Rossetti Archive Textual Transcription

Document Title: The Collected Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, vol. 2 (1886)
Author: Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Date of publication: 1886
Publisher: Ellis and Scrutton
Printer: Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury
Edition: 2

The full Rossetti Archive record for this transcribed document is available.

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Manuscript Addition: Charles H. Forbes / from G. S. F.
Editorial Description: inscription written in cursive black ink.
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THE COLLECTED WORKS

OF

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
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THE COLLECTED WORKS

OF

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI




EDITED

WITH PREFACE AND NOTES

BY

WILLIAM M ROSSETTI




IN TWO VOLUMES



VOLUME II

TRANSLATIONS

PROSE—NOTICES OF FINE ART




ELLIS AND SCRUTTON

LONDON


1886

All rights reserved

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Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
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Note: The word PAGE is printed at the top of each column of numbers in the table of contents.
CONTENTS.
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TRANSLATIONS.
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DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE:

With the Italian Poets preceding Him.

(1100—1200—1300).



A COLLECTION OF LYRICS.

TRANSLATED IN THE ORIGINAL METRES.



PART I.


Dante's Vita Nuova, etc.

Poets of Dante's Circle.



PART II.

Poets chiefly before Dante.
Note: All of the signatures in this edition are prefixed with “ VOL. II.
Sig. b
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TO MY MOTHER

I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION

OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE.


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Advertisement to the Edition of 1874.


In re-entitling and re-arranging this book (originally

published in 1861 as The Early Italian Poets ,) my

object has been to make more evident at a first glance

its important relation to Dante. The Vita Nuova,

together with the many among Dante's lyrics and those

of his contemporaries which elucidate their personal

intercourse, are here assembled, and brought to my

best ability into clear connection, in a manner not

elsewhere attempted even by Italian or German

editors.
Note: In the 2nd line of this page, the punctuation appears inappropriately within, rather than without, the close paranthesis bracket, a practice that is consistent throughout the 1874 edition but was corrected only inconsistently in the 1886.
Note: In the 6th line of this page "elucidate" appears with the letters c and d transposed.
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Preface to the First Edition

(1861).



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 un-

approached 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 inexperienced, 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 first division),

would have inclined me to bestow the time and trouble

which have resulted 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
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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 coup-de-grâce has almost been

dealt them by clumsy transcription and pedantic super-

structure. At this stage the task of talking much more

about them in any language is hardly to be entered

upon; and a translation (involving as it does the

necessity of settling many points without discussion,)

remains perhaps the most direct form of commentary.
The life-blood of rhythmical translation is this com-

mandment,—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, liter-

ality of rendering is altogether secondary to this chief

law. I say literality,—not fidelity, which is by no

means the same thing. When literality can be com-

bined 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 derived

from an effort to follow this principle; and, in some

degree, from the fact that such painstaking in arrange-

ment 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.
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That there are many defects in this collection,

or that the above merit is its defect, or that it

has 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 series 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 exigencies

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 structure 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
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the matter; but no,— he must deal to each alike. Some-

times 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 consideration 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
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traffic, the ships which have been long outstripped and

the ensigns which are grown strange.
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. An array of

modern editions hardly looks so imposing as might a

reference to Allacci, Crescimbeni, etc.; but these older

collections would be found less accessible, and all they

contain has been reprinted.
I. Poeti del primo secolo della Lingua Italiana.

2 vol. (Firenze. 1816.)
II. Raccolta di Rime antiche Toscane. 4 vol.

(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. Fra-

ticelli. (Firenze. 1843, etc.)
VI. Rime di Guido Cavalcanti; raccolte da A. Cic-

ciaporci. (Firenze. 1813.)
VII. Vita e Poesie di Messer Cino da Pistoia. Edi-

zione di S. Ciampi. (Pisa. 1813.)
VIII. Documenti d'Amore; di Francesco da Barbe-

rino. Annotati da F. Ubaldini. (Roma. 1640.)
IX. Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle Donne; di

Francesco da Barberino. (Roma. 1815.)
X. Il Dittamondo di Fazio degli Uberti. (Milano.

1826.)
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CONTENTS.

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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

( ENGLISH AND ITALIAN.)

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  • A certain youthful lady in Thoulouse

    Una giovine donna di Tolosa . . . . 123
  • A day agone as I rode sullenly

    Cavalcando l'altrier per un cammino . . . 40
  • A fresh content of fresh enamouring

    Novella gioia e nova innamoranza . . . 369
  • A gentle thought there is will often start

    Gentil pensiero che parla di vui . . . . 90
  • A lady in whom love is manifest

    La bella donna dove Amor si mostra . . . 142
  • Alas for me who loved a falcon well

    Tapina me che amava uno sparviero . . . 398
  • Albeit my prayers have not so long delay'd

    Avvegna ched io m'aggio più per tempo . . . 164
  • A little wild bird sometimes at my ear

    Augelletto selvaggio per stagione . . . . 401
  • All my thoughts always speak to me of Love

    Tutti li miei pensier parlan d'Amore . . . 46
  • All the whole world is living without war

    Tutto lo mondo vive senza guerra . . . 255
  • All ye that pass along Love's trodden way

    O voi che per la via d'amor passate . . . 36
  • Along the road all shapes must travel by

    Per quella via che l'altre forme vanno . . . 215
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  • A man should hold in very dear esteem

    Ogni uomo deve assai caro tenere . . . 324
  • Among my thoughts I count it wonderful

    Pure a pensar mi par gran meraviglia . . . 270
  • Among the dancers I beheld her dance

    Alla danza la vidi danzare . . . . 364
  • Among the faults we in that book descry

    Infra gli altri difetti del libello . . . . 177
  • And every Wednesday as the swift days move

    Ogni Mercoledì corredo grande . . . . 344
  • And in September O what keen delight

    Di Settembre vi do diletti tanti . . . . 339
  • And now take thought my Sonnet who is he

    Sonetto mio, anda o' lo divisi . . . . 341
  • And on the morrow at first peep o' the day

    Alla domane al parere del giorno . . . . 346
  • As I walked thinking through a little grove

    Passando con pensier per un boschetto . . . 396
  • As thou wert loth to see before thy feet

    Se non ti caggia la tua Santalena . . . 202
  • A spirit of Love with Love's intelligence

    Ispirito d'Amor con intelletto . . . . 367
  • A thing is in my mind

    Venuto m' è in talento . . . . 274
  • At whiles yea oftentimes I muse over

    Spesse fiate venemi alla mente . . . . 51
  • A very pitiful lady very young

    Donna pietosa e di novella etate . . . . 65
  • Ay me alas the beautiful bright hair

    Ohimè lasso quelle treccie bionde . . . . 173
  • Ballad since Love himself hath fashioned thee

    Ballata poi che ti compose Amore . . . . 208
  • Beauty in woman the high will's decree

    Beltà di donna e di saccente core . . . . 118
  • Because I find not whom to speak withal

    Poich' io non trovo chi meco ragioni . . . 110
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  • Because I think not ever to return

    Perch' io non spero di tornar giammai . . . 149
  • Because mine eyes can never have their fill

    Poichè saziar non posso gli occhi miei . . . 100
  • Because ye made your backs your shields it came

    Guelfi per fare scudo delle reni . . . . 330
  • Being in thought of love I chanced to see

    Era in pensier d' amor quand' io trovai . . . 124
  • Be stirring girls we ought to have a run

    State su donne che debbiam noi fare . . . 394
  • Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space

    Oltre la spera che più larga gira . . . . 94
  • By a clear well within a little field

    Intorno ad una fonte in un pratello . . . 230
  • By the long sojourning

    Per lunga dimoranza . . . . . 319
  • Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing

    Sei tu colui ch' hai trattato sovente . . . 62
  • Dante Alighieri a dark oracle

    Dante Alighieri son Minerva oscura . . . 227
  • Dante Alighieri Cecco your good friend

    Dante Alighier Cecco tuo servo e amico . . . 183
  • Dante Alighieri if I jest and lie

    Dante Alighier s'io son buon begolardo . . . 205
  • Dante Alighieri in Becchina's praise

    Lassar vuol lo trovare di Becchina . . . 192
  • Dante a sigh that rose from the heart's core

    Dante un sospiro messagger del core . . . 128
  • Dante if thou within the sphere of Love

    Dante se tu nell' amorosa spera . . . . 228
  • Dante since I from my own native place

    Poich' io fui Dante dal mio natal sito . . . 109
  • Dante whenever this thing happeneth

    Dante quando per caso s'abbandona . . . 167
  • Death alway cruel Pity's foe in chief

    Morte villana di Pietà nemica . . . . 38
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  • Death since I find not one with whom to grieve

    Morte poich' io non trovo a cui mi doglia . . 104
  • Death why hast thou made life so hard to bear

    Morte perchè m' hai fatto sì gran guerra . . . 303
  • Do not conceive that I shall here recount

    Non intendiate ch' io qui le vi dica . . . 371
  • Each lover's longing leads him naturally

    Naturalmente chere ogni amadore . . . 163
  • Even as the day when it is yet at dawning

    Come lo giorno quando è al mattino . . . 358
  • Even as the moon among the stars doth shed

    Come le stelle sopra la Diana . . . . 366
  • Even as the others mock thou mockest me

    Con l'altre donne mia vista gabbate . . . 49
  • Fair sir this love of ours

    Messer lo nostro amore . . . . . 308
  • Flowers hast thou in thyself and foliage

    Avete in voi li fiori e la verdura . . . . 117
  • For a thing done repentance is no good

    A cosa fatta già non val pentire . . . . 196
  • For August be your dwelling thirty towers

    D'Agosto sì vi do trenta castella . . . . 338
  • For certain he hath seen all perfectness

    Vede perfettamente ogni salute . . . . 74
  • For grief I am about to sing

    Di dolor mi conviene cantare . . . . 259
  • For January I give you vests of skins

    Io dono vai nel mese di Gennaio . . . . 335
  • For July in Siena by the willow-tree

    Di Luglio in Siena sulla saliciata. . . 338
  • For no love borne by me

    Non per ben ch' io ti voglia. . . . 400
  • For Thursday be the tournament prepared

    Ed ogni Giovedì torniamento . . . . 344
  • Friend well I know thou knowest well to bear

    Amico saccio ben che sai limare . . . . 137
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  • Glory to God and to God's Mother chaste

    Lode di Dio e della Madre pura . . . . 216
  • Gramercy Death as you've my love to win

    Morte mercè sì ti priego e m'è in grato . . . 200
  • Guido an image of my lady dwells

    Una figura della donna mia . . . . 121
  • Guido I wish that Lapo thou and I

    Guido vorrei che tu e Lape ed io . . . . 127
  • Guido that Gianni who a day agone

    Guido quel Gianni che a te fù l'altrieri . . . 138
  • Hard is it for a man to please all men

    Greve puot' uom piacere a tutta gente . . . 272
  • He that has grown to wisdom hurries not

    Uomo ch' è saggio non corre leggiero . . . 269
  • Her face has made my life most proud and glad

    Lo viso mi fa andare allegramente. . . 288

  • I am afar but near thee is my heart

    Lontan vi son ma presso v' è lo core . . . . 356
  • I am all bent to glean the golden ore

    Io mi son dato tutto a tragger oro . . . 168
  • I am enamoured and yet not so much

    Io sono innamorato ma non tanto. . . . 184
  • I am so passing rich in poverty

    Eo son si ricco della povertate . . . . 307
  • I am so out of love through poverty

    La povertà m' ha sì disamorato . . . 198
  • I come to thee by daytime constantly

    Io vegno il giorno a te infinite volte . . . 144
  • I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir

    Io mi sentii svegliar dentro dal core . . . 69
  • If any his own foolishness might see

    Chi conoscesse sì la sua fallanza . . . . 295
  • If any man would know the very cause

    Se alcun volesse la cagion savere . . . . 271
  • If any one had anything to say

    Chi Messer Ugolin biasma o riprende . . . 362
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  • If as thou say'st thy love tormented thee

    Se vi stringesse quanto dite amore . . . . 327
  • If Dante mourns there wheresoe'er he be

    Se Dante piange dove ch' el si sia . . . . 227
  • If I'd a sack of florins and all new

    S' io avessi un sacco di fiorini . . . . 188
  • If I entreat this lady that all grace

    S' io prego questa donna che pietate . . . 133
  • If I were fire I'd burn the world away

    S' io fossi foco arderei lo mondo . . . . 195
  • If I were still that man worthy to love

    S' io fossi quello che d'amor fù degno . . . 127
  • If thou hadst offered friend to blessed Mary

    Se avessi detto amico di Maria . . . . 122
  • If you could see fair brother how dead beat

    Fratel se tu vedessi questa gente . . . . 370
  • I give you horses for your games in May

    Di Maggio sì vi do molti cavagli . . . . 337
  • I give you meadow-lands in April fair

    D'Aprile vi do la gentil campagna . . . 336
  • I have it in my heart to serve God so

    Io m'aggio posto in core a Dio servire . . . 279
  • I hold him verily of mean emprise

    Tegno di folle impresa allo ver dire . . . . 267
  • I know not Dante in what refuge dwells

    Dante io non odo in qual albergo suoni . . . 111
  • I laboured these six years

    Sei anni ho travagliato . . . . . 293
  • I look at the crisp golden-threaded hair

    Io miro i crespi e gli biondi capegli . . . 381
  • I'm caught like any thrush the nets surprise

    Babbo Becchina Amore e mia madre . . . . 193
  • I'm full of everything I do not want

    Io ho tutte le cose ch' io non voglio . . . 189
  • In February I give you gallant sport

    Di Febbraio vi dono bella caccia . . . 335
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  • In March I give you plenteous fisheries

    Di Marzo sì vi do una peschiera . . . . 336
  • In June I give you a close-wooded fell

    Di Giugno dovvi una montagnetta . . . 337
  • I play this sweet prelude

    Dolce cominciamento . . . . . 354
  • I pray thee Dante shouldst thou meet with Love

    Se vedi Amore assai ti prego Dante . . . 129
  • I thought to be for ever separate

    Io mi credea del tutto esser partito . . . 108
  • I've jolliest merriment for Saturday

    E il Sabato diletto ed allegranza . . . . 345
  • I was upon the high and blessed mound

    Io fui in sull' alto e in sul beato monte . . . 172
  • I would like better in the grace to be

    Io vorrei innanzi in grazia ritornare . . . 201
  • Just look Manetto at that wry-mouthed minx

    Guarda Manetto quella sgrignutuzza . . . 147
  • Ladies that have intelligence in Love

    Donne che avete intelletto d'Amore . . . 54
  • Lady my wedded thought

    La mia amorosa mente . . . . . 312
  • Lady of Heaven the Mother glorified

    Donna del cielo gloriosa madre . . . . 306
  • Lady with all the pains that I can take

    Donna io forzeraggio lo podere . . . . 352
  • Last All-Saints' holy-day even now gone by

    Di donne io vidi una gentile schiera . . . 97
  • Last for December houses on the plain

    E di Dicembre una città in piano . . . 340
  • Let baths and wine-butts be November's due

    E di Novembre petriuolo e il bagno . . . 340
  • Let Friday be your highest hunting-tide

    Ed ogni Venerdì gran caccia e forte . . . 345
  • Let not the inhabitants of hell despair

    Non si disperin quelli dello Inferno . . . 203
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  • Lo I am she who makes the wheel to turn

    Io son la donna che volgo la rota . . . . 151
  • Love and the gentle heart are one same thing

    Amore e cor gentil son una cosa . . . . 58
  • Love and the Lady Lagia Guido and I

    Amore e Monna Lagia e Guido ed io . . . 130
  • Love hath so long possessed me for his own

    Sì lungamente m' ha tenuto Amore . . . 75
  • Love I demand to have my lady in fee

    Amore io chero mia donna in domino . . . 207
  • Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth

    Color d'amore e di pietà sembianti . . . 87
  • Love since it is thy will that I return

    Perchè to piace Amore ch' io ritorni . . . 101
  • Love steered my course while yet the Sun rode high

    Guidommi Amor ardendo ancora il Sole . . . 229
  • Love taking leave my heart then leaveth me

    Amor s'eo parto il cor si parte e dole . . . 328
  • Love will not have me cry

    Amor non vuol ch' io clami . . . . 284
  • Many there are praisers of poverty

    Molti son quei che lodan povertade . . . 212
  • Marvellously elate

    Maravigliosamente . . . . . 280
  • Master Bertuccio you are called to account

    Messer Bertuccio a dritto uom vi cagiona . . . 361
  • Master Brunetto this my little maid

    Messer Brunetto questa pulzelletta . . . 96
  • Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring

    Videro gli occhi miei quanta pietate . . . 86
  • My body resting in a haunt of mine

    Poso il corpo in un loco mio pigliando . . . 320
  • My curse be on the day when first I saw

    Io maladico il dì ch' io vidi imprima . . . 115
  • My heart's so heavy with a hundred things

    Io ho sì tristo il cor di cose cento . . . . 190
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  • My lady carries love within her eyes

    Negli occhi porta la mia donna amore . . . 59
  • My lady looks so gentle and so pure

    Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare . . . . 74
  • My lady mine I send

    Madonna mia a voi mando . . . . 286
  • My lady thy delightful high command

    Madonna vostro altero piacimento . . . 296
  • Nero thus much for tidings in thine ear

    Novella ti so dire odi Nerone . . . . 148
  • Never so bare and naked was church-stone

    Nel tempio santo non vid' io mai pietra . . . 199
  • Never was joy or good that did not soothe

    Gioia nè ben non è senza conforto . . . . 310
  • Next for October to some sheltered coign

    Di Ottobre nel cantà ch' ha buono stallo. . . 339
  • No man may mount upon a golden stair

    Non vi si monta per iscala d' oro . . . . 141
  • Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites

    Color di cener fatti son li Bianchi . . . 206
  • Now these four things, if thou

    Quattro cose chi vuole . . . . . 375
  • Now to Great Britain we must make our way

    Ora si passa nella Gran Bretagna . . . 384
  • Now when it flowereth

    Oramai quando flore . . . . . 277
  • Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer

    Quando la luna e la stella diana . . . . 343
  • O Bicci pretty son of who knows whom

    Bicci novel figliuol di non so cui . . . . 220
  • Often the day had a most joyful morn

    Spesso di gioia nasce ed incomenza . . . 321
  • Of that wherein thou art a questioner

    Di ciò che stato sei dimandatore . . . . 178
  • O Lady amorous

    Donna amorosa . . . . . . 349
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  • O Love O thou that for my fealty

    O tu Amore che m' hai fatto martire . . . 169
  • O Love who all this while hast urged me on

    Amor che lungamente m' hai menato . . . 347
  • On the last words of what you write to me

    Al motto diredan prima ragione . . . . 180
  • O Poverty by thee the soul is wrapped

    O Povertà come tu sei un manto . . . . 154
  • O sluggish hard ingrate what doest thou

    O lento pigro ingrato ignar che fai . . . 159
  • O thou that often hast within thine eyes

    O tu che porti negli occhi sovente . . . . 131
  • Pass and let pass this counsel I would give

    Per consiglio ti do dè passa passa . . . . 363
  • Prohibiting all hope

    Levandomi speranza . . . . . 329
  • Remembering this how Love

    Membrando ciò che Amore . . . . 289
  • Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son

    Ben so che fosti figliuol d'Alighieri . . . 220
  • Round her red garland and her golden hair

    Sovra li fior vermigli e i capei d' oro . . . 229
  • Sapphire nor diamond nor emerald

    Diamante nè smeraldo nè zaffino . . . . 283
  • Say wouldst thou guard thy son

    Vuoi guardar tuo figliuolo . . . . 380
  • Set Love in order thou that lovest me

    Ordina quest' Amore o tu che m' ami . . . 258
  • So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me

    Si m'abbellìo la vostra gran piacenza. . . 181
  • Song 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love

    Ballata io vo che tu ritruovi Amore . . . 44
  • Stay now with me and listen to my sighs

    Venite a intender li sospiri miei . . . . 82
  • Such wisdom as a little child displays

    Saver che sente un picciolo fantino . . . 314
  • Image of page xxxvii page: xxxvii
  • That lady of all gentle memories

    Era venuta nella mente mia . . . . 85
  • That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse

    Quest' altissima stella che si vede . . . . 211
  • The devastating flame of that fierce plague

    L' ardente fiamma della fiera peste. . . 156
  • The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear

    Il pessimo e il crudel odio che' io porto . . . 194
  • The eyes that weep for pity of the heart

    Gli occhi dolenti per pietà del core . . . 79
  • The flower of virtue is the heart's content

    Fior di virtù si è gentil coraggio . . . . 332
  • The fountain-head that is so bright to see

    Ciascuna fresca e dolce fontanella . . . . 140
  • The King by whose rich grace His servants be

    Lo Re che merta i suoi servi a ristoro . . . 217
  • The lofty worth and lovely excellence

    Lo gran valore e lo pregio amoroso . . . 291
  • The man who feels not more or less somewhat

    Chi non sente d' Amore o tanto o quanto . . 186
  • The other night I had a dreadful cough

    L' altra notte mi venne una gran tosse . . . 222
  • The sweetly-favoured face

    La dolce ciera piacente . . . . . 299
  • The thoughts are broken in my memory

    Ciò che m'incontra nella mente more . . . 50
  • The very bitter weeping that ye made

    L' amaro lagrimar che voi faceste . . . 88
  • There is a time to mount to humble thee

    Tempo vien di salire e di scendere . . . 262
  • There is a vice prevails

    Par che un vizio pur regni . . . . 377
  • There is a vice which oft

    Un vizio è che laudato . . . . . 373
  • There is among my thoughts the joyous plan

    Io ho pensato di fare un gioiello . . . . 342
  • Image of page xxxviii page: xxxviii
  • Think a brief while on the most marvellous arts

    Sè 'l subietto preclaro O Cittadini . . . 257
  • This book of Dante's very sooth to say

    In verità questo libel di Dante . . . . 176
  • This fairest lady who as well I wot

    Questa leggiadra donna ched io sento . . . 170
  • This fairest one of all the stars whose flame

    La bella stella che sua fiamma tiene . . . 399
  • This is the damsel by whom Love is brought

    Questa è la giovinetta ch' amor guida . . . 210
  • Thou sweetly-smelling fresh red rose

    Rosa fresca aulentissima . . . . . 245
  • Thou that art wise let wisdom minister

    Provvedi saggio ad esta visione . . . . 179
  • Thou well hast heard that Rollo had two sons

    Come udit' hai due figliuoli ebbe Rollo . . . 388
  • Though thou indeed hast quite forgotten ruth

    Se m'hai del tutto obliato mercede . . . 132
  • Through this my strong and new misaventure

    La forte e nova mia disavventura . . . . 134
  • To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song

    E il Martedì li do un nuovo mondo . . . 343
  • To every heart which the sweet pain doth move

    A ciascun' alma presa e gentil core . . . 33
  • To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough

    Chi udisse tossir la mal fatata . . . . 221
  • To see the green returning

    Quando veggio rinverdire . . . . . 301
  • To sound of trumpet rather than of horn

    A suon di tromba innanzi che di corno . . . 143
  • To the dim light and the large circle of shade

    Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d'ombra . . . 113
  • Two ladies to the summit of my mind

    Due donne in cima della mente mia . . . 112
  • Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth

    Vedesti al mio parere ogni valore . . . . 116
  • Image of page xxxix page: xxxix
  • Unto that lowly lovely maid I wis

    A quella amorosetta forosella . . . . 139
  • Unto the blithe and lordly fellowship

    Alla brigata nobile e cortese . . . . 333
  • Upon a day came Sorrow in to me

    Un dì si venne a me Melancolìa . . . . 107
  • Upon that cruel season when our Lord

    Quella crudel stagion che a giudicare . . . 325
  • Vanquished and weary was my soul in me

    Vinta e lassa era già l' anima mia . . . 171
  • Weep Lovers sith Love's very self doth weep

    Piangete amanti poi che piange Amore . . . 37
  • Were ye but constant Guelfs in war or peace

    Così faceste voi o guerra o pace . . . . . 333
  • Wert thou as prone to yield unto my prayer

    Così fossi tu acconcia di donarmi . . . . 368
  • Whatever good is naturally done

    Qualunque ben si fa naturalmente . . . 186
  • Whatever while the thought comes over me

    Quantunque volte lasso mi rimembra . . . 83
  • What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thee

    Quai son le cose vostre ch' io vi tolgo . . . 175
  • Whence come you all of you so sorrowful

    Onde venite voi così pensose . . . . 98
  • When God had finished Master Messerin

    Quando Iddio Messer Messerin fece . . . 360
  • When I behold Becchina in a rage

    Quando veggio Becchina corrucciata . . . 191
  • When Lucy draws her mantle round her face

    Chi vedesse a Lucia un var cappuzzo . . . 263
  • When the last greyness dwells throughout the air

    Quando l' aria comincia a farsi bruna . . . 399
  • Whether all grace have failed I scarce may scan

    Non so s' è mercè che mo veno a meno . . . 326
  • Whoever without money is in love

    Chi è senza denari innamorato . . . . 197
  • Image of page xl page: xl
  • Who is she coming whom all gaze upon

    Chi è questa che vien ch' ogn' uom la mira . . 119
  • Whoso abandons peace for war-seeking

    Chi va cherendo guerra e lassa pace . . . 315
  • Who utters of his father aught but praise

    Chi dice di suo padre altro che onore . . . 204
  • Why from the danger did not mine eyes start

    Perchè non furo a me gli occhi dispenti . . . 136
  • Why if Becchina's heart were diamond

    Se di Becchina il cor fosse diamante . . . 187
  • Within a copse I met a shepherd-maid

    In un boschetto trovai pastorella . . . . 145
  • Within the gentle heart Love shelters him

    Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore . . . 264
  • With other women I beheld my love

    Io vidi donne con la donna mia . . . . 120
  • Woe's me by dint of all these sighs that come

    Lasso per forza de' molti sospiri . . . . 91
  • Wonderful countenance and royal neck

    Viso mirabil gola morganata . . . . 182
  • Yea let me praise my lady whom I love

    Io vo del ver la mia donna lodare . . . 266
  • Ye graceful peasant-girls and mountain-maids

    Vaghe le montanine e pastorelle . . . . 392
  • Ye ladies walking past me piteous-eyed

    Voi donne che pietoso atto mostrate . . . 99
  • Ye pilgrim-folk advancing pensively

    Deh peregrini che pensosi andate . . . . 93
  • You that thus wear a modest countenance

    Voi che portate la sembianza umile . . . 61
  • Your joyful understanding lady mine

    Madonna vostra altera canoscenza . . . 316

Image of page [1] page: [1]
Note: ”Appealing” in line 16 appears to be a typo; in all likelihood, the “l” should be an “r.”
DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.

INTRODUCTION TO PART I.
In the first division of this volume 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 them most obscure) will

perceive how much which is in fact elucidation is here

attempted to be embodied in themselves, as to their

rendering, arrangement, 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 dishearten-

ing form, by which they can serve little purpose except

as testi di lingua—dead stock by whose help the makers

of dictionaries may smother the language with decayed

words. Appealing now I believe for the first time in

print, 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 (the Autobiography or Autopsycho-

logy 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.

It is, therefore, and on all accounts, unnecessary to say

Sig. 1
Image of page 2 page: 2
much more of the work here than it says for itself.

Wedded to its exquisite and intimate beauties are per-

sonal peculiarities which excite wonder and conjecture,

best replied to in the words which Beatrice herself is

made to utter in the Commedia: “Questi fù tal 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 mem-

bers 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 comprehen-

sion 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

refuge 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 Com-

media
, lifted up a mighty voice for warning and testi-

mony. Throughout the Vita Nuova there is a strain like

the first 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;


Transcribed Footnote (page 2):

* Purgatorio, C. xxx.

Image of page 3 page: 3
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 lifelike 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 this 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

his grief was sought in action and danger: for we learn

from the Commedia (Hell, 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 reminis-

cence to give life to a description, in his great way:—

  • “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.”
(Cayley'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 everything is a gain which

increases clearness to the modern reader; but on con

sideration 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

Note: The hyphen is missing after “con” in the fourth-to-last line above.
Image of page 4 page: 4
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 pro-

bability may be that both were meant, but this I cannot

convey.*

Transcribed Footnote (page 4):

* 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 fù chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non sapeano che si

chiamare.” On this passage all the commentators seem helpless,

turning it about and sometimes adopting alterations 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 mean-

ing. 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 this passage with the close of the sonnet at page 69 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 38)

about “Love in his proper form” (by 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 acci-

dent 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 fan-

tastic 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. Or to have recourse to the much

more welcome means of solution afforded by simple inherent

beauty: may not the meaning be merely that any person looking

on so noble and lovely a creation, without knowledge of her name,

must have spontaneously called her Beatrice,— i.e., the giver of

blessing? This would be analogous by antithesis to the transla-

tion I have adopted in my text.

Image of page 5 page: 5
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 Brunetto 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' Cavalcanti”

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 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 Guido's youth, seems capable of being gathered

from an extremely obscure poem, which I have trans-

lated on that account (at page 156) 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 religious 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 ex-

ploits as a soldier frequently abortive through the head-

strong ardour of partisanship, and causing the perversity

of a logician to prevail in much of his amorous poetry.
Image of page 6 page: 6
The writings of his contemporaries, as well as his own,

tend to show him rash in war, fickle in love, and pre-

sumptuous in belief; but also, by the same concurrent

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 Ghibellines.

With this view several alliances were formed between

the leading families of the two factions; and among

others, the Guelf Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti wedded his

son Guido to a daughter of the Ghibelline Farinata degli

Uberti. The peace was of short duration; the utter

expulsion of the Ghibellines (through French interven-

tion 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 Vieri 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 occurred, is probably not ascertainable;

but about that time Dante tells us that Guido was ena-

moured of a lady named Giovanna or Joan, and whose

Christian name is absolutely all that we know of her.

However, on the occasion of his pilgrimage to Thoulouse,

recorded by Dino Compagni, he seems to have conceived

a fresh passion for a lady of that city named Mandetta,

who first attracted him by a striking resemblance to his

Florentine mistress. Thoulouse had become a place of

pilgrimage from its laying claim to the possession of the

body, or part of the body, of St. James the Greater;

though the same supposed distinction had already made

the shrine of Compostella in Galicia one of the most

Image of page 7 page: 7
famous throughout all Christendom. That this devout

journey of Guido's had other results besides a new love

will be seen by the passage from Compagni's Chronicle.

He says:—
“A young and noble knight named Guido, son of Messer Caval-

cante 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 assassinate 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, thinking to be fol-

lowed 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; be-

cause, 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 dis-

parage him; and Guido he called Cavicchia.* And thus it was

spread abroad of the jongleurs; and especially one named Scam-

polino reported worse things than were said, that so the Cerchi

might be provoked to engage the Donati.”

Transcribed Footnote (page 7):

* A nickname chiefly chosen, no doubt, for its resemblance to

Cavalcanti. The word cavicchia, cavicchio, or caviglia, means 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 del culo in un cavicchio ). The haughty Corso Donati

Image of page 8 page: 8
The praise which Compagni, his contemporary, awards

to Guido at the commencement of the foregoing extract,

receives additional value when viewed in connection

with the sonnet addressed to him by the same writer

(see page 141), 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 representatives of

the various arts and companies. These proposals, how-

ever, were so ill received, that the legate, who arrived in

Florence in the month of June 1300, departed shortly

afterwards greatly incensed, leaving the city under a

papal interdict. In the ill-considered tumults which en-

sued we again hear of Guido Cavalcanti.
“It happened (says Giovanni Villani in his History of Florence)

that in the month of December (1300) Messer Corso Donati with

his followers, and also those of the house of the Cerchi and their

followers, going armed to the funeral of a lady of the Frescobaldi

family, this party defying that by their looks would have assailed

the one the other; whereby all those who were at the funeral

having risen up tumultuously and fled each to his house, the whole

city got under arms, both factions assembling in great numbers, at

their respective houses. Messer Gentile de' Cerchi, Guido Caval-

canti, 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

Dante, in the arduous position which he then filled as

chief of the nine Priori on whom the government of
Transcribed Footnote (page 8):

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 Chronicle, or the Pecorone of

Giovanni Fiorentino (Gior. xxiv. Nov. 2.)

Image of page 9 page: 9
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 pronouncing a sentence of banishment on the heads

of both the Black and White factions, Guido 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 republic to a French peace-maker ( Paciere),

and so shamefully free it from its intestine broils. It

appears 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 district of Massa Tra-

beria, 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 unhealthiness of the place, which made

that Guido Cavalcanti returned with a sickness, whereof

he died. And of him was a great loss; seeing that he

was a man, as in philosophy, so in many things deeply

versed; but therewithal too 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


Transcribed Footnote (page 9):

* “Troppo tenero e stizzoso.” I judge that “tenero” here is

rather to be interpreted as above than meaning “impression-

able” in love affairs, but cannot be certain.

Image of page 10 page: 10
time. Before Guido's return he had undertaken that

embassy to Rome which bore him the bitter fruit of un-

just 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 referred to

him in at least two passages of the Commedia. 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 elsewhere with high praise), and implies at the

same time, it would seem, a consciousness of his own

supremacy over both.
  • “Against all painters Cimabue thought
  • To keep the field. Now Giotto has the cry,
  • And so the fame o' the first wanes nigh to nought.
  • Thus one from other Guido took the high
  • Glory of language; and perhaps is born
  • He who from both shall bear it by-and-bye.”


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 looked, as though he had
  • Desire to see if one was with me else.
  • But after his surmise was all extinct,
  • 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
  • Didst say He had? Is he not living still?

Transcribed Footnote (page 10):

* Virgil, Dante's guide through Hell. Any prejudice which

Guido 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.

Image of page 11 page: 11
  • Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?’
  • When he perceived a certain hesitance
  • Which I was making ere I should reply,
  • He fell supine, and forth appeared no more.”


Dante, however, conveys his answer afterwards to the

spirit of Guido'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.’”
  • (W. M. Rossetti's Translation.)


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 Con-

vito
) “lived in heaven with the angels and on earth with

his soul.” And now, distant and probably estranged

from him, Guido Cavalcanti was gone too.
Among the Tales of Franco Sacchetti, and in the De-

cameron of Boccaccio, are two anecdotes relating to

Guido. Sacchetti tells us how, one day that he was

intent on a game at chess, Guido (who is described as

“one who perhaps had not his equal in Florence”) was

disturbed by a child playing about, and threatened pun-

ishment if the noise continued. The child, however,

managed slily to nail Guido's coat to the chair on which

he sat, and so had the laugh against him when he rose

soon afterwards to fulfil his threat. This may serve as

an amusing instance of Guido's hasty temper, but is

rather a disappointment after its magniloquent heading,

which sets forth how “Guido Cavalcanti, being a man of

great valour and a philosopher, is defeated by the cun-

ning of a child.”
Image of page 12 page: 12
The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the Decameron

relates a repartee of Guido's, which has all the profound

platitude of mediæval 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 cer-

tain 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 throughout 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 in-

trigued 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 philo-

sopher (for the which things the fellowship cared little), but

also he exceeded 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 ex-

ceeding rich and knew well to solicit with honourable words

whomsoever he deemed worthy. But Messer Betto had never

been able to succeed in enlisting 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 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 oftentimes 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

chanced that Messer Betto and his fellowship came riding up by

the Piazza di Santa Reparata, and seeing Guido among the sepul-
Image of page 13 page: 13
chres, 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 shalt

have found that there is no God, what wilt thou have done?’ To

whom Guido, seeing himself hemmed in among then, readily re-

plied, ‘Gentlemen, ye are at home here, and may say what ye

please to me.’ Wherewith, setting his hand on one of those high

tombs, 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 remained bewildered, looking on one

another; and began to say that he was but a shallow-witted

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

whom 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, see-

ing 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 Guido Caval-

canti's wealth, and there seems no doubt that at that

time the family was very rich and powerful. On this

account I am disposed to question whether the Canzone

at page 154 (where the author speaks of his poverty)

can really be Guido's work, though I have included it as

being interesting if rightly attributed 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 neigh-

bourhood (as Dino Compagni records) gaining rapidly
Image of page 14 page: 14
in consequence 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 Guido refers in a sonnet (see page 121). After

this, their enemies succeeded in finally expelling from

Florence the Cavalcanti family,* greatly impoverished

by this monstrous fire, in which nearly two thousand

houses were consumed.
Guido 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 the best

of his pieces being those which relate to himself, his

loves and hates. The best known, however, and perhaps

the one for whose sake the 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 re-

naissance;
the earliest being that by Egidio Colonna, a

beatified churchman who died in 1316; while most of

the too numerous Academic writers on Italian literature

speak of this performance with great admiration as

Guido's crowning work. A love-song which acts as such

a fly-catcher for priests and pedants looks very suspi-
Transcribed Footnote (page 14):

* With them were expelled the still more powerful Gherardini,

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 reappear now and

then in later European history; and especially we hear of a

second Guido Cavalcanti, who also cultivated poetry, and travelled

to collect books for the Ambrosian Library; and who, in 1563,

visited England as Ambassador to the court of Elizabeth from

Charles IX. of France.

Image of page 15 page: 15
cious; and accordingly, on examination, it proves to be

a poem beside the purpose of poetry, filled with meta-

physical 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, neverthe-

less, 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 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 per-

sonal directness, it may be admitted that he worked

worthily at his side, and perhaps before him, in adding

those qualities to Italian poetry. That Guido'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, more than once, in the

Commedia.
Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his Latin

treatise De Vulgari Eloquio , again speaks of himself as

the friend of a poet,—this time of Cino 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 15):

* 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 ap-

preciation, which originally appeared by portions in the Atlantic

Monthly
, but has since been augmented by the author and pri-

vately printed in a volume which is a beautiful specimen of

American typography.

Image of page 16 page: 16


own lyrics, 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.”* As commonly between old and new, the

change of Guido's friendship for Cino's seems doubtful

gain. Cino's poetry, like his career, is for the most part

smoother than that of Guido, and in some instances it

rises into truth and warmth of expression: but it con-

veys 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 Guido's two or three remain uncertain 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


Transcribed Footnote (page 16):

* It is also noticeable that in this treatise Dante speaks of Guido

Guinicelli on one occasion as Guido Maximus, thus seeming to

contradict the preference of Cavalcanti which is usually supposed

to be implied in the passage I have quoted from the Purgatory. It

has been sometimes surmised (perhaps 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 nickname, 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, Guitton-

cino, 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 176); nor is Guido mentioned anywhere

with praise by Cino, as other poets are.

Image of page 17 page: 17


acquainted in youth, though there is no earlier mention

of Cino in Dante's writings than those which occur in

his treatise on the Vulgar Tongue. It might perhaps be

inferred with some plausibility that their acquaintance

was revived after an interruption by the sonnet and

answer at pages 110-111, and that they afterwards cor-

responded as friends till the period of Dante's death,

when Cino wrote his elegy. Of the two sonnets 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. Another sonnet sent to Dante elicited

a Latin epistle in reply, where we find Cino addressed

as “frater carissime.” 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, first cradle of

the “Black” and “White” factions, their endless contest

again 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 directed his course towards Lombardy, on whose

confines the chief of the “White” party in Pistoia, Filippo

Vergiolesi, still held the fortress of Pitecchio. 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
Sig. 2
Image of page 18 page: 18
on account of political sympathy alone; as Selvaggia

Vergiolesi, his daughter, is the lady celebrated through-

out the poet's compositions. Three years later, the

Vergiolesi and their followers, finding Pitecchio unten-

able, fortified themselves on the Monte della Sambuca,

a lofty peak of the Apennines; 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 proved fatal to the

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 Selvaggia's family

at the time of her death; and it is probable that, on his

return to the Sambuca, the fortress was already sur-

rendered, and 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 pre-

ceded 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, caused almost

surely by poison. This death Cino has lamented in a

canzone. It probably determined him to abandon a

cause which seemed dead, and return, when possible, to

his native 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,
Image of page 19 page: 19


Beatrice, Giovanna, and Lombarduccia. Indeed, this

marriage must have taken place before the death of

Selvaggia in 1310, as in 1325-26, his son Mino was

one of those by whose aid from within the Ghibelline

Castruccio Antelminelli 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 afterwards became

celebrated, among whom rumour has placed Petrarch,

though on examination this seems very doubtful. A

sonnet by Petrarch exists, however, commencing “Pian-

gete 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'Amore (cap. 4).

Though established again in Pistoia, Cino resided

there but little till about the time of his death, which

occurred in 1336-7. His monument, where he is repre-

sented as a professor among his disciples, still exists in

the Cathedral of Pistoia, and is a mediæval work of great

interest. Messer Cino de' Sinibuldi was a prosperous

man, of whom we have ample records, from 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; never-

theless there are some, and especially the sonnet on her

tomb (at page 172), which display feeling and power.

The finest, as well as the most interesting, of all his
Image of page 20 page: 20


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 pro-

duced legal writings also, of which the chief one that

has survived is a Commentary on the Statutes of Pistoia,

said to have great merit, and whose production in the

short space of two years was accounted an extraordinary

achievement.
Having now spoken of the chief poets of this division,

it remains to notice the others of whom less is known.
Dante da Maiano (Dante being, as with Alighieri, the

short of Durante, and Maiano in the neighbourhood of

Fiesole) had attained some reputation as a poet before

the career of his great namesake began; his Sicilian lady

Nina (herself, it is said, a poetess, and not personally

known to him) going by the then unequivocal title of

“La Nina di Dante.” This priority may also be inferred

from the contemptuous answer sent by him to Dante

Alighieri's dream sonnet in the Vita Nuova (see page

178). 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

life no record whatever has come down to us.
Most literary circles have their prodigal, or what in

modern 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 after-

wards, and we may surmise that his rancour against his

father may have been partly dependent, in the first
Image of page 21 page: 21
instance, on the disagreements arising from such a con-

nection. However, from 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' allowance 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 Boccaccio describes as a hand-

some and well-bred man) was induced to take with him

as his servant a fellow-gamester with whom he had

formed 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 this fellow, during the journey, while Cecco was

asleep at Buonconvento, 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

(surely 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.
In reading many both of Cecco's love-sonnets and

hate-sonnets, it is impossible not to feel some pity for

the indications they contain of self-sought poverty, un-

happiness, and natural bent to ruin. Altogether they

have too much curious individuality to allow of their

being omitted here: especially as they afford the earliest

prominent example of a naturalism without afterthought

in the whole of Italian poetry. Their humour is some-

times strong, if not well chosen; their passion always

forcible from its evident reality: nor indeed are several

among them devoid of a certain delicacy. This quality

is also to be discerned in other pieces which I have not

included as having less personal interest; but it must
Image of page 22 page: 22


be confessed that for the most part the sentiments ex-

pressed in Cecco's poetry are either impious or licentious.

Most of the sonnets of his which are 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 intercourse

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 autobiography. When the latter was written

he was probably on good terms with the young Alighieri;

but within no great while afterwards they had discovered

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 Becchina.† Much
Transcribed Footnote (page 22):

* 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 grammatical examples no

fewer than twenty-three 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.

Transcribed Footnote (page 22):

† Of this sonnet I have seen two printed versions, in both of

which the text is so corrupt as to make them very contradictory in

important points; but I believe that by comparing the two I have

given its meaning correctly. (See page 192 .)

Image of page 23 page: 23
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 Lombard”; while some of the insolent allusions

seem also to point to the time when Dante learnt by

experience “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 Roman, 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 Rome. However,

from 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, accompanied

probably with more fleshly penance.
Though nothing indicates the time of Cecco Angiolieri'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 him-

self) “the singer of Rectitude,” and his that “indignant
Image of page 24 page: 24


soul” which made blessed the mother who had born

him.*
Leaving to his fate (whatever that may have been) the

Scamp of Dante's Circle, I must risk the charge of a con-

firmed 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,† he rails against his political

adversaries; in three,‡ falls foul of his brother poets;

and in the remaining one,§ seems somewhat appeased

(I think) by a judicious morsel of flattery. I have already

referred to a sonnet of his which is said to have led to

the composition of Guido Cavalcanti's Canzone on the

Nature of Love. He has another sonnet beginning, “Per

troppa sottiglianza il fil si rompe,” ǁ in which he is cer-

tainly enjoying a fling at somebody, and I suspect at

Cavalcanti in rejoinder to the very poem which he him-

self 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 probably have dropped his

acquaintance. We may be obliged to him, however, for

his character of Guido Cavalcanti (at page 137), which is

boldly and vividly drawn.
Next follow three poets of whom I have given one

specimen apiece. By Bernardo da Bologna ( page 139)

no other is known to exist, nor can anything 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 138), which

belongs rather to the school of Sir Pandarus of Troy.
Dino Compagni, the chronicler of Florence, is repre-
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
  • * “Alma sdegnosa,
  • Benedetta colei che in te s' incinse!”
( Inferno, C.viii.)
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):

† Page 206.

Transcribed Footnote (page 24):

† Pages 122, 137, 180.

Transcribed Footnote (page 24):

§ Page 143.

Transcribed Footnote (page 24):

‖ This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle; let us hope

(in so immaculate a censor) from unfitness for publication.

Image of page 25 page: 25


sented here by a sonnet addressed to Guido Cavalcanti,*

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 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 Italian

poets. I allude to the valuable discovery, in the Ma-

gliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem by him

in nona rima, containing 309 stanzas. It is entitled

“L'Intelligenza,” and is of an allegorical nature inter-

spersed with historical and legendary abstracts.†
I have placed Lapo Gianni in this my first division on

account of the sonnet by Dante (page 126), in which he

seems undoubtedly to be the Lapo referred to. It has

been supposed by some that Lapo degli Uberti (father of

Fazio, and brother-in-law of Guido Cavalcanti) is meant;

but this is hardly possible. Dante and Guido 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 Ghibellines were expelled; the

Uberti 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 25):

* Crescimbeni ( Ist. d. Volg. Poes. ) gives this sonnet from a

MS., where it is headed “To Guido Guinicelli”; but he surmises,

and I have no doubt correctly, that Cavalcanti is really the person

addressed in it.

Transcribed Footnote (page 25):

† See Documents inédits pour servir à l'histoire littéraire de l'Italie,

&c. par
A.F. Ozanam ( Paris, 1850), where the poem is printed

entire.

Image of page 26 page: 26
that he was a notary by profession. I have also seen it

somewhere asserted (though where 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 pure Italian.
Dino 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 with-

out Dante would almost be a poorer planet. Meanwhile, beyond

this great fact of Dino's life, which perhaps hardly

occupied 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 Vespignano,

fourteen miles from Florence. He died in 1336, fifteen

years after Dante. On the authority of Benvenuto da

Imola (an early commentator on the Commedia), of

Vasari, and others, it is said 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 Giotto, 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,
Image of page 27 page: 27
then the chapel of the Podestà. 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 protest against a

perversion of gospel teaching which had gained ground

in his day to the extent of becoming a popular frenzy.

People went literally mad upon it; and to the reaction

against this madness may also be assigned (at any rate

partly) Cavalcanti'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 remem-

ber 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 affords 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 dall'

Antella's fine sonnet relating to the last enterprises of

Henry of Luxembourg, and to his then approaching end,

—that deathblow to the Ghibelline hopes which Dante

so deeply shared. This one sonnet is all we know of

its author, besides his name.
Giovanni Quirino is another name which stands


Transcribed Footnote (page 27):

  • * “Se mai continga che il poema sacro
  • Al quale ha posto mano e cielo e terra,
  • Sì che m' ha fatto per più anni macro,
  • Vinca la crudeltà che fuor mi serra,” etc.
( Parad. C. xxv.)

Transcribed Footnote (page 27):

† See Dante's reverential treatment of this subject, ( Parad.

C. xi.)

Image of page 28 page: 28
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. It is true that 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 pro-

bably dates from Ravenna, 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

answer* to it enables me to wind up this 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 first division is longer than I could have wished.

Among the severely-edited books which had to be con-

sulted 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 28):

* In the case of the above two sonnets, and of all others inter-

changed between two poets, I have thought it best to place them

together among the poems of one or the other correspondent,

wherever they seemed to have most biographical value; and the

same with several epistolary sonnets which have no answer.

Transcribed Footnote (page 28):

† The last line of the Paradise (Cayley's Translation).

Image of page 29 page: 29
slough of verbal analysis. It would seem unpardonable

to make a book which should be even as these; and I

have thus found myself 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 some-

thing which may require a little peace. The glare of too

many tapers is apt to render the altar-picture confused

and inharmonious, even when their smoke does not

obscure or deface it.
Image of page [30] page: [30]
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, Incipit Vita Nova .* Under such rubric I find

written many things; and among them the words which

I purpose 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.†

She had already been in 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
Transcribed Footnote (page [30]):

* “Here beginneth the new life.”

Transcribed Footnote (page [30]):

† 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 feast Dante accompanied his father, Alighiero

Alighieri.

Image of page 31 page: 31


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 deus fortior me, qui

veniens dominabitur 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: Apparuit jam beatitudo

vestra
.† At that moment the natural spirit, which

dwelleth there where our nourishment is administered,

began to weep, and in weeping said these words: Heu

miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps
.‡
I say that, from that time forward, Love quite

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 praise-

worthy 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 31):

* “Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming, shall rule

over me.”

Transcribed Footnote (page 31):

† “Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto you.”

Transcribed Footnote (page 31):

‡ “Woe is me! for that often I shall be disturbed from this time

forth!”

Transcribed Footnote (page 31):
  • § Οὐδὲ ἐῴκει
  • Ἀνδρός γε θνητοϋ παϊς ἔμμεναι, ἀλλὰ θεοϊο.
( Iliad, xxiv. 258.)
Image of page 32 page: 32


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 better distinctness.
After the lapse of so many days that nine years

exactly were completed since the above-written appear-

ance of this most gracious being, on the last of those

days it happened that the same wonderful lady ap-

peared to me dressed all in pure white, 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 bearing 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 betaking me

to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell to thinking of

this most courteous lady, thinking of whom I was over-

taken 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 dis-

cerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect to such as

should gaze upon him, but who seemed therewithal to

rejoice inwardly that it was a marvel to see. Speaking

he said many things, among the which I could under-

stand but few; and of these, this: Ego dominus tuus.*

In his arms it seemed to me that a person was sleeping,

covered only with a blood-coloured cloth; upon whom
Transcribed Footnote (page 32):

* “I am thy master.”

Image of page 33 page: 33


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

tuum
.* But when he had remained with me a little

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

endure 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.
  • Of those long hours wherein the stars, above,
  • Wake and keep watch, the third was almost nought,
  • When Love was shown me with such terrors fraught
  • As may not carelessly be spoken of.

  • Transcribed Footnote (page 33):

    * “Behold thy heart.”

    Sig. 3
    Image of page 34 page: 34
  • He seemed like one who is full of joy, and had
  • 10 My heart within his hand, and on his arm
  • My lady, with a mantle round her, slept;
  • Whom (having wakened 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 ask an answer; in the second, I signify

what thing has to be answered to. The second part com-

mences here: “Of those long hours.”
To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying

many different 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.
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 reduced

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 con-

cealed. Wherefore I (perceiving the drift of their

unkindly questions), by Love's will, who directed 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 34):

* The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Cavalcanti.

For his answer, and those of Cino da Pistoia and Dante da Maiano,

see their poems further on.

Image of page 35 page: 35


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 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 security, I even made divers rhymes in her

honour; whereof I shall here write only as much as

concerneth 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 introduced in an epistle in the

form of a sirvent, which it is not my intention to tran-

scribe here. Neither should I have said anything of

this matter, did I not wish to take note of a certain
Transcribed Footnote (page 35):

* I.e., in a church.

Image of page 36 page: 36


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: where-

fore 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 mournfully 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 whereof my lady was the immediate

cause, as will be plain to him that understands. 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 worthless part,
  • But of his own great heart,)
  • Vouchsafed to me a life so calm and sweet
  • 10That oft I heard folk question as I went
  • What such great gladness meant:—
  • They spoke of it behind me in the street.

Transcribed Footnote (page 36):

* 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 quatrains, instead of two

quatrains followed by two triplets. Dante applies the term

sonnet to both these forms of composition, and to no other.

Image of page 37 page: 37
  • 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,
  • 20And let my heart within travail and moan.
This poem has two principal parts; for, in the first,

I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of

Jeremias the Prophet, “O vos omnes qui transitis per

viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,”

and to pray them to stay and hear me. In the second I tell

where Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that

which the last part of the poem shows, and I say what I

have lost. The second part 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; and weeping, I

conceived to say somewhat of her death, in guerdon of

having seen her somewhile with my lady; which thing I

spake of in the latter end of the 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 great;
  • Image of page 38 page: 38
  • When now so many dames, of such estate
  • In worth, show with their eyes a grief 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.
  • 10 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,

I call and beseech the Faithful of Love to weep; and I say

that their Lord weeps, and that they, hearing the reason

why he weeps, shall be more minded to listen to me. In the

second, I relate this reason. In the third, I speak of honour

done by Love to this Lady. The second part begins here,

“When now so many dames”; the third here, “Now

hearken.”
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:
  • 10 Not that they be not known; but ne'ertheless
  • I would give hate more stress
  • With them that feed on love in very sooth.
Image of page 39 page: 39
  • 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
  • Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me
  • Save by the measures of these praises given.
  • Whoso deserves not Heaven
  • 20May never hope to have her company.*
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 own 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 journey 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 39):

* 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 intimates. The only form

in which I can trace it consists in the implied assertion that such

person as had enjoyed the dead 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 after-

wards says of Beatrice, “ Quella ha nome Amor.” Most probably

both allusions are intended.

Image of page 40 page: 40
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 towards a river which was clear and rapid, and

which flowed along the path I was taking. And then

I 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 became 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 showed, he seemed 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 called me by my name,
  • 10 Saying: “I journey since the morn was dim
  • Thence where I made thy heart to be: which now
  • I needs must bear unto another dame.”
  • Wherewith so much passed into me of him
  • That he was gone, and I discerned not how.
Image of page 41 page: 41
This sonnet has three parts. In the first part, I tell how

I met Love, and of his aspect. In the second, I tell what

he said to me, although not in full, through the fear I had

of discovering my secret. In the third, I say how he dis-

appeared. 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 journeyed 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 understood of

what surpassing virtue her salutation was to me. To the

which end I say that when she appeared in any place, it

seemed to me, by the hope of her excellent salutation,

that there was no man mine 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 ques-

tioned me concerning any matter, I could only have

said unto him “Love,” with a countenance clothed in

humbleness. 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 my 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 sweet-
Image of page 42 page: 42
ness 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 endurance.
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 relieved, 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, “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: “ Fili mi, tempus

est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra .”* 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 be waiting for me to

speak. Wherefore, taking heart, I began thus: “Why

weepest thou, Master of all honour?” And he made

answer to me: “ Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili

modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic .”†
Transcribed Footnote (page 42):

* “My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting.”

Transcribed Footnote (page 42):

† “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 l' altre stelle): therefore all lovable objects,

whether in heaven or earth, or any part of the circle's circum-

Image of page 43 page: 43


And thinking upon his words, they seemed to me

obscure; so that again compelling myself unto speech, I

asked of him: “What 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 concerning 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 certain

persons, that the lady whom I named to thee while thou

journeyedst full of sighs is sorely disquieted 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 likewise 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 person; and not directly by thee to

her, which is scarce fitting. After the which, send them,

not without me, where she may chance to hear them;

but have fitted them 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 43):

ference, are equally near to me. Not so thou, who wilt one day

lose Beatrice when she goes to heaven.” The phrase would thus

contain 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.”

Image of page 44 page: 44


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 companionless
  • Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere.
  • And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind,
  • First unto Love address
  • 10Thy steps; whose aid, mayhap, 'twere ill to spare,
  • Seeing that she to whom thou mak'st thy prayer
  • Is, as I think, ill-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,
  • First having craved a gracious audience:
  • “He who hath sent me as his messenger,
  • Lady, thus much records,
  • 20 An thou but suffer him, in his defence.
  • Love, who comes with me, by thine influence
  • Can make this man do as it liketh 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 confirmed in faith
  • That all its thoughts are but of serving thee
  • Image of page 45 page: 45
  • 'Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart.”
  • Then, if she wavereth,
  • 30 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.”
    Note: In the 1874 and 1861 editions, the 31st line of the poem is incorrectly indented. In the 1886 edition, as in the 1911, the 6th and 7th lines of this stanza are aligned, as they are in the other stanzas.
  • 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;
  • 40 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.
This ditty is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell

it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the more

confidently, and I tell it whose company 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 leave to start when it pleases, recommending

its course to the arms of Fortune. The second part begins

here, “With a sweet accent”; the third here, “Gentle my

Song.” Some might contradict me, and say that they under-

stand 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 and clear up

in this little book itself, at a more difficult passage, and then

let him understand who now doubts, or would now contra-

dict 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
Image of page 46 page: 46


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 grievous and painful are the torments

wherewith he torments them.” The third was this:

“The name of Love is so sweet in the hearing that it

would not seem 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 con-

sequentia 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 discerned 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 somewhat 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,
  • 10 Wishing to speak I know not what to say,
  • And lose myself in amorous wanderings:

  • Transcribed Footnote (page 46):

    * “Names are the consequents of things.”

    Image of page 47 page: 47
  • Until, (my peace with all of them to make,)
  • Unto mine enemy I needs must pray,
  • My Lady Pity, for the help she brings.
This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the

first, I say and propound that all my thoughts are concern-

ing Love. In the 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 argument; 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. The second begins

here, “Yet have between themselves”; the third, “All of

them craving”; the fourth, “And 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 whereunto 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 should bear her company when she sat down

for the first time at table in the house of her husband.

Therefore I, as was my 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 discerned of them, I lifted mine eyes
Image of page 48 page: 48


to look on those ladies, and then first perceived among

them the excellent 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 whis-

pering 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

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 return.”*
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 condition,

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 words, in

the which, speaking to her, I should signify the occasion
Transcribed Footnote (page 48):

* It is difficult not to connect Dante's agony at this wedding-

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 sorrow even to his ideal love) is so

startling, that we might almost be led to conceive in this passage

the only intimation of it which he thought fit to give.

Image of page 49 page: 49


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 peradventure 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
  • 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,
  • 10 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 division 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 fills all my

spirits, but that the visual remain in life, only outside 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.
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
Sig. 4
Image of page 50 page: 50


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 an-

swering, I would tell her that no sooner do I image 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 me 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,
  • Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place
  • Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace,
  • The very stones seem to be shrieking, “Die!”
  • It were a grievous sin, if one should not
  • 10 Strive then to comfort my bewildered 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.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I

tell the cause why I abstain not from coming to this lady.
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In the second, I tell what 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 when 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 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 take pity; namely, for the piteous look 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.”
Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write

down in verse four other things touching my condition,

the which things it seemed to me that I had not yet

made manifest. The first among these was the grief

that possessed me very often, remembering the strange-

ness 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 things in a sonnet, which is this:—
  • At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over
  • The quality of anguish that is mine
  • Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine,
  • Image of page 52 page: 52
  • 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 then if I, whom other aid forsook,
  • 10 Would aid myself, and innocent of art
  • Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope,
  • No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look
  • Than the 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. Where-

fore I say that the second part begins, “Love smiteth me”;

the third, “And then if I”; the fourth, “No sooner do I

lift.”
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
Image of page 53 page: 53


not among them mine excellent lady, I was reassured;

and saluted them, asking of their pleasure. The ladies

were many; divers of whom were laughing 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. Whereupon 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 answer-

ing, 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 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,
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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 beginning. 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 desire to say somewhat in rhyme: but

when I began thinking 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.

Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as though

by its own impulse, and said, “Ladies that have intel-

ligence in love.” These words I laid up in my mind

with great gladness, conceiving to take them as my

commencement. Wherefore, having returned to the city

I spake of, and considered thereof during certain days,

I began a poem with this beginning, constructed in the

mode which will be 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 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
  • 10That 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.
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  • An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith
  • To God: “Lord, in the world that Thou hast made,
  • A miracle in action is display'd,
  • By reason of a soul whose splendours fare
  • Even hither: and since Heaven requireth
  • 20 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.
  • “My well-belovèd, suffer that in peace
  • Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is,
  • There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her:
  • And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say,
  • ‘I have looked on that for which God's chosen pray.’”
  • My lady is desired in the high Heaven:
  • 30 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 deathly chill is driven
  • By Love, that makes ill thought 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, 'tis then her power attains its proof,
  • Making his heart strong for his soul's behoof
  • 40 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;
  • 50 Beauty is tried by her comparison.
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  • Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon,
  • 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 mindful that thou hadst thy birth
  • 60 From Love, and art a modest, simple child,)
  • Whomso thou meetest, 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.
  • 70Commend thou me to each, as doth behove.
This poem, that it may be better understood, I will

divide more subtly than the others preceding; and therefore

I will make three parts of it. The first part is a proem to

the words following. The second is the matter treated of.

The third is, as it were, a handmaid to the preceding words.

The second begins here, “An angel”; the third here, “Dear

Song, I know.” The first part is divided into four. In

the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my Lady, and

wherefore I will so speak. In the second, I say what she

appears to myself to be when I reflect upon her excellence,

and what I would utter if I lost not courage. In the third,

I say what it is I purpose to speak so as not to be impeded

by faintheartedness. In the fourth, repeating to whom I

purpose speaking, I tell the reason why I speak to them.

The second begins here, “And I declare”; the third here,
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“Wherefore I will not speak”; the fourth here, “With you

alone.” Then, when 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 speak 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 speak of certain beauties which belong to the whole

person; in the second, I speak of certain beauties which

belong to a distinct part of the person: here, “Whatever

her sweet eyes.” This second part is divided into two; for,

in the one, I speak of the eyes, which are the beginning of

love; in the second, I speak of the mouth, which is the

end of love. And that every vicious thought may be 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 handmaid to the others, 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

divisions. I say, indeed, that the further to open the mean-

ing 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
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nature of Love, and also in accordance 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:—
  • 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 called the Heart; there draws he quiet breath
  • At first, with brief or longer slumbering.
  • Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind
  • 10 Will make the eyes desire, and through the heart
  • Send the desiring of the eyes again;
  • Where often it abides so long enshrin'd
  • That Love at length out of his sleep will start.
  • And women feel the same for worthy men.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I

speak of him according to his power. In the second, I speak

of him according as his power translates itself into act.

The second part begins here, “Then beauty seen.” The first

is divided into two. In the first, I say in what subject

this power exists. 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.”
Having treated of love in the foregoing, it appeared to
Transcribed Footnote (page 58):

* Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, “Within the

gentle heart Love shelters him.” (See Part II. page 264.)

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me that I should 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 marvellously 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 feels his heart to rise,
  • And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
  • And of his evil heart is then aware:
  • Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper.
  • O women, help to praise her in somewise.
  • Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
  • 10 By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
  • And who beholds is blessèd 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 has 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, as it were, help for the

previous section and the subsequent; and it begins here, “O

women, help.” The third begins here, “Humbleness.” The

first is divided into three; for, in the first, I say how she

with power makes noble that which she looks upon; and this

is as much as to say that she brings Love, in power, thither

where he is not. In the second, I 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, when I say, “O women,
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help,” I intimate to whom it is my intention 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, regarding 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.
Not many days after this (it being the will of the 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. Thereby it happened, as of

very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady was

made full of the bitterness of grief: 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 furthermore con-

sidering that 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 companionship 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, behold-

ing 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

assuredly 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 saying among them-

selves: “Which of us shall be joyful 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