, in comparison 
 of him and the learned, are even as dead men ; wherefore, 
 being here, we are at home.' Thereupon each of them 
 understood what Guido had meant, and was ashamed; 
 nor ever again did they set themselves to engage him. 
 Also from that day forth they held Messer Betto to be a 
 subtle and understanding knight." 
 
 In the above story mention is made of Guide 
 Cavalcanti's wealth, and there seems no doubt that 
 
204 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 at that time the family was very rich and powerful. 
 On this account I am disposed to question whether 
 the Canzone at page 370 (where the author speaks of 
 his poverty) can really be Guide's work, though I 
 have included it as being interesting if rightly attri- 
 buted to him; and it is possible that, when exiled, 
 he may have suffered for the time in purse as well as 
 person. About three years after his death, on the 
 10th June, 1304, the Black party plotted together 
 and set fire to the quarter of Florence chiefly held 
 by their adversaries. In this conflagration the 
 houses and possessions of the Cavalcanti were almost 
 entirely destroyed ; the flames in that neighbourhood 
 (as Dino Compagni records) gaining rapidly in con- 
 sequence of the great number of waxen images in 
 the Virgin's shrine at Or San Michele ; one of which, 
 no doubt, was the very image resembling his lady to 
 which Guide refers in a sonnet (see page 333.) 
 After this, their enemies succeeded in finally expel- 
 ling from Florence the Cavalcanti family,* greatly 
 impoverished by this monstrous fire in which nearly 
 two thousand houses were consumed. 
 
 Guide appears, by various evidence, to have written, 
 besides his poems, a treatise on Philosophy and another 
 on Oratory, but his poems only have survived to our 
 day. As a poet, he has more individual life of his 
 own than belongs to any of his predecessors ; by far 
 
 * With them were expelled the still more powerful Ghe- 
 rardini, also great sufferers by the conflagration ; who, on 
 being driven from their own country, became the founders of 
 the ancient Geraldine family in Ireland. The Cavalcanti re- 
 appear now and then in later European history; and espe- 
 cially we hear of a second Guido Cavalcanti, who also culti- 
 vated poetry, and travelled to collect books for the Ambrosian 
 Librarj'; and who, in 1563, visited Ensjland as Ambassador 
 to the court of Elizabeth from Charles IX. of France. 
 
PART II. 205 
 
 the best of his pieces being those which relate to him- 
 self, his loves and hates. The best known, however, 
 and perhapa, the one for whose sake tlie rest have 
 been preserved, is the metaphysical canzone on the 
 Nature of Love, beginning, " Donna mi priega," 
 and intended, it is said, as an answer to a sonnet by 
 Guido Orlandi, written as though coming from a lady, 
 and beginning, " Onde si muove e donde nasce 
 Amore?" On this canzone of Guido's there are 
 known to exist no fewer than eight commentaries, 
 some of them very elaborate and written by prominent 
 learned men of the middle ages and renaissance ; 
 the earliest being that by Egidio Colonna, a beatified 
 churchman who died in 131 G; while most of the too 
 numerous Academic writers on Italian literature 
 speak of this perfoi-mance with great admiration as 
 Guide's crowning work. A love-song which acts as 
 such a fly-catcher for priests and pedants looks very 
 suspicious; and accordingly, on examination, it proves 
 to be a poem beside the purpose of poetry, filled with 
 metaphysical jargon, and perhaps the very worst of 
 Guido's productions. Its having been written by a 
 man whose life and works include so much that is 
 impulsive and real, is easily accounted for by scholastic 
 pride in those early days of learning. I have not 
 translated it, as being of little true interest; but was 
 pleased lately, nevertheless, to meet with a remarkably 
 complete translation of it by the Rev. Charles T. Brooks 
 of Cambridge, United States.* The stiffness and 
 cold conceits which prevail in this poem may be found 
 
 * This translation occurs in the Appendix to an Essay on 
 the Vita Nuova of Dante, including extracts, by my friend 
 Mr. Charles E. Norton, of Cambridge, U. S., — a work of high 
 delicacy and appreciation which origiually appeared by per- 
 
206 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 disfiguring much of what Guido Cavalcanti has left, 
 while much besides is blunt, obscure, and abrupt : 
 nevertheless, if it need hardly be said how far he falls 
 short of Dante in variety and personal directness, it 
 may be admitted that he worked worthily at his side, 
 and perhaps before him, in adding those qualities to 
 Italian poetry. That Guide's poems dwelt in the 
 mind of Dante is evident by his having appropriated 
 lines from them, (as well as from those of Guinicelli,) 
 with little alteration, lAore than once, in the Corn- 
 media. I should not forget to state in conclusion 
 that a portrait of Guido (of which there is an engrav- 
 ing, I should think badly rendered) exists in the 
 gallery of Florence. 
 
 Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his Latin 
 treatise De Vulgari Eloquio, again speaks of him- 
 self as the friend of a poet, — this time of Cinq da 
 PiSTOiA. In an early passage of that work he says 
 that " those who have most sweetly and subtly written 
 poems in modern Italian are Cino da Pistoia and a 
 friend of his." This friend we afterwards find to be 
 Dante himself ; as among the various poetical examples 
 quoted are several by Cino followed in three instances 
 by lines from Dante's own lyi'ics, the author of the 
 latter being again described merely as " Amicus ejus." 
 In immediate proximity to these, or coupled in two 
 instances with examples from Dante alone, are various 
 quotations taken from Guido Cavalcanti ; but in none 
 of these cases is anything said to connect Dante 
 with him who was once " the first of his friends."* 
 
 tions in the Atlantic Monthly, but has since been augmented 
 by the author and privately printed in a volume which is a 
 beautiful specimen of American tj'pography. 
 
 * It is also noticeable that in this treatise Dante speaks of 
 Guido Guinicelli on one occasion as Guido Maximxis, thus 
 
PART II. 207 
 
 As commonly between old and new, the change of 
 Guide's friendship for Cino's seems doubtful gain. 
 Cino's poetry, like his career, is for the most part 
 smoother than that of Guide, and in some instances 
 it rises into truth and wannth of expression ; but it 
 conveys no idea of such powers, for life or for work, 
 as seem to have distinguished the " Cavicchia" of 
 Messer Corso Donati. However, his one talent 
 (reversing the parable) appears generally to be made 
 the most of, while Guide's two or tliree remain un- 
 certain through the manner of their use. 
 
 Cino's Canzone addressed to Dante on the death 
 of Beatrice, as well as his answer to the first sonnet 
 of the Vita Nuova, indicate that the two poets must 
 have become acquainted in youth, though there is no 
 earlier mention of Cine in Dante's writings than 
 those which occur in his treatise on the Vulgar 
 Tongue. To their younger days also we may pro- 
 seeming to contradict the preference of Cavalcailti which is 
 usually supposed to be implied in the passage I have quoted 
 from the Purgatory. It has been sometimes surmised (per- 
 haps for this reason) that the two Guidos there spoken of may 
 be Guittone d'Arezzo and Guido Guinicelli, the latter being 
 said to surpass the former, of whom Dante elsewhere in the 
 Purgatory has expressed a low opinion. But I should think 
 it doubtful whether the name Guittone, which (if not a nick- 
 name, as some say) is substantially the same as Guido, could 
 be so absolutely identified with it: at that rate Cino da 
 Pistoia even might be classed as one Guido, his full name, 
 Guittoncino, being the diminutive of Guittone. I believe it 
 more probable that Guinicelli and Cavalcanti were then really 
 meant, and that Dante afterwards either altered his opinion, 
 or may (conjecturably) have chosen to imply a change of 
 preference in order to gratify Cino da Pistoia whom he so 
 markedly distinguishes as his friend throughout the treatise, 
 and between whom and Cavalcanti some jealousy appears to 
 have existed, as we may gather from one of Cino's sonnets 
 (at page 393) ; nor is Guido mentioned anywhere with praise 
 by Cino, as other poet3 are. 
 
208 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 bably ascribe the two sonnets translated at pages 
 319-20 of this volume. It might perhaps be infer- 
 red with some plausibility that their acquaintance 
 was revived after an interruption by the sonnet and 
 answer at pages 321-22, and that they afterwards 
 corresponded as friends till the period of Dante's 
 death when Cino wrote his elegy. Of the two son- 
 nets in which Cino expresses disapprobation of what 
 he thinks the partial judgments of Dante's Commedia, 
 the first seems written before the great poet's death, 
 but I should think that the second dated after that 
 event, as the Paradise, to which it refers, cannot have 
 become fully known in its author's lifetime. An- 
 other sonnet sent to Dante elicited a Latin epistle in 
 reply, where we find Cino addressed as " frater caris- 
 sime." Among Cino's lyrical poems are a few more 
 written in correspondence with Dante, which I have 
 not translated as being of little personal interest. 
 
 Guittoncino de' Sinibuldi (for such was Cino's full 
 name) was born in Pistoia, of a distinguished 
 family, in the year 1270. He devoted himself early 
 to the study of law, and in 1307 was Assessor of 
 Civil Causes in his native city. In this year, and 
 in Pistoia, the endless contest of the " Black " and 
 " "WTiite " factions first sprang into activity ; the 
 " Blacks " and Guelfs of Florence and Lucca driving 
 out the " Whites " and Ghibellines, who had ruled 
 in the city since 1300. With their accession to 
 power came many iniquitous laws in favour of their 
 own party ; so that Cino, as a lawyer of Ghibelline 
 opinions, soon found it necessary or advisable to 
 leave Pistoia, for it seems uncertain whether his 
 removal was voluntary or by proscription. He di- 
 rected his course towards Lombardy, on whose con- 
 
PART II. 209 
 
 fines the chief of the " White " party in Pistoia, 
 FiHppo Vergiolesi, still held the fortress of Pitecehio. 
 Hither Vergiolesi had retreated with his family and 
 adherents when resistance in the city became no 
 longer possible ; and it may be supposed that Cino 
 came to join him not on account of political sympathy 
 alone ; as Selvaggia Vergiolesi, his daughter, is the 
 lady celebrated throughout the poet's compositions. 
 Three years later, the Vergiolesi and their followers, 
 finding Pitecehio untenable, fortified themselves on 
 the Monte della Sambuca, a lofty peak of the Apen- 
 nines; which again they were finally obliged to 
 abandon, yielding it to the Guelfs of Pistoia at the 
 price of eleven thousand lire. Meanwhile the bleak 
 air of the Sambuca had pi-oved fatal to tlie lady 
 Selvaggia, who remained buried there, or, as Cino 
 expresses it in one of his poems, 
 
 " Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains, 
 Where Death had shut her in between hard stones." 
 
 Over her cheerless tomb Cino bent and mourned, 
 as he has told us, when, after a prolonged absence 
 spent partly in France, he returned through Tuscany 
 on his way to Rome. He had not been with Sel- 
 vaggia's family at the time of her death ; and it is 
 probable that, on his return to the Sambuca, the 
 fortress was already surrendered, aud her grave 
 almost the only record left there of the Vergiolesi. 
 
 Cino's journey to Rome was on account of his 
 having received a high office under Louis of Savoy, 
 who preceded the Emperor Henry VII. when he 
 went thither to be crowned in 1310. In another 
 three years the last blow was dealt to the hopes of 
 the exiled and persecuted Ghibellines, by the death 
 of the Emperor, attributed sometimes to poison. 
 
210 INTBODJJCTION TO 
 
 T^his death Cino has lamented in a Canzone. It pro- 
 bably determined him to abandon a cause which 
 seemed dead, and return, when possible, to his na- 
 tive city. This he succeeded in doing before 1319, 
 as in that year we find him deputed together with 
 six other citizens, by the Government of Pistoia, to 
 take possession of a stronghold recently yielded to 
 them. He had now been for some time married to 
 Margherita degli Ughi, of a very noble Pistoiese 
 family, who bore him a son named Mino, and four 
 daughters. Diamante, Beatrice, Giovanna, and Lom- 
 barduccia. Indeed, this marriage must have taken 
 place before the death of Selvaggia in 13] 0, as in 
 1325-26, his son Mino was one of those by whose 
 aid from within, the Ghibelline Castruccio Antelmi- 
 nelli obtained possession of Pistoia, which he held 
 in spite of revolts till his death some two or three 
 years afterwards, when it again reverted to the 
 Guelfs. 
 
 After returning to Pistoia, Cino's whole life was 
 devoted to the attainment of legal and literary fame. 
 In these pursuits he reaped the highest honours, 
 and taught at the universities of Siena, Perugia, and 
 Florence ; having for his disciples men who after- 
 wards became celebrated, among whom rumour has 
 placed Petrarch, though on examination this seems 
 very doubtful. A sonnet by Petrarch exists, how- 
 ever, commencing " Piangete donne e con voi pianga 
 Amore," written as a lament on Cino's death and 
 bestowing the highest praise on him. He and his 
 Selvaggia are also coupled with Dante and Beatrice 
 in the same poet's Trionfi d^ Amove ^ (cap. 4.) 
 
 Though established again in Pistoia, Cino re- 
 sided there but little tiU about the time of his death, 
 
PART IT. 211 
 
 which occurred in 1336-7. His monument, where 
 he is represented as a professor among his disciples, 
 still exists in the Cathedral of Pistoia, and is a 
 mediaeval work of great interest. Messer Cino de' 
 Sinibuldi was a prosperous man, of whom we have 
 ample records, fi'om the details of his examinations 
 as a student, to the inventory of his effects after 
 death, and the curious items of his funeral expenses. 
 Of his claims as a poet it may be said that he filled 
 creditably the interval which elapsed between the 
 death of Dante and the full blaze of Petrarch's suc- 
 cess. Most of his poems in honour of Selvaggia are 
 full of an elaborate and mechanical tone of complaint 
 which hardly reads like the expression of a real love j 
 nevertheless there are some, and especially the son- 
 net on her tomb (at page 390), which display feeling 
 and power. The finest, as well as the most interest- 
 ing, of all his pieces, is the very beautiful canzone in 
 which he attempts to console Dante for the death of 
 Beatrice. Though I have found much fewer among 
 Cino's poems than among Guido's which seemed to 
 call for translation, the collection of the former is a 
 larger one. Cino produced legal writings also, of 
 which the chief one that has survived is a Com- 
 mentary on the Statutes of Pistoia, said to have 
 great merit, and whose production in the short space 
 of two years was accounted an extraordinary achieve- 
 ment. 
 
 Hating now spoken of the chief poets of this 
 division, it remains to notice the others of whom less 
 is known. 
 
 Dantk da Maiano (Dante being, as with Ali- 
 ghieri, the short of Durante, and Maiano in the 
 neighbourhood of Fiesole)Jiad attained some repu- 
 
212 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 tation as a poet before the career of his great name- 
 sake began ; his lady Nina going by the then un- 
 equivocal title of ** La Nina di Dante." This also 
 appears to have been the case from the contemptuous 
 answer sent by him to Dante Alighieri's dream- 
 sonnet in the Vita Nuova (see page 396). All the 
 writers on early Italian poetry seem to agree in 
 specially censuring this poet's rhymes as coarse and 
 trivial in manner ; nevertheless, they are sometimes 
 distinguished by a careless force not to be despised, 
 and even by snatches of real beauty. Of Dante da 
 Maiano's hfe no record whatever has come down to 
 us. 
 
 Most literary circles have their prodigal, or what 
 in modem phrase might be called their " scamp ;" 
 and among our Danteans, this place is indisputably 
 filled by Cecco Angiolieri, of Siena. Nearly all 
 his sonnets (and no other pieces by him have been 
 preserved) relate either to an unnatural hatred of his 
 father, or to an infatuated love for the daughter of a 
 shoemaker, a certain married Becchina. It would 
 appear that Cecco was probably enamoured of her 
 before her marriage as well as afterwards, and we 
 may surmise that his rancour against his father may 
 have been partly dependent, in the first instance, on 
 the disagreements arising from such a connection. 
 However, fi'om an amusing and lifelike story in the 
 Decameron (Gior. ix. Nov. 4.) we learn that on one 
 occasion Cecco's father paid him six months^ allow- 
 ance in advance, in order that he might proceed to 
 the Marca d'Ancona and join the suite of a Papal 
 Legate who was his patron ; which looks, after all, as 
 if the father had some care of his graceless son. 
 The story goes on to relate how Cecco (whom Boc- 
 
PART 11. 213 
 
 caccio describes as a handsome and well-bred man) 
 was induced to take with him as liis servant a fellow- 
 gamester with whom he had fonned an intimacy 
 purely on account of the hatred which each of the two 
 bore his own father, though in other respects they 
 had little in common. The result was that tliis fellow, 
 during the journey, while Cecco was asleep at Buon- 
 convento, took all his money and lost it at the gaming- 
 table, and afterwards managed by an adroit trick to 
 get possession of his horse and clothes, leaving him 
 nothing but his shirt. Cecco then, ashamed to return 
 to Siena, made his way, in a borrowed suit and 
 mounted on his servant's sorry hack, to Corsignano 
 where he had relations ; and there he stayed till his 
 father once more (sui-ely much to his credit) made 
 him a remittance of money. Boccaccio seems to say 
 in conclusion that Cecco ultimately had his revenge 
 on the thief. 
 
 Many both of Cecco^s love-sonnets and hate-son- 
 nets are very repulsive from their display of powers 
 perverted often to base uses ; while it is impossible 
 not to feel some pity for the indications they contain 
 of self-sought poverty, unhappiness, and natural bent 
 to ruin. Altogether they have too much curious 
 individuality to allow of their being omitted here. 
 Their humour is sometimes strong, if not well chosen ; 
 their passion always forcible from its evident reality: 
 nor indeed is the sonnet which stands fourth among 
 my translations devoid of a certain dehcacy. This 
 quality is also to be discerned in other pieces which I 
 have not included as having less personal interest; but 
 it must be confessed that for the most part the sen- 
 timents expressed in Cecco's poetry are either impious 
 or licentious. Most of the sonnets of his which are 
 
214 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 in print are here given ;* the selections concluding 
 with an extraordinary one in which he proposes a 
 sort of murderous crusade against all those who hate 
 their fathers. This I have placed last (exclusive of 
 the sonnet to Dante in exile) in order to give the 
 writer the benefit of the possibility that it was written 
 last, and really expressed a still rather blood-thirsty 
 contrition ; belonging at best, I fear, to the content of 
 self-indulgence when he came to enjoy his father's 
 inheritance. But most likely it is to be received as 
 the expression of impudence alone, unless perhaps of 
 hypocrisy. 
 
 Cecco Angiolieri seems to have had poetical inter- 
 course with Dante early as well as later in life; 
 but even from the little that remains, we may gather 
 that Dante soon put an end to any intimacy which 
 may have existed between them. That Cecco already 
 poetized at the time to which the Vita Nuova relates 
 is evident from a date given in one of his sonnets, — 
 the 20th June, 1291, and from his sonnet raising 
 objections to the one at the close of Dante's auto- 
 biography. When the latter was written he was 
 probably on good terms with the young Alighieri ; 
 but within no great while afterwards they had dis- 
 covered that they could not agree, as is shown by a 
 sonnet in which Cecco can find no words bad enough 
 for Dante, who has remonstrated with him about 
 
 * It may be mentioned (as proving how much of the poetry 
 of this period still remains in MS.) that Ubaldini, in his 
 Glossary to Barberino, published in 1640, cites as grammati- 
 cal examples no fewer than twenty -two short fragments from 
 Cecco Angiolieri, one of which alone is to be found among the 
 sonnets which I have seen, and which I believe are the only 
 ones in print. Ubaldini quotes them from the Strozzi MSS. 
 
PART 11. 215 
 
 Becchina.* Much later, as we may judge, he again 
 addresses Dante in an insulting tone, apparently 
 while the latter was living in exile at the court of 
 Can Grande della Scala. No other reason can well 
 be assigned for saying that he had " turned Lom- 
 bard;" while some of the insolent allusions seem 
 also to point to the time when Dante learnt by ex- 
 perience " how bitter is another's bread and how 
 steep the stairs of his house." 
 
 Why Cecco in this sonnet should describe himself 
 as having become a Eoman, is more puzzling. 
 Boccaccio certainly speaks of his luckless journey to 
 join a papal legate, but does not tell us whether fresh 
 clothes and the wisdom of experience served him in 
 the end to become so far identified with the Church 
 of Kome. However, fi-om the sonnet on his father's 
 death he appears (though the allusion is desperately 
 obscure) to have been then living at an abbey ; and 
 also; from the one mentioned above, we may infer 
 that he himself, as well as Dante, was forced to sit 
 at the tables of others : coincidences which almost 
 seem to afford a glimpse of the phenomenal fact that 
 the bosom of the church was indeed for a time the 
 refuge of this shorn lamb. If so, we may further 
 conjecture that the wonderful crusade-sonnet was 
 an amende honorable then imposed on him, accom- 
 panied probably with more fleshly penance. 
 
 It must be remarked, however, that if Guide Ca- 
 valcanti's sonnet at page 362, should happen really 
 to have been addressed to Cecco, (a possibility there 
 
 * Of this sonnet I have seen two printed versions, in both 
 of which the text is so corrupt as to make them very contra- 
 dictory in important points ; but I believe that by comparing 
 the two I have given its meaning correctly. (See page 411.) 
 
216 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 suggested in a foot-note,) he must have become a 
 rich man before the period of Dante's exile, as the 
 death of Guide immediately preceded that event. At 
 the same time, there is of course nothing likelier than 
 that he may have found himself poor again before 
 long, and may then (who knows?) have fled to Rome 
 for good, whether with sacred or profane views. 
 
 Though nothing indicates the time of Cecco An- 
 giolieri's death, I will venture to surmise that he 
 outlived the writing and revision of Dante's Inferno, 
 if only by the token that he is not found lodged in 
 one of its meaner circles. It is easy to feel sure that 
 no sympathy can ever have existed for long between 
 Dante and a man like Cecco; however arrogantly 
 the latter, in his verses, might attempt to establish a 
 likeness and even an equality. We may accept the 
 testimony of so reverent a biographer as Boccaccio, 
 that the Dante of later years was far other than the 
 silent and awe-struck lover of the Vita Nuova ;• but 
 he was still (as he proudly called himself) " the 
 singer of Rectitude," and his that '^ disdainful soul" 
 which made blessed the mother who had borne him.* 
 
 Leaving to his fate (whatever that may have been) 
 the Scamp of Dante's Circle, I must risk the charge 
 of a confinned taste for slang by describing Guido 
 Orlandi as its Bore. No other word could present 
 him so fully. Very few pieces of his exist besides 
 the five I have given. In one of these, t he rails 
 against his political adversaries ; in three, J falls foul 
 of his brother poets; and in the remaining one,§ 
 
 ♦ ' " Alma sdegnosa, 
 
 Benedetta colei che in te s' incinse !" 
 
 {Inferno, C vill.) 
 t Page 423. J Pages 334, 351, 398. § Page 357. 
 
PART II. 217 
 
 seems somewhat appeased (I think) bj a judicious 
 morsel of flattery. I have already referred to a 
 sonnet of his which is said to have led to the com- 
 position of Guide Cavalcanti's Canzone on the Nature 
 of Love. He has another sonnet beginning, " Per 
 troppa sottiglianza il iil si rorape,*'* in which he is 
 certainly enjoying a fling at somebody, and I sus- 
 pect at Cavalcanti in rejoinder to the very poem 
 which he himself had instigated. If so, this stamps 
 him a master-critic of the deepest initiation. Of 
 his life nothing is recorded ; but no wish perhaps 
 need be felt to know much of him, as one would pro- 
 bably have dropped his acquaintance. We may be 
 obliged to him, however, for his character of Guide 
 Cavalcanti (at page 351) which is beldlj and vividly 
 drawn. 
 
 Next follow three poets of whom I have given one 
 specimen apiece. By Bernardo da Bologna 
 (page 353) no other is known to exist, nor can any- 
 thing be learnt of his career. Gianni Alfani was 
 a noble and distinguished Florentine, a much graver 
 man, it would seem, than one could judge from this 
 sonnet of his (page 352), which belongs rather to the 
 school of Sir Pandarus of Troy. 
 
 Ding Compagni, the chronicler of Florence, is 
 represented here by a sonnet addressed to Guido 
 Cavalcanti,t which is all the more interesting, as 
 the same writer's historical work furnishes so much 
 of the little known about Guido. Dino, though one 
 
 * This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle ; let us 
 hope (in so immaculate a censor) from unfitness for publication. 
 
 t Crescimbeni i^Ist. d. Volg. Poes.) gives this sonnet from 
 a MS., where it is headed, " To Guido Guinicelli;" but ho 
 surmises, and I have no doubt correctly, that Cavalcanti is 
 really the person addressed in it« 
 
218 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 of the noblest citizens of Florence, was devoted to 
 the popular cause, and held successively various high 
 offices in the state. The date of his birth is not 
 fixed, but he must have been at least thirty in 1289, 
 as he was one of the Priori in that year, a post which 
 could not be held by a younger man. He died at 
 Florence in 1323. Dino has rather lately assumed 
 for the modern reader a much more important 
 position than he occupied before among the early 
 ItaHan poets. I allude to the valuable discovery, in 
 the Magliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem 
 by him in Twna rima containing 309 stanzas. It is 
 entitled " L' Intelligenza," and is of an allegorical 
 nature with romantic episodes.* 
 
 I have placed Lapo Gianni in this second division 
 on account of the sonnet by Dante (page 340) in 
 wliich he seems undoubtedly to be the Lapo re- 
 ferred to. It has been supposed by some that Lapo 
 degli Uberti (father of Fazio, and brother-in-law of 
 Guide Cavalcanti) is meant; but this is hardly 
 possible. Dante and Guide seem to have been in 
 familiar intercourse with the Lapo of the sonnet at 
 the time when it and others were written ; whereas 
 no Uberti can have been in Florence after the year 
 1267, when the Ghibelhnes were expelled; the 
 LT)erti family (as I have mentioned elsewhere) being 
 the one of all others which was most jealously kept 
 afar and excluded from every amnesty. The only 
 information which I can find respecting Lapo Gianni 
 is the statement that he was a notary by profession. 
 I have also seen it somewhere asserted (though where 
 
 * See Documents inedits pour servir a TMsioire littiraire de 
 ritalie, 8fc. parA.F. Ozanam, {Paris, 1850,) where the poem 
 is printed entire. 
 
PART IL 219 
 
 I cannot recollect, and am sure no authority was 
 given) that he was a cousin of Dante. We may 
 equally infer him to have been the Lapo mentioned 
 by Dante in his treatise on the Vulgar Tongue, as 
 being one of the few who up to that time had written 
 verses in pm'e Italian. 
 
 Ding Frescobaldi's claim to the place given him 
 here will not be disputed when it is remembered that 
 by his pious care the seven first cantos of Dante's 
 Hell were restored to him in exile, after the Casa 
 Alighieri in Florence had been given up to pillage ; 
 by which restoration Dante was enabled to resume 
 his work. This sounds strange when we reflect that 
 a world without Dante woidd almost be a poorer 
 planet. But for Dino Frescobaldi, too, what labour 
 might not have been spared to how many generations 
 of the bonders and bottlers of Dante, the dealers in 
 foreign wind and words ! * Meanwhile, beyond this 
 great fact of Dino's life, which perhaps hardly occu- 
 pied a day of it, there is no news to be gleaned of 
 him. 
 
 Giotto falls by right into Dante's circle, as one 
 great man comes naturally to know another. But 
 he is said actually to have lived in great intimacy 
 with Dante, who was about twelve years older than 
 himself; Giotto having been born in or near the year 
 1276, at Yespignano, fourteen miles from Florence. 
 He died in 1336, fifteen years after Dante. On the 
 authority of Benvenuto da Imola, (an early commen- 
 tator on the Commedia,) of Vasari, and others, it is said 
 
 * Of course the allusion is only to the floods of empty 
 eloquence and philological acumen which have been lavished 
 upon Dante : no historical labours connected with him can 
 ever be deemed useless. 
 
220 INTRODUCTION TO 
 
 that Dante visited Giotto while he was painting at 
 Padua; that the great poet furnished the great 
 painter with the conceptions of a series of subjects 
 from the Apocalypse, which he painted at Naples ; 
 and that Griotto, finally, passed some time with Dante 
 in the exile's last refuge at Ravenna. There is a 
 tradition that Dante also studied drawing with 
 Giotto's master Cimabue ; and that he practised it 
 in some degree is evident from the passage in the 
 Vita Nuova, where he speaks of his drawing an 
 angel. The reader will not need to be reminded of 
 Giotto's portrait of the youthful Dante, painted in 
 the Bargello at Florence, then the chapel of the 
 Podesta. This is the author of the Vita Nuova. 
 That other portrait shown us in the posthumous 
 mask, — a face dead in exile after the death of hope, — 
 should front the first page of the Sacred Poem to 
 which Heaven and earth had set their hands ; but 
 which might never bring him back to Florence, 
 though it had made him haggard for many years.* 
 Giotto's Canzone on the doctrine of voluntary 
 poverty, — the only poem we have of his, — is a pro- 
 test against a perversion of gospel teaching which 
 had gained ground in his day to the extent of be- 
 coming a popular frenzy. People went literally mad 
 upon it; and to the reaction against this madness 
 may also be assigned (at any rate partly) Caval- 
 canti's poem on Poverty, which, as we have seen, 
 is otherwise not easily explained, if authentic. 
 Giotto's canzone is all the more curious when we re- 
 
 * " Se mai continga che il poema sacro 
 Al quale ha posto mano e cielo e terra. 
 Si che m' ha fatto per piu anni macro, 
 Vinca la crudelt^ che fuor mi serra," &c. 
 
 {Parad, C. XXV.) 
 
I PABT II. 221 
 
 member his noble fresco at Assisi, of Saint Francis 
 wedded to Poverty.* It would really almost seem as 
 if the poem had been written as a sort of safety-valve 
 for the painter's true feelings, during the composition 
 of the picture. At any rate, it afibrds another proof 
 of the strong common sense and turn for humour 
 which all accounts attribute to Giotto. 
 
 I have next introduced, as not inappropriate to 
 the series of poems connected with Dante, Simone 
 ball' Antella's fine sonnet relating to the last 
 enterprises of Henry of Luxembourg, and to his 
 then approaching end, — that death-blow to the 
 Ghibelline hopes which Dante so deeply shared. 
 This one sonnet is all we know of its author, besides 
 his name. 
 
 Giovanni Quibino is another name which stands 
 forlorn of any personal history. Fraticelli (in his 
 well-known and valuable edition of Dante's Minor 
 Works) says that there lived about 1250 a bishop 
 of that name, belonging to a Venetian family. But 
 the tone of the sonnet which I give (and which is the 
 only one attributed to this author) seems foreign at 
 least to the confessions of bishops. It might seem 
 credibly thus ascribed, however, from the fact that 
 Dante's sonnet probably dates from Eaveuna, and 
 that his correspondent writes from some distance ; 
 while the poet might well have formed a friendship 
 with a Venetian bishop at the court of Verona. 
 
 For me Quirino's sonnet has great value; as 
 Dante's answerf to it enables me to wind up this 
 
 * See Dante's reverential treatment of this subject, {Farad. 
 C. XI.) 
 
 t In the case of the above two sonnets, and of all others 
 interchanged between two poets, I have thought it best to 
 
222 INTRODUCTION TO PART II. ' 
 
 series with the name of its great chief; and, indeed, 
 with what would almost seem to have been his last 
 utterance in poetry, at that supreme juncture when he 
 
 " Slaked in his heart the fervour of desire," 
 
 as at last he neared the very home 
 
 " Of Love which sways the sun and all the stars."* 
 
 I am sorry to see that this necessary introduction 
 to my second division is longer than I could have 
 wished. Among the severely-edited books which 
 had to be consulted in forming this collection, I have 
 often suffered keenly from the buttonholders of 
 learned Italy who will not let one go on one's way; and 
 have contracted a horror of those editions where the 
 text, hampered with numerals for reference, struggles 
 through a few lines at the top of the page, only to 
 stick fast at the bottom in a slough of verbal analysis. 
 It would seem unpardonable to make a book which 
 should be even as these ; and I have thus found my- 
 self led on to what I fear forms, by its length, an 
 awkward intermezzo to the volume, in the hope of 
 saying at once the most of what was to say ; that so 
 the reader may not find himself perpetually worried 
 with footnotes during the consideration of something 
 which may require a little peace. The glare of too 
 many tapers is apt to render a picture confused and 
 inharmonious, even when their smoke does not ob- 
 scure or deface it. 
 
 place them together among the poems of one or the other 
 correspondent, wherever they seemed to have most biographi- 
 cal value ; and the same with several epistolary sonnets which 
 have no answer. 
 
 * The last line of the Paradise (Catlet's Translation). 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 THE NEW LIFE. 
 (LA VITA NUOVA.) 
 
 IN that part of the book of my memory before 
 the which is little that can be read, there is a 
 rubric, saying, tuidpit Vita Nova.* Under such 
 rubric I find written many things; and among 
 them the words which I pui-pose to copy into this 
 little book; if not all of them, at the least their 
 substance. 
 
 Nine times already since my birth had the heaven 
 of light returned to the selfsame point almost, as 
 concerns its own revolution, when first the glorious 
 Lady of my mind was made manifest to mine eyes; 
 even she who was called Beatrice by many who 
 knew not wherefore.f She had already been in 
 
 * " Here beginneth the new life." 
 
 t In reference to the meaning of the name, " She who 
 confers blessing." We learn from Boccaccio that this first 
 meeting took place at a May Feast, given in the year 1274 
 by Folco Portinari, father of Beatrice, who ranked among the 
 principal citizens of Florence : to which feaat Dante accom- 
 panied his father, Alighiero Ab'ghieri. 
 
224 DANTE ALIQHIERI. 
 
 this life for so long as that, within her time, the 
 starry heaven had moved towards the Eastern 
 quarter one of the twelve parts of a degree : so that 
 she appeared to me at the beginning of her ninth 
 year almost, and I saw her almost at the end of my 
 ninth year. Her dress, on that day, was of a most 
 noble colour, a subdued and goodly crimson, girdled 
 and adorned in such sort as best suited with her 
 very tender age. At that moment, I say most 
 truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling 
 in the secretest chamber of the heart, began to 
 tremble so violently that the least pulses of my 
 body shook therewith; and in trembling it said these 
 words : Ecce dens fortior me, qui veniens domina- 
 hitur mihi* At that moment the animate spirit, 
 which dwelleth in the lofty chamber whither all the 
 senses carry their perceptions, was filled with won- 
 der, and speaking more especially unto the spirits of 
 the eyes, said these words: Ajpparuit jam heatitudo 
 vestra.f At that moment the natural spirit, which 
 dwelleth there where our nourishment is adminis- 
 tered, began to weep, and in weeping said these 
 words : Heu miser ! quia frequenter impeditus ero 
 deinceps.X- 
 
 I say that, from that time forward. Love quite 
 
 * " Here is a deity stronger than I ; who, coming, shall 
 rule over me." 
 
 t " Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto 
 you." 
 
 X " Alas ! how often shall I be disturbed from this time 
 forth!" 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 225 
 
 governed my soul ; which was immediately espoused 
 to him, and with so safe and undisputed a lordship, 
 (by virtue of strong imagination) that I had nothing 
 left for it but to do all his bidding continually. 
 He oftentimes commanded me to seek if I might see 
 this youngest of the Angels : wherefore I in my 
 boyhood often went in search of her, and found her 
 so noble and praiseworthy that certainly of her 
 might have been said those words of the poet 
 Homer, " She seemed not to be the daughter of a 
 mortal man, but of God."* And albeit her image, 
 that was with me always, was an exultation of Love 
 to subdue me, it was yet of so perfect a quality that 
 it never allowed me to be overruled by Love with- 
 out the faithful counsel of reason, whensoever such 
 counsel was useful to be heard. But seeing that 
 were I to dwell overmuch on the passions and doings 
 of such early youth, my words might be counted 
 something fabulous, I will therefore put them aside ; 
 and passing many things that may be conceived by 
 the pattern of these, I will come to such as are 
 writ in my memory with a bettor distinctness. 
 
 After the lapse of so many days that nine years 
 exactly were completed since the above-written ap- 
 pearance of this most gracious being, on the last of 
 those days it happened that the same wonderful 
 lady appeared to me dressed all in pure white, 
 
 * OUi lyca 
 
 'AvSpog ye OvrjTOv irate tfifievaij aWd Otoio. 
 
 {Iliad, XXIV. 58.) 
 
226 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 between two gentle ladies elder than she. And 
 passing through a street, she turned her eyes 
 thither where I stood sorely abashed: and by her 
 unspeakable courtesy, which is now guerdoned in the 
 Great Cycle, she saluted me with so virtuous a bear- 
 ing that I seemed then and there to behold the very 
 limits of blessedness. The hour of her most sweet 
 salutation was certainly the ninth of that day ; and 
 because it was the first time that any words from 
 her reached mine ears, I came into such sweetness 
 that I parted thence as one intoxicated. And be- 
 taking me to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell 
 to thinking of this most courteous lady, thinking of 
 whom I was overtaken by a pleasant slumber, 
 wherein a marvellous vision was presented to me : 
 for there appeared to be in my room a mist of the 
 colour of fire, within the which I discerned the 
 figure of a lord of terrible aspect to such as should 
 gaze upon him, but who seemed therewithal to re- 
 joice inwardly that it was a marvel to see. Speak- 
 ing he said many things, among the which I could 
 understand but few ; and of these, this : Ego domi- 
 nus tuus.* In his arms it seemed to me that a 
 person was sleeping, covered only with a blood - 
 coloured cloth ; upon whom looking very attentively, 
 I knew that it was the lady of the salutation who 
 had deigned the day before to salute me. And he 
 who held her held also in his hand a thing that was 
 burning in flames; and he said to me, Vide cor 
 * " I am thy master." 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 227 
 
 iuum* But when he had remained with me a Uttle 
 while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her 
 that slept ; after the which he made her to eat that 
 thing which flamed in his hand ; and she ate as one 
 fearing. Then, having waited again a space, all his 
 joy was turned into most bitter weeping ; and as he 
 wept he gathered the lady into his arms, and it 
 seemed to me that he went with her up towards 
 heaven : whereby such a great anguish came upon 
 me that my light slumber could not endui-e through 
 it, but was suddenly broken. And immediately 
 having considered, I knew that the hour wherein 
 this vision had been made manifest to me was the 
 fourth hour (which is to say, the first of the nine last 
 hours) of the night. 
 
 Then, musing on what I had seen, I proposed to 
 relate the same to many poets who were famous in 
 that day: and for that I had myself in some sort the 
 art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on making 
 a sonnet, in the which, having saluted all such as 
 are subject unto Love, and entreated them to expound 
 my vision, I should write unto them those things 
 which I had seen in my sleep. And the sonnet I 
 made was this : — 
 
 To every heart which the sweet pain doth move. 
 And unto which these words may now be brought 
 For true interpretation and kind thought. 
 
 Be greeting in our Lord's name, which is Love. 
 • " Behold thy heart." 
 
228 DANTE ALIQHIERI. 
 
 Of those long hours wherein the stars, ahove, 
 Wake and keep watch, the third was almost 
 
 nought 
 ^\Tien Love was shown me with such terrors 
 fraught 
 As may not carelessly be spoken of. 
 He seem'd 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 waken'd her) anon he made 
 To eat that heart ; she ate, as fearing harm. 
 Then he went out ; and as he went, he wept. 
 
 This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the 
 first part I give greeting, and ash an answer; in the 
 second, I signify what thing Jias to be answered to. 
 The second part commences here : *^ Of those long 
 hours." 
 
 To this sonnet I received many answers, convey- 
 ing many diiferent opinions ; of the which, one was 
 sent by him whom I now call the first among my 
 friends ; and it began thus, *' Unto my thinking thou 
 beheld'st all worth."* And indeed, it was when he 
 learned that I was he who had sent those rhymes to 
 him, that our friendship commenced. But the true 
 meaning of that vision was not then perceived by any 
 one, though it be now evident to the least skilful. 
 
 * The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Ca- 
 valcavti. For his answer, and those of Ciuo da Pistoia and 
 Dante da Maiano, see their poems further on. 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 229 
 
 From that night forth, the natural functions of my 
 body began to be vexed and impeded, for I was given 
 up wholly to thinking of this most gracious creature : 
 whereby in short space I became so weak and so re- 
 duced that it was irksome to many of my friends to 
 look upon me ; while others, being moved by spite, 
 went about to discover what it was my wish should 
 be concealed. \\Tierefore I, (perceiving the drift of 
 their unkindly questions,) by Love's will, who di- 
 rected me according to the counsels of reason, told 
 them how it was Love himself who had thus dealt 
 with me : and I said so, because the thing was so 
 plainly to be discerned in my countenance that there 
 was no longer any means of concealing it. But 
 when they went on to ask, ** And by whose help hath 
 Love done this?" I looked in their faces smiling, 
 and spake no word in return. 
 
 Now it fell on a day, that this most gracious 
 creature was sitting where words were to be heard of 
 the Queen of Glory ;* and I was in a place whence 
 mine eyes could behold their beatitude: and betwixt 
 her and me, in a direct line, there sat another lady 
 of a pleasant favour; who looked round at me many 
 times, marvelling at my continued gaze which seemed 
 to have her for its object. And many perceived that 
 she thus looked : so that departing thence, I heard 
 it whispered after me, " Look you to what a pass 
 such a lady hath brought him ;" and in saying this 
 they named her who had been midway between the 
 * t. <€. in a church. 
 
230 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 most gentle Beatrice, and mine eyes. Therefore I 
 was reassured, and knew that for that day my secret 
 had not become manifest. Then immediately it came 
 into my mind that I might make use of this lady as 
 a screen to the truth : and so well did I play my part 
 that the most of those who had hitherto watched and 
 wondered at me, now imagined they had found me 
 out. By her means I kept my secret concealed till 
 some years were gone over ; and for my better se- 
 curity, I even made divers rhymes in her honour ; 
 whereof I shall here write only as much as concem- 
 eth the most gentle Beatrice, which is but a very 
 little. Moreover, about the same time while this lady 
 was a screen for so much love on my part, I took the 
 resolution to set down the name of this most gracious 
 creature accompanied with many other women's 
 names, and especially with hers whom I spake of. 
 And to this end I put together the names of sixty the 
 most beautiful ladies in that city where God had 
 placed mine own lady ; and these names I intro- 
 duced in an epistle in the form of a sirvent, which it 
 is not my intention to transcribe here. Neither 
 should I have said anything of this matter, did I not 
 wish to take note of a certain strange thing, to wit : 
 that having written the list, I found my lady's name 
 would not stand otherwise than ninth in order among 
 the names of these ladies. 
 
 Now it so chanced with her by whose means I had 
 thus long time concealed my desire, that it behoved 
 her to leave the city I speak of, and to journey afar : 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 231 
 
 wherefore I, being sorely perplexed at the loss of so 
 excellent a defence, had more trouble than even I 
 could before have supposed. And thinking that if I 
 spoke not somewhat moura fully of her departure, my 
 former counterfeiting would be the more quickly 
 perceived, I determined that I would make a grievous 
 sonnet* thereof; the which I will write here, because 
 it hath certain words in it whei-eof my lady was the 
 immediate cause, as will be plain to him that under- 
 stands. And the sonnet was this : — 
 
 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 worthies* 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. 
 
 • It will be observed that this poem is not what we now 
 call a sonnet. Its structure, however, is analogous to that of 
 the sonnet, being two sextetts followed by two quattraing, 
 instead of two quattrains followed by two triplets. Dante 
 applies the term sonnet to both these forms of composition, 
 and to no other. 
 
232 DANTE ALIOHIERI. 
 
 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 mj heart within travail and moan. 
 
 This jpoem Tms two principal parts ; for, in the 
 first, I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those 
 words of Jeremias the Prophet, " vos omnes qui 
 transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor 
 sicut dolor mens," and to pray them to stay and 
 hear me. In the second I tell where Love had placed 
 me, vjith a meaning other than that which the last 
 part of the poem shows, and I say what I have lost. 
 The secondpart begins here : " Love, {never, certes).^* 
 
 A certain while after the departure of that lady, 
 it pleased the Master of the Angels to call into His 
 glory a damsel, young and of a gentle presence, 
 who had been very lovely in the city I speak of: and 
 I saw her body lying without its soul among many 
 ladies, who held a pitiful weeping. Whereupon, 
 remembering that I had seen her in the company 
 of excellent Beatrice, I could not hinder myself from 
 a few tears j and weeping, I conceived to say some- 
 what of her death, in guerdon of having seen her 
 somewhile with my lady ; which thing I spake of in 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 233 
 
 the latter end of tlie verses that I writ in this matter, 
 as he will discern who understands. And I wrote 
 two sonnets, which are these : — 
 
 I. 
 
 Weep, Lovers, sith Love's very self doth weep, 
 And sith the cause for weeping is so gi*eat ; 
 When now so many dames, of such estate 
 
 In worth, show vrith their eyes a giief 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. 
 
 This first sonnet is divided into three parts. In 
 the first f I call and beseech the Faithfid of Love to 
 weep ; and I say that their Lord weeps, and that 
 they, hearing the reason why he weeps, shall he more 
 minded to listen to me. In the second, I relate this 
 reason. In the third, I speah of honour done by 
 Love to this Lady. The second part begins here : 
 " When now so many dames ;^* the third here: 
 « Now hearJcen" 
 
234 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 II. 
 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 he 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. 
 
 Wliom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me 
 Save by the measures of these praises given. 
 Whoso deserves not Heaven 
 
 May never hope to have her company.* 
 
 • The commentators assert that the last two lines here do 
 not allude to the dead lady, but to Beatrice. This would 
 make the poem very clumsy in construction ; yet there must 
 be some covert allusion to Beatrice, as Dante himself inti- 
 mates. The only form in which I can trace it consists in the 
 implied assertion that such person as had enjoyed the dead 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 235 
 
 This poem is divided into four parts. In the first 
 I address Death by certain proper names of hers. In 
 the second, speaking to her, I tell the reason why I 
 am moved to denounce her. In the third, I rail 
 against her. In the fourth, I turn to speak to 
 a person undefined, although defined in my ovm 
 conception. The second part commences here, " Since 
 thou alone;*' the third here, ** And now (for I 
 must) ;" the fourth here, " Whoso deserves not.** 
 
 Some days after the death of this lady, I had 
 occasion to leave the city I speak of, and to go 
 thitherwards where she abode who had formerly been 
 my protection ; albeit the end of my joui-ney reached 
 not altogether so far. And notwithstanding that I 
 was visibly in the company of many, the journey was 
 so irksome that I had scarcely sighing enough to 
 ease my heart's heaviness ; seeing that as I went, I 
 left my beatitude behind me. Wherefore it came 
 to pass that he who ruled me by virtue of my most 
 gentle lady was made visible to my mind, in the light 
 habit of a traveller, coarsely fashioned. He appeared 
 to me troubled, and looked always on the ground ; 
 saving only that sometimes his eyes were turned to- 
 wards a river which was clear and rapid, and which 
 flowed along the path I was taking. And then I 
 
 lady's society was worthy of heaven, and that person was 
 Beatrice. Or indeed the allusion to Beatrice might be in the 
 first poem, where he says that Love " in forma vera" (that is, 
 Beatrice,) mourned over the corpse ; as he afterwards says of 
 Beatrice, " Qvella ha nome Amor." Most probably both al- 
 lusions are intended. 
 
236 DANTE ALIOHIEBL 
 
 thought that Love called me and said to me these 
 words : " I come from that lady who was so long 
 thy surety ; for the matter of whose return, I know 
 that it may not be. Wherefore I have taken that 
 heart which I made thee leave with her, and do bear 
 it unto another lady, who, as she was, shall be thy 
 surety ;" (and when he named her, I knew her well.) 
 " And of these words I have spoken, if thou shouldst 
 speak any again, let it be in such sort as that none 
 shall perceive thereby that thy love was feigned for 
 her, which thou must now feign for another." And 
 when he had spoken thus, all my imagining was 
 gone suddenly, for it seemed to me that Love be- 
 came a part of myself : so that, changed as it were 
 in mine aspect, I rode on full of thought the whole 
 of that day, and with heavy sighing. And the day 
 being over, I wrote this sonnet : — 
 
 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 show'd, he seem'd 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 call'd me by my name, 
 Saying : " I jom'ney since the morn was dim 
 Thence where I made thy heart to be : which 
 now 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 237 
 
 I needs must bear unto another dame." 
 Wherewith so much pass'd into me of him 
 That he was gone, and I discern'd not how. 
 
 This sonnet has three parts. In the first party I 
 tell hoiv I met Love, and of his aspect. In the 
 second, I tell wliat he said to me., although not in 
 full, through the fear I had of discovering my secret. 
 In th^^ third, I sag how he disappeared. The second 
 part commences here, " Then as I went;" the third 
 here, " Wherewith so much.^* 
 
 On my return, I set myself to seek out that lady 
 whom my master had named to me while I jour- 
 neyed sighing. And because I would be brief, I will 
 now narrate that in a short while I made her my 
 surety, in such sort that the matter was spoken of 
 by many in terms scarcely courteous ; through the 
 which I had oftenwhiles many troublesome hours. 
 And by this it happened (to wit: by this false 
 and evil rumour which seemed to misfame me of 
 vice) that she who was the destroyer of all evil and 
 the queen of all good, coming where I was, denied 
 me her most sweet salutation, in the which alone 
 was my blessedness. 
 
 And here it is fitting for me to depart a little from 
 this present matter, that it may be rightly under- 
 stood of what sui-passing virtue her salutation was to 
 me. To the which end I say that when she ap- 
 peared in any place, it seemed to me, by the hope of 
 her excellent salutation, that there was no man mine 
 
238 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 enemy any longer; and such warmth of charity 
 came upon me that most certainly in that moment 
 I would have pardoned whosoever had done me an 
 injury ; and if one should then have questioned me 
 concerning any matter, I could only have said unto 
 him " Love," with a countenance clothed in humhle- 
 ness. And what time she made ready to salute me, 
 the spirit of Love, destroying all other perceptions, 
 thrust forth the feeble spirits of my eyes, saying, 
 " Do homage unto your mistress," and putting itself 
 in their place to obey : so that he who would, might 
 then have beheld Love, beholding the lids of mine 
 eyes shake. And when this most gentle lady gave 
 her salutation. Love, so far from being a medium 
 beclouding mine intolerable beatitude, then bred in 
 me such an overpowering sweetness that my body, 
 being all subjected thereto, remained many times 
 helpless and passive. Whereby it is made manifest 
 that in her salutation alone was there any beatitude 
 for me, which then very often went beyond my en- 
 durance. 
 
 And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to 
 relate that when, for the first time, this beatitude 
 was denied me, I became possessed with such grief 
 that parting myself from others, I went into a lonely 
 place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears : 
 and when, by this heat of weeping, I was somewhat 
 reheved, I betook myself to my chamber, where I 
 could lament unheard. And there, having prayed 
 to the Lady of all Mercies, and having said also, 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 239 
 
 '* O Love, aid thou thy servant ;" I went suddenly 
 asleep like a beaten sobbing child. And in my 
 sleep, towards the middle of it, I seemed to see in 
 the room, seated at my side, a youth in very white 
 raiment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep 
 thought. And when he had gazed some time, I 
 thought that he sighed and called to me in these 
 words : " FiU miy tempus est ut prcetermltiantur 
 shnulata nostra y* And thereupon I seemed to know 
 him ; for the voice was the same wherewith he had 
 spoken at other times in my sleep. Then looking 
 at him, I perceived that he was weeping piteously, 
 and that he seemed to He waiting for me to speak. 
 Wlierefore, taking heart, I began thus: " Why 
 weepest thou. Master of all honour?" And he made 
 answer to me : " Ego tanqtiain centrtim circuUy cui 
 siinili modo se habent circumferentice partes: tu 
 autem non sic."* And thinking upon his words, they 
 seemed to me obsciu^ ; so that again compelling my- 
 
 • " My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting." 
 t " I am as the centre of a circle, to the which all parts of 
 the circumference bear an equal relation : but with thee it is 
 not thus." This phrase seems to have remained as obscure 
 to commentators as Dante found it at the moment. No one, 
 as far as I know, has even fairly tried to find a meaning for 
 it. To me the following appears a not unlikely one. Love 
 is weeping on Dante's account, and not on his own. He says, 
 " I am the centre of a circle {Amor che muove il sole e le altre 
 stelle) : therefore all loveable objects, whether in heaven or 
 earth, or any part of the circle's circumference, are equally 
 near to me. Not so thou, who wilt one day lose Beatrice 
 when she goes to heaven." The phrase would thus contain 
 
 I 
 
24^ DANTE ALIGHIEBL 
 
 self unto speech, I asked of him : " "WTiat thing is 
 this, Master, that thou hast spoken thus darkly?" 
 To the which he made answer in the vulgar tongue : 
 " Demand no more than may be useful to thee." 
 Whereupon I began to discourse with him concern- 
 ing her salutation which she had denied me; and 
 when I had questioned him of the cause, he said 
 these words : ^' Our Beatrice hath heard from cer- 
 tain persons, that the lady whom I named to thee 
 while thou journeyedst full of sighs, is sorely dis- 
 quieted by thy solicitations : and therefore this most 
 gracious creature, who is the enemy of all disquiet, 
 being fearful of such disquiet, refused to salute thee. 
 For the which reason (albeit, in very sooth, thy 
 secret must needs have become known to her by 
 familiar observation) it is my will that thou compose 
 certain things in rhyme, in the which thou shalt set 
 forth how strong a mastership I have obtained over 
 thee, through her; and how thou wast hers even 
 from thy childhood. Also do thou call upon him 
 that knoweth these things to bear witness to them, 
 bidding him to speak with her thereof; the which I, 
 who am he, will do willingly. And thus she shall 
 be made to know thy desire ; knowing which, she 
 shall know hkewise that they were deceived who 
 spake of thee to her. And so write these things, 
 that they shall seem rather to be spoken by a third 
 
 an intimation of the death of Beatrice, accounting for Dante 
 being next told not to inquire the meaning of the speech, — 
 " Demand no more than may be useful to thee." 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 241 
 
 person ; and not directly by thee to her, which is 
 scarce fitting. After the which, send them, not with- 
 out me, where she may chance to hear them ; but 
 have them fitted with a pleasant music, into the 
 which I will pass whensoever it needeth.'* With 
 this speech he was away, and my sleep was broken up. 
 Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I had 
 beheld this vision during the ninth hour of the day ; 
 and I resolved that I would make a ditty, before I 
 left my chamber, according to the words my master 
 had spoken. And this is the ditty that I made : — 
 
 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 companionlcss 
 
 Thou may'st 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, iU-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, 
 
 B 
 
242 DANTE ALIQHIERI. 
 
 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 Hketh 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 confirm'd 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." 
 
 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. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 243 
 
 This ditty is divided into three parts. In the 
 first, I tell it tvhither to go, and I encourage it, that it 
 may go the more confidently, and I tell it whose com- 
 pany to join if it would go with confidence and 
 without any danger. In the second, I say that which 
 it behoves the ditty to set forth. In the third, I give 
 it have to start when it pleases, recommending its 
 course to the arms of Fortune. The second part he- 
 gins here, " With a sweet accent ; " the third hei-e, 
 " Gentle my Song.^^ Some might contradict me, and 
 say that they understand not whom I address in the 
 second person, seeing that the ditty is merely the 
 very words I am speaking. And therefore I say 
 that this doubt I intend to solve atid clear up in this 
 little booh itself, at a more difficult passage, and 
 then let him understand who now doubts, or would 
 now contradict as aforesaid. 
 
 After this vision I have recorded, and having 
 written those words which Love had dictated to me, 
 I began to be harassed with many and divers 
 thoughts, by each of which I was sorely tempted ; 
 and in especial, there were four among them that 
 left me no rest. The first was this : " Certainly the 
 lordship of Love is good ; seeing that it diverts the 
 mind from all mean things." The second was this : 
 
 Certainly the lordship of Love is evil ; seeing that 
 the more homage his servants pay to him, the more 
 
 [•ievous and painful are the torments wherewith he 
 
 )rments them." The third was this : " The name of 
 
 [Love is so sweet in the hearing that it would not seem 
 
244 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 possible for its effects to be other than sweet ; seeing 
 that the name must needs be like unto the thing 
 named : as it is written : Nomina sunt consequentia 
 rerum"* And the fourth was this : " The lady whom 
 Love hath chosen out to govern thee is not as other 
 ladies, whose hearts are easily moved." 
 
 And by each one of these thoughts I was so sorely 
 assailed that I was like unto him who doubteth which 
 path to take, and wishing to go, goeth not. And 
 if I bethought myself to seek out some point at the 
 which all these paths might be found to meet, I dis- 
 cerned but one way, and that irked me ; to wit, to 
 call upon Pity, and to commend myself unto her. 
 And it was then that, feeling a desire to write some- 
 what thereof in rhyme, I wrote this sonnet : — 
 
 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 : 
 
 * " Names are the consequents of things." 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 245 
 
 Until, (my peace with all of them to make,) 
 Unto mine enemy I needs must pray, 
 My lady Pity, for the help she brings. 
 
 Tills sonnet may he divided into four parts. In 
 tlie first, I say and propound that all my tliouyhts 
 are concerning Love. In Uie second, I say that they 
 are diverse, and I relate their diversity. In the 
 third, I say wherein they all seem to agree. In the 
 fourth, I say that, wishing to speak of Love, I know 
 not from which of these thoughts to take my argu- 
 ment ; and that if I would take it from all, I shall 
 have to call upon mine enemy, my Lady Pity. 
 " Lady^^ I say as in a scornful mode of speech. 
 Tlie second begins here, " Yet have between them- 
 selves ;^'' the third, " All of them craving;^* the 
 fourth, " Ami thus'' 
 
 After this battling with many thoughts, it chanced 
 on a day that my most gracious lady was with a 
 gathering of ladies in a certain place ; to the which 
 I was conducted by a friend of mine ; he thinking to 
 do me a great pleasure by showing me the beauty of 
 so many women. Then I, hardly knowing where- 
 unto he conducted me, but trusting in him (who yet 
 was leading his friend to the last verge of life), made 
 question : " To what end are we come among these 
 ladies?" and he answered : " To the end that they 
 may be worthily served." And they were assembled 
 around a gentlewoman who was given in marriage 
 on that day; the custom of the city being that these 
 
 b 
 
246 DANTE ALIGHIEBI. 
 
 should bear her company when she sat down for the 
 first time at table in the house of her husband. 
 Therefore I, as was mj friend's pleasure, resolved to 
 stay with him and do honour to those ladies. 
 
 But as soon as I had thus resolved, I began to feel 
 a faintness and a throbbing at my left side, which 
 soon took possession of my whole body. Whereupon 
 I remember that I covertly leaned my back unto a 
 painting that ran round the walls of that house ; 
 and being fearful lest my trembling should be dis- 
 cerned of them, I lifted mine eyes to look on those 
 ladies, and then first perceived among them the ex- 
 cellent Beatrice. And when I perceived her, all my 
 senses were overpowered by the great lordship that 
 Love obtained, finding himself so near unto that most 
 gracious being, until nothing but the spirits of sight 
 remained to me; and even these remained driven 
 out of their own instruments because Love entered 
 in that honoured place of theirs, that so he might 
 the better behold her. And although I was other 
 than at first, I grieved for the spirits so expelled 
 which kept up a sore lament, saying : " If he had 
 not in this wise thrust us forth, we also should behold 
 the marvel of this lady." By this, many of her 
 friends, having discerned my confusion, began to 
 wonder ; and together with herself, kept whispering 
 of me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who 
 knew not what to conceive, took me by the hands, 
 and drawing me forth from among them, required to 
 know what ailed me. Then, having first held me at 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 247 
 
 quiet for a space until my perceptions were come 
 back to me, I made answer to my friend : ** Of a 
 surety I have now set my feet on that point of life, 
 beyond the which he must not pass who would re- 
 turn."* 
 
 Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room 
 where I had wept before ; and again weeping and 
 ashamed, said : " If this lady but knew of my con- 
 dition, I do not think that she would thus mock at 
 me; nay, I am sure that she must needs feel some 
 pity." And in my weeping I bethought me to write 
 certain woi'ds in the which, speaking to her, I should 
 signify the' occasion of my disfigurement, telling her 
 also how I knew that she had no knowledge thereof: 
 which, if it were known, I was certain must move 
 others to pity. And then, because I hoped that 
 peradventuro it might come into her hearing, I wrote 
 this sonnet. 
 
 Even as the others mock, thou mockest me ; 
 Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is 
 
 • It is difficult not to connect Dante's agony at thia wed- 
 ding-feast with our knowledge that in her twenty-first year 
 Beatrice was wedded to Simone de' Bardi. That she herself 
 was the bride on this occasion might seem out of the question 
 from the fact of its not being in any way so stated : but on 
 the other hand, Dante's silence throughout the Vita Nuova 
 as regards her marriage (which must have brought deep sor- 
 row even to his ideal love) is so startling, that we might al- 
 most be led to conceive in this passage the only intimation of 
 it which he thought -fit to give. 
 
248 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 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. 
 
 This sonnet I divide 'not into parts, because a di- 
 vision is only made to open the meaning of the thing 
 divided: and this, as it is sufficiently manifest 
 through the reasons given, has no need of division. 
 True it is that, amid the words whereby is shown 
 the occasion of this sonnet, dubious words are to be 
 found ; namely, when I say that Love kills all my 
 spirits, but that the visual remain in life, only out- 
 side of their own instruments. And this difficulty 
 it is impossible for any to solve who is not in equal 
 guise liege unto Love; and, to those who are so, that 
 is manifest which would clear up the dubious words. 
 And therefore it were not well for me to expound 
 this difficulty, inasmuch as my speaking would be 
 either fruitless or else superfluous. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 249 
 
 A while after this strange disfigurement, I became 
 possessed with a strong conception which left me but 
 very seldom, and then to return quickly. And it 
 was this : " Seeing that thou comest into such scorn 
 by the companionship of this lady, wherefore seekest 
 thou to behold her? If she should ask thee this 
 thing, what answer couldst thou make unto her? 
 yea, even though thou wert master of all thy faculties, 
 and in no way hindered from answering." Unto the 
 which, another very humble thought said in reply : 
 " If I were master of all my faculties, and in no way 
 hindered from answering, I would tell her that no 
 sooner do I imago to myself her marvellous beauty 
 than I am possessed with the desire to behold her, the 
 which is of so great strength that it kills and destroys 
 in my memory all those things which might oppose 
 it ; and it is therefore that the great anguish I have 
 endured thereby is yet not enough to restrain mo 
 from seeking to behold her." And then, because of 
 these thoughts, I resolved to write somewhat, wherein, 
 having pleaded mine excuse, I should tell her of what 
 I felt in her presence. Whereupon I wrote this 
 sonnet : — 
 
 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, 
 
 "WTiich, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place ; 
 
250 DANTE A LIGHTER!, 
 
 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 bewilder'd 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. 
 
 ITiis sonnet is divided into two parts. In the 
 first, I tell the cause why I abstain not from coming 
 to this lady. In the second, I tell luhat befalls me 
 through coming to her ; and this part begins here, 
 " When thou art near.'' And also this second part 
 divides into five distinct statements. For, in the first, 
 I say what Love, counselled by Reason, tells me ivhen 
 I am near the lady. In the second, I set forth the 
 state of my heart by the example of the face. In 
 the third, I say how all i ground of trust fails me. 
 In the fourth, I say that he sins who shows not pity 
 of me, which would give me some comfort. In the 
 last, I say why people should taJce pity ; namely, 
 for the piteous looJc which comes into mine eyes; 
 which piteous look is destroyed, that is, appeareth 
 not unto others, through the jeering of this lady, who 
 draws to the like action those who peradventure 
 would see this piteousness. The second part begins 
 here, "My face shows;'* the third, "Till, in the 
 drunken terror ; " the fourth, " It were a grievous 
 sin ; " the fifth, " For the great anguish." 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 251 
 
 Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write 
 down in verse four other things touching my con- 
 dition, the which things it seemed to me that I had 
 not yet made manifest. The first among these was 
 the grief tliat possessed me very often, remember- 
 ing the strangeness which Love wrought in me ; 
 the second was, how Love many times assailed me so 
 suddenly and with such strength that I had no other 
 life remaining except a thought which spake of my 
 lady : the third was, how when Love did battle with 
 me in this wise, I would rise up all colourless, if so 
 I might see my lady, conceiving that the sight of her 
 would defend me against the assault of Love, and 
 altogether forgetting that which her presence brought 
 unto me ; and the fourth was, how when I saw her, 
 the sight not only defended me not, but took away 
 the little life that remained to me. And I said these 
 four thmgs in a sonnet, which is this : — 
 
 At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over 
 
 T^e 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 than if I, whom other aid forsook. 
 
 Would aid myself, and innocent of art 
 
 "Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope. 
 
252 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look 
 
 Than tlie blood seems as shaken from my heart, 
 And all my pulses beat at once and stop. 
 
 This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things 
 being therein narrated ; and as these are set forth 
 above, I only proceed to distinguish the parts by 
 their beginnings. Wherefore I say that the second 
 part begins, " Love smiteth me ; " the third, " And 
 then if I ;^^ the fourth, " No sooner do Ilift?^ 
 
 After I had written these three last sonnets, wherein 
 I spake unto my lady, telling her almost the whole 
 of my condition, it seemed to me that I should be 
 silent, having said enough concerning myself. But 
 albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me 
 afterward to write of another matter, more noble than 
 the foregoing. And for that the occasion of what I 
 then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I 
 will relate it as briefly as I may. 
 
 Through the sore change in mine aspect, the 
 secret of my heart was now understood of many. 
 Which thing being thus, there came a day when 
 certain ladies to whom it was well known (they 
 having been with me at divers times in my trouble) 
 were met together for the pleasure of gentle company. 
 And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think 
 rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them 
 call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very 
 sweet speech. And when I had come close up with 
 them, and perceived that they had not among them 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 253 
 
 mine excellent lady, I was reassured; and saluted 
 them, asking of their pleasure. The ladies were 
 many ; divers of whom were laugliing one to another, 
 while divers gazed at me as though I should speak 
 anon. But when I still spake not, one of them, who 
 before had been talking with another, addressed me 
 by my name, saying, " To what end lovest thou 
 this lady, seeing that thou canst not support her 
 presence ? Now tell us this thing, that we may know 
 it : for certainly the end of such a love must be worthy 
 of knowledge." And when she had spoken these 
 words, not she only, but all they that were with her, 
 began to observe me, waiting for my reply. Where- 
 upon, I said thus unto them: — " Ladies, the end 
 and aim of my Love was but the salutation of that 
 lady of whom I conceive that ye are speaking; 
 wherein alone I found that beatitude which is the 
 goal of desire. And now that it hath pleased her to 
 deny me this. Love, my Master, of his great goodness, 
 hath placed all my beatitude there where my hope 
 will not fail me." Then those ladies began to talk 
 closely together ; and as I have seen snow fall among 
 the rain, so was their talk mingled with sighs. But 
 after a little, that lady who had been the first to 
 address me, addressed me again in these words : " We 
 pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein abideth this 
 thy beatitude." And answering, I said but thus 
 much : " In those words that do praise my lady." 
 To the which she rejoined, " If thy speech were 
 true, those words that thou didst write concerning 
 
254 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 thy condition would have been written with another 
 intent." 
 
 Then I, being almost put to shame because of her 
 answer^ went out from among them ; and as I walked, 
 I said within myself: " Seeing that there is so much 
 beatitude in those words which do praise my lady, 
 wherefore hath my speech of her been different?" 
 And then I resolved that thenceforward I would 
 choose for the theme of my writings only the praise 
 of this most gracious being. But when I had thought 
 exceedingly, it seemed to me that I had taken to 
 myself a theme which was much too lofty, so that I 
 dared not begin ; and I remained during several 
 days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of be- 
 ginning. After which it happened, as I passed one 
 day along a path which lay beside a stream of very 
 clear water, that there came upon me a great desu'e 
 to say somewhat in rhyme ; but when I began think- 
 ing how I should say it, methought that to speak of 
 her were unseemly, unless I spoke to other ladies in 
 the second person ; which is to say, not to any other 
 ladies ; but only to such as are so called because they 
 are gentle, let alone for mere womanhood. WTiere- 
 upon I declare that my tongue spake as though by 
 its own impulse, and said, " Ladies that have in- 
 telligence in love." These words I laid up in my 
 mind with great gladness, conceiving to take them 
 as my commencement. WTierefore, having returned 
 to the city I spake of, and considered thereof during 
 certain days, I began a poem with this beginning. 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 255 
 
 constructed in the mode which will he seen below in 
 its division. The poem begins here : — 
 
 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 tliat when I speak thereof 
 Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me 
 That if my courage fail'd not, certainly 
 To him my listeners must be all resign'd. 
 Wlierefore I will not speak in such large kind 
 That mine own speech should foil me, which were 
 
 base; 
 But only will discourse of her highr grace 
 
 In these poor words, the best that I can find, 
 With you alone, dear dames and damozels : 
 'Twere ill to speak thereof witli any else. 
 
 An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith 
 
 To God: *' Lord, in the world that Thou hast made, 
 A miracle in action is displayed 
 
 By reason of a soul whose splendors 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 : 
 
 % 
 
256 DANTE ALIOHIEBI. 
 
 " My well-beloved, suffer that in peace 
 
 Your hope remain, while so JMy pleasure is, 
 There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her ; 
 And who in Hell unto the doom'd shall say, 
 " I have look'd 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 
 Esteem'd 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 made noble, 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 turn'd upon. 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 257 
 
 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 mindftil that thou hadst thy 
 birth 
 From Love, and art a modest, simple child,) 
 Whomso thou meet est, 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 
 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. 
 
 This poevfiy that it may he letter understood, I 
 will divide more subtly than the others preceding ; 
 and therefore I will make three parts of it, Tlie 
 first part is a proem to the words following. The 
 second is the matter treated of. The third is, as it 
 
258 DANTE ALIOHIEHL 
 
 were, a handmaid to the preceding words. The se- 
 cond begins here, " An angel; " the third here, " Dear 
 Song, ITcnowJ^ The first part is divided into four. 
 In the first, I say to whom I mean to speaTc of my 
 lady, a7id wherefore I will so speaTc. In the second, I 
 say what she ajppears to myself to he when I reflef^t 
 upon her excellence, and what I would utter if I lost 
 not courage. In the third, I say ivhat it is I pur^ 
 pose to speak, so as not to he impeded by faint- 
 heartedness. In the fourth, repeating to whom I 
 purpose speaJcing, I tell the reason why I speaJc to 
 them. The second begins here, ^' And I declare ;" 
 the third here, " Wherefore I will not speaJc ;" the 
 fourth here, " With you alone.^' Then, ivhen I say 
 " An Angel," I begin treating of this lady : and 
 this part is divided into two. In the first, I tell 
 what is understood of her in heaven. In the second, 
 I tell what is understood of her on earth : here, " My 
 lady is desired." This second part is divided into 
 two ; for, in the first, I speak of her as regards the 
 nobleness of her soul, relating some of her virtues 
 proceeding from her soul ; in the second, I speaJc of 
 her as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating 
 some of her beauties : here, " Love saith concerning 
 her." This second part is divided into two ; for, 
 in the first, I speaTc of certain beauties which belong 
 to the ivhole person ; in the second, I speaJc of certain 
 beauties which belong to a distinct part of the per- 
 son : here, " Whatever her sweet eyes." This second 
 part is divided into two ; for, in the one, I speaJc of 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 259 
 
 the eyes, which are the beginning of love; in the 
 second, I speak of tJie mouth, which is the end of 
 love. And, that every vicious thought mag he dis^ 
 carded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is 
 above written that the greeting of this lady, which 
 was an act of her mouth, was the goal of my desires, 
 while I could receive it. Then, when I say, ** Dear 
 Song, I know," I add a stanza as it were hand- 
 maid to tlie otfiers, wherein I say what I desire from 
 this my poem. And because this last part is easy 
 to understand, I trouble not myself with more divi- 
 sions. I say, indeed, that the further to open the 
 meaning of this poem, more minute divisions ought 
 to be used; but nevertheless he who is not of wit 
 enough to understand it by these which have been 
 already made is welcome to leave it alone ; for certes 
 I fear I have communicated its sense to too many by 
 these present divisions, if it so happened that many 
 should hear it. 
 
 When this song was a little gone abroad, a certain 
 one of my friends, hearing the same, was pleased to 
 question me, that I should tell him what thing love 
 is ; it may be, conceiving from the words thus heard 
 a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I, 
 thinking that after such discourse it were well to say 
 somewhat of the nature of Love, and also in accord- 
 ance with my friend's desire, proposed to myself to 
 write certain words in the which I should treat of 
 this argument. And the sonnet that I then made 
 is this : — 
 
260 DANTE ALTGHIERL 
 
 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. 
 'Tis Nature makes them when she loves : a king 
 
 Love is, whose palace where he sojourneth 
 . Is call'd 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 enshrined 
 
 That Love at length out of his sleep will start. 
 And women feel the same for worthy men. 
 
 TJiis sonnet is divided into two parts. In the 
 first, I sjpeah of him according to his power. In the 
 second, I speak of him according as his poiver trans- 
 lates itself into act. The second part begins here, 
 " Then beauty seen." The first is divided into two. 
 In the first, I say in ivhat subject this power eccists. 
 In the second, I say how this subject and this power 
 are produced together, and how the one regards the 
 other, as form does matter. The second begins here, 
 " Tis Nature.^^ Afterwards when I say, " Then 
 beauty seen in virtuous womankind," I say how this 
 power translates itself into act ; and, first, how it so 
 translates itself in a man, then how it so translates 
 itself in a woman: here, " And women feel." 
 
 * Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, " Within 
 the gentle heart Love shelters him." (See ante, p. 24.) 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 261 
 
 Having treated of love in the foregoing, it ap- 
 peared to me that I shoukl also say something in 
 praise of my lady, wherein it might be set forth how 
 love manifested itself when produced by her ; and 
 how not only she could awaken it where it slept, but 
 where it was not she could manellously create it. 
 To the which end I wrote another sonnet ; and it is 
 this: — 
 
 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 fuels his heart to rise, 
 And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs, 
 
 And of his evil heart is then awai*e : 
 
 Hate loves, and pride becomes a woi-shipper. 
 O women, help to praise her in somewise. 
 Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well, 
 
 By speech of here into the mind are brought, 
 And who beholds is blessed 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. 
 
 This sonnet Juts three sections. In the first, I say 
 how this lady brings this power into action by those 
 most noble features, her eyes : and, in the third, I say 
 this same as to that most noble feature, her mouth. 
 And between these two sections is a little section, which 
 asks f as it ivere, help for the previous section and 
 
262 DANTE ALIOHIERI. 
 
 the subsequent; and it begins here, " women, heJjp,** 
 The third begins here, " Humbleness." The first is 
 divided into three ; for, in the first, I say how she 
 with power mahes noble that which she holes upon ; 
 and this is as much as to say that she brings Love, 
 in power, thither where he is not. In the second, 1 
 say how she brings Love, in act, into the hearts of 
 all those whom she sees. In the third, I tell what 
 she afterwards, with virtue, operates upon their 
 hearts. The second begins, " Upon her path ;" the 
 third, ^^ He whom she greeteth." Then, ivhen I say, 
 " women, help," I intimate to whom it is my in- 
 tention to speak, calling- on women to help me to 
 honour her. Then, when I say, " Humbleness," I 
 say that same which is said in the first part, regard- 
 ing two acts of her mouth, one whereof is her most 
 sweet speech, and the other her marvellous smile. 
 Only, I say not of this last how it operates upon the 
 hearts of others, because memory cannot retain this 
 smile, nor its operation. . 
 
 ISot many days after this, (it being the will of ihe 
 most High God, who also from Himself put not 
 away death,) the father of wonderful Beatrice, going 
 out of this life, passed certainly into glory. There- 
 by it happened, as of ver^^ sooth it might not be 
 otherwise, that this lady was made full of the bitter- 
 ness of gTief : seeing that such a parting is very 
 grievous unto those friends who are left, and that no 
 other friendship is like to that between a good parent 
 and a good child ; and fiirtherniore considering that 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 263 
 
 this lady was good in the supreme degree, and her 
 father (as by many it hath been truly averred) of 
 exceeding goodness. And because it is the usage 
 of that city that men meet with men in such a grief, 
 and women with women, certain ladies of her com- 
 panionship gathered themselves unto Beatrice, where 
 she kept alone in her weeping : and as they passed 
 in and out, I could hear them speak concerning her, 
 how she wept. At length two of them went by me, 
 who said : ** Certainly she grieveth in such sort that 
 one might die for pity, beholding her." Then, 
 feeling the tears upon my face, I put up my hands 
 to hide them : and had it not been that I hoped to 
 hear more concerning her, (seeing that where I sat, 
 her friends passed continually in and out,) I should 
 assuretUy have gone thence to be alone, when I felt 
 the tears come. But as I still sat in that place, 
 certain ladies again passed near me, who were say- 
 ing among themselves : " Which of us shall be joy- 
 ful any more, who have listened to this lady in her 
 piteous sorrow?" And there were others who said 
 as they went by me : " He that sitteth here could 
 not weep more if he had beheld her as we have be- 
 held her;" and again: " He is so altered that he 
 seemeth not as himself." And still as the ladies 
 passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after this 
 fashion of her and of me. 
 
 Wherefore afterwards, having considered and per- 
 ceiving that there was herein matter for poesy, I 
 resolved that I would write certain rhymes in the 
 
 k 
 
264 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 which should be contained all that those ladies had 
 said. And because I would willingly have spoken 
 to them if it had not been for discreetness, I made 
 in my rhymes as though I had spoken and they had 
 answered me. And thereof I wrote two sonnets ; in 
 the first of which I addressed them as I would fain 
 have done ; and in the second related their answer, 
 using the speech that I had heard from them, as 
 though it had been spoken unto myself. And the 
 sonnets are these : — 
 
 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 
 "WTio 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. 
 
 This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 2G5 
 
 firsts I call and ask these ladies whether they come 
 from her, telling them tJiat I think they do, because 
 they return the nobler. In the second, I pray them 
 to tell me of her : and the seco^id begins here, " And 
 if indeed.'^ 
 
 n. 
 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. 
 
 This sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose 
 person I reply had four forms of answer. And, 
 because these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not 
 to explain the purport of the parts, and tlierefore I 
 only discriminate them,. The second begins here, 
 " And wherefore is thy grief ;^^ the third here, 
 " Nay, leave our woe;" the fourth, <* Also Iter 
 look:* 
 
266 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 A few days after this, my body became afflicted 
 with a painful infinnity, whereby I suffered bitter 
 anguish for many days, which at last brought me 
 unto such weakness that I could no longer move. 
 And I remember that on the ninth day, being over- 
 come with intolerable pain, a thought came into my 
 mind concerning my lady : but when it had a little 
 nourished this thought, my mind returned to its 
 brooding over mine enfeebled body. And then per- 
 ceiving how frail a thing life is, even though health 
 keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that 
 I could not choose but weep ; and weeping I said 
 within myself: " Certainly it must some time come 
 to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die." Then, 
 feeling bewildered, I closed mine eyes; and my 
 brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic, 
 and to have such imaginations as here follow. 
 
 And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw cer- 
 tain faces of women with their hair loosened, which 
 called out to me, " Thou shalt surely die ; " after 
 the which, other terrible and unknown appearances 
 said unto me, " Thou art dead." At length, as my 
 phantasy held on in its wanderings, I came to be I 
 knew not where, and to behold a throng of dishevelled 
 ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and 
 thither weeping. Then the sun went' out, so that 
 the stars showed themselves, and they were of such 
 a colour that I knew they must be weeping : and it 
 seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, 
 and that there were great earthquakes. With that, 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 267 
 
 while I wondered in my trance, and was filled with 
 a grievous feai*, I conceived that a certain friend 
 came unto me and said: *' Hast thou not heard? 
 She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken 
 out of life." Then I began to weep very piteously ; 
 and not only in mine imagination, but with mine 
 eyes, which were wet with tears. And I seemed to 
 look towards Heaven, and to behold a multitude of 
 angels who were returning upwards, having before 
 them an exceedingly white cloud : and these angels 
 were singing together gloriously, and the words of 
 their song were these ; *' Osamia in exceUia :" and 
 there was no more that I heard. Then my heart 
 that was so full of love said unto me :" It is true 
 that our lady licth dead :'' and it seemed to me that 
 I went to look upon the body wherein that blessed 
 and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. 
 And so strong was this idle imagining, that it made 
 me to behold my lady in death ; whose head ceitain 
 ladies seemed to be covering with a white veil ; and 
 who was so humble of her aspect that it was as 
 though she had said, " I have attained to look on 
 the beginning of peace." And therewithal I came 
 unto such humility by the sight of her, that. I cried 
 out upon Death, saying : " Now come unto me, and 
 be not bitter against me any longer : surely, there 
 where thou hast been, thou hast learned gentleness. 
 Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire 
 thee : seest thou not that I wear thy colour already ?" 
 And when I had seen all those offices performed that 
 
 k 
 
268 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 are fitting to be done unto the dead, it seemed to me 
 that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked 
 up towards heaven. And so strong was my phantasy, 
 that I wept again in very truth, and said with my 
 true voice : " O excellent soul ! how blessed is he 
 that now looketh upon thee ! " 
 
 And as I said these words, with a painful anguish 
 of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young 
 and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me 
 where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out 
 because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with 
 trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other 
 ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of 
 my discomfort by reason of the moan that she made, 
 (who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her 
 away from where I was, and then set themselves to 
 awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying : 
 " Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted.'' 
 
 Then, by their words, this strong imagination was 
 brought suddenly to an end, at the moment that I 
 was about to say, *' O Beatrice ! peace be with thee." 
 And already I had said, " O Beatrice !" when being 
 aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had 
 been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered 
 her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, 
 that it was not understood by these ladies ; so that 
 in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned to- 
 wards them by Love's counselling. And when they 
 beheld me, they began to say, " He seemeth as one 
 dead," and to whisper among themselves, *' Let us 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 269 
 
 strive if we may not comfort him." "VNTiereupon 
 they spake to me many soothing words, and ques- 
 tioned me moreover touching the cause of my fear. 
 Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having per- 
 ceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto them, 
 " This thing it was that made me afeard;" and 
 told them of all that I had seen, from the beginning 
 even unto the end, but without once speaking the 
 name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from 
 my sickness, I bethought me to write these things in 
 rhyme; deeming it a lovely thing to be known. 
 Whereof I wrote this poem : — 
 
 A VERY pitiful lady, very young. 
 
 Exceeding rich in human sympathies, 
 
 Stood by, what time I clamoured 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, ** Mliat 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. 
 
270 DANTE ALIGSIEUL 
 
 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, 
 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, " Oh, 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 a little while ; 
 
 When Love sobb'd in my heart, which is his 
 home. 
 A\Tiereby 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 shriek'd to me, * Thou too shalt die, shalt die ! ' 
 
 " Then saw I many broken hinted sights 
 In the uncertain state I stepp'd into. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 271 
 
 Meseem'd to be I know not in what place, 
 Where ladies through the street, like moumfiil 
 lights. 
 Ran with loose hair, and eyes that finghtenM 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, 
 ^Vho 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 spoke thus : * Now all shall be 
 made clear : 
 Come and behold our lady where she lies.* 
 These idle phantasies 
 
 Then carried me to see my lady dead : 
 And standing at her head 
 
 Her ladies put a white veil over her ; 
 And with her was such very humbleness 
 That she appeared to say, * I am at peace/ 
 
273 DANTE ALIOHIERI. 
 
 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 rehef, 
 
 Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee : 
 Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood. 
 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 complai- 
 
 Thisjpoem has two jparts. In the first, spealcing 
 to a perso^i undefined, I tell how I was aroused from 
 a vain phantasy by certuin ladies, and how I pro- 
 mised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say 
 how I told them. The second part begins here, " / 
 was a-thinking.^^ The first part divides into two. 
 In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and 
 which one shingly, did and said because of my phan- 
 tasy, before I had returned into my Hght senses. 
 In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after 
 I had left off this wandering : and it begins here, 
 " But uttered in a voice." Then, when I say, " / 
 was a-thinking," I say how I told them this my 
 imagination ; and concerning this I have two parts. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 273 
 
 In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In 
 the second, saying at what time they culled me, I 
 covertly thank them : and this part begins here, 
 " Just then you woke me." 
 
 After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, 
 as I sat thoughtful, that I was taken with such a 
 strong trembhng at the heart, that it could not have 
 been otherwise in thepresenceof my lady. WTiereupon 
 I perceived that there was an appearance of Love 
 beside me, and I seemed to see him coming from my 
 lady ; and he said, hot aloud but within my heart : 
 ** Now take heed tliat thou bless the day when I 
 entered into thee ; for it is fitting that thou shoiddst 
 do so." And with that my heart was so full of glad- 
 ness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very tmth 
 mine own heart and not another. 
 
 A short while after these words which my heart 
 spoke to me with the tongue of Love, I saw coming 
 towards me a certain lady who was very famous for 
 her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have 
 already called the first among my friends had long 
 been enamoured. This lady's right name was Joan ; 
 but because (rf* her comeliness (or at least it was so 
 imagined) she was called of many Primavera 
 (Spring), and went by that name among them. 
 Then looking again, I perceived that the most noble 
 Beatrice followed after her. And when both these 
 ladies had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love 
 spake again in my heart, saymg : " She that came 
 first was called Spring, only because of that which 
 
274 DANTE ALIOHIERI. 
 
 was to happen on this day. And it was I myself 
 who caused that name to be given her ; seeing that 
 as the Spring cometh first in the year, so should she 
 come first on this day,* when Beatrice was to show 
 herself after the vision of her servant. And even if 
 thou go about to consider her right name, it is also 
 as one should say, " She shall come first ;" inasmuch 
 as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who 
 went before the True Light, saying: *^ Ego vox 
 clamantis in deserto : ' Parate viam Domini.^ "f And 
 also it seemed to me that he added other words, to 
 wit : " He who should inquire delicately touching 
 this matter, could not but call Beatrice by mine own 
 name, which is to say. Love ; beholding her so like 
 unto me." 
 
 Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write 
 it with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend ; but 
 setting aside certain words J which seemed proper to 
 be set aside, because I believed that his heart still 
 regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring. 
 And I wrote tliis sonnet : — 
 
 * There is a play in the original upon the words Primavera 
 (Spring) and prima verra (she shall come first), to which I 
 have given as near an equivalent as I could. 
 
 t " I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness : * Pre- 
 pare ye the way of the Lord.'" 
 
 I That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from delicacy 
 towards his friend, the words in which Love describes Joan 
 as merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in the 
 latter part of this sentence a reproach is gently conveyed to 
 the fickle Guide Cavalcanti, who may already have transferred 
 his homage (though Dante had not then learned it) from Joan 
 to Mandetta. (See his Poems.) 
 
 i 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 2*Jb 
 
 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 I " 
 
 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 mai-vel 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." 
 
 This sonnet has many parts : whereof the first 
 tells how I felt awakened within my heart the ac- 
 customed tremor, and how it seemed that Love ap- 
 peared to nu joyful from afar. The secmid says 
 how it appeared to me that Love spake within my 
 heart, and wliat was his aspect. The third tells 
 how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, 
 I saw and heard certain things. The second part 
 begins here, " Saying, * Be now ;* " the third here, 
 '' Then, while it ivas his pleasure." The third part 
 divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw. 
 In the second, I say what I heard : and it begins 
 here, " Love spake it then." 
 
 It might be here objected unto me, (and even by 
 
276 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 one worthy of controversy,) that I have spoken of 
 Love as though it were a thing outward and visible : 
 not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily substance 
 also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy; 
 Love not being of itself a substance, but an accident 
 of substance. Yet that I speak of Love as though 
 it were a thing tangible and even human, appears by 
 three things which I say thereof. And firstly, I say 
 that I perceived Love coming towards me ; whereby, 
 seeing that to come bespeaks locomotion, and seeing 
 also how philosophy teacheth us that none but a cor- 
 poreal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that I 
 speak of Love as of a corporeal substance. And 
 secondly, I say that Love smiled ; and thirdly, that 
 Love spake; faculties (and especially the risible 
 faculty) which appear proper unto man : whereby it 
 further seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man. 
 Now that this matter may be explained, (as is fitting,) 
 it must first be remembered that anciently they who 
 wrote poems of Love "WTote not in the vulgar tongue, 
 but rather certain poets in the Latin tongue. I 
 mean, among us, although perchance the same may 
 have been among others, and although likewise, as 
 among the Greeks, they were not writers of spoken 
 language, but men of letters, treated of these things.* 
 
 • On reading Dante's treatise De Vulgari Eloquio, it will 
 be found that the distinction which he intends here is not 
 between one language, or dialect, and another ; but between 
 " vulgar speech " (that is, the language handed down from 
 mother to son without any conscious use of grammar or syn- 
 tax,) and language as regulated by grammarians and the 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 277 
 
 And indeed it is not a great number of years since 
 poetry began to be made in the vulgar tongue ; the 
 writing of rhymes in spoken language corresponding 
 to the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain 
 analogy. And I say that it is but a little while, 
 because if we examine the language of oco and the 
 language of «* we shall not find in those tongues 
 any written thing of an earlier date than the last 
 hundred and fifty years. Also the reason why certain 
 of a very mean sort obtained at the first some fame 
 as poets is, that before them no man had written 
 verses in the language of si : and of tliese, the first 
 was moved to the writing of such verses by the wish 
 to make himself understood of a certain lady, unto 
 whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is 
 against such as rhyme concerning other matters than 
 love; that mode of speech having been first used 
 for the expression of love alone.f WTierefore, see- 
 laws of literary composition, and which Dante calls simply 
 " Grammar." A great deal might be said on the bearings of 
 the present passage, but it is no part of my plan to enter on 
 such questions. 
 
 • t. e. the languages of Provence and Tuscany. 
 
 t It strikes me that this curious passage furnishes a reason, 
 hitherto (I believe) overlooked, why Dante put such of his 
 lyrical poems as relate to philosophy into the form of love- 
 poems. He liked writing in Italian rhyme rather than Latin 
 metre; he thought Italian rhyme ought to be confined to 
 love-poems; therefore whatever he wrote (at this age) had 
 to take the form of a love-poem. Thus any poem by Dante 
 not concerning love is later than his twenty-seventh year 
 (1291-2), when he wrote the prose of the Vita Nuova; the 
 poetry having been written earlier, at the time of the events 
 referred to. 
 
278 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 ing that poets have a licence allowed them that is 
 not allowed unto the writers of prose, and seeing also 
 that they who write in rhyme are simply poets in the 
 vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and reasonable that 
 a larger licence should be given to these than to 
 other modern writers; and that any metaphor or 
 rhetorical similitude which is permitted unto poets, 
 should also be counted not unseemly in the rhymers 
 of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if we perceive that 
 the former have catlsed inanimate things to speak 
 as though they had sense and reason, and to dis- 
 course one with another ; yea, and not only actual 
 things, but such also as have no real existence, (see- 
 ing that they have made things which are not, to 
 speak ; and oftentimes written of those which are 
 merely accidents as though they were substances and 
 things human ;) it should therefore be permitted to 
 the latter to do the like ; which is to say, not incon- 
 siderately, but with such sufficient motive as may 
 afterwards be set forth in prose. 
 
 That the Latin poets have done thus, appears 
 through Virgil, where he saith that Juno (to wit, a 
 goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto JEolus, 
 master of the Winds ; as it is written in the first book 
 of the iEneid, JEole, namque tihi, etc, ; and that this 
 master of the Winds made reply : Tuus, o regiTia, 
 quid optes — Explorare labor, mihi jussa capessere 
 fas est. And through the same poet, the inanimate 
 thing speaketh unto the animate, in the third book 
 of the ^neid, where it is written : Dardanidce duri, 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 279 
 
 etc. With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh to 
 the inanimate; as thus: Multum, Roma, tamen 
 debes civilihus armis. In Horace man is made to 
 speak to his own intelligence as unto another person ; 
 (and not only hath Horace done this but herein he 
 followeth the excellent Homer,) as thus in his Poetics: 
 Die mihi, Musa, virumy etc. Through Ovid, Love 
 speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning of 
 his discourse De Remecliis Amoris : as thus : Bella 
 mihi video, bella parantur, ait. By which ensamples 
 this thing shall be made manifest unto such as may 
 be offended at any part of this my book. And lest some 
 of the common sort should be moved to jeering hereat, 
 I will here add, that neither did these ancient poets 
 speak thus without consideration, nor should they who 
 are makers of rhyme in our day write after the same 
 fashion, having no reason in what they write ; for it 
 were a shameful thing if one should rhyme under the 
 semblance of metaphor or rhetorical similitude, and 
 afterwards, being questioned thereof, should be un- 
 able to rid his words of such semblance, unto their 
 right understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as 
 rhyme thus foolishly,) myself and the first among 
 my friends do know many. 
 
 But returning to the matter of my discourse. This 
 excellent lady, of whom I spake in what hath gone 
 before, came at last into such favour with all men, 
 that when she passed anywhere folk ran to behold 
 her ; which thing was a deep joy to me : and when 
 she drew near unto any, so much truth and simple- 
 
280 DANTE ALIOHIERI. 
 
 ness entered into his heart, that he dared neither to 
 lift his eyes nor to return her salutation : and unto 
 this, many who have felt it can bear witness. She 
 went along crowned and clothed with humility, show- 
 ing no whit of pride in all that she heard and saw : 
 and when she had gone by, it was said of many, 
 " This is not a woman, but one of the beautiful angels 
 of Heaven," and there were some that said : ** This 
 is surely a miracle ; blessed be the Lord, who hath 
 power to work thus mar\^ellously." I say, of very 
 sooth, that she showed herself so gentle and so full 
 of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked 
 upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech ; neither 
 could any look upon her without sighing immediately. 
 These things, and things yet more wonderful, were 
 brought to pass through her miraculous virtue. 
 "Wherefore I, considering thereof and wishing to 
 resume the endless tale of her praises, resolved to 
 write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her sur- 
 passing influence ; to the end that not only they who 
 had beheld her, but others also, might know as much 
 concerning her as words could give to the under- 
 ^tanding. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet : — 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 2S1 
 
 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 spirit that is full of love, 
 
 Saying for ever to the soul, " O sigh !'* 
 
 This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what 
 is afore narrated, that it needs no division : and there- 
 fore, leaving it, I say also that this excellent lady 
 came into such favour with all men, that not only 
 she herself was honoured and commended ; but 
 through her companionship, honour and commenda- 
 tion came unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving 
 this and wishing that it should also be made manifest 
 to those that beheld it not, wrote the sonnet here 
 following ; wherein is signified the power which her 
 vu*tue had upon other ladies : — 
 
 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 : 
 
282 DANTE ALIQHIERI. 
 
 Not she herself alone is holier 
 
 Than all ; but hers, tlirough 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. 
 
 This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say 
 in what company this lady appeared most wondrous. 
 In the second, I say how gracious luas her society. 
 In the third, I tell of the things which she, with 
 power, worked upon others. The second begins here, 
 " They that go with her ; " the third here, " So per- 
 fect^ This last part divides into three. In the 
 first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, 
 by their own faculties. In the second, I tell what 
 she operated in them through others. In the third, 
 I say how she not only operated in women, but in 
 all people ; and not only while herself present, but, 
 by memory of her, operated wondrously. The 
 second begins here, " Merely the sight;" the third 
 here, " From all her acts.^^ 
 
 Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that 
 which I had said of my lady : to wit, in these two 
 ^nnets aforegone : and becoming aware that I had 
 not spoken of her immediate effect on me at that 
 especial time, it seemed to me that I had spoken 
 defectively. "Whereupon I resolved to write some- 
 what of the manner wherein I was then subject to 
 her influence, and of what her influence then was. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 283 
 
 And conceiving that I should not be able to say these 
 things in the small compass of a sonnet, I began 
 therefore a poem with this beginning : — 
 
 Love hath so long possessed me for his own 
 
 And made his lordship so familiar 
 That he, who at first irk'd 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, 
 "WTio is more sweet than any words can show. 
 * « » * « 
 
 « » » » « 
 
 Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo ! facta 
 est quasi vidua domina gentium.* 
 
 I was still occupied with this poem, (having com- 
 posed thereof only the above- written stanza,) when 
 the Lord God of justice called my most gracious 
 lady unto Himself, that she might be glorious under 
 
 * " How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people ! 
 how is she become as a widow, she that was great among the 
 nations!" — Lamentatiotu ofJeremiahj c. I. v. 1. 
 
284 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 the banner of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name 
 had always a deep reverence in the words of holy 
 Beatrice. And because haply it might be found 
 good that I should say somewhat concerning her de- 
 parture, I will herein declare what are the reasons 
 which make that I shall not do so. 
 
 And the reasons are three. The first is, that such 
 matter belongeth not of right to the present argu- 
 ment, if one consider the opening of this little book. 
 The second is, that even though the present argu- 
 ment required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in 
 a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that 
 were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it 
 would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, 
 seeing that thereby it must behove me to speak also 
 mine own praises : a thing that in whosoever doeth 
 it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I will 
 leave this matter to be treated of by some other than 
 myself. 
 
 Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number 
 hath often had mention in what hath gone before, 
 (and not, as it might appear, without reason,) seems 
 also to have borne a part in the manner of her death : 
 it is therefore right that I should say somewhat 
 thereof. And for this cause, having first said what 
 was the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point 
 out a reason which made that this number was so 
 closely allied unto my lady. 
 
 I say, then, that according to the division of time 
 in Italy, her most noble spirit departed from among 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 285 
 
 us in the first hour of the ninth day of the month ; 
 and according to the division of time in Syria, in the 
 ninth month of the year : seeing that Tismim, which 
 with us is October, is there the first month. Also 
 she was taken from among us in that year of our 
 reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which 
 tlie perfect number was nine times multipHed within 
 that century wherein she was bom into the world : 
 which is to say, the thirteenth century of Christians.* 
 And touching the reason why this number was so 
 closely alHed unto her, it may peradventure be this. 
 According to Ptolemy, (and also to the Christian 
 verity,) the revolving heavens are nine ; and accord- 
 ing to the common opinion among astrologers, these 
 nine heavens together have influence over the earth. 
 Wherefore it would appear that this number was 
 thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying 
 that, at her birth, all these nine heavens were at 
 perfect unity with each other as to their influence. 
 This is one reason that may be brought : but more 
 narrowly considering, and according to the infallible 
 truth, this number was her own self: that is to say 
 by similitude. As thus. The number three is the 
 root of the number nine ; seeing that without the 
 
 * Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died during 
 the first hour of the 9 th of June, 1290. And from what Dante 
 says at the commencement of this work, (viz. that she wa» 
 younger than himself by eight or nine months,) it may also 
 be gathered that her age, at the time of her death, was twenty- 
 four years and three months. The " perfect number " men- 
 tioned in the present passage is the number ten. 
 
286 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 interposition of any other number, being multiplied 
 merely by itself, it produceth nine, as we manifestly 
 perceive that three times three are nine. Thus, three 
 being of itself the efficient of nine, and the Great 
 Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons 
 (to wit : the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), 
 which, being Three, are also One : — this lady was 
 accompanied by the number nine to the end that men 
 might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a 
 miracle, whose only root is the Holy Trinity. It 
 may be that a more subtile person would find for this 
 thing a reason of greater subtilty : but such is the 
 reason that I find, and that liketh me best. 
 
 After this most gracious creature had gone out 
 from among us, the whole city came to be as it were 
 widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left 
 mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the prin- 
 cipal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its 
 condition ; taking for my commencement those words 
 of Jeremias : Quomodo sedet sola civitas ! etc* And 
 I make mention of this, that none may marvel 
 wherefore I set down these words before, in begin- 
 ning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame 
 me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof 
 I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I 
 began this little book with the intent that it should 
 be written altogether in the vulgar tongue ; where- 
 fore, seeing that the epistle I speak of is in Latin, 
 it belongeth not to mine undertaking : more especially 
 as I know that my chief friend, for whom I write 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 287 
 
 this book, wished also that the whole of it should be 
 in the vulgar tongue. 
 
 When mine eyes had wept for some while, untU 
 they were so weary with weeping that I could no 
 longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I be- 
 thought me that a few mournful words might stand 
 me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to 
 make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein 
 of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my 
 ^irit ; and I then began " The eyes that weep." 
 
 That this poem may seem to remain the Tnore 
 widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing 
 it; and this method I will observe henceforward. 
 I say that th is poor little poem ?ias three parts. The 
 first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her. 
 In the third I speaJc pitifidly to the poem. The 
 second begins here, " Beatrice is gone up ;'^ the 
 third here, " Weep, pitiful Song of mine J* The first 
 divides into three. In the first y I say what moves 
 me to speak'. In the second, I say to whom I mean 
 to speak. In the thirds I say of whom I mean to 
 speaTc. The seconil begins here, ** And because often, 
 thinking ;'* the third here, " And I will say." 
 Then, when I say, " Beatrice is gone up," I speak 
 of her ; and concerning this I have two parts. First, 
 I tell the cause why she tvas taken away from v^ : 
 afterwards, I say how one weeps her parting ; and 
 this part commences Jure, " Wonderfully." This 
 part divides into three. In the first, I say who it 
 is that weeps her not. In the second, I say who it 
 
288 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 is that doth weep her. In the third, I speak of my 
 condition. The second begins here, " But sighing 
 comes, and grief ;^^ the third, " With sighs." Then, 
 when I say, " Weep, pitiful Song of mine," I speah 
 to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and 
 stay with. 
 
 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 fi'om the lamp of her meek lowlihead 
 Such an exceeding glory went up hence 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 289 
 
 That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire, 
 
 Until a sweet desire 
 Enter'd Him for that lovely excellence, 
 
 So that He bade her to Himself aspire : 
 Counting this weary and most evil place 
 Unworthy of a tiling so full of grace. 
 
 Wonderfully out of the beautiful form 
 
 Soar'd 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 s^-mpathies. 
 Out upon him ! an abject wretch like this 
 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 
 On 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 ; " 
 u 
 
290 DANTE ALIOHIEkL 
 
 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 caUing 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 mj 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 bow'd unto the dust, 
 Watches me ; and will guerdon me, I trust. 
 
 Weep, piteous 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. 
 
 After I had written this poem, I received the visit 
 
 i 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 291 
 
 of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the 
 degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been 
 united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious 
 creature. And when we had a httle spoken together, 
 he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat 
 in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised 
 his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another 
 who was but lately dead: wherefore I, perceiving 
 that his speech was of none other than that blessed 
 one herself, told him that it should be done as he 
 required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, 
 I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of 
 my hidden lamentations : but in such sort that it 
 might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to 
 whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: 
 " Stay now with me," <fec. 
 
 This sonnet has two parts. In the first y I call the 
 Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I re- 
 late my miserable condition. The second begins 
 here, " Mark how they force. ^* 
 
 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 smother'd anguish rise. 
 
292 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 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. 
 
 But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking 
 me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it 
 might appear to be his speech, it seemed to mQ that 
 this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so 
 near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this 
 sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem : the first be- 
 ing wiitten in very sooth as though it were spoken 
 by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, 
 unto one who should not look closely, they would 
 both seem to be said by the same person. Never- 
 theless, looking closely, one must perceive that it is 
 not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gra- 
 cious creature his lady, and the other does, as is 
 manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem and the 
 sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them 
 only for him. 
 
 The poem begins, " Whatever while,^^ and has two 
 parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this 
 my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the se- 
 cond, I lament ; that is, in the other stanza, which 
 begins, " For everP And thus it appears that in 
 this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments 
 as a brother, the other as a servant. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 293 
 
 Whatever while the thought comes over me 
 That I may not again 
 
 Behold that lady whom I momn 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 Ufe, 
 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 bum, 
 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, 
 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. 
 
 On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady 
 had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remem- 
 
294 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 bering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to 
 draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain 
 tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my 
 head, I perceived that some were standing beside 
 me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, 
 and tliat they were observing what I did : also I 
 learned afterwards that they had been there a while 
 before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose 
 for salutation, and said : *' Another was with me."* 
 
 Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself 
 again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures 
 of angels : in doing which, I conceived to write of 
 this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to 
 address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. 
 It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith, 
 " That lady : " and as this sonnet hath two com- 
 mencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both of 
 them here. 
 
 I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has 
 three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was 
 then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love 
 therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the 
 effects of Love. The second begins here, " Love 
 knowing ;" the third here, '* Forth went they." 
 This part divides into two. In the one, I say that 
 all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say 
 how some spoke certain words different from the 
 
 * Thus according to some texts. The majority, however, 
 add the words, " And therefore was I in thought ;" but the 
 shorter speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 295 
 
 others. The second begins here, " And still." In 
 this same manner is it divided with the other begin- 
 ning, save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady 
 had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in 
 the other. 
 
 That ladj of all gentle memories 
 
 Had lighted on my soul ; — whose new abode 
 Lies now, as it was well ordain'd of God, 
 Among the poor in heart, where Mary is. 
 Love, knowing that dear image to be 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 throbb'd 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. 
 B Love, knowing that dear image to be his, <&c. 
 
 L 
 
296 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought 
 because of the time that was now past, I was so filled 
 with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly 
 manifest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, 
 feeling this and being in dread lest any should have 
 seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look ; and then per- 
 ceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was 
 gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of 
 pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered 
 together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, 
 when they beget compassion in others, are then most 
 moved unto weeping, as though they also felt pity 
 for themselves, it came to pass that mine eyes began 
 to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming 
 fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject con- 
 dition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen 
 of that lady; saying afterwards within myself: 
 " Certainly with her also must abide most noble 
 Love." And with that, I resolved upon writing a 
 sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all 
 that I have just said. And as this sonnet is very 
 evident, I will not divide it. 
 
 Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring 
 
 Into thy countenance immediately 
 
 A while agone, when thou beheld'st 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 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 297 
 
 My weeping, and account it a base thing. 
 
 Therefore I went out from thee ; feeling how 
 The tears were straightway loosen'd 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." 
 
 It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen 
 of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous coun- 
 tenance, as though it had been with love ; whereby 
 she remembered me many times of my own most 
 noble lady, who was wont to be o|^a like paleness. 
 And I know that often, when I could not weep nor 
 in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to 
 look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears 
 into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which 
 thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, 
 and then made this sonnet: which begins, " Love's 
 pallor," and which is plain without being divided, by 
 its exposition aforesaid. 
 
 Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth 
 Were never yet shown forth so perfectly 
 In any lady's face, chancing to see , 
 
 Griefs miserable countenance uncouth. 
 
 As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe, 
 When in mine anguish thou hast look'd on me ; 
 Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee. 
 
 My heart might almost wander from its truth. 
 
298 DANTE ALIGHIEEL 
 
 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. 
 
 At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine 
 eyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her com- 
 pany ; through which thing many times I had much 
 unrest, and rebllted myself as a base person : also, 
 many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, 
 and said to them inwardly: " Was not your grievous 
 condition of weeping wont one while to make others 
 weep ? And will ye now forget this thing because 
 a lady looketh upon you ? who so looketh merely in 
 compassion of the grief ye then showed for your own 
 blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed 
 eyes ! many a time will I make you remember it ! 
 for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an 
 end of your weeping." And when I had spoken thus 
 unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and 
 grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward 
 strife which I had undergone might not be hidden 
 from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, 
 I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in 
 it this horrible condition. And I wrote this which 
 begins, *' The very bitter weeping." 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 299 
 
 The sonnet has two parts. In the first j I speak 
 to my eyes, as my heart spoJce within myself. In 
 the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is 
 that speaks thus : and this part begins here, " So 
 farJ'^ It well might receive other diinsions also; 
 but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the 
 preceding exposition. 
 
 " 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 remembered 
 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 
 Wliat 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. 
 
 The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted 
 a condition that I often thought of her as of one too 
 dear unto me; and I began to consider her thus: 
 " This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise : 
 perchance it was Love himself who set her in my 
 path, that so my life might find peace." And there 
 were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my 
 
300 DANTE ALIOffTERL 
 
 heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had 
 80 consented, my thought would often turn round 
 upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say 
 within myself: " What hope is this which would 
 console me after so base a fashion, and which hath 
 taken the place of all other imagining?" Also there 
 was another voice within me, that said : " And wilt 
 thou, having suffered so much tribulation through 
 Love, not escape while yet thou mayest fi-om so much 
 bitterness? Thou must surely know that this thought 
 carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its Hfe 
 from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee 
 80 much pity." Wlierefore I, having striven sorely 
 and very often with myself, bethought me to say some- 
 what thereof in rhyme. And seeing that in the bat- 
 tle of doubts, the victory most often remained with 
 such as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, 
 it seemed to me that I should address this sonnet 
 unto her: in the first hue whereof, I call that thought 
 which spake of her a gentle thought, only because it 
 spoke of one who was gentle ; being of itself most 
 vile.* 
 
 * Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma 
 Donati about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma 
 then be " the lady of the window," his love for whom Dante so 
 contemns? Such a passing conjecture (when considered to- 
 gether with the interpretation of this passage in Dante's later 
 work, the Convito) would of course imply an admission of what 
 I believe to lie at the heart of all true Dantesque commentaiy ; 
 that is, the existence always of the actual events even where 
 the allegorical superstructure has been raised by Dante him- 
 self. 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 301 
 
 In this sonnet I make myself into two, according 
 as my tlioughts were divided one from the other. 
 The one part I call Heart, that is, appetite ; the 
 other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one 
 saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the 
 appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest 
 enough to them to whom I wish this to he open. 
 True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the 
 part of the Heart against the Eyes ; and that appears 
 contrary to ivhat I say in the present ; and there- 
 fore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean 
 appetite, because yet greater was my desire to re- 
 member my most gentle lady than to see this other, 
 although indeed I had some appetite towards her, 
 but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that 
 the one statemeyit is not contrary to the other. This 
 sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say 
 to this lady how my desires turn all towards her. 
 In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason, 
 speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the 
 third, I say how the latter answers. The second 
 begins here, ** And what is this?** the third here, 
 " And the heart answers.'* 
 
 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, 
 
302 DANTE ALIQHIERL 
 
 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 hfe 
 It draweth from the gentle eyes of her 
 
 Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved." 
 
 But against this adversary of reason, there rose 
 up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a 
 strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold 
 the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson 
 raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld 
 her; also she appeared to me of the same tender 
 age as then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought 
 of her : and my memory ran back according to the 
 order of time, unto all those matters in the which she 
 had borne a part ; and my heart began painfully to 
 repent of the desire by which it had so basely let 
 itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to 
 the constancy of reason. 
 
 And then, this evil desire being quite gone from 
 me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent 
 Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour 
 I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled 
 and ashamed heart ; the which became often manifest 
 in sighs, that had among them the name of that most 
 gracious creature, and how she departed from us. 
 Also it would come to pass \qt^ often, through the 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 303 
 
 bitter an^ish of some one thought, that I forgot both 
 it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of 
 sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat 
 lessened, increased in like manner ; so that mine eyes 
 seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and 
 came at last to be circled about with red as though they 
 had suffered martyrdom ; neither were they able to 
 look again upon the beauty of any face that might 
 again bring them to shame and evil : fi-om which 
 things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned 
 for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing 
 that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and 
 vain temptations should be certified and made mani- 
 fest, beyond all doubts which might have been sug- 
 gested by the rhymes aforewritten,) proposed to write 
 a sonnet, wherein I should express this purport. 
 And I then wrote, " Woe's me !" 
 
 I saidy " Woe^s me!" because Twos asTiamed of 
 the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, 
 since itsjpurport is manifest enough. 
 
 Woe's me ! by dint of all these sighs that come 
 Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove, 
 Mine eyes are conquer'd, so that even to move 
 
 Their Hds 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, 
 
304 DANTE ALIGHIEBL 
 
 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. 
 
 About this time, it happened that a great number of 
 persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they 
 might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto 
 us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of his beauti- 
 ful countenance,* (upon which countenance my dear 
 lady now looketh continually.) And certain among 
 these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful, passed 
 by a path which is wellnigh in the midst of the city 
 where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, 
 and at last died. 
 
 Then I, beholding them, said within myself: 
 " These pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and 
 I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or 
 know anything concerning her. Their thoughts are 
 
 • The Veronica ( Vera icon, or true image) ; that is, the 
 napkin with which a woman was said to have wiped our 
 Saviour's face on his way to the cross, and which miracu- 
 lously retained its likeness. Dante makes mention of it also 
 in the Commedia (Parad. xxi. 103), where he says: — 
 
 " Qual e colui che forse di Croazia 
 
 Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, 
 Che per I'antica fama non si sazia 
 
 Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra : 
 Signor mio Gesu Cristo, Iddio verace, 
 
 Or fu SI fatta la sembianza vostra?" etc. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 305 
 
 not of her, but of other things ; it may he, of their 
 friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our 
 turn, know not." And I went on to say : " I know 
 that if they were of a country near unto us, they would 
 in some wise seem disturbed, passing through this 
 city which is so full of giief." And I said also : 
 " If I could speak with them a space, I am certain 
 that I should make them weep before they went 
 forth of this city ; for those things that they would 
 hear from me must needs beget weeping in any." 
 
 And when the last of them had gone by me, I 
 bethought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine 
 inward sjxjoch ; and that it might seem the more 
 pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto 
 them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth : 
 " Ye pilgrim-folk." I made use of the word pilgrim 
 for its general signification ; for ** pilgrim " may be 
 understood in tw(^ senses, one general, and one special. 
 General, so far as any man may be calletl a pilgrim 
 who leaveth the place of his birth ; whereas, more 
 narrowly speaking, he only is a pilgrim who goeth 
 towards or frowards the House of St. James. For 
 there are three separate denominations proper unto 
 those who undertake journeys to the glory of God. 
 They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas 
 eastward, whence often they bring palm -branches. 
 And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who journey 
 unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no 
 other apostle was buried so far from his birth-place 
 as was the blessed Saint James. And there is a 
 
306 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 third sort who are called Romers ; in that they go 
 whither these whom I have called pilgrims went: 
 which is to say, unto Rome. 
 
 This sonnet is not divided, because its own words 
 sufficiently declare it. 
 
 Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively 
 
 As if in thought of distant things, I pray, 
 Is your own land indeed so far away 
 
 As hy your aspect it would seem to be, — 
 
 That nothing of our grief comes over ye 
 
 Though passing through the mournful town mid- 
 way; 
 Like unto men that understand to-day 
 
 Nothing at aU 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. 
 
 A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent 
 unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them 
 certain of these my rhymes. And I, (taking into 
 account their worthiness and consideration,) resolved 
 that I would write also a new thing, and send it 
 them together with those others, to the end that their 
 wishes might be more honourably fulfilled. There- 
 fore I made a somiet, which narrates my condition. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 307 
 
 and which I caused to he conveyed to them, accom- 
 panied with the one preceding, and with that othqr 
 w^hich begins, ** Stay now with me and hsten to my 
 sighs." And the new sonnet is, " Beyond the 
 sphere." 
 
 This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first y I 
 tell whither my thought goeth^ iiaming the place hy 
 the nam£ of one of its effects. In the second y I say 
 wherefore it goeth up, and who mahes it go thits. 
 In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady 
 honoured. And I then then call it a ^'Pilgrim 
 Spirit,*^ because it goes up spiritually, and like a 
 pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the 
 fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in 
 such quality) that I cannot understand Tier; that is to 
 say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree 
 that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our 
 intellect is, towards those blessed soids, like our eye 
 weak against the sun ; and this the Philosopher says 
 in the Secoml of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I 
 say that, although I cannot see there whither my 
 thought carries me — that is, to her admirable essence — 
 I at hast understand this, namely, that it is a thought 
 of my ladyy because I often hear her nam^ therein. 
 And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, " Ladies 
 mine" to show tliat they are ladies to whom I speak. 
 The second part begins, " A Tiew perception ;" t?ie 
 third, " When it hath reached;" the fourth, ''It 
 sees her suAnh ;" the fifth, " And yet I know." It 
 might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet 
 
308 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 clearer ; but this division may pass^ and therefore 
 I stay not to divide itfurther% 
 
 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 reach'd unto the end, and stays, 
 It sees a lady round whom splendours move 
 In homage ; till, by the great light thereof 
 
 Abash'd, 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. 
 
 After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to 
 behold a very wonderful vision ;* wherein I saw 
 things which determined me that I would say nothing 
 further of this most blessed one, until such time as 
 I could discourse more worthily conceniing her. 
 And to this end I labour all I can; as she well 
 
 • This we may believe to have been the Vision of Hell, 
 Purgatory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple argument 
 of the " Divina Commedia." The Latin words ending the 
 Vita Nuova are almost identical with those at the close of the 
 letter in which Dante, ou concluding the Paradise, and ac- 
 complishing the hope here expressed, dedicates his great work 
 to Can Grande della Scala. 
 
THE NEW LIFE, 309 
 
 knoweth. WTierefore if it be His pleasure through 
 whom is the life of all things, that my life continue 
 with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet 
 wiite concerning her what hath not before been 
 written of any woman. After the which, may it 
 seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, 
 that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory 
 of its lady : to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now 
 gazeth continually on His countenance qui est j^er 
 omnia scBCula henedictus.* Laus Deo, 
 
 • ** Who is blessed throughout all ages." 
 
 THE END OF THE NEW LIFE. 
 
310 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 weigh'd, 
 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 Giano 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 possible that Dante is merely 
 playfully advising his preceptor to avail himself of the two- 
 fold insight of Janus the double-faced. 
 
DANTE ALIOHIERI. 311 
 
 II. 
 
 Sonnet.* 
 
 Of Beatrice di Portinarn, on All Saints* Day. 
 
 LAST All Saints' holy-day, even now gone by, 
 I met a gathering of damozels : 
 
 She tliat carae first, as one doth who excels. 
 Had Love with her, bearing her company : 
 A flame bum'd for>vard througli her steadfast eye, 
 
 As when in living fire a spirit dwells : 
 
 So, gazing \vitl0ho boldness which prevails 
 O'er doubt, 1 saw an angel visibly. 
 As she pass'd on, she bow'd 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 five following pieces seem so certainly to 
 have been written at the same time as the poetry of the Vita 
 Nttova, 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 have selected bears the impress of some special occa- 
 sion. 
 
 I 
 
312 DANTE ALIGHIEBL 
 
 III. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To certain Ladies ; when Beatrice was lamenting 
 her Father* s Death* 
 
 WEffiNCE come you, all of you so sorrowful? 
 An' it may please you, speak for couitesy. 
 
 I fear for my dear lady's sake, lest she 
 Have made you to return thus fill'd 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 fuU. 
 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 263. 
 
DANTE ALIQHIERI. 313 
 
 IV. 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To the same Ladies ; with their Answer, 
 
 *' AT^E ladies, walking past me piteous-eyed, 
 I. Who is the lady that lies prostrate here ? 
 Can this he 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." 
 
 t 
 
314 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 V. 
 
 Ball ATA. 
 
 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 bless'd, 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. 
 
DANTE ALIGHIEBI. 315 
 
 VI. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 He beseeches Death for the Life of Beatrice. 
 
 D 
 
 EATH, since I find not one with whom to 
 
 Nor whom this grief of mine may move to tears, 
 Whereso I he or whitherso I tm'n : 
 Since it is thou who in my soul wilt leave 
 No single joy, hut chill'st it with just fears 
 And makest it in fruitless hopes to bum : 
 Since thou, Death, and thou only, canst discern 
 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 hring 
 
 Again, if thou but once be enterM 
 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, 
 If in mine eyes thou look a little space 
 
316 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 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 he 
 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 naught 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 darken'd which was hers alone, 
 Love needs must say to them he ruleth o'er, 
 "I have lost the noble banner that I bore.'* 
 
 Death, have some pity then for all the ill 
 Which cannot choose but happen if she die, 
 
DANTE ALIGHIEBI. 317 
 
 And which will be thersorcst ever known. 
 Slacken the string, if so it be they 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 ! 
 Jlestrain 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 His 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 \n}. 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 indeea 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. 
 
318 DANTE ALIGHIEBL 
 
 vn. 
 
 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 usher'd Bile 
 And Pain into my house for company. 
 Wherefore I said, " Go forth, — away with thee ! " 
 
 But like a Greek she answer'd, full of guile, 
 
 And went on arguing in an easy style. 
 Then, looking, I saw Love come silently, 
 Hahited 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 ask'd, " What ails thee, trifler?" 
 Answering* he said ; '•' A grief to be gone through ; 
 
 For our own lady's dying, brother dear." 
 
DANTE ALIGHIEBL 319 
 
 vni. 
 
 TO CINO DA PISTOIA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He rebvJces Cinofor 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 joun)ey 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 Ughtly 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 Nvova, 
 and that an allusion may also here be intended to the first 
 conception of Dante's great work. 
 
320 CINO DA PISTOIA. 
 
 CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He answers Dante, confessing his unsteadfast Heart. 
 
 DANTE, since I fiom my own native place 
 In heavy exile have turn'd 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 w^hich I could share. 
 One pleasure ever binds and looses me ; 
 That so, by one same Beauty lured, I still 
 Dehght in many women here and there. 
 
DANTE ALIGHIEBI. 321 
 
 IX. 
 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. 
 
322 CINO DA PISTOIA, 
 
 CmO 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 too clearly tells 
 
 That here the truth has no reward assign'd, — 
 'Twas God, remember, taught it to mankind, 
 And even among the fiends preach'd nothing else. 
 Then, though the kingdoms of the earth be torn, 
 Where'er thou set thy feet, from Truth's control, 
 Yet unto me thj 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 Com- 
 nudia. 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERL 323 
 
 X. 
 
 i 
 
 SONNKT. 
 
 Of Beauty and DiUy. 
 
 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. 
 
324 DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 XI. 
 
 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. 
 Natheless 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 ; 
 
 * I have translated this piece both on account of its great 
 and peculiar beaut}^ 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 Proven9al poets (see Dante, de Vulg. JE/oq.). 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. I have adopted the name chiefly to mark it at 
 once as not referring to Beatrice ; and have ventured for the 
 same reason to give alike heading to the sonnet which follows 
 it. 
 
 1 
 
DANTE ALIGHIEBL 325 
 
 For she is no more moved than is a stone 
 Bj 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 heal'd with grass : 
 
 I therefore have fled far o*er plains and hills 
 
 For refuge frt)m so dangerous a lady ; 
 
 But from her sunshine nothing can give shade, — 
 
 Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green. 
 
 A while ago, I saw her dress'd in green, — 
 So fair, she might have waken*d 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 
 
326 DANTE ALJGHIERI. ' 
 
 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 cover'd in grass. 
 
DANTE ALIGHIEBL 327 
 
 xn. 
 
 SONXET. 
 
 To the Lady Pietra degli Scrovigni. 
 
 MY curse be on the day when first I saw 
 The brightness in those treacherous ejes 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 mo 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 
 
 WTio would hold fortune's wheel and turn it round. 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 L 
 
 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 claim'd thy lady for her prey : 
 In fear whereof, he fed her with thy heart. 
 But when he seem'd in sorrow to depart, 
 Sweet was thy dream ; for by that sign, I say, 
 Surely the opposite shall come to pass.f 
 
 * See the Vita Nuova, at page 227. 
 I This may refer to the belief that, towards morning, dreams 
 g6 by contraries. 
 
QUI DO CAVALCANTL 329 
 
 n. 
 
 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 visige ; 
 
 All is stark naught when one hath lookM on thee; 
 There is not such a beautiful personage 
 
 Anywhere on the green earth verily ; 
 If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage 
 
 Coraforteth 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 tliou art the best. 
 
330 GUIDO CAVALOANTL 
 
 III. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He compares all Things with his Lady, and finds 
 them wanting. 
 
 BEAUTY in woman ; the high will's decree ; 
 Fair knighthood arm'd 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 : — 
 Weigh'd 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. 
 AH good to kindred natures cleaveth soon. 
 
QUI DO CAVALCANTI. 331 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 A Rapture concerning Ms 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, hut 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 henison 
 As makes all others graceless in men's sight. 
 The honour which is hers cannot be said ; 
 To whom are subject all things virtuous, 
 "Wliile 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. 
 
 L 
 
332 QUTDO CAVALCANTL 
 
 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 seem'd 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. 
 
GUI DO CAVALCANTI. 333 
 
 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 cui-se 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 utter'd 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 hu- 
 mility than belonged to other Orders, called themselves Fratres 
 minores. 
 
334 GUI DO BLAND I. 
 
 GUIDO ORLANDI TO GUIDO 
 CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Madbigal. 
 
 In answer to the foregoing Sonnet. 
 
 IF thou liadst offer'd, 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 may'st thou be counseled 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. 
 
GUI DO ORLANDI. 335 
 
 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. 
 
 k 
 
336 GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of the Eyes of a certain Mandetta, ofThouhuse^ which 
 resemble those of his Lady Joan, of Florence. 
 
 ACEETAIN 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 
 'VMierewith this lady speeds it on its way. 
 
 1 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 337 
 
 vm. 
 
 Ballata. 
 
 He reveals f in a Dialogue, his increasing Love for 
 Mandetta. 
 
 B 
 
 EING in thought of love, I chanced to see 
 
 Two youthful damozcls. 
 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 well may 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 tum'd their eyes upon me in so much 
 
 As to perceive how wounded was my heart ; 
 
 While, of the spirits bom of tears, one such 
 
 Had been begotten through the constant smart, 
 z 
 
338 QUIDO CAVALCANTL 
 
 Then seeing me, abash'd, 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 laugh'd 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 awaken'd there. 
 If it seem ill to bear. 
 
 In him thy hope must be." 
 
 The second piteous maiden, of all ruth, 
 
 Fasliion'd for sport in Love's own image, said : 
 " This stroke, whereof thy heart bears trace in sooth, 
 From eyes of too much piiissance was shed, 
 Whence in thy heart such brightness entered. 
 Thou may'st 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 enlaced, 
 I do remember to my sore unrest. 
 Yea, by her eyes indeed 
 My life has been decreed 
 To death inevitably." 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTL 339 
 
 Go, Ballad, to the city, even Thoulouse, 
 
 And softly entering the Daur^de,* 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 conftise. 
 And if she yield thee way, 
 Lift thou thy voice and say : 
 
 " For grace I come to thee." 
 
 * The ancient church of the Danrade still exists at Thou- 
 louse. It was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics 
 adorning it. 
 
340 DANTE ALIQHIERI. 
 
 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 convey'd, 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. 
 
OUIBO CAVALCANTL 341 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Guido answers the foregoing Sonnet, speaking ivith 
 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 bom 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 more sport against me, it would seem 
 As though he held his lordship for a jest. 
 Then hear the manel which is sorriest : — 
 My sorely wounded soul forgiveth him. 
 Yet knows that in his act her strength is kill'd. 
 
342 QUIDO CAVALCANTI, 
 
 X. 
 
 TO DANTE ALIGHEERI. 
 
 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 
 Assail'd me, while I slumber'd, suddenly ; 
 So that I woke o' the instant, fearing sore 
 
 Lest it came thither in Love's company : 
 Till, tm-ning, 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 enter'd me. 
 That I was ware of Love, those shafts he wields 
 A- whetting, and preferr'd the mourner's quest 
 To him, who straightway answer'd 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." 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 343 
 
 XL 
 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 kno w'st that in the court where Love holds sway, 
 A law subsists, that no man who is vile 
 Can sei-vice 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. 
 
344 GUIDO CAVALCANTL 
 
 XII. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 On the Detection of a false Iriend.* 
 
 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 thank'd the first, who fii'st 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. 
 
QUIDO CAVALCANTI. 345 
 
 xm. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He speaks of a third Love of his. 
 
 OTHOU that often hast within tliine eyes 
 A Love who holds three shafts, — know thou 
 from me 
 That this my sonnet would commend to thee 
 (Come fi-om afar) a soul in heavy sighs, 
 WTiich 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. 
 
346 GUIDO CAVALOANTl. 
 
 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 behoves 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. 
 
GUI DO CAVALCANTI. 347 
 
 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 declare^t 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, drown' d 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. 
 
348 GUI DO OAVALCANTI. 
 
 XVI. 
 Ballata. 
 
 He perceives that his highest Love is gone from him. 
 
 THROUGH this my strong and newmisaventure, 
 All now is lost to me 
 "WMch 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 thank'd the Master be 
 
 Who turns the grinding wheel of misery ! 
 
GUI DO CAVALCANTL 349 
 
 Full of great anguish in a place of fear 
 The spirit of mj heart lies sorrowing, 
 Through Fortune's bitter craft. She lui'ed it here, 
 ^ And gave it o'er to Death, and barb'd 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 ye, perturb'd and fearful words of mine. 
 Whither it like yourselves, even thither go ; 
 
 But always burthen'd with shame's troublous sign. 
 And on my lady's name still calhng low : 
 For me, I must abide in such deep woe 
 That all who look shall see 
 
 Death's shadow on my face assuredly. 
 
360 QUI DO CAVALGANTI. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of his Pain from a new Love. 
 
 "WJ HY from the danger did not mine eyes start, — 
 ^ ' Why not become even bhnd, — 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, 
 Fill'd me at once with such a sore aflfright. 
 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.* 
 
 * Death Qa Morte), being feminine in Italian, is naturally 
 personified as a female. I have endeavoured to bear this in 
 mind throughout my translations, but possibly some instances 
 might be found in which habit has prevailed, and I have made 
 Death masculine. 
 
GUIDO BLAND I. 351 
 
 GUIDO ORLAJNDI TO GUIDO 
 CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Peolonged Sonnet. 
 
 He finds fault mih the Conceits of the foregoing 
 Sonnet, 
 
 FRIEND, well I know thou knowest well to bear 
 Thy sword's-point, that it pierce the close- 
 lock'd 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 : 
 Tlu'ice 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 j 
 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 strengthen'd to forbear 
 From carnal love,) I fall not in such snare. 
 
352 GIANNI ALFANL 
 
 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 
 may'st laugh !) 
 On that same Pisan beauty's sweet behalf 
 Who can deal love-wounds even as thou hast done. 
 She ask'd 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 
 " Docximenti 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. 353 
 
 BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA TO GUIDO 
 CAVALCANTL 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He writes to Outdo 'tellitu/ litm of the Love which a 
 certain Pindla 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. 
 \Mierefore I ask'd: " Pinella, how is this? 
 Hast heard of Guide? know*st thou who he is?!* 
 
 She answered, '* Yea ;" then paused, irresolute ; 
 
 But I saw well how the love-wounds acute 
 Were widen'd, and the star which Love calls his 
 Fill'd 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 !" 
 
 A A 
 
354 OUTDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 XVIII. 
 TO BERNARDO DA BOLOGNA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Ouido answers, commending Pinella, and saying 
 that the Love he can offer her is already shared 
 hy many noble Ladies, 
 
 THE fountain-head that is so hright 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 Hfe 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. 355 
 
 DmO COMPAGNI TO GUIDO 
 CAVALCANTI. 
 
 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 lit 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 ai-e 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. 319) ; and Dante by Guido (p. 358), who formerly, as we 
 have seen (p. 343), had confided to him his doubts of Lapo 
 Gianni. 
 
356 QUI DO CAVALCANTL 
 
 XIX. 
 TO GUIDO ORLANDL 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 In praise of Ouido 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, . 
 
 A\Tiich in her keeping to new hfe is bom ; 
 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 lady's lap. 
 
QUIDO BLAND I, 357 
 
 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 mom 
 
 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. 
 
358 QUI DO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 XX. 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 Sonnet, 
 
 He rebukes Dante for his way of Life, after the 
 Death of Beatrice* 
 
 I COME to thee bj 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 inclined : 
 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 may'st know. 
 Ah ! prythee read this sonnet many times : 
 So shall that evil one who bred this strife 
 
 Be thrust from thy dishonour'd 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.) 
 
OUIDO CAVALGANTL 359 
 
 w 
 
 XXT. 
 
 Ball ATA. 
 
 Concerning a Sltepherd-Tnaid, 
 
 ITHIN 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 fashion'd for all ecstasy. 
 
 I greeted her at once, and question made 
 
 "VMiat 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,*' said she. 
 
 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." 
 
360 GUIDO CAVALCANTL 
 
 And so, in her sweet favour's name, I sued 
 That she would kiss there and emhrace with me. 
 
 She took my hand to her with amorous will, 
 And answer'd 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 seem'd 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 Guide'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 can- 
 not yet have been published, as I have sought for it in vain 
 at all my printed sources of information. 
 
OUILO CAVALCANTI. 361 
 
 XXII. 
 
 SONNBT. 
 
 Of an ill-favoured Lady. 
 
 JUST look, Manetto, at that wry-mouth'd minx ; 
 Merely take notice what a wretch it is ; 
 How well contrived in her deformities, 
 How beastly favour'd when she scowls and blinks. 
 Why, with a hood on (if one only thinks) 
 Or muflRe 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 possess'd 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. 
 
362 QUI DO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To a newly enriched Man ; reminding him of the 
 Wants of the Poor, 
 
 AS thou wert loth to see, before thy feet, 
 The dear broad coin roll all thy hill-slope 
 down, 
 Till, 'twixt the cracks of the hard glebe, some clown 
 Should find, rub 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. 
 Moreover (an' it please thee,) when at morn 
 Thou hear'st the voice of the poor husbandman. 
 And those loud herds, his' other family, — 
 I feel quite sure that if Bettina's born 
 
 With a kind heart, she does the best she can 
 To wheedle some of thy new wealth from thee.* 
 
 * The original is very obscure. Bettina being the 
 name as Becchina, it suggests itself as possible that the person 
 addressed may be Cecco Angiolieri after he inherited his father's 
 property. (See his Poems further on, and the notice of him in 
 the Introduction to Part ii.) 
 
GUI DO CAVALCANTI. 363 
 
 XXIV. 
 TO POPE BONIFACE VHI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 After the Pope's Interdict, when the great Homes 
 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 ; 
 TMio 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. 
 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. 
 
364 GUI DO CAVALGANTL 
 
 B 
 
 XXV. 
 Ball ATA. 
 
 In Exile at Sarzana. 
 
 ECAUSE 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 het 
 
 Thou then couldst only look 
 
 For scorn, and such rebuke 
 
 As needs must bring me pain ; — 
 
 Yea, after death again 
 
 Tears and jfresh agony. 
 
 Surely thou knowest. Ballad, how that Death 
 Assails me, till my life is almost sped : 
 
GUI DO CAVALCANTI. 305 
 
 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,) 
 TVhen my heart seta it free. 
 
 Ah ! ballad, unto thy dear offices 
 
 I do commend my soul, thus trembling; 
 That thou may^st 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 bewilder'd 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. 
 
366 QUI DO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 XXVI. 
 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 aU 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 
 
 * 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. 
 
GUI DO GAVALCANTI. 367 
 
 And the just man to drop, 
 And ye complain on God and on my sway. 
 O humankind, ye sin in yom* complaint : 
 
 For He, that Lord who made the world to liye, 
 
 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 eyil righteously ? 
 
 Ah ! had ye knowledge how God evermore, 
 With agonies of soul and grievous heats. 
 
 As on an anvil beats 
 On them that in thtfteaith 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, 
 WTieu 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 meu beneath their hand ; 
 
368 QUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Then he among you that most angereth 
 
 Shall hless 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 
 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 
 ^Tien I behold the peasant at his toil. 
 Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear. 
 He leaves his perfect fur^^w 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 heedfuUy 
 How this my wheel a motion hath so fleet, 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 369 
 
 That in an eyelid's beat 
 Him whom it raised it raaketh low and vile. 
 None was, nor is, nor shall be of such guile, 
 WTio could, or can, or shall, I say, at length 
 
 Prevail against my strength. 
 But still those men that are my questioners 
 In bitter tonnent 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 tiling* 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. 
 
 I 
 
 B B 
 
370 QUI DO CAVALOANTI. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 , . Canzone. 
 
 A Song against Poverty. 
 
 OPOVEETY, 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 blessed condition dies : 
 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 long'd 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, 
 
GUI DO CAVALCANTL 371 
 
 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 t^Taimy 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 hght 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, 
 Weigh'd against thee, are blessed heritage. 
 
 And what though many a goodly hypocrite, 
 Lifting to thee his veritable prayer, 
 
 Call God to witness there 
 How thifi 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 ; 
 
372 OUIDO CAVALCANTL 
 
 Nor aby 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. 
 
QUIDO CAVALCANTI. 373 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Canzone. 
 
 He laments the Presumption and Incontinence of 
 his Youth. 
 
 TIIE 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 vh-tue sheds, 
 
 But which for ever spreads 
 To be a Uving curse that shall not tire : 
 Or yet again, that other idle tire 
 WTiich flickers with all change as winds may please : 
 
 One whichsoever of these 
 At length has hidden the true path from me 
 
 Which twice man may not see, 
 And quench'd the intelligence of joy, till now 
 All solace but abides in perfect woe. 
 
 Alaa ! the more my painful spirit grieves. 
 The more confused with miserable strife 
 
 Is that delicious life 
 WTiich sighing it recals pei*petually : 
 
374 GUI DO CAVALCANTI, 
 
 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 turn'd 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. 
 
 My second enemy, thrice arm'd in guile. 
 As wise and cunning to mine overthrow 
 
QUI DO CAVALCANTL 375 
 
 As her smooth face doth show, 
 With yet more shameless strength holds mastery. 
 Mj 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 wert 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 staii-s that mount 
 
 Unto the limpid fount 
 Of thine intelligence, — witlihold 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. 
 
376 OUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Ye unadorned words obscure of sense, 
 
 Go weeping, and these sighs along with ye. 
 
 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 hfe or compensating death. 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTL 377 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 A Dispute with Death. 
 
 *' /^ SLUGGISH, hard, ingitite, what doest thou? 
 V-/ Poor sinner, folded round with heavy sih, 
 
 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, 
 l3y roads thou didst not guess, unrecognized. 
 Tears will not now suffice to bid me go. 
 Nor countenance abased, nor words of woe." 
 
 Now, when I heard the sudden dreadful voice 
 Wake thus witliin to cruel utterance, 
 
 AMiereby the very heart of hearts did fail. 
 My spirit might not any more rejoice, 
 
 But fell from its com*ageous pride at once, 
 And tum'd to fly, where flight may not avail. 
 Then slowly 'gan some strength to re-inhale 
 
378 GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 The trembling life which heard that whisper speak, 
 And had conceived the sense with sore travail ; 
 Till in the mouth it murmur'd, very weak, 
 Saying : " Youth, wealth, and beauty, these have I : 
 
 Death ! remit thy claim, — I would not die." 
 
 Small sign of pity in that aspect dwells 
 
 Which then had scatter'd 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. 
 Wliat present glory does thy hope possess, 
 That shall not yield ashes and bitterness?" 
 
 But, when I look'd on Death made visible. 
 
 From my heart's sojourn brought before mine eyes. 
 And holding in her hand my grievous sin, 
 
 1 seem'd to see my countenance, that fell. 
 
 Shake like a shadow : my heart utter'd 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 natm-al pity's strong soliciting." 
 And I (because I knew that moment's ruth 
 
GUIDO CAVALCANTL 379 
 
 But left my life to groan for a frail space) 
 Fell in the dust upon my weeping face. 
 
 So, when she saw me thus abash'd and dumb. 
 In loftier words she weigh'd 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 shiink 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 fiiltill'd 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. 
 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 beautifid 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 painftd sweat. 
 
380 GUIDO CAVALOANTI. 
 
 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 hrethren, 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 Hving man. Let pass thy soul in peacp." 
 
 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 suhdue my spirit, long perverse, 
 To weep witliin thy will a certain space, 
 
 Ere yet thy thunder come to rive niy 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 suf&ced 
 In some accepted instant to atone 
 For sins of thought, for stubborn evil done. 
 
 DisheveU'd 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 shi'ine. 
 
CINO DA PISTOIA. 
 
 I. 
 TO DANTE ALIGHTERI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He interprets Banters Breams 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 tliat 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 heail; 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 227. 
 
382 CI NO DA FIST 01 A. 
 
 n. 
 
 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 
 WTiich 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 blessed name men call'd 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. 
 
 We know for certain that in this blind world 
 Each man's subsistence is of grief and pain, 
 
 Still trail'd by fortune through all bitterness : ' 
 At last the flesh within a shroud is furl'd, 
 
CINO DA PI ST 01 A. 383 
 
 And into Heaven's rejoicing doth attain 
 The joyful soul 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 callM 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, 
 Discoursing 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 passM 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 nuree a charge of care, and love the same ! 
 
 I tell thee in His Name 
 From sin of sighing grief to hold thy breath, 
 Nor let thy heart to death, 
 Nor haibom* 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 ! 
 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 ; 
 
384 CINO DA PISTOJA. 
 
 Forman through grief despairs and end^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 hallow'd 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 seem'd 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. 
 
 Of thee she entertains the blessed 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. 
 
CINO DA PISTOIA. 385 
 
 ra. 
 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He conceives of some Compensation in Death.* 
 
 DANTE, whenever this thing happeneth, — 
 That Love's desire is quite hereft 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 fear'd to die 
 Then in another body draw new breath ? 
 Lo ! thus it is through her who governs all 
 Below, — that I, who enter'd at her door, 
 Now at her dreadful >vindow must fare foith. 
 Yea, and I think through her it doth befall 
 That even ere yet the road is travcH'd o'er 
 
 My bones are weary and life is nothing worth. 
 
 * Among Dante's Epistles, there is a Latin letter to Ciuo, 
 L which I should judge was written in reply to this Sonnet. 
 
 L 
 
 C C 
 
386 CI NO DA PIS T 01 A. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Mabbigal. 
 
 To Ms 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 Croesus shall be conquer'd in my store. 
 Therefore, still sifting where the sands axe 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. 
 
CINO DA PISTOIA. 387 
 
 V. 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To LovCf in great Bitterness. 
 
 OLOVE, 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, hecause 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. 
 
 I 
 
388 CI NO DA PISTOIA. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Death is not without hut 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." 
 
CINO DA PISTOIA. 389 
 
 VII. 
 
 SONNKT. 
 
 A Trance of Love. 
 
 VANQUISH'D and weary was my soul in me, 
 And my heart gasp'd 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 cherish'd ere my tears were spent, 
 I pass'd to a new trance of wonderment ; 
 Wherein a visible spirit I could see. 
 Which caught me up, and bore mo to a place 
 Wliere my most gentle lady was alone ; 
 
 And still before us a fire seemM lo move, 
 Out of the which methought there came a moan, 
 Uttering, " Grace, a Uttlfi season, grace ! 
 
 I am of one that hath the wings of Lotc.'^ 
 
390 CINO DA PISTOIA, 
 
 VIIT. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of the grave of Selvaggia, on the- Monte delta 
 Sambuca. 
 
 I WAS upon the high and blessed mound, 
 And kiss'd, 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 seal'd and bound, 
 The day that unto Death's most bitter pass 
 My sick heart's lady turn'd 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 call'd Selvaggia's name. 
 So with mv moan I left the mountain-side. 
 
CINO DA PISTOIA. 391 
 
 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-remember'd day ; 
 Ay me ! the face made gay 
 With joy that Love confers ; 
 Ay me ! that smile of hers 
 
 WTiere 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 bom 
 
392 CINO DA PISTOIA. 
 
 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 fuUfill'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 ? 
 
CI NO DA PIS T 01 A. 393 
 
 X. 
 
 TO GUEDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He owes nothing to Outdo as a Poet. 
 
 WHAT rhymes are thine which I have ta'en 
 from thee, 
 
 Thou Guido, that thou ever saj'st I thieve ? * 
 
 'Tis true, fine fancies gladly I receive, 
 But when was aught found beautiful in thee ? 
 Nay, I have search'd my pages diligently. 
 
 And tell the truth, and lie not, by your leave. 
 
 From whose rich store my web of songs I weave 
 Love knowcth 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 hearths sake, alas ! that is gone hence. 
 
 • I have not examined Cino's poetry with special reference 
 to this accusation ; hut 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. 
 
394 CINO DA PISTOIA, 
 
 XI. 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He impugns the verdicts of Daniels 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. 
 
CINO DA PISTOIA. 395 
 
 xn. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 ffe condemns Dante for not naming^ in the Com^ 
 media, his friend Onesto di Boncima, and his 
 Lady Selvaggia. 
 
 AMONG the faults we in that book descry 
 Which has crown'd Dante lord of rhyme 
 and thought, 
 Are two so gi*ave 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. 
 Ho of Onesto di Boncima* nought 
 Has said, who was to Arnauld Daniel f 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 join'd Mount Sion to the Apennines, t 
 
 * Between thb 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. 
 
 t The Provencal poet, mentioned in C. xxvi. of the Purgatory. 
 
 X That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on the 
 Monte della Sambaca. 
 
DANTE DA MAIANO. 
 
 I. 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERL 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He interprets Dante AlighierVs 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 leech thy water I have shown. 
 
 * See ante, page 227. 
 
DANTE DA MAIANO, 39^ 
 
 n. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He craves interjfyreting 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, 
 
 Bestow'd on me a wreath of flowers, fair-hued 
 And green in leaf, with gentle loving air : 
 
 After the which, meseem'd I was stark nude 
 Save for a smock of hers that I did wear. 
 Whereat, good firiend, my courage gat such growth 
 
 That to mine anus I took her tenderly : 
 With no rebuke the beauty laugh'd unloth. 
 
 And as she laugh'd I kiss'd continually. 
 I say no more, for that I pledged mine oath, 
 
 And that my mother, who is dead, was by. 
 
308 QUIDO ORLANDL 
 
 GUroO 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, hy 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. 
 
 • There exist no fewer than six answers by different poets, 
 interpreting Dante da Maiano's dream. I have chosen Goido 
 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 trans- 
 lated 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 396) a decided advantage over his 
 lesser namesake in point of courtesy. 
 
GUIDO ORLANDI. 399 
 
 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. 
 
400 DANTE DA MAIANO. 
 
 m. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 To his Lady Nina, of Sicily. 
 
 SO greatly thy great pleasaunee pleasured me, 
 Gentle my lady, from the first of all, 
 
 That counting every other hlessing 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 learn'd, 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. 
 
DANTE DA MAIANO. 401 
 
 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 ; 
 Fashiou'd 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 beais itself according to my will. 
 Lady, ia thee such pleasaunce hath its fill 
 That whoso is content to rest thereon 
 
 Knows not of grief, and holds all pain aloof. 
 
 V D 
 
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 fell your ladies how, straightway, 
 You understand it. Wherefore (look you) each 
 Of these your words the other's sense denies. 
 
 See antfe, page 308. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 403 
 
 n. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He will not he too deeply in Love. 
 
 I AM enamour'd, and yet not so much 
 But that I'd do without it easily ; 
 And my owti mind thinks all the more of me 
 That Love has not quite penn'd me in his hutch. 
 Enough if for his sake I dance and touch 
 The lute, and serve his servants cheerfiilly : 
 All overdose is worse than none would he : 
 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. 
 
404 CECCO ANGIOLIERL 
 
 m. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Love in Men and Devih. 
 
 THE man who feels not, more or less, some- 
 what 
 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 enter'd 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. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 405 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Love f in honour of his mistress Becchina. 
 
 WHATEVER good is naturaUy doue 
 Is born of Love as finiit is born of flower : 
 By Love all good is brought to its ftill 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 altei-'d 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. 
 
 I 
 
406 CECCO ANGIOLIEBI. 
 
 V. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of BeccMna, 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 
 A.nd not a donkey horn to stitching shoes ; 
 Or I were hut 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 he made clear, 
 With other things that I've no need to tell ; 
 And then I feel quite sure she'd answer Yes. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERL 40"; 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 To Messer Angiolieri, his Ftither, 
 
 IF I'd a sack of florins, and all new, 
 (Pack'd tight together, freshly-coin'd 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 ? Now for instance, what's 
 The sin of all the Saracens to you ? 
 For I protest, (or may I be struck dead ! ) 
 My love's so firmly planted in its place, 
 
 WTiipping 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. 
 
408 CECCO ANQIOLIERI. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of the 20th June, 1291. 
 
 I'M fiill 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. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIEBL 409 
 
 vm. 
 
 SojNNET. 
 
 In absence from Becchina. 
 
 MY heart's bo heavy with a hundred things 
 That I feel dead a hundred times a day : 
 Yet death would be the least of suiferings, 
 
 For life's all suflfering 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 
 Wlio gives my heart the anguish that it haa. 
 
 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. 
 
410 CECCO ANOIOLIEBL 
 
 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. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 411 
 
 « 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He rails against Danie, who had censured his 
 homage to Becehina. 
 
 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 I — a hen's more like his case. 
 Go now to Florence, Sonnet of my own. 
 
 And there with dames and maids hold pretty pailes, 
 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 Connt 
 qf 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 VUI.) 
 
412 OECCO ANGIOLIERI. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of his four Tormentors. 
 
 I'M caught, like any thrush the nets surprise, 
 By Daddy and Becchina, Mammy and Love. 
 As to my father, let thus much suffice, — 
 
 Each day he damns me, and each ho}ir 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 ! " 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERL 413 
 
 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 begg'd, (he has whole butts o' the 
 same,) 
 And he had almost kill'd me, I declare. 
 " Good Lord, if I had ask'd for vemage-Mrine I" 
 Said I ; for if he'd spit into my face 
 I wish'd 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 expres- 
 sions in this sonnet. 
 
414 CECCO ANGIOLIEBI. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of alike 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. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 415 
 
 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 i-ued ; 
 
 So let a nian 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 creatiire 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. 
 
416 CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of why he is unhanged. 
 
 WHOEVEK 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 T not hang'd 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. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERI. 417 
 
 XVL 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of why he would be a Seuuion. 
 
 I AM so out of love through poverty 
 That if I see my mistress in the streiet 
 I hardly can be certain whom I meet, 
 And of her name do scarce i*emember me. 
 Also my courage it has made to be 
 
 So cold, that if I suffered some foul cheat 
 Even fiom 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 erewliile 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. 
 
 B X 
 
418 OEOCO ANGIOLIERI. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 t . . 
 
 He argues his case with Death. 
 
 GRAMEECY, 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 hves 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, perhaps, that he should be more than ever 
 tonnented by his creditors. 
 
CECCO ANQIOLIERI. 419 
 
 xvni. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Of Becchinay and ofJier 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 wash'd up gold continually : 
 Because no language could report of me 
 
 The joys that round my heart would then be twined, 
 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 pull'd my courage down. 
 That hearing this I laugh ; for it seems strange. 
 
420 a EC CO ANGIOLIERI. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 On the Death of his Father. 
 
 LET not the inhabitants of Hell despair, 
 For one's got out who seem'd to be loek'd in ; 
 And Ceceo's the poor devil that I mean, 
 Wlio thought for ever and ever to be there. 
 But the leafs turn'd at last, and I declare 
 That now my state of glory doth begin ; 
 For Messer Angiolieri's slipp'd 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, f 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 Bro- 
 ther 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 II. page 215) 
 
 t In the original words, " Ma di tal cibo imbecchi lo suo 
 becco," a play upon the name of Becchina seems intended, 
 which I have conveved as well as I could. 
 
CECCO ANGIOLIERL 421 
 
 XX. 
 
 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 fii-st respects were paid, 
 Saying, " Holy Father, let a just crusade 
 Scourge each man who his sire's good name gain- 
 says.*' 
 And if by chance a handful of such rogues 
 At any time should come into our clutch, 
 
 I'd have them cook'd 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. 
 
422 CECCO ANOIOLIERI. 
 
 XXI. 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He writes to Dante^ then in exile at Verona, defying 
 him as no better than himself, 
 
 DANTE ALIGHIEEI, if I jest and Ue, 
 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-mouth'd, you're not particular ; 
 And you're turn'd 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. 
 
GUIDO ORLANDI .♦ 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Against the *' White" Ghihellines. 
 
 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 fiights 
 Lest death be come for them on every wind, 
 Lest now the Lion's f 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 ITberti, every one. 
 
 * Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Goido 
 Cavalcanti and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their 
 poems. 
 
 t I. e. Florence. 
 
424 OVIDO BLAND I. 
 
 Behold, against the Whites all men must sign 
 Some judgment whence no pardon can be claim'd 
 Excepting they were offer'd to Saint John.* 
 
 * 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 pre- 
 served. 
 
LAPO GIANNI. 
 
 I. 
 
 Madrigal. 
 WTiat Lave shall provide for htm, 
 T OVE, I demand to have my lady in fee. 
 
 Fine balm let Arno be ; 
 The walls of Florence all of silver reared, 
 And crystal pavements in the public way. 
 
 With castles make me fear'd, 
 Till every Latin soul have own*d 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. 
 
426 LAPO GIANNI. 
 
 Let me have fruitful gardens of great girth 
 
 Fill'd with the strife of hirds, 
 "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. 
 
LAPO GIANNI. 427 
 
 n. 
 
 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 bom a handmaiden of Love, 
 With every grace thou shouldst 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 inclined. 
 
 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 hps, nigh mute 
 
428 LAPO GIANNI. 
 
 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 possess'd 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 signiory. 
 
 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, aJack ! 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. 
 
DmO FKESCOBALDT. 
 
 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, 
 AVhom evey virtue honours unbesought. 
 Love, journeying >vith 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. 
 
430 BINO FRESCOBALDI. 
 
 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 barb'd, 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 perish'd all 
 
 "WTien I inhaled the light of so much peace. 
 And this Love knows ; for I have told it him. 
 
GIOTTO DI BONDONE. 
 
 Canzone. 
 
 Of the Doctrine of Voluntary Poverty. 
 
 MANY there are, praisers of Poverty ; 
 The which as man*s best state is registered 
 
 When by free choice preferr'd, 
 With strict obsenance 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 tlungs perilous, so well prepared, 
 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 ; 
 
432 010 T TO. 
 
 And begets violence and villainies, 
 
 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 bare 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 advent 
 To understanding hearts acceptable : 
 For the most wise most love with her to dwell. 
 
 Here may'st thou find some issue of demur : 
 For lo ! our Lord commendeth poverty. 
 
 Nay, what His meaning be 
 Search well : His words are wonderfully deep, 
 
GIOTTO, 433 
 
 Oft doubly sensed, asking interpreter. 
 The state for each most sa^^ng, 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 fiom 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 
 Tliat 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. 
 
 F F 
 
SIMONE DALL' ANTELLA. 
 
 Pbolonged 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 entwined. 
 
GIOVANNI QUIKINO. 
 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He commends the work of Dante^s life, then drawimj 
 to its close ; and deplores his own deficiencies. 
 
 C^ LORY to God and to God's Mother chaste, 
 X Dear friend, is all the labour of thy days : 
 Thou art as he who evermore uplays 
 That heavenly wealth which the woiin cannot waste : 
 So shalt thou render back with interest 
 
 The precious talent given thee by God's grace : 
 WTiile 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 debaiT'd 
 From the bright rays which lit her in the sky, — 
 So now, since thou my sun didst me foi-sake, 
 (Being distant fi"om me,) I grow dull and hard, 
 Even as a beast of Epicurus' sty. 
 
436 DANTE ALIQHIEBL 
 
 DANTE ALIGHTERI TO GIOVANNI 
 QUIRINO. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 He answers the foregoing Sonnet ; saying what Tie 
 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 call'd 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 II. 
 
 I. FOBESE DONATI. CeCCO d'AsCOLI. 
 
 WHAT follows relates to the very filmiest of 
 all the will-o'-the-wisps which have heset 
 me in making this book. I should be glad to let it 
 lose itself in its own quagmire, but am perhaps bound 
 to follow it as far as may be. 
 
 Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, (published 
 in 1640, and already several times referred to here,) 
 has a rather startling entry under the word Vendetta. 
 
 After describing this ** custom of the country," he 
 says: — 
 
 " To leave a vengeance unaccomplished was con- 
 " sidered very shameftd ; and on this account Forese 
 " de' Donati sneers at Dante, who did not avenge 
 ** his father Alighieri ; saying to him ironically : — 
 
 " Ben so che fosti figliuol d' Alighieri ; 
 •* Ed accorgomen pure alia vendetta 
 " Che facesti di lui si bella e nettaj" 
 
 " and hence perhaps Dante is menaced in Hell by 
 " the Spirit of one of his race." 
 
 Now there is no hint to be found anywhere that 
 Dante's father, who died about 1270, in the poet's 
 childhood, came by his death in any violent way. 
 The spirit met in Hell (0. xxrx), is Geri, son of Bello 
 Alighieri, and Dante's great-uncle ; and he is there 
 
438 APPENDIX TO 
 
 represented as passing his kinsman in contemptuous 
 silence on account of his own death by the hand of 
 one of the Sacchetti, which remained till then un- 
 avenged, and so continued till after Dante's death, 
 when Clone Alighieri fulfilled the vendetta by slay- 
 ing a Sacchetti at the door of his house. If Dante 
 is really the person addressed in the sonnet quoted 
 by Ubaldini, I think it probable (as I shall show 
 presently when I give the whole sonnet) that the 
 ironical allusion is to the death of Geri Alighieri. 
 But indeed the real writer, the real subject, and the 
 real object of this clumsy piece of satire seem about 
 equally puzzhng. 
 
 Forese Donati, to whom this Sonnet and another 
 I shall quote are attributed, was the brother of 
 Gemma Donati, Dante's wife, and of Corso and 
 Piccarda Donati. Dante introduces him in the 
 Purgatory (C. xxni.) as expiating the sin of gluttony. 
 From what is there said, he seems to have been well 
 known in youth to Dante, who speaks also of having 
 wept his death ; but at the same time he hints that 
 the life they led together was disorderly and a subject 
 for regret. This can hardly account for such violence 
 as is shown in these sonnets, said to have been written 
 from one to the other ; but it is not impossible, of 
 course, that a rancour, perhaps temporary, may have 
 existed at some time between them, especially as 
 Forese probably adhered with the rest of his family 
 to the party hostile to Dante. At any rate, Ubaldini, 
 Crescimbeni, Quadrio, and other writers on ItaHan 
 Poetry, seem to have derived this impression from 
 the poems which they had seen in MS. attributed to 
 Forese. They all combine in stigmatizing Forese's 
 supposed productions as very bad poetry, and in fact 
 
PART 11. 43d 
 
 this seems the only point concerning them which is 
 ])eyond a doubt. The four sonnets of which I now 
 proceed to give such translations as I have found 
 possible, were fii*st published together in 1812 by 
 Fiacchi, who states that he had seen two separate 
 ancient MSS. in both of which they were attributed 
 to Dante and Forese. In rendering them, I have 
 no choice but to adopt in a positive form my con- 
 jectures aa to their meaning ; but that I view these 
 only as conjectures will appear afterwards. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dantr Aliohieri to Foresk Donati. 
 
 He taunts Forese f hy the nickname of Bicci, 
 
 Bicci, pretty son of who knows whom 
 Unless thy mother Lady Tessa tell, — 
 Thy gullet is already cramm'd too well, 
 
 Yet others' food thou needs must now consume. 
 
 Lo ! he that wears a puree makes ample room 
 WTien 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 stowl 
 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. 
 
440 APPENDIX TO 
 
 II. 
 
 FORESE DONATI TO DaNTE AlIGHIERI. 
 
 He taunts Dante ironically for not avenging Geri 
 AUghieri. 
 
 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 fqj- peace ! 
 
 But then thy head's so heap'd 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 them thee, so thou wilt tell me back 
 All of thy fears, that I may stand by thee. 
 
 m. 
 
 Dante Alighieri to Forese Donati. 
 
 He taunts him concerning his Wife. 
 
 To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough, 
 (Bicci, — Forese as he's call'd, you know, — ) 
 
 You'd fancy she had winter'd, sure enough. 
 
 Where icebergs rear themselves in constant snow : 
 And Lord ! if in mid-August it is so, 
 
PART II. 441 
 
 How in the frozen months must she come oflF? 
 
 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. 
 
 FORESK DONATI TO DaNTB AlIGHIERI. 
 
 He taunix him concerning the unavenged Spirit of 
 Oeri 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 oflF 
 
 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 gi*aves I see. 
 Bound by some spell, I know not at whose 'best, — 
 
 At Solomon's, or what sage's who shall say ? 
 Therefore I cross'd 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 turn'd and went my way. 
 
442 APPENDIX TO 
 
 Now all this may be pronounced little better than 
 scurrilous doggrel, and I would not have introduced 
 any of it, had I not wished to include everything which 
 could possibly belong to my subject. 
 
 Even supposing that the authorship is correctly 
 attributed in each case, the insults heaped on Dante 
 have of course no weight, as coming from one who 
 shows every sign of being both foul-mouthed and a 
 fool. The two sonnets bearing Dante's name, if not 
 less offensive than the others, are rather more pointed ; 
 but seem still very unworthy even of his least exalted 
 mood. 
 
 Accordingly Fraticelli (in his Minor Worhs of 
 Dante) settles to his own satisfaction that these four 
 sonnets are not by Dante and Forese ; but I do not 
 think his arguments conclusive enough to set the 
 matter quite at rest. He first states positively that 
 Sonnet I. (as above) is by Burchiello, the Florentine 
 barber-poet of the fifteenth century. However it 
 is only to be found in one edition of Burchiello, and 
 that a late one, of 1757, where it is placed among 
 the pieces which are very doubtfully his. It becomes 
 all the more doubtful when we find it there followed 
 by Sonnet II. (as above) which would seem by all 
 evidence to be at any rate written by a different per- 
 son from the first, whoever the wi-iters of both may 
 be. Of this sonnet Fraticelli seems to state that he 
 has seen it attributed in one MS. to a certain Bicci 
 Novello; and adds (but without giving any authority) 
 that it was addressed to some descendant of the great 
 poet, also bearing the name of Dante. Sonnet III. 
 is pronounced by Fraticelli to be of uncertain author- 
 ship, though if the first is by Burchiello, so must this 
 be." He also decides that the designation " Bicci, 
 
PART IT. 443 
 
 vocato Forese," shows that Forese was the nickname 
 and Bicci the real name; but this is smely quite 
 futile, as the way in which the name is put is to the 
 full as likely to be meant in ridicule as in earnest. 
 Lastly, of Sonnet IV. Fraticelli says nothing. 
 
 It is now necessai-y to explain that Sonnet II, as 
 I translate it, is made up from two versions, the one 
 printed by Fiacclii and the one given among Bm*- 
 chlello's poems ; while in one respect I have adopted 
 a reading of my own. I would make the first four 
 lilies say — 
 
 Ben so che fosti figliaol d'Alighieri ; 
 Ed accorgomen pure alia vendetta 
 Che facesti di lui, si bella e netta, 
 
 Deir avolin che A\h cambio I'altrieri. 
 
 Of the two printed texts one says, in the fourth 
 line — 
 
 Dell' aguglin ched ei cambio I'altrieri ; 
 
 and the other, 
 
 Degli auguglin che dife cambio I'altrieri. 
 
 " AgugUno" would be *• eaglet," and with this, the 
 whole sense of the line seems quite unfathomable : 
 whereas at the same time " aguglino" would not be 
 an unlikely corrupt transcription, or even coniipt 
 version, of '' avolino," which again (according to the 
 often confiised distinctions of Italian relationships,) 
 might well be a modification of " avolo," (grandfather) 
 meaning gi*eat uncle. The reading would thus be, 
 " La vendetta che facesti di lui (i.e.) delV avolino 
 che die cambio I'altrieri; " translated literally, " The 
 vengeance which you took for him, — for your great 
 uncle who gave change the other day." Geri Ali- 
 
444 APPENDIX TO 
 
 ghieri might indeed have been said to " givechange " 
 or '■' pay scores in full" by his death, as he himselif 
 had been the aggressor in the first instance, having 
 slain one of the Sacchetti, and been afterwards slain 
 himself by another. 
 
 I should add that I do not think the possibility, 
 however questionable, of these sonnets being authen- 
 tically by Dante and Forese, depends solely on the 
 admission of this word " avolino." 
 
 The rapacity attributed to the " Bicci" of Sonnet 
 I. seems a tendency somewhat akin to the insatiable 
 gluttony which Forese is represented as expiating in 
 Dante's Purgatory. Mention is also there made 6f 
 Forese's wife, though certainly in a very different 
 strain from that of Sonnet III ; but it is not im- 
 possible that the poet might have intended to make 
 amends to her as well as in some degree to her hus- 
 band's memory. I am really more than half ashamed 
 of so many '^ possibles'' and " not impossibles ;" but 
 perhaps, having been led into the subject, am a little 
 inclined that the reader should be worried with it 
 hke myself. 
 
 At any rate, considering that these Sonnets are 
 attributed by various old manuscripts to Dante and 
 Forese Donati; — that various writers (beginning with 
 Ubaldini, who seems to have ransacked libraries more 
 than almost any one) have spoken of these and other 
 sonnets by Forese against Dante, — that the feud 
 between the Alighieri and Sacchetti, and the death 
 of Geri, were certainly matters of unabated bitterness 
 in Dante's lifetime, as we find the vendetta accom- 
 plished even after his death, — and lastly, that the 
 sonnets attributed to Forese seem to be plausibly re- 
 ferrible to this subject, — I have thought it pardonable 
 
PART II. 445 
 
 towards myself and my readers to devote to these 
 ill-natured and not very retined productions this very 
 long and tiresome note. 
 
 Crescimbeui {Storia clella Volgar Poesid) gives 
 another sonnet against Dante as being written by 
 Forese Donati, and it certainly resembles these in 
 style. I should add that their obscurity of mere 
 language is excessive, and that my translations there- 
 fore are necessarily guesswork here and there; though 
 as to this I may spare particulars except in what 
 affects the question at issue. In conclusion, I hope 
 I need hardly protest against the inference that my 
 translations and statements might be shown to abound 
 in dubious makeshifts and whimsical conjectures ; 
 though it would be admitted, on going over the ground 
 I have traversed, that it presents a difficulty of some 
 kind at almost every step. 
 
 There is one more versifier, contemporary with 
 Dante, to whom I might be expected to refer. This 
 is the ill-fated Francesco Stabili, better known as 
 Cecco d'Ascoh, who was burnt by the Inquisition at 
 Florence in 1327, as a heretic, though the exact 
 nature of his offence is involved in some mystery, 
 lie was a narrow, discontented and self-sufficient 
 writer ; and his incongruous poem in sesta t-imay 
 called VAcerha, contains various references to the 
 poetry of Dante (whom he knew personally) as well 
 as to that of Guide Cavalcanti, made chiefly in a 
 supercilious spirit. These allusions have no poetical 
 or biographical value whatever, so I need say no 
 more of them or their author. And indeed perhaps 
 the " Bicci" sonnets are quite enough of themselves 
 in the way of absolute trash. 
 
446 APPENDIX TO 
 
 II. Giovanni Boccaccio. 
 
 Several of the little-known sonnets of Boccaccio 
 have reference to Dante, but, being written in the 
 generation which followed his, do not belong to the 
 body of my second division. I therefore place three 
 of them here, together with a few more specimens 
 from the same poet. 
 
 There is nothing which gives Boccaccio a greater 
 claim to our regard than the enthusiastic reverence 
 with which he loved to dwell on the Qommedia and 
 on the memory of Dante, who died when he was 
 seven years old. This is amply proved by his Life 
 of the Poet and Commentary on the Poem, as well 
 as by other passages in his writings both in prose 
 and poetry. I cannot pretend to have achieved a 
 knowledge of his (both to writer and reader) more 
 arduous poetical undertakings, the Teseicle, the Nim- 
 fale Fiesolano, (fee : and indeed these belong to that 
 class of works regarding which most men can feel 
 equally certain that they never did read them and 
 that they never will. However, the use which 
 Chaucer has made of the Teseide and Filostrato 
 might alone induce us to regard them with interest. 
 
 The first of the three following sonnets relates to 
 Boccaccio's public reading and elucidation of Dante, 
 which took place at Florence, by a decree of the state, 
 in 1 373. The second sonnet shows how the greatest 
 minds of the generation which immediately succeeded 
 Dante already paid unhesitating tribute to his po- 
 litical as well as poetical greatness. In the third 
 
PART II. 447 
 
 sonnet, it is interesting to note the pei-sonal love and 
 confidence with which Boccaccio coukl address the 
 spirit of his mighty master, miknown to him in the 
 
 I. 
 
 To one w7io had censured his puhllc Exposition of 
 Dante. 
 
 If Dante mourns, there wheresoo'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 hereof somewhat, I declare aloud, 
 
 Were due to others, not tUone to me. 
 
 False hopes, true poverty, and therewithal 
 The blinded judgment of a host of friends, 
 And their entroaties, 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. 
 
 U. 
 
 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 assigned 
 
448 APPENDIX TO 
 
 That men account my powers a miracle. 
 My lofty fancy pass'd as low as Hell, 
 
 As high as Heaven, secure and unconfined ; 
 And in my noble book doth every kind 
 Of earthly lore and heavenly doctrine dwell. 
 Renowned Florence was my mother, — nay. 
 Stepmother unto me her piteous son. 
 
 Through sin of cursed slander's tongue and 
 tooth. 
 Ravenna shelter'd me so cast away ; 
 
 My body is with her, — my soul with One 
 For whom no envy can make dim the truth. 
 
 ni. 
 
 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 di'awn 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 I add three further examples of Boccaccio's poetry. 
 
PART II. 449 
 
 chosen for their beauty alone. Two of these relate 
 to Maria d'Aquino, the lady whom, in his writings, 
 he calls Fiammetta. 
 
 The last has a playful charm very characteristic of 
 the author of the Decameron ; while its beauty of 
 colour (to our modem minds, privileged to review 
 the whole pageant of Italian Art,) might recall the 
 painted pastorals of Giorgione. 
 
 rv. 
 
 Of Fiammetta singing. 
 
 Love steer'd 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 ; 
 o a 
 
450 APPENDIX TO 
 
 Thence to a little cloud I watch'd 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 discern'd 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 dvveU, who fain would be where she is gone. 
 
 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 knoAv) 
 
 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 stirr'd 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 answer'd, " From such luck 
 A girl would be a fool to run away." 
 
PART 11. 451 
 
 I liave now, as far as I know, exhausted all the 
 materials most available for my selections, among 
 those which exist in print. I have never visited Italy 
 and enjoyed the opportunity of making my own re- 
 searches in the libraries there for everything which 
 might belong to my subject. Some day I still hope 
 to do so, and then to enrich this series, especially as 
 regards its second division, w^ith an appendix of 
 valuable matter wliich is as yet beyond my reach. 
 
 THE END. 
 
A 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 (ENGLISH AND ITALIAN.) 
 
 Page 
 
 CERTAIN youthful lady in Thoulouse 
 
 Uiia giovine donna di Tolosa S36 
 
 A day agone as I rode sullenly 
 
 Cavalcando Paltrier per un cammino 236 
 
 A fresh content of fresh enamouring 
 
 Novella gioia e nova innamoranza 149 
 
 A gentle thought there is will often start 
 
 Gentil peiisiero eke porta divui 301 
 
 A lady in whom love is manifest 
 
 La bella donna dove Amor si mostra 356 
 
 Alas for me who loved a falcon well 
 
 Tapina me che amava uno iparviero 181 
 
 Albeit my prayers have not so long delayed 
 
 Avvegiia ched io m'aggio piii per tempo 38t? 
 
 A little wild bird sometimes at my ear 
 
 AugelUtto selvaggio per stagione 186 
 
 All inv thoughts always speak to me of Love 
 
 Tutti li miei pensier parlan d\4more 244 
 
 All the whole world is living witliout war 
 
 Tutto lo mondo vive senza guerra 13 
 
 All ye that pass along Love's trodden way 
 
 voi che per la via d'amor passate 231 
 
 Alone the road all shapes must travel by 
 
 Per quella via che I'altre forme vauno 434 
 
 A man should hold in very dear esteem 
 
 Ogni uomo deve assai caro tenere 93 
 
 Among my thoughts I count it wonderful 
 
 Pure a pensar mi par gran meraviglia 31 
 
 Among the dancers I beheld her dance 
 
 AUa danxa la vidi ddnzare 14'! 
 
454 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 Among the faults we in that book descry 
 
 Infra gli altri difetti del lihello 395 
 
 And every Wednesday as the swift days move 
 
 Ogni Mercoledt corredo grande 120 
 
 And in September O what keen delight 
 
 Di Settembre vi do diletti tanti 112 
 
 And now take thought my Sonnet who is he 
 
 Sonetto miOf anda o' lo divisi 116 
 
 And on the morrow at first peep o' the day ' 
 
 Alia domane al parere del giorno 124 
 
 As I walked thinking through a little grove 
 
 Passando con perisier per un boschetto 179 
 
 As thou wert loth to see before thy feet 
 
 Se non ti caggia la tua Santalena 362 
 
 A thing is in my mind 
 
 Venuto m'e in talento 36 
 
 At whiles yea oftentimes I muse over 
 
 Spessejiate venemi alia mente 251 
 
 A very pitiful lady very young 
 
 Donna pietosa e di novella etate , 269 
 
 Ay me alas the beautiful bright hair 
 
 Ohime lasso quelle treccie bionde 391 
 
 Ballad since Love himself hath fashioned thee 
 
 Ballata poi che ti compose Amore 427 
 
 Beauty in woman the high will's decree 
 
 Belta di donna e di saccente core 330 
 
 Because I find not whom to speak withal 
 
 Poich' io non trovo chi m^co ragioni 321 
 
 Because I think not ever to return 
 
 Perch' io non spero di tornar giammai 364 
 
 Because mine eyes can never have their fill 
 
 Poiche saziar non posso gli occhi miei 314 
 
 Because ye made your backs your shields it came 
 
 Guelfi per fare scudo delle reni 99 
 
 Being in thought of love I chanced to see 
 
 Ei'a in pensier d' amor quand' io trovai 337 
 
 Be stirring girls we ought to have a run 
 
 State su donne che debbiam noifare 177 
 
 Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space 
 
 Oltre la spera che piil larga gira 308 
 
 By a clear well within a little field 
 
 Intomo ad unafonte in un pratelio 450 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 455 
 
 Page 
 By the long sojourning 
 
 Per tunga dimuranza 88 
 
 Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing 
 
 Sei tu colui ch' hai trattato sovenU 265 
 
 Dante Alighieri a dark oracle 
 
 Dante Alighieri son Minerva oscura 447 
 
 Dante Alighieri Cecco your good friend 
 
 Dante AUghier Cecco tuo servo ed amico .... 402 
 Dante Alighieri if I jest and lie 
 
 Dante AUghier s io sort buon begolardo .... 42*2? 
 Dante Alighieri in Becchina's praise 
 
 Lassar vuoi lo trovare di Becchina 411 
 
 Dante a sigh that rose from the heart's core 
 
 Dante un sospiro messagger del core 342 
 
 Dante if thou within the sphere of Love 
 
 Dante se tu nelC amoroso spera 448 
 
 Dante since I from my own native place 
 
 Poich' ioj'ui Dante dal mio natal sito 320 
 
 Dante whenever this thing happeneth 
 
 Dante quando per caso s' abbandona 385 
 
 Death alway cruel Pity's foe in chief 
 
 Morte villana di Pietd nemica 234 
 
 Death since I find not one with whom to grieve 
 
 Morte poich' io non trovo a cui mi dogliu .... 315 
 Death why hast thou made life so hard to bear 
 
 Morte perchi m' haij'atto si gran guerra .... 70 
 Do not conceive that I shall here recount 
 
 Non intendiate ch' io qui le vi dica 151 
 
 Each lover's longing leads him naturally 
 
 Naturalmente cnere ogni amadore 381 
 
 Even as the day when it is yet at dawning 
 
 Come lo giomo quando e al mattino 138 
 
 Even as the moon amid the stars doth shed 
 
 Come le stelle sopra la Diana 146 
 
 Even as the others mock thou mockest me 
 
 Con V altre donne mia vista gabbate 247 
 
 Fair sir this love of ours 
 
 Messer lo nostro amore 75 
 
 Flowers hast thou in thyself and foliage 
 
 Avete in voi lijiori e la verdura 329 
 
 For a thing done repentance is no good 
 
 A cosafatta gia non val pentire 415 
 
 # 
 
456 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 For certain he hath seen all perfectness 
 
 Vede peifettamente ogni salute 281 
 
 For grief I am about to sing 
 
 X)t dolor mi conv'mte cantare 19 
 
 For January I give you vests of skins 
 
 lo dono vai nel mese di Gennaio 104 
 
 For July in Siena by the willow-tree 
 
 Di Luglio in Siena suUa saliciaia 110 
 
 For August be your dwelling thirty towers 
 
 D'Agosto si vi do trenta castella Ill 
 
 For no love borne by me 
 
 Nan per ben ch' io ti voglia 184 
 
 For Thursday be the tournament prepared 
 
 Ed ogni Giovedl torniamento 121 
 
 Friend well I know thou knowest well to bear 
 
 Amico saccio ben che sai Umare 351 
 
 Glory to God and to God's Mother chaste 
 
 Lode di Dio e della Madre pura 435 
 
 Gramercy Death as you've my love to win 
 
 Morte merct si ti priego e m' e in grato 418 
 
 Guido an image of my lady dwells 
 
 Una Jigura della donna mia 333 
 
 Guido T wish that Lapo thou and I 
 
 Guido vorrei che tu e Lape ed io 340 
 
 Guido that Gianni who a day agone 
 
 Guido quel Gianni che a tefii laltrieri .... 352 
 Hard is it for a man to please all men 
 
 Greve puot' uom piacere a tutta gente 33 
 
 He that has grown to wisdom hurries not 
 
 Uomo ch' t saggio non corre leggiero 30 
 
 Her face has made my life most proud and glad 
 
 Lo viso mi fa andare allegramente 52 
 
 I am all bent to glean the golden ore 
 
 Io mi son dato tutio a tragger ore 386 
 
 I am enamoured and yet not so much 
 
 Io sono innamorato ma non tanto 403 
 
 I am afar but near thee is my heart 
 
 Lontan vi son ma presso v' e lo core 135 
 
 I am so passing rich in poverty 
 
 Eo son si ricco della povertate 74 
 
 I am so out of love through poverty 
 
 La poverta m' ha si disamorato 417 
 
 4 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 457 
 
 Page 
 I come to thee by daytime constantly 
 
 lo vegno U gioi-no a te infinite volte 358 
 
 I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir 
 
 lo mi sentii svegliar dentro dal core 275 
 
 If any his own foolishness might see 
 
 Chi conoscesse si la sua faltanza 62 
 
 If any man would know the very cause 
 
 Se alcun volesse la cagion savere 32 
 
 If any one had anything to say 
 
 Chi Messer Ugolin biasrna o riprende 142 
 
 If as thou say'st thy love tormented thee 
 
 Se vi stringesse quanto dite amore 96 
 
 If Dante mourns there wheresoe'er he be 
 
 Se Dante piange dove ch' el si sia 447 
 
 If I'd a sack of florins and all new 
 
 S' io avessi un sacco difiorini 407 
 
 If I entreat this lady that all grace 
 
 S' io prego questa donna che pietate 347 
 
 If I were fire I'd burn the world away 
 
 S' ioj'ossij'oco arderei lo mondo 414 
 
 If I were still that man worthy to love 
 
 S' ioj'osii qnello che d'amorjil degno 341 
 
 If thou hadst offered friend to blessed Mary 
 
 Se avessi detlo amico di Maria 334 
 
 If you could see fair brother how dead beat 
 
 Fratel se tu vedessi questa gente 150 
 
 I give you horses for your games in May 
 
 Di Maggio si vi do molti cavugli 108 
 
 I give you meadow-lands in April fair 
 
 D Aprile vi do la gentil campagna 107 
 
 I have it in my heart to serve God so 
 
 Io m' aggio posto in core a Dio servire 41 
 
 I hold him verily of mean emprise 
 
 Tegno difolle impresa alio ver dire 28 
 
 I know not Dante in what refuge dwells 
 
 Dante io non odo in qual albergo suoni 322 
 
 I laboured these six years 
 
 Sei anni ho travugliato 59 
 
 I look at the crisp golden-threaded hair 
 
 Io miro i crespi e gli biondi capegli 162 
 
 I'm caught like any thrush the nets surprise 
 
 Babbo Becchina Amore e mia madre 413 
 
458 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 I'm full of everything I do not want 
 
 lo ho tutte le cose ch' io non voglio 408 
 
 In February I give you gallant sport 
 
 Di Febbraio vi dono bella cdccia 105 
 
 In March I give you plenteous fisheries 
 
 Di Marzo si vi do una peschiera 106 
 
 In June I give you a close-wooded fell 
 
 Di Giugno dovvi una montagnetta 109 
 
 I play this sweet prelude 
 
 Dolce cominciamento 133 
 
 I pray thee Dante shouldst thou meet with Love 
 
 Se vedi Amore assai ti prego Dante 343 
 
 I thought to be for ever separate 
 
 Io mi credea del tutto esser partito 319 
 
 I've jolliest merriment for Saturday 
 
 E il Sabato diletto ed allegranza 123 
 
 I was upon the high and blessed mound 
 
 lojui in sulV alto e in sul beato monte 390 
 
 I would like better in the grace to be 
 
 Io vort-ei innanzi in grazia ntomare 419 
 
 Just look Manetto at that wry-mouthed minx 
 
 Guarda Manetto quella sgrignutuzza 361 
 
 Ladies that have intelligence of Love 
 
 Donne che avete intelletto d' Amore 255 
 
 Lady my wedded thought 
 
 La miu amorosa mente 80 
 
 Lady of Heaven the Mother glorified 
 
 Donna del cielo gloi-iosu madre 73 
 
 Lady with all the pains that I can take 
 
 Donna io forzeraggio lo podere 131 
 
 Last All-Saints' holy-day even now gone by 
 
 Di donne io vidi una gentile schiera 311 
 
 Last for December houses on the plain 
 
 E di Dicemhre una citta in piano 115 
 
 Let baths and wine-butts be November's due 
 
 E di Novembre petriuolo e il bagno 114 
 
 Let Friday be your highest hunting-tide 
 
 Ed ogni Venerdi gran caccia ejorte 122 
 
 Let not the inhabitants of hell despair 
 
 Non si disperin quelli dello Infei-no 420 
 
 Lo I am she who makes the wheel to turn 
 
 Io son la donna che volgo la rota 366 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 459 
 
 Page 
 Love and the gentle heart are one same thing 
 
 Amove e car gentil son una cosa 260 
 
 Love and the Lady Lagia Guido and I 
 
 Amore e Monna Lagia e Guido ed io 344 
 
 Love hath so long possessed me for his own 
 
 Si lungamente m' ha tenuto Amore 283 
 
 Love I demand to have my lady in fee 
 
 Amore io chero mia donna in domino 425 
 
 love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth 
 
 Color d^ amore e di pietii sembianti 297 
 
 Lore steered my course while yet the Sun rode high 
 
 Guidommi Amor ardendo ancora il Sole .... 449 
 Love taking leave my heart then leaveth me 
 
 Amor s eo parto il cor si parte e dole 97 
 
 Love will not have me cry 
 
 Amor non vuol ch' io clami 46 
 
 Many there are praisers of poverty 
 
 Molti son quei die lodan povertade 431 
 
 Marvellously elate 
 
 Maravigliosamente 42 
 
 Master Bertuccio you are call'd to account 
 
 Messer Bertuccio a dritto uom vi cagiona .... 141 
 Master Brunetto this my little maid 
 
 Messer Brunetto questa pulzelletta 310 
 
 Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring 
 
 Videro gli occhi miei quanta pietate 296 
 
 My body resting in a haunt of mine 
 
 Poso il corpo in un loco mio pigliando 89 
 
 My curse be on the day when first I saw 
 
 Io maladico il d\ ch* to vidi imprima 327 
 
 My heart's so heavy with a hundred things 
 
 Jo ho si tristo il cor di cose cento 409 
 
 My lady carries love within her eyes 
 
 Negli occhi porta la mia donna amore , . . . • 261 
 My lady looks so gentle and so pure 
 
 Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare 280 
 
 My lady mine I send 
 
 Madonna mia a voi mando 49 
 
 My lady thy delightful high command 
 
 Madonna vostro altera piacimento 63 
 
 Nero thus much for tidings in thine ear 
 
 Novella ti so dire odi Nerone 363 
 
460 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 Never was joy or good that did not soothe 
 
 Gioia nt ben non e senza conforto 77 
 
 Next for October to some sheltered coign 
 
 Di Ottohre nel conta ch' ha buuno stallo .... 113 
 No man may mount upon a golden stair 
 
 Noil vi si monta per iscaia d' oro 355 
 
 Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites 
 
 Cobr di cener fatti son li Bianchi . . ... . . 423 
 
 Now these four things if thou 
 
 Quattro cose chi vuole 155 
 
 Now to Great Britain we must make our way 
 
 Ora si passu nella Gran Bretagna 166 
 
 Now when it flowereth 
 
 Oramai quandofiore 39 
 
 Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer 
 
 Quando la luna e la Stella diana 118 
 
 O Bicci pretty son of who knows whom 
 
 Bicci novel Jigliuol di non so cui 439 
 
 Often the day had a most joyful morn 
 
 Spesso di gioia nasce ed incomenza 90 
 
 Of that wherein thou art a questioner 
 
 Di cid che stato sei dimandatore 396 
 
 O Lady amorous 
 
 Donna amorosa 128 
 
 O Love thou that for my fealty 
 
 O tu Amore che m' haifatto martire 387 
 
 O Love who all this while hast urged me on 
 
 Amor che lungiamente m' hai menato 125 
 
 On the last words of what you write to me 
 
 Al motto diredan prima ragione 398 
 
 O Poverty by thee the soul is wrapped 
 
 Povena come tu sei un manto 370 
 
 sluggish hard ingrate what doest thou 
 
 lento pigro ingrato ignar chefai 377 
 
 O thou that often hast within thine eyes 
 
 tu che porti negli occhi sovente 345 
 
 Pass and let pass this counsel I would give 
 
 Per consiglio ti do di passu passu 143 
 
 Prohibiting all hope 
 
 Levandomi speranza 98 
 
 Remembering this how Love 
 
 Membrando do che Amore 53 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 461 
 
 Page 
 Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son 
 
 Ben so che fosti Jigliuol d'Alighieri 440 
 
 Round her red garland and her golden hair 
 
 Sorxra lijior vermigli e i capei (V oro 449 
 
 Sapphire nor diamond nor emerald 
 
 Diamante nt smeraUlo ni zaffino 46 
 
 Say wouldst thou guard thy son 
 
 Vuoi guardar tuojiglhtolo 16 
 
 Set Love in order thou that lovest me 
 
 Ordina quest' Amore o iu che tn ami 17 
 
 So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me 
 
 •St m abbellio la vostra gran piacenza 400 
 
 Song 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love 
 
 Ballata to vo che tu ritruovi Amore 241 
 
 Stay now with me and listen to my sighs 
 
 Venite a intender li sospiri mUi 391 
 
 Such wisdom as a little child displays 
 
 Saver che sente un picciolo J'antino 8S 
 
 That lady of all gentle memories 
 
 Era venuta nella mente mia 295 
 
 That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse 
 
 Quest' altissima Stella che si vede 430 
 
 The devastating flame of that fierce plague 
 
 L' ardente Jiamma dellajiera peste 373 
 
 The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear 
 
 II pessimo e il crudel odio ch' io porta 413 
 
 The eyes that weep for pity of the heart 
 
 Gti occhi dolenti per pieta del core 388 
 
 The flower of virtue is the heart's content 
 
 Fior di virtii si i gentil coraggio 101 
 
 The fountain-head that is so bright to see 
 
 Ciascnna fresca e dolce fontanella 354 
 
 The King by whose rich grace His servants be 
 
 Lo Re che merta i suoi servi a ristoro 436 
 
 The lofty worth and lovely excellence 
 
 Lo gran valore e lo pregio amoroso 56 
 
 The man who feels not more or less somewhat 
 
 Chi non sente d' Amore o tanto o quanta .... 404 
 The other night I had a dreadful cough 
 
 L' altra notte mi venne una gran tosse 441 
 
 The sweetly-favoured face 
 
 Im dolce ciera piacente 66 
 
462 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 The thoughts are broken in my memory 
 
 Cid che m^ incontra nella mente more 249 
 
 The very bitter weeping that ye made 
 
 L' amaro lagrimar che voifuceste 299 
 
 There is a time to mount to humble thee 
 
 Tempo vien di salire e di scendere 22 
 
 There is a vice which oft 
 
 Un vizio e che laudato 153 
 
 There is a vice prevails 
 
 Par che un vizio pur regni 157 
 
 There is among my thoughts the joyous plan 
 
 lo ho pensato difare un gioieUo 117 
 
 Think a brief while on the most marvellous arts 
 
 St 'I subietto preclaro Cittadini 16 
 
 This book of Dante's very sooth to say 
 
 Jn verita questo libel di Dante 394 
 
 This fairest lady who as well I wot 
 
 Questa leggiadra donna ched io sento 388 
 
 This fairest one of all the stars whose flame 
 
 La bella Stella che suajiamma tiene 182 
 
 This is the damsel by whom Love is brought 
 
 Questa e la giovinetta ch' amor guida 429 
 
 Thou sweetly-smelling fresh red rose 
 
 Rosafresca aulentissima 1 
 
 Thou that art wise let wisdom minister 
 
 Provvedi saggio ad esta visione 397 
 
 Thou well hast heard that Rollo had two sons 
 
 Come udit' hai duejigliuoli ebbe Rollo 171 
 
 Though thou indeed hast quite forgotten ruth 
 
 , 6'e m' hai del tutto obliato mercede 346 
 
 Through this my strong and new misaventure 
 
 La forte e nova mia disavventura 343 
 
 To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song 
 
 E il Martedl li do un nuovo mondo 119 
 
 To every heart which the sweet pain doth move 
 
 A ciascun' alma presa e gentil core 227 
 
 To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough 
 
 Chi udisse tossir la malfatata 440 
 
 To see the green returning 
 
 Quando veggio rinverdire 68 
 
 To sound of trumpet rather than of horn 
 
 A siion di tromba innanzi che di como 357 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 463 
 
 Page 
 To the dim light and the large circle of shade 
 
 Al poco giomo ed al gran cerchio d' ombra . . . 324 
 Two ladies to the summit of my mind 
 
 Due donne in cima della mente mia 323 
 
 Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth 
 
 Vedesti at mio parere ogni valore 328 
 
 Unto that lowly lovely maid I wis 
 
 A quella amorosetta forosella 353 
 
 Unto the blithe and lordly fellowship 
 
 Alia brigata nobile e cortese 102 
 
 Upon a day came Sorrow in to me 
 
 Un di si venue a me MeUincotia 318 
 
 Upon that cruel season when our Lord 
 
 Quella crudel stagion che a giudicare 94 
 
 Vanouished and weary was my soul in me 
 
 Vinta e lassii era gia /' anima mia 389 
 
 Weep Lovers sith Love's vei^ self doth weep 
 
 Piangete amanti poi che piange Amore 233 
 
 Were ye but constant Guelfs in war or peace 
 
 Cosijaceste voi o guerra o pace 100 
 
 Wert thou as prone to yield unto my prayer 
 
 Cosij'om tu acconcia di donarmi 148 
 
 Whatever good is naturally done 
 
 Qiialunque ben si fa naturalmente 405 
 
 Whatever while the tliought comes over me 
 
 Quantunque volte lasso mi rimembra 293 
 
 What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thee 
 
 Quaison le cose vostre ch' io vi tolgo 393 
 
 Whence come you all of you so sorrowful 
 
 Onde venite voi cost pensose 31'2 
 
 When God had finished Master Messerin 
 
 Quando Iddio Messer Messerin fece 140 
 
 When I behold Becchina in a rage 
 
 Quando veggio Becchina corrucciata 410 
 
 When Lucy draws her mantle round her face 
 
 Chi vedesse a Lucia un var cappuzzo 23 
 
 When the last greyness dwells throughout the air 
 
 Quando I' aria comincia a farsi bruna 183 
 
 Whether all ^race have failed I scarce may scan 
 
 A^on so s i merce che mo vene a meno 95 
 
 Whoever without money is in love 
 
 Chi t senza denari innamorato 416 
 
464 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Pago 
 Who is she cominsj whom all gaze upon 
 
 Chi t questa che vien ch' ogn' uom la mira . . . 331 
 Whoso abandons peace for war-seeking 
 
 Chi va cherendo gueira e lassa pace 84 
 
 Who utters of his father aught but praise 
 
 Chi dice di suo padre altro che onore 421 
 
 Why from the danger did not mine eyes start 
 
 Perche nonfuro a me gll occhi dispenti .... 350 
 Why if Becchina's heart were diamond 
 
 Se di Becchina il cor fosse diamante 406 
 
 Within a copse I met a shepherd maid 
 
 In un boschetto trovai pastorella 359 
 
 Within the gentle heart Love shelters him 
 
 Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore 24 
 
 With other women I beheld my love 
 
 lo vidi domie con la donna mia 332 
 
 Woe's me by dint of all these sighs that come 
 
 Lasso perforza de' molti sospiri 303 
 
 Wonderful countenance and royal neck 
 
 Viso mirabil gola morganata 401 
 
 Yea let me praise my lady whom I love 
 
 lo vo del ver la mia donna lodare 27 
 
 Ye graceful peasant-girls and mountain-maids 
 
 Vaghe le montanine e pastorelle .175 
 
 Ye ladies walking past me piteous-eyed 
 
 Voi donne che pietoso atto mostrate 313 
 
 Ye pilgrim-folk advancing pensively 
 
 Deh peregnni che pensosi andate 306 
 
 You that thus wear a modest countenance 
 
 Voi che portate la semhianza utnile 264 
 
 Your joyful understanding lady mine 
 
 Madonna vostra altera canoscenza 85 
 
 CHISWICK PBESS :— PRINTED BY WHITTINOHAM AWD WILKINS, 
 TOOKS COUBT, CHANCERY LANE. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 206, line 11, dele the allusion to a portrait of Guido 
 Cavalcanti, as it is merely one of a spurious series in the 
 Uffizj, painted about 1550. 
 
 Page 208, line 25, for " first" read " again." 
 Page 270, line 14, for " Suddenly after a little while," read 
 " Suddenly after such a little while." 
 
 Page 317, line 2, for " they" read " thy." 
 
 Page 444, last line, /or " referrible" read " referable." 
 
 Shortly will he published, 
 
 DANTE AT VEKONA, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 BY D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
ipt