There was no folk poetry and no popular literature in Mediaeval
Italy. There were two reasons for this: (1) Italian history,
political and intellectual, attaches itself very closely to that
of Rome. The traditions of classic learning never died out. Hence
the Italian nation was always too learned, too literary to
develop a folk literature. (2) Italy was for many centuries
dominated by ecclesiastical influence, and the people's minds
were full of matters of religious and scholastic philosophy,
which excluded art.
The Italians translated and adapted some of the epics, romances,
and tales of other countries, during the earlier years of the
Middle Ages; but they were written in Latin, or in a kind of
French. They produced none of their own. There was no literature
written in Italian before the thirteenth century.
In the thirteenth century (1250) there came the first outburst of
Italian literature--religious songs, love songs, dramas, and
tales. In almost every part of Italy men began to write. But it
was in Tuscany, in Florence, that the most remarkable literary
development of this period appeared. It was of the nature chiefly
of lyric and allegoric poetry. The work of this group of Tuscan
poets was really the beginning of Italian literary art. Yet it
was a finished art product, not at all like the beginnings of
poetry in other countries.
The group numbered a dozen poets of considerable power and skill.
The greatest of them and the greatest of Italian poets was Dante
Alighieri. In Italian mediaeval literature three names stand out
far above all others. They are Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. So
completely do they overshadow their contemporaries, that in
making our selection of Italian literature we shall confine
ourselves entirely to these three.
Dante Alighieri was born at Florence, in May, 1266, and died at
Ravenna in September, 1321. He had an eventful and pathetic life.
He was much in public affairs. He was banished from his native
city in 1302, and died in exile. His literary work is represented
chiefly by the following titles: "Vita Nuova, The New Life";
"Convito, The Banquet"; "De Monarchia, A Treatise on Monarchy";
"De Vulgari Eloquio, A Treatise on the Vulgar Tongue"; and
"Divina Commedia", his masterpiece and the master-work of the
Middle Ages.
FROM THE VITA NUOVA.
The "Vita Nuova" is a work of Dante's youth, a record of his
early life and love. The title may be translated either Early
Life or The New Life. From the nature of the work we may infer
that the latter translation conveys the poet's thought. It
implies that after his first sight of Beatrice he began a new
existence. He saw her first when he was nine years old. Nine
years later she greeted him for the first time. Inspired by this
greeting he began the "Vita Nuova".[1] It is written in prose
interspersed with sonnets and canzoni. We select for reproduction
some of the sonnets from Rossetti's translation.
[1] When Dante first saw Beatrice she was eight years old. From
that hour he says he loved her. She was the inspiration of his
early poem; and afterward, in the Divine Comedy, she became the
embodiment of his conception of divine wisdom. She was married
quite young to Simon di Bardi, a citizen of Florence. She died in
1290, when only twenty-four years old.
I. Sonnets telling to other ladies the praise of Beatrice.
Ladies that have intelligence in love
Of mine own lady I would speak with you;
Not that I hope to count her praises through,
But telling what I may to ease my mind.
And I declare that when I speak thereof
Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me
That if my courage failed not, certainly
To him my listeners must be all resign'd.
Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind
That mine own speech should foil me, which were base;
But only will discourse of her high grace
In these poor words, the best that I can find,
With you alone dear dames and damozels:
'Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.
. . . . . . . .
My lady is desired in the high Heaven;
WHEREFORE, it now behoveth me to tell, saying:
Let any maid that would be well
Esteemed, keep with her; for as she goes by,
Into foul hearts a deadly chill is driven
By Love, that makes ill thoughts to perish there;
While any who endures to gaze on her
Must either be ennobled, or else die.
When one deserving to be raised so high
Is found, It is 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.
II. On the death of Beatrice.
When mine eyes had wept for some while until they were so weary
with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my
sorrow, I bethought 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 spirit; and I then began:
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.
III.
"Dante once prepared to paint an angel."
. . . . . . .
"You and I would rather see that angel
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,--
Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno."
--Browning's "One Word More".
On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made
of the citizens of eternal life, remembering 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 that 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":
That lady of all gentle memories
Had lighted on my soul; whose new abode
Lies now, as it was well ordained of God,
Among the poor in heart where Mary is.
Love, knowing that dear image to be his,
Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bowed,
Unto the sighs which are its weary load,
Saying, "Go forth." And they went forth, I wis
Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;
With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe
Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.
And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath
Came whispering thus: "O noble intellect!
It is a year to-day that thou art gone."
IV. The Close of the Vita Nuova.
Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space
Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above;
A new perception born of grieving Love
Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.
When it hath reached unto the end and stays,
It sees a lady round whom splendors move
In homage; till, by the great light thereof
Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.
It sees her such, that when it tells me this
Which it hath seen, I understand it not;
It hath a speech so subtile and so fine
And yet I know its voice within my thought
Often remembereth me of Beatrice:
So that I understand it, ladies mine.
After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very
wonderful vision,[1] 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 of her. And to this
end I labor all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore 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
write 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, the blessed Beatrice, who now gazeth
continually on His countenance qui est per omnia soecula
benedictus. Laus Deo.[2]
[1] This we may believe to be the vision of Hell, Purgatory, and
Paradise, the vision which gave him the argument of the Divine
Comedy.
[2] Who is blessed throughout all ages. Praise to God.
FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY.[1]
[1] Dante called his poem a comedy, he says, for two reasons:
because it has a sad beginning and a cheerful ending, and because
it is written in a "middle" style, treating alike of lowly and
lofty things. Midway in life the poet finds himself lost in the
forest of worldly cares, beset by the three beasts, Pride,
Avarice, and Worldly Pleasure. Virgil, who is the embodiment of
moral philosophy, appears and leads him through the Hell of
worldly sin and suffering, through the Purgatory of repentance,
to the calm of the earthly Paradise. Mere philosophy can go no
further. The poet is here taken under the guidance of Beatrice,
the embodiment of divine wisdom, who leads him through Paradise
to the throne of God. Such, in the briefest form, is the argument
of the Divine Comedy; this statement carries the actual story and
the allegory side by side. The first division of the triple
vision is the Inferno. Dante's Inferno is an inverted cone,
having its mouth in a deep rugged valley, its sides sloping down
to the center of the earth. When Lucifer fell from heaven the
earth retired before him, making this hollow cone. This is
divided into nine circles, in which the lost souls suffer. These
souls are grouped into three main classes: the incontinent, the
violent, and the fraudulent. The first circle of the Inferno is
Limbo, where are the souls of children and the unbaptized; of the
heathen philosophers and poets. They are neither in pain nor
glory, they do not shriek nor groan but only sigh.
I. The Poets in Limbo.--From the Inferno.
Broke the deep slumber in my brain a crash
Of heavy thunder, that I shook myself,
As one by main force roused. Risen upright,
My rested eyes I moved around, and search'd,
With fixed ken, to know what place it was
Wherein I stood. For certain, on the brink
I found me of the lamentable vale,
The dread abyss, that joins a thundrous sound
Of plaints innumerable. Dark and deep,
And thick with clouds o'erspread, mine eye in vain
Explored its bottom, nor could aught discern.
"Now let us to the blind world there beneath
Descend;" the bard began, all pale of look:
"I go the first, and thou shalt follow next."
Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus:
"How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread,
Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?"
He then: "The anguish of that race below
With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear
Mistakest. Let us on. Our length of way
Urges to haste." Onward, this said, he moved;
And entering led me with him, on the bounds
Of the first circle that surrounds the abyss.
. . . . . . . . . .
We were not far
On this side from the summit, when I kenn'd
A flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere
Prevailing shined. Yet we a little space
Were distant, not so far but I in part
Discover'd that a tribe in honour high
That place possess'd. "O thou, who every art
And science valuest I who are these that boast
Such honour, separate from all the rest?"
He answer'd: "The renown of their great names,
That echoes through your world above, acquires
Favour in heaven, which holds them thus advanced."
Meantime a voice I heard: "Honour the bard
Sublime![1] his shade returns, that left us late!
No sooner ceased the sound, than I beheld
Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps,
Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad.
When thus my master kind began: "Mark him,
Who in his right hand bears that falchion keen,
The other three preceding, as their lord.
This is that Homer, of all bards supreme:
Flaccus the next, in satire's vein excelling;
The third is Naso; Lucan is the last.
Because they all that appellation own,
With which the voice singly accosted me,
Honouring they greet me thus, and well they judge."
So I beheld united the bright school
Of him the monarch of sublimest song,[2]
That o'er the others like an eagle soars.
When they together short discourse had held,
They turned to me, with salutation kind
Beckoning me; at the which my master smiled
Nor was this all; but greater honour still
They gave me, for they made me of their tribe;
And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band.
[1] The bard sublime--Virgil.
[2] The monarch of sublimest song--Homer.
II. Francesca da Rimini.[1]
[1] Francesca da Polenta was given in marriage by her father to
Lanclotto da Rimini, a man brave, but of deformed person. His
brother Paolo, who was exceedingly handsome, won her affections.
They were both put to death by Lagnciotto.
From the Inferno.
From Limbo the poet descends into the second circle, where the
sin of lust is punished. The souls in this circle are driven
forever round in a tyrannous gust of wind. They see Cleopatra and
Helen and Paris and Tristan and many others whom Virgil names to
the poet. Finally he sees two spirits approaching, whom he asks
permission to address. To these he spoke:
"O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;
Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks,
They, through the ill air speeding--with such force
My cry prevail'd, by strong affection urged.
"O gracious creature and benign! who go'st
Visiting, through this element obscure,
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbrued;
If, for a friend, the King of all, we own'd,
Our prayer to him should for thy peace arise,
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.
Of whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind,
As now, is mute. The land[1] that gave me birth,
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams.
"Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still!
Love, that denial takes from none beloved,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou seest' he yet deserts me not.
Love brought us to one death: Caina[2] waits
The soul, who split our life."
Such were their words;
At hearing which, downward I bent my looks,
And held them there so long, that the bard cried:
"What art thou pondering?" I in answer thus:
"Alas I by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire
Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!"
Then turning, I to them my speech addressed,
And thus began: "Francesca! your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what, and how Love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes?" She replied:
"No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens
Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day,
For our delight we read of Lancelot,[3]
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile so rapturously kiss'd
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more." While thus one spirit spake,
The other wailed so sorely, that heart-struck
I, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground.
[1] The land that gave me birth--Ravenna.
[2] Caina, the place to which murderers are doomed.
[3] Lancelot, one of the knights of the Round Table, the lover of
Queen Guinevere.
III. Farinata.--From the Inferno.
The poet and his guide descend through the third circle where the
sin of gluttony is punished; through the fourth, where they find
the prodigal and avaricious; through the fifth where immersed in
a filthy pool are the souls of the irascible. The sixth circle is
the city of Dis, with walls of heated iron, filled within with
open fiery tombs from which issue the groans of the heretics who
are punished here. With two of these, Farinata degli Uberti[1]
and Cavaleante Cavaleanti,[2] Dante holds converse.
[1] Farinata degli Uberti, a Florentine of great military
ability, a leader of the Ghibelline, or imperial, party.
[2] Cavaleante Cavaleanti, a Florentine, of the Guelph, or Papal,
party.
Now by a secret pathway we proceed,
Between the walls that hem the region round,
And the tormented souls: my master first,
I close behind his steps. "Virtue supreme!"
I thus began: "who through these ample orbs
In circuit lead'st me, even as thou will'st;
Speak thou, and satisfy my wish. May those,
Who lie within these sepulchres, be seen?
Already all the lids are raised, and none
O'er them keeps watch." He thus in answer spake:
"They shall be closed all, what-time they here
From Josaphat[1] return'd shall come, and bring
Their bodies, which above they now have left.
The cemetery on this part obtain,
With Epicurus, all his followers,
Who with the body make the spirit die.
Here therefore satisfaction shall be soon,
Both to the question ask'd, and to the wish [2]
Which thou conceal'st in silence." I replied:
"I keep not, guide beloved I from thee my heart
Secreted, but to shun vain length of words;
A lesson erewhile taught me by thyself."
"O Tuscan! thou, who through the city of fire
Alive art passing, so discreet of speech:
Here, please thee, stay awhile. Thy utterance
Declares the place of thy nativity
To be that noble land, with which perchance
I too severely dealt." Sudden that sound
Forth issued from a vault, whereat, in fear,
I somewhat closer to my leader's side
Approaching, he thus spake: "What dost thou? Turn: Lo!
Farinata, there, who hath himself
Uplifted: from his girdle upwards, all
Exposed, behold him." On his face was mine
Already fix'd: his breast and forehead there
Erecting, seem'd as in high scorn he held
E'en hell. Between the sepulchres, to him
My guide thrust me, with fearless hands and prompt;
This warning added: "See thy words be clear."
He, soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot,
Eyed me a space; then in disdainful mood
Address'd me: "Say what ancestors were thine."
I, willing to obey him, straight reveal'd
The whole, nor kept back aught: whence he, his brow
Somewhat uplifting, cried: "Fiercely were they
Adverse to me, my party, and the blood
From whence I sprang: twice, therefore, I abroad
Scatter'd them." "Though driven out, yet they each time
From all parts," answer'd I, "return'd; an art
Which yours have shown they are not skill'd to learn."
Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw,
Rose from his side a shade,[3] high as the chin,
Leaning, methought, upon its knees upraised.
It look'd around, as eager to explore
If there were other with me; but perceiving
That fond imagination quench'd, with tears
Thus spake: "If thou through this blind prison go'st,
Led by thy lofty genius and profound,
Where is my son? and wherefore not with thee?
I straight replied: "Not of myself I come;
By him, who there expects me, through this clime
Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son
Had in contempt."[4] Already had his words
And mode of punishment read me his name,
Whence I so fully answer'd. He at once
Exclaim'd' up starting, "How! said'st thou' he HAD?
No longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye
The blessed daylight?" Then, of some delay
I made ere my reply, aware, down fell
Supine, nor after forth appear'd he more.
[1] It was a common opinion that the general judgment would be
held in the valley of Josaphat, or Jehoshaphat. Joel iii., 2.
[2] The wish-Dante's wish was to speak with the followers of
Epicurus, of whom were Farinata and Cavalcante.
[3] A shade--Cavalcante.
[4] Guido, thy son had in contempt--Guido the son of Cavalcante
Cavalcanti, a Tuscan poet, the friend of Dante. But being fonder
of philosophy than of poetry was perhaps not an admirer of
Virgil.
V. The Hypocrites. From the Inferno.
In the seventh circle, which is divided into three rounds, or
gironi, the violent are tormented. The eighth circle is divided
into ten concentric fosses, or gulfs, in each of which some
variety of fraudulent sinners is punished. In the sixth gulf are
the hypocrites.
There in the depth we saw a painted tribe,
Who paced with tardy steps around, and wept,
Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil.
Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down
Before their eyes, in fashion like to those
Worn by the monks in Cologne.[1]
Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,
But leaden all within, and of such weight,
That Frederick's [2] compared to these were straw.
Oh, everlasting wearisome attire!
We yet once more with them together turn'd
To leftward, on their dismal moan intent.
But by the weight opprest, so slowly came
The fainting people, that our company
Was changed, at every movement of the step.
I staid, and saw two spirits in whose look
Impatient eagerness of mind was mark'd
To overtake me; but the load they bare
And narrow path retarded their approach.
Soon as arrived, they with an eye askance
Perused me, but spake not: then turning, each
To other thus conferring said: "This one
Seems, by the action of his throat, alive;
And, be they dead, what privilege allows
They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?"
Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest
The college of the mourning hypocrites,
Disdain not to instruct us who thou art."
"By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied,
In the great city I was bred and grew,
And wear the body I have ever worn.
But who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,
As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?
What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?"
"Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,"
One of them answer'd' "are so leaden gross,
That with their weight they make the balances
To crack beneath them. Joyous friars[3] we were,
Bologna's natives; Catalano I,
He Loderingo named; and by thy land
Together taken, as men use to take
A single and indifferent arbiter,
To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,
Gardingo's vicinage [4] can best declare."
"O friars!" I began, "your miseries--"
But there brake off, for one had caught mine eye,
Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground:
He, when he saw me, writhed himself, throughout
Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.
And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware,
Thus spake: "That pierced spirit,[5] whom intent
Thou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees
Counsel, that it were fitting for one man
To suffer for the people. He doth lie
Transverse; nor any passes, but him first
Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs.
In straits like this along the foss are placed
The father of his consort,[6] and the rest
Partakers in that council, seed of ill
And sorrow to the Jews."
[1] The monks in Cologne. These monks wore their cowls unusually
large.
[2] Frederick's. Frederick II. punished those guilty of high
treason by wrapping them up in lead, and casting them into a
furnace.
[3] Joyous friars. An order of knights (Frail Godenti) on two of
whom the Ghibelline party at one time conferred the chief power
of Florence. One was Catalano de' Malavolti, the other Loderingo
di Liandolo. Their administration was unjust.
[4] Gardingo's vicinage. That part of the city inhabited by the
Ghibelline family of the Uberti, and destroyed, under the
iniquitous administration of Catalano and Loderingo.
[5] That pierced spirit. Caiaphas.
[6] The father of his consort. Annas.
When the poets reach the ninth and last circle they see the souls
of traitors lying in a frozen lake and in the midst Lucifer, the
fallen archangel, in the very center of the earth. They slide
down his icy sides, and begin to ascend to the earth's surface
through a cavern "and thence come forth to see the stars again."
The second part of the Divine Comedy is the vision of Purgatory.
When the solid earth retired before the falling Lucifer, making
the hollow cone of hell, it was pushed out on the other side of
the globe, forming the mountain of Purgatory. This is also
divided into nine circles. In the first two are the souls of
those who delayed repentance until death. In the other seven, the
seven deadly sins are purged away. On the summit is the earthly
paradise.
I. The Celestial Pilot.--From the Pargatorio.
The mountain of Purgatory is situated upon an island. While
Virgil and Dante are standing looking across the water, they
behold a boat laden with spirits for Purgatory under the guidance
of an angel.
Meanwhile we linger'd by the water's brink,
Like men' who' musing on their road, in thought
Journey, while motionless the body rests.
When lo! as, near upon the hour of dawn,
Through the thick vapours
Mars with fiery beam
Glares down in west, over the ocean floor;
So seem'd, what once again I hope to view,
A light, so swiftly coming through the sea,
No winged course night equal its career.
From which when for a space I had withdrawn
Mine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide,
Again I look'd, and saw it grown in size
And brightness: then on either side appear'd
Something but what I knew not, of bright hue,
And by degrees from underneath it came
Another. My preceptor silent yet
Stood, while the brightness, that we first discern'd,
Open'd the form of wings: then when he knew
The pilot, cried aloud, "Down, down; bend low
Thy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands:
Now shalt thou see true ministers indeed.
Lo! how all human means he sets at nought;
So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail
Except his wings, between such distant shores.
Lo! how straight up to heaven he holds them rear'd,
Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes,
That not like mortal hairs fall off or change."
As more and more toward us came, more bright
Appear'd the bird of God, nor could the eye
Endure his splendour near: I mine bent down.
He drove ashore in a small bark so swift
And light, that in its course no wave it drank.
The heavenly steersman at the prow was seen,
Visibly written Blessed in his looks.
Within, a hundred spirits and more there sat.
"In Exitu [1] Israel de Egypto,"
All with one voice together sang, with what
In the remainder of that hymn is writ.
Then soon as with the sign of holy cross
He bless'd them, they at once leap'd out on land:
He, swiftly as he came, return'd.
[1] In Exitu Israel de Egypto--When Israel came out of Egypt.--Ps
cxiv.
II. The Meeting with Sordello.--From the Purgatorio.
In the second circle of the mountain of Purgatory, Virgil and
Dante encounter the spirit of Sordello,[1] detained among those
who delayed repentance until death.
[1] Sordello. A Provencal soldier and poet, whose life is wrapt
in romantic mystery. See Browning's poem "Sardello".
"But lo! a spirit there
Stands solitary' and toward us looks:
It will instruct us in the speediest way."
We soon approach'd it.
When my courteous guide began,
"Mantua," the shadow, in itself absorb'd,
Rose towards us from the place in which it stood,
And cried, "Mantuan! I am thy countryman, Sordello."
Each the other then embraced.
. . . . . . . . .
After their courteous greetings joyfully
Seven times exchanged, Sordello backward drew
Exclaiming, "Who are ye?"--"Before this mount
By spirits worthy of ascent to God
Was sought, my bones had by Octavius care
Been buried. I am Virgil; for no sin
Deprived of heaven, except for lack of faith."
So answer'd him in few my gentle guide.
. . . . . . . . . . .
"Glory of Latium!" he exclaim'd,
"In whom our tongue its utmost power display'd;
Boast of my honour'd birth-place I what desert
Of mine, what favour, rather, undeserved,
Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voice
Am worthy, say if from below thou comest,
And from what cloister's pale."--"Through every orb
Of that sad region," he replied, "thus far
Am I arrived, by heavenly influence led:
And with such aid I come. Not for my doing,
But for not doing, have I lost the sight
Of that high Sun, whom thou desirest, and who
By me too late was known. There is a place[1]
There underneath, not made by torments sad,
But by dun shades alone; where mourning's voice
Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs.
There I with little innocents abide,
Who by death's fangs were bitten, ere exempt
From human taint. There I with those abide,
Who the three holy virtues put not on,
But understood the rest, and without blame
Follow'd them all. But if thou know'st and canst,
Direct us how we soonest may arrive,
Where Purgatory its true beginning takes."
He answer'd thus: "We have no certain place
Assign'd us: upwards I may go, or round.
Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide.
But thou beholdest now how day declines;
And upwards to proceed by night, our power
Excels: therefore it may be well to choose
A place of pleasant sojourn. To the right
Some spirits sit apart retired. If thou
Consentest, I to these will lead thy steps:
And thou wilt know them, not without delight."
[1] A place there underneath. Limbo. See first selection from the
Divine Comedy.
III. The Angel of the Gate.--From the Purgatorio.
The poets spend the night in this valley with Sordello and other
spirits. In the morning they ascend to the gates of the real
Purgatory. These are kept by an angel deputed by St. Peter.
Ashes, or earth taken dry out of the ground,
Were of one colour with the robe he wore.
From underneath that vestment forth he drew
Two keys, of metal twain: the one was gold,
Its fellow silver. With the pallid first,
And next the burnish'd, he so ply'd the gate,
As to content me well. "Whenever one
Faileth of these, that in the key-hole straight
It turn not, to this alley then expect
Access in vain." Such were the words he spake.
"One is more precious[1]: but the other needs,
Skill and sagacity, large share of each,
Ere its good task to disengage the knot
Be worthily perform'd.
From Peter these I hold, of him instructed that I err
Rather in opening, than in keeping fast;
So but the suppliant at my feet implore."
Then of that hallow'd gate he thrust the door,
Exclaiming, "Enter, but this warning hear:
He forth again departs who looks behind."
As in the hinges of that sacred ward
The swivels turn'd sonorous metal strong,
Harsh was the grating, nor so surlily
Roar'd the Tarpeian, when by force bereft Of good
Metellus, thenceforth from his loss
To leanness doom'd. Attentively I turn'd,
Listening the thunder that first issued forth;
And "We praise thee, O God," methought I heard,
In accents blended with sweet melody,
The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound
Of choral voices, that in solemn chant
With organ mingle, and, now high and clear
Come swelling, now float indistinct away.
[1] One is more precious. The golden key is the divine authority
by which the priest gives absolution. The silver stands for the
learning and wisdom necessary for the priest.
IV. Beatrice Appears to Dante and Rebukes Him. From the
Purgatorio.
Inside the gates of Purgatory rise seven successive circles, in
which the seven deadly sins are purged; in the first, the sin of
pride; in the second, that of envy; in the third, anger; in the
fourth, lukewarmness; in the fifth, avarice; in the sixth,
gluttony; in the seventh, incontinence is purged by fire. Having
passed through all these, Dante and his guide ascend to the
summit of the mountain, the earthly Paradise. Here Virgil ceases
to guide the poet, but leaves him to choose for a while his own
way. To him here descends Beatrice who, before assuming his
further guidance, rebukes him for his manner of life on earth.
At the last audit, so
The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each
Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh;
As, on the sacred litter, at the voice
Authoritative of that elder, sprang
A hundred ministers and messengers
Of life eternal. "Blessed thou, who comest!"
And, "Oh!" they cried, "from full hands scatter ye
Unwithering lilies": and, so saying, cast
Flowers over head and round them on all sides.
I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,
The eastern clime all roseate; and the sky
Opposed, one deep and beautiful serene;
And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists
Attemper'd, at his rising, that the eye
Long while endured the sight: thus, in a cloud
Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,
And down within and outside of the car
Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreathed,
A virgin in my view appear'd, beneath
Green mantle, robed in hue of living flame:
And o'er my spirit, that so long a time
Had from her presence felt no shuddering dread,
Albeit mine eyes discern'd her not, there moved
A hidden virtue from her, at whose touch
The power of ancient love was strong within me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Upon the chariot's same edge still she stood,
Immovable; and thus address'd her words:
"I shape mine answer, for his ear intended,
Who there stands weeping;[1] that the sorrow now
May equal the transgression. Not alone
Through operation of the mighty orbs,
That mark each seed to some predestined aim,
As with aspect or fortunate or ill
The constellations meet; but through benign
Largess of heavenly graces, which rain down
From such a height as mocks our vision, this man
Was, in the freshness of his being, such,
So gifted virtually, that in him
All better habits wonderously had thrived
He more of kindly strength is in the soil,
So much doth evil seed and lack of culture
Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness.
These looks sometime upheld him; for I showed
My youthful eyes, and led him by their light
In upright walking. Soon as I had reach'd
The threshold of my second age, and changed
My mortal for immortal; then he left me,
And gave himself to others. When from flesh
To spirit I had risen, and increase
Of beauty and of virtue circled me,
I was less dear to him, and valued less.
His steps were turn'd into deceitful ways,
Following false images of good, that make
No promise perfect. Nor availed me aught
To sue for inspirations, with the which,
I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise,
Did call him back; of them, so little reck'd him.
Such depth he fell, that all device was short
Of his preserving, save that he should view
The children of perdition. To this end
I visited the purlieus of the dead:
And one, who hath conducted him thus high,
Received my supplications urged with weeping.
It were a breaking of God's high decree,
If Lethe should be past, and such food[3] tasted,
Without the cost of some repentant tear."
[1] Who there stands weeping. Dante.
[2] Such food. The oblivion of sins.
The third part of the Divine Comedy is the vision of Paradise.
Dante's Paradise is divided into ten heavens, or spheres. Through
these in succession the poet is conducted by Beatrice, until in
the tenth heaven, or the Empyrean, he comes into the visible
presence of God.
I. The Visible Presence. From the Paradiso.
O eternal beam!
(Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?)
Yield me again some little particle
Of what thou then appearedst; give my tongue
Power' but to leave one sparkle of thy glory,
Unto the race to come' that shall not lose
Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught
Of memory in me, and endure to hear
The record sound in this unequal strain.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
O grace, unenvying of thy boon! that gavest
Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken
On the everlasting splendour, that I look'd,
While sight was unconsumed; and, in that depth,
Saw in one volume clasp'd of love, whate'er
The universe unfolds; all properties
Of substance and of accident, beheld,
Compounded, yet one individual light
The whole.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
In that abyss
Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd, methought,
Three orbs of triple hue,[1] clipt in one bound:
And, from another, one reflected seem'd,
As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third
Seem'd fire, breathed equally from both.
O speech! How feeble and how faint art thou, to give
Conception birth. Yet this to what I saw
Is less than little.
O eternal light!
Sole in thyself that dwell'st; and of thyself
Sole understood' past' present, or to come;
Thou smile'st, on that circling, which in thee
Seem'd as reflected splendour, while I mused;
For I therein, methought, in its own hue
Beheld our image painted: stedfastly
I therefore pored upon the view. As one,
Who versed in geometric lore, would fain
Measure the circle; and, though pondering long
And deeply, that beginning, which he needs,
Finds not: e'en such was I, intent to scan
The novel wonder, and trace out the form,
How to the circle fitted, and therein
How placed: but the flight was not for my wing:
Had not a flash darted athwart my mind,
And, in the spleen, unfolded what is sought.
Here vigour fail'd the towering fantasy:
But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel
In even motion' by the love impell'd,
That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars.
[1] Three orbs of triple hue. The Trinity.
Next after Dante, the first name of importance in Italian
literature is that of Francesca Petrarca, called Petrarch in
English. He was the son of a Florentine exile, was born at Aruzzo
in 1304, and died at Padua in 1374. He was a scholar and a
diplomat, and was entrusted with many public services. Most of
his active life he spent at Avignon, at the papal court, or in
Vaucluse near by. When he was twenty-three, he met Laura, the
beautiful woman with whom he was always after in love, and who
was the inspiration of all his lyric poetry. She was the daughter
of a citizen of Avignon, and was married, probably to Ugo de Sade
of Avignon. She was a good woman whose character was ever above
reproach. Petrarch was a very industrious writer. He produced
many letters and treatises in Latin, besides a long Latin epic
Africa. But his great and deserved fame rests upon his Italian
lyric poetry--the Canzoniere. The Canzoniere is divided into
three parts: the poems to Laura in life; to Laura in death; and
the Triumphs. The Triumphs are inferior in merit to the other two
parts. He had studied closely the Provencall poets, and had
something of their spirit.
I. To Laura in Life.
SONNET III. HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD
FRIDAY).
'Twas on the morn' when heaven its blessed ray
In pity to its suffering master veil'd,
First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,
Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.
Ah! little reck'd I that, on such a day,
Needed against Love's arrows any shield;
And trod' securely trod, the fatal field:
Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.
On every side Love found his victim bare,
And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;
Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:
But poor the triumph of his boasted art,
Who thus could pierce a naked youth nor dare
To you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!
--Wrangham.
SONNET XIV. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIM.
The palmer bent, with locks of silver gray,
Quits the sweet spot where he has pass'd his years,
Quits his poor family, whose anxious fears
Paint the loved father fainting on his way;
And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne,
In these last days that close his earthly course,
He, in his soul's strong purpose, finds new force,
Though weak with age, though by long travel worn:
Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love,
He seeks the image of that Saviour Lord
Whom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above:
So, oft in other forms I seek to trace
Some charm, that to my heart may yet afford
A faint resemblance of thy matchless grace.
--Dacre
SONNET XCVIII. LEAVE-TAKING.
There was a touching paleness on her face,
Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made
Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace,
As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade;
Then knew I how the blessed ones above
Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss,
For never yet was look of mortal love
So pure, so tender, so serene as this.
The softest glance fond woman ever sent
To him she loved, would cold and rayless be
Compared to this, which she divinely bent
Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me,
That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say,
"Who takes from me my faithful friend away?"
-E.(New Monthly Magazine.)
SESTINA VII. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPING FROM HIS TORMENTS.
Count the ocean's finny droves;
Count the twinkling host of stars,
Round the night's pale orb that moves;
Count the groves' wing'd choristers;
Count each verdant blade that grows;
Counted then will be my woes.
. . . . . . . .
Sad my nights; from morn till eve,
Tenanting the woods, I sigh:
But, ere I shall cease to grieve,
Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,
Suns their light from moons shall gain,
And spring wither on each plain.
Pensive, weeping, night and day,
From this shore to that I fly,
Changeful as the lunar ray;
And, when evening veils the sky,
Then my tears might swell the floods,
Then my sighs might bow the woods!
Towns I hate, the shades I love;
For relief to yon green height,
Where the rill resounds, I rove
At the grateful calm of night;
There I wait the day's decline,
For the welcome moon to shine.
Song, that on the wood-hung stream
In the silent hour wert born,
Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam,
Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,
Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,
There with Laura to remain!
--Nott.
II. To Laura in Death.
SONNET 1. ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.
Woe for the 'witching look of that fair face!
The port where ease with dignity combined!
Woe for those accents' that each savage mind
To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base!
And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,
Which now leaves death my only hope behind!
Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined,
But that too late she came this earth to grace!
For you I still must burn, and breathe in you;
For I was ever yours; of you bereft,
Full little now I reck all other care.
With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through,
When last my only joy on earth I left--
But caught by winds each word was lost in air.
--Anon, Ox., 1795.
SONNET XLII. THE SPRING ONLY RENEWS HIS GRIEF.
The soft west wind, returning, brings again
Its lovely family of herbs and flowers;
Progne's gay notes and Philomela's strain
Vary the dance of springtide's rosy hours;
And joyously o'er every field and plain
Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,
And the warm spirit of reviving love
Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main.
But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly
Pour from the secret chambers of my heart,
Are all that spring returning brings to me;
And in the modest smile, or glance of art,
The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,
A desert's rugged tract and savage forms I see.
--Greene.
SONNET LII. HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.
I feel the well-known breeze, and the sweet hill
Again appears, where rose that beauteous light,
Which, while Heaven willed it, met my eyes, then bright
With gladness, but now dimmed with many an ill.
Vain hopes! weak thoughts! Now, turbid is the rill;
The flowers have drooped; and she hath ta'en her flight
From the cold nest, which once, in proud delight,
Living and dying, I had hoped to fill:
I hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze
Of her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart,
To taste the sweet reward of troubled days.
Thou, whom I serve, how hard and proud thou art!
Erewhile, thy flame consumed me; now, I mourn
Over the ashes which have ceased to burn.
--Roscoe.
CANZONE III. UNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE,
BEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURA.
While at my window late I stood alone,
So new and many things there cross'd my sight,
To view them I had almost weary grown.
A dappled mind appear'd upon the right,
In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride,
By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white,
Who tore in the poor side
Of that fair creature wounds so deep and wide,
That soon they forced her where ravine and rock
The onward passage block: Then triumph'd
Death her matchless beauties o'er,
And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.
. . . . . . .
In a fair grove a bright young laurel made--
Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!--
Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade,
From whose green depths there issued so sweet songs
Of various birds, and many a rare delight
Of eye and ear, what marvel from the world
They stole my senses quite!
While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around,
The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd,
Uprooted to the ground, That blessied birth.
Alas! for it laid low,
And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A lovely and rare bird within the wood,
Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd,
Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd,
Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd,
Flitting now here, now there, until it stood
Where buried fount and broken laurel lay,
And sadly seeing there
The fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare,
The channel dried--for all things to decay
So tend-it turn'd away
As if in angry scorn, and instant fled,
While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.
At length along the flowery award I saw
So sweet and fair a lady pensive move
That her mere thought inspires a tender awe;
Meek in herself, but haughty against Love,
Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fine
Seem'd gold and snow together there to join:
But, ah! each charm above
Was veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud:
Stung by a lurking shake, as flowers that pine
Her head she gently bow'd,
And joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure:
Alas I that in the world grief only should endure.
SONNET LXXXV. HE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO
SAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATH.
Love held me one and twenty years enchain'd,
His flame was joy--for hope was in my grief!
For ten more years I wept without relief,
When Laura with my heart, to heaven attain'd.
Now weary grown, my life I had arraign'd
That in its error, check'd (to my belief)
Blest virtue's seeds-now, in my yellow leaf,
I grieve the mispent years, existence stain'd.
Alas! it might have sought a brighter goal,
In flying troublous thoughts, and winning peace;
O Father! I repentant seek thy throne:
Thou, in this temple hast enshrined my soul,
Oh, bless me yet, and grant its safe release!
Unjustified--my sin I humbly own.
--Wollaston.
SONNET XC. THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS HIS KEENER
SORROW.
Poor, solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay,
Or haply mournest the sweet season gone,
As chilly night and winter hurry on,
And daylight fades, and summer flies away!
If, as the cares that swell thy little throat,
Thou knew'st alike the woes that wound my rest.
O, thou wouldst house thee
In this kindred breast,
And mix with mine thy melancholy note!
Yet little know I ours are kindred ills:
She still may live the object of thy song:
Not so for me stern Death or Heaven wills!
But the sad reason, and less grateful hour,
And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng,
Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour.
FROM THE DECAMERON.
The third great name in Italian mediaeval literature is that of
Giovanni Boccaccio. He was born in Paris in 1313, and died at
Certaldo in 1345. Like Dante and Petrarch he was a scholar and an
industrious writer. He wrote some important historical treatises,
and many poems, some of which attained some fame. But it is as a
writer of prose that he deserves the name he has. In Italy, as in
all other lands, there was in the Middle Ages a large body of
tales and fables in circulation. In Italy, during the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries, these tales came into literature as
Novellas or novels. The Decamerone of Boccaccio is a collection
of a hundred such novels or tales. They are derived from many
sources, probably not more than three or four of them being
invented by Boccaccio. The tale we select is interesting as
furnishing the basis for one of Keats' beautiful romantic
ballads.
THE POT OF BASIL.
There lived, then at Messina, three young merchants, who were
brothers, and left very rich by their father; they had an only
sister, a lady of worth and beauty, who was unmarried. Now, they
kept a youth, by way of factor, to manage their affairs, called
Lorenzo, one of a very agreeable person, who, being often in
Isabella's company, and finding himself no way disagreeable to
her, confined all his wishes to her only, which in some little
time had their full effect. This affair was carried on between
them for a considerable time, without the least suspicion; till
one night it happened, as she was going to his chamber, that the
eldest brother saw her, without her knowing it. This afflicted
him greatly; yet, being a prudent man, he made no discovery, but
lay considering with himself till morning, what course was best
for them to take. He then related to his brothers what he had
seen, with regard to their sister and Lorenzo, and, after a long
debate, it was resolved to seem to take no notice of it for the
present, but to make away with him privately, the first
opportunity, that they might remove all cause of reproach both to
their sister and themselves. Continuing in this resolution, they
behaved with the same freedom and civility to Lorenzo as ever,
till at length, under a pretense of going out of the city, upon a
party of pleasure, they carried him along with them, and arriving
at a lonesome place, fit for their purpose, they slew him,
unprepared to make any defence, and buried him there; then,
returning to Messina, they gave it out that they had sent him on
a journey of business, which was easily believed, because they
frequently did so. In some time, she, thinking that he made a
long stay, began to inquire earnestly of her brothers concerning
him, and this she did so often, that at last one of them said to
her, "What have you to do with Lorenzo, that you are continually
teasing us about him? If you inquire any more, you shall receive
such an answer as you will by no means approve of." This grieved
her exceedingly; and, fearing she knew not why, she remained
without asking any more questions; yet all the night would she
lament and complain of his long stay; and thus she spent her life
in a tedious and anxious waiting for his return; till one night
it happened, that having wept herself asleep, he appeared to her
in a dream, all pale and ghastly, with his clothes rent in
pieces; and she thought he spoke to her thus: "My dear Isabel,
thou grievest incessantly for my absence, and art continually
calling upon me: but know that I can return no more to thee, for
the last day that thou sawest me, thy brothers put me to death."
And, describing the place where they had buried him, he bid her
call no more upon him, nor ever expect to see him again, and
disappeared. She, waking, and giving credit to the vision,
lamented exceedingly; and, not daring to say anything to her
brethren, resolved to go to the place mentioned in the dream, to
be convinced of the reality of it. Accordingly, having leave to
go a little way into the country, along with a companion of hers,
who was acquainted with all her affairs, she went thither, and
clearing the ground of the dry leaves with which it was covered,
she observed where the earth seemed to be lightest, and dug
there. She had not searched far before she came to her lover's
body, which she found in no degree wasted; this confirmed her of
the truth of her vision, and she was in the utmost concern on
that account; but, as that was not a fit place for lamentation,
she would willingly have taken the corpse away with her, to have
given it a more decent interment; but, finding herself unable to
do that, she cut off his head, which she put into a handkerchief,
and, covering the trunk again with the mould, she gave it to her
maid to carry, and returned home without being perceived. She
then shut herself up in her chamber, and lamented over it till it
was bathed in her tears, which being done, she put it into a
flower pot, having folded it in a fine napkin, and covering it
with earth, she planted sweet herbs therein, which she watered
with nothing but rose or orange water, or else with her tears;
accustoming herself to sit always before it, and devoting her
whole heart unto it, as containing her dear Lorenzo. The sweet
herbs, what with her continual bathing, and the moisture arising
from the putrified head, flourished exceedingly, and sent forth a
most agreeable odour. Continuing this manner of life, she was
observed by some of the neighbours, and they related her conduct
to her brothers, who had before remarked with surprise the decay
of her beauty. Accordingly, they reprimanded her for it, and,
finding that ineffectual, stole the pot from her. She, perceiving
that it was taken away, begged earnestly of them to restore it,
which they refusing, she fell sick. The young men wondered much
why she should have so great a fancy for it, and were resolved to
see what it contained: turning out the earth, therefore, they saw
the napkin, and in it the head, not so much consumed, but that,
by the curled locks, they knew it to be Lorenzo's, which threw
them into the utmost astonishment, and fearing lest it should be
known, they buried it privately, and withdrew themselves from
thence to Naples. The young lady never ceased weeping, and
calling for her pot of flowers, till she died; and thus
terminated her unfortunate love. But, in some time afterwards,
the thing became public, which gave rise to this song:
Most cruel and unkind was he,
That of my flowers deprived me, &c.