THE EARLY ITALIAN POETS.
The rights of translation and reproduction, as regards
all editorial parts
of this work, are reserved.
WHATEVER IS MINE IN THIS BOOK
IS INSCRIBED TO MY WIFE.
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 would be admitted that the tributary
art might
find a not illegitimate use in the case of poems which
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
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 literality,
—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”
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
literary 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: often
would some cadence
serve him but for his author's structure—some
struc-
ture but for his author's cadence: often the beautiful
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 drawn 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.
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 made 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.
<xref doc="a.browning002.rad" link="dead">Sordello</xref>
, by
Robert Browning
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.
* 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 very
desirable.
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
difficult; but much of this might, of course,
be dependent on the inferior dialect of Sicily,
mixed
however in this instance (as far as I can judge)
with
mere nondescript patois.
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 be “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.
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 Religious Order called Franciscans.
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
Italian
language, in preference to the many others
with which he was familiar. The poem of his which
I give
has great passionate beauty; yet I believe
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.
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 was 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 years. 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.
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 years afterwards. The highest praise has
been
bestowed by Dante on Guinicelli, in the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Commedia</xref>
,
(Purg. C. xxvi.) in the
<xref doc="a.dante001.rad" link="dead">Convito</xref>
, and in the