"Per me si va nella città dolente;Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;Per me si va tra la perduta gente;Giustizia mosse'l mio alto fattore;Fecemi la divina potestate,La somma sapienza e'l primo amore.Dinanzi a me non fur cose createSe non eterne, ed io eterno duro:Lasciate ogni speranza voi che'ntrate.Queste parole di colore oscuroVid'io scritte al sommo d'una porta;Perch'io: maestro, il senso lor m'è duro.Ed egli a me, come persona accorta:Qui si convien lasciare ogni sospetto,Ogni viltà convien che qui sia morta.Noi sem venuti al luogo ov'io t'ho dettoChe vederai le genti doloroseCh' hanno perduto il ben dello'ntelletto.E poichè la sua mano alla mia poseCon lieto volto, ond'io mi confortai,Mi mise dentro alle secrete cose.Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guaiRisonavan per l'aer senza stelle,Perch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,Parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle,Facevano un tumulto il qual s'aggiraSempre'n quell'aria senza tempo tinta,Come la rena quando'l turbo spira."Inferno, III. 1-30.
"Per me si va nella città dolente;Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;Per me si va tra la perduta gente;Giustizia mosse'l mio alto fattore;Fecemi la divina potestate,La somma sapienza e'l primo amore.Dinanzi a me non fur cose createSe non eterne, ed io eterno duro:Lasciate ogni speranza voi che'ntrate.Queste parole di colore oscuroVid'io scritte al sommo d'una porta;Perch'io: maestro, il senso lor m'è duro.Ed egli a me, come persona accorta:Qui si convien lasciare ogni sospetto,Ogni viltà convien che qui sia morta.Noi sem venuti al luogo ov'io t'ho dettoChe vederai le genti doloroseCh' hanno perduto il ben dello'ntelletto.E poichè la sua mano alla mia poseCon lieto volto, ond'io mi confortai,Mi mise dentro alle secrete cose.Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guaiRisonavan per l'aer senza stelle,Perch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,Parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle,Facevano un tumulto il qual s'aggiraSempre'n quell'aria senza tempo tinta,Come la rena quando'l turbo spira."
Inferno, III. 1-30.
"'Through me the way is to the city dolent;Through me the way is to eternal dole;Through me the way among the people lost.Justice incited my sublime Creator;Created me divine Omnipotence,The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.Before me there were no created things,Only eterne, and I eternal last.All hope abandon, ye who enter in!'These words in sombre color I beheldWritten upon the summit of a gate;Whence I: 'Their sense is, Master, hard to me!'And he to me, as one experienced:'Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,All cowardice must needs be here extinct.We to the place have come, where I have told theeThou shalt behold the people dolorousWho have foregone the good of intellect.'And after he had laid his hand on mineWith joyful mien, whence I was comforted,He led me in among the secret things.There sighs, complaints, and ululations loudResounded through the air without a star,Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.Languages diverse, horrible dialects,Accents of anger, words of agony,And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,Made up a tumult that goes whirling onForever in that air forever black,Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes."—Longfellow.
"'Through me the way is to the city dolent;Through me the way is to eternal dole;Through me the way among the people lost.Justice incited my sublime Creator;Created me divine Omnipotence,The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.Before me there were no created things,Only eterne, and I eternal last.All hope abandon, ye who enter in!'These words in sombre color I beheldWritten upon the summit of a gate;Whence I: 'Their sense is, Master, hard to me!'And he to me, as one experienced:'Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,All cowardice must needs be here extinct.We to the place have come, where I have told theeThou shalt behold the people dolorousWho have foregone the good of intellect.'And after he had laid his hand on mineWith joyful mien, whence I was comforted,He led me in among the secret things.There sighs, complaints, and ululations loudResounded through the air without a star,Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.Languages diverse, horrible dialects,Accents of anger, words of agony,And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,Made up a tumult that goes whirling onForever in that air forever black,Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes."—Longfellow.
"'Through me you pass into the city of woe:Through me you pass into eternal pain:Through me among the people lost for aye.Justice the founder of my fabric moved:To rear me was the task of power divine,Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.Before me things create were none, save thingsEternal, and eternal I endure.All hope abandon, ye who enter here.'Such characters, in color dim, I markedOver a portal's lofty arch inscribed.Whereat I thus: 'Master, these words importHard meaning.' He as one prepared replied:'Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;Here be vile fear extinguished. We are comeWhere I have told thee we shall see the soulsTo misery doomed, who intellectual goodHave lost.' And when his hand he had stretched forthTo mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered.Into that secret place he led me on.Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans,Resounded through the air pierced by no star,That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,Horrible languages, outcries of woe,Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,With hands together smote that swelled the sounds,Made up a tumult, that forever whirlsRound through that air with solid darkness stained,Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies."Cary.
"'Through me you pass into the city of woe:Through me you pass into eternal pain:Through me among the people lost for aye.Justice the founder of my fabric moved:To rear me was the task of power divine,Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.Before me things create were none, save thingsEternal, and eternal I endure.All hope abandon, ye who enter here.'Such characters, in color dim, I markedOver a portal's lofty arch inscribed.Whereat I thus: 'Master, these words importHard meaning.' He as one prepared replied:'Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;Here be vile fear extinguished. We are comeWhere I have told thee we shall see the soulsTo misery doomed, who intellectual goodHave lost.' And when his hand he had stretched forthTo mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered.Into that secret place he led me on.Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans,Resounded through the air pierced by no star,That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,Horrible languages, outcries of woe,Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,With hands together smote that swelled the sounds,Made up a tumult, that forever whirlsRound through that air with solid darkness stained,Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies."
Cary.
The following, though less remarkable for its poetry than many others which we might select, is very difficult for the translator. We cite it as an illustration of the boldness with which Mr. Longfellow meets difficulties.
"E quale è quei che suo dannaggio sogna,Che sognando disidera sognare,Si che quel ch'è, come non fosse, agogna;Tal mi fec'io non potendo parlare:Che disiava scusarmi e scusavaMe tuttavia e not mi credea fareMaggior difetto men vergogna lava,Disse'l maestro, che'l tuo non è stato:Però d'ogni tristizia ti disgrava;E fa ragion ch'io ti sempre allato,Se più avvien che fortuna t'accogliaDove sien genti in simigliante piato:Che voler ciò udire è bassa voglia."Inferno, XXX. 136-148.
"E quale è quei che suo dannaggio sogna,Che sognando disidera sognare,Si che quel ch'è, come non fosse, agogna;Tal mi fec'io non potendo parlare:Che disiava scusarmi e scusavaMe tuttavia e not mi credea fareMaggior difetto men vergogna lava,Disse'l maestro, che'l tuo non è stato:Però d'ogni tristizia ti disgrava;E fa ragion ch'io ti sempre allato,Se più avvien che fortuna t'accogliaDove sien genti in simigliante piato:Che voler ciò udire è bassa voglia."
Inferno, XXX. 136-148.
"And as he is who dreams of his own harm.Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,So that he craves what is, as if it were not;Such I became, not having power to speak,For to excuse myself I wished, and stillExcused myself, and did not think I did it.'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,And make account that I am aye beside thee,If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring theeWhere there are people in a like dispute;For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"Longfellow.
"And as he is who dreams of his own harm.Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,So that he craves what is, as if it were not;Such I became, not having power to speak,For to excuse myself I wished, and stillExcused myself, and did not think I did it.'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,And make account that I am aye beside thee,If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring theeWhere there are people in a like dispute;For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"
Longfellow.
"As a man that dreams of harmBefallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,And that which is, desires as if it were not;Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,Wished to excuse myself, and all the whileExcused me, though unweeting that I did.'More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,'My master cried, 'might expiate. Therefore castAll sorrow from thy soul; and if againChance bring thee where like conference is held,Think I am ever at thy side. To hearSuch wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.'"Cary.
"As a man that dreams of harmBefallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,And that which is, desires as if it were not;Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,Wished to excuse myself, and all the whileExcused me, though unweeting that I did.'More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,'My master cried, 'might expiate. Therefore castAll sorrow from thy soul; and if againChance bring thee where like conference is held,Think I am ever at thy side. To hearSuch wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.'"
Cary.
The following passage from the Purgatorio is not only strikingly difficult, but strikingly beautiful.
"Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamavaTenendo gli occhi con fatica fisiA me che tutto chin con loro andava.Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arteCh'alluminareè chiamata in Parisi?Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carteChe pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.Ben non sare'io stato sì corteseMentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disioDell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosseChe, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,Com' poco verde in su la cima duraSe non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!Credette Cimabue nella pinturaTenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro GuidoLa gloria della lingua; e forse è natoChi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiatoDi vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,E muta nome perchè muta lato.Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindiDa te la carne, che se fossi mortoInnanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più cortoSpazio all' eterno ch'un muover di cigliaAl cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.Colui che del cammin sì poco pigliaDiranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,Ond'era sire, quando fu distruttaLa rabbia Fiorentina, che superbaFu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.La vostra nominanza è color d'erbaChe viene e va, e quei la discoloraPer cui ell'esce della terra acerba."Purgatorio, XI. 74-117.
"Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamavaTenendo gli occhi con fatica fisiA me che tutto chin con loro andava.Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arteCh'alluminareè chiamata in Parisi?Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carteChe pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.Ben non sare'io stato sì corteseMentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disioDell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosseChe, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,Com' poco verde in su la cima duraSe non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!Credette Cimabue nella pinturaTenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro GuidoLa gloria della lingua; e forse è natoChi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiatoDi vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,E muta nome perchè muta lato.Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindiDa te la carne, che se fossi mortoInnanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più cortoSpazio all' eterno ch'un muover di cigliaAl cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.Colui che del cammin sì poco pigliaDiranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,Ond'era sire, quando fu distruttaLa rabbia Fiorentina, che superbaFu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.La vostra nominanza è color d'erbaChe viene e va, e quei la discoloraPer cui ell'esce della terra acerba."
Purgatorio, XI. 74-117.
"And one of them, not this one who was speaking,Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,Keeping his eyes laboriously fixedOn me, who all bowed down was going with them.'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,Agobbio's honor, and honor of that artWhich is in Paris called illuminating?''Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leavesTouched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;All his the honor now, and mine in part.In sooth I had not been so courteousWhile I was living, for the great desireOf excellence, on which my heart was bent.Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:And yet I should not be here, were it notThat, having power to sin, I turned to God.O thou vain glory of the human powers,How little green upon thy summit lingers,If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!In painting Cimabue thought that heShould hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,So that the other's fame is growing dim.So has one Guido from the other takenThe glory of our tongue, and he perchanceIs born, who from the nest shall chase them both.Naught is this mundane rumor but a breathOf wind, that comes now this way and now that,And changes name, because it changes side.What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel offFrom thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been deadBefore thou left thepappoand thedindi,Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorterSpace to the eterne, than twinkling of an eyeUnto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.With him, who takes so little of the roadIn front of me, all Tuscany resounded;And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,Where he was lord, what time was overthrownThe Florentine delirium, that superbWas at that day as now 'tis prostitute.Your reputation is the color of grassWhich comes and goes, and that discolors itBy which it issues green from out the earth.'"Longfellow.
"And one of them, not this one who was speaking,Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,Keeping his eyes laboriously fixedOn me, who all bowed down was going with them.'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,Agobbio's honor, and honor of that artWhich is in Paris called illuminating?''Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leavesTouched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;All his the honor now, and mine in part.In sooth I had not been so courteousWhile I was living, for the great desireOf excellence, on which my heart was bent.Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:And yet I should not be here, were it notThat, having power to sin, I turned to God.O thou vain glory of the human powers,How little green upon thy summit lingers,If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!In painting Cimabue thought that heShould hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,So that the other's fame is growing dim.So has one Guido from the other takenThe glory of our tongue, and he perchanceIs born, who from the nest shall chase them both.Naught is this mundane rumor but a breathOf wind, that comes now this way and now that,And changes name, because it changes side.What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel offFrom thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been deadBefore thou left thepappoand thedindi,Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorterSpace to the eterne, than twinkling of an eyeUnto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.With him, who takes so little of the roadIn front of me, all Tuscany resounded;And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,Where he was lord, what time was overthrownThe Florentine delirium, that superbWas at that day as now 'tis prostitute.Your reputation is the color of grassWhich comes and goes, and that discolors itBy which it issues green from out the earth.'"
Longfellow.
"Listening I bent my visage down: and one(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weightThat urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and called;Holding his eyes with difficulty fixedIntent upon me, stooping as I wentCompanion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,'Art thou not Oderigi? art not thouAgobbio's glory, glory of that artWhich they of Paris call the limner's skill?''Brother!' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile,Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves.His all the honor now; my light obscured.In truth, I had not been thus courteous to himThe while I lived, through eagerness of zealFor that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.Nor were I even here, if, able stillTo sin, I had not turned me unto God.O powers of man! how vain your glory, nippedE'en in its height of verdure, if an ageLess bright succeed not. Cimabue thoughtTo lord it over painting's field; and nowThe cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.Thus hath one Guido from the other snatchedThe lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,Who shall drive either from their nest. The noiseOf worldly fame is but a blast of wind,That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou moreLive in the mouths of mankind, if thy fleshPart shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst diedBefore the coral and the pap were left,Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and thatIs, to eternity compared, a spaceBriefer than is the twinkling of an eyeTo the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treadsSo leisurely before me, far and wideThrough Tuscany resounded once; and nowIs in Sienna scarce with whispers named:There was he sovereign, when destruction caughtThe maddening rage of Florence, in that dayProud as she now is loathsome. Your renownIs as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;And his might withers it, by whom it sprangCrude from the lap of earth.'"—Cary.
"Listening I bent my visage down: and one(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weightThat urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and called;Holding his eyes with difficulty fixedIntent upon me, stooping as I wentCompanion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,'Art thou not Oderigi? art not thouAgobbio's glory, glory of that artWhich they of Paris call the limner's skill?''Brother!' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile,Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves.His all the honor now; my light obscured.In truth, I had not been thus courteous to himThe while I lived, through eagerness of zealFor that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.Nor were I even here, if, able stillTo sin, I had not turned me unto God.O powers of man! how vain your glory, nippedE'en in its height of verdure, if an ageLess bright succeed not. Cimabue thoughtTo lord it over painting's field; and nowThe cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.Thus hath one Guido from the other snatchedThe lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,Who shall drive either from their nest. The noiseOf worldly fame is but a blast of wind,That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou moreLive in the mouths of mankind, if thy fleshPart shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst diedBefore the coral and the pap were left,Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and thatIs, to eternity compared, a spaceBriefer than is the twinkling of an eyeTo the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treadsSo leisurely before me, far and wideThrough Tuscany resounded once; and nowIs in Sienna scarce with whispers named:There was he sovereign, when destruction caughtThe maddening rage of Florence, in that dayProud as she now is loathsome. Your renownIs as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;And his might withers it, by whom it sprangCrude from the lap of earth.'"—Cary.
For much the same reason as that already stated, we give the following beautiful passage, a touching story in itself, but how deeply touching in the energetic directness and simplicity of Dante's verse!
"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stavaPer avvisar da presso un'altra storiaChe diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.Quivi era storiata l'alta gloriaDel roman prence lo cui gran valoreMosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:I' dico di Trajano imperadore;Ed una vedovella gli era al frenoDi lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pienoDi cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oroSovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.La miserella intra tutti costoroParea dicer: signor, fammi vendettaDel mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspettaTanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio(Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui beneA te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che convieneCh'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.Colui che mai non vide cosa nuovaProdusse esto visibile parlare,Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova."Purgatorio, X. 70-96.
"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stavaPer avvisar da presso un'altra storiaChe diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.Quivi era storiata l'alta gloriaDel roman prence lo cui gran valoreMosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:I' dico di Trajano imperadore;Ed una vedovella gli era al frenoDi lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pienoDi cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oroSovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.La miserella intra tutti costoroParea dicer: signor, fammi vendettaDel mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspettaTanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio(Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui beneA te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che convieneCh'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.Colui che mai non vide cosa nuovaProdusse esto visibile parlare,Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova."
Purgatorio, X. 70-96.
"I moved my feet from where I had been standing,To examine near at hand another story,Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.There the high glory of the Roman PrinceWas chronicled, whose great beneficenceMoved Gregory to his great victory;'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;And a poor widow at his bridle stood,In attitude of weeping and of grief.Around about him seemed it thronged and fullOf cavaliers, and the eagles in the goldAbove them visibly in the wind were moving.The wretched woman in the midst of theseSeemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'And he to answer her: 'Now wait untilI shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like oneIn whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou notReturn?' And he: 'Who shall be where I amWill give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of othersWhat boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves meThat I discharge my duty ere I move;Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'He who on no new thing has ever lookedWas the creator of this visible language,Novel to us, for here it is not found."Longfellow.
"I moved my feet from where I had been standing,To examine near at hand another story,Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.There the high glory of the Roman PrinceWas chronicled, whose great beneficenceMoved Gregory to his great victory;'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;And a poor widow at his bridle stood,In attitude of weeping and of grief.Around about him seemed it thronged and fullOf cavaliers, and the eagles in the goldAbove them visibly in the wind were moving.The wretched woman in the midst of theseSeemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'And he to answer her: 'Now wait untilI shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like oneIn whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou notReturn?' And he: 'Who shall be where I amWill give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of othersWhat boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves meThat I discharge my duty ere I move;Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'He who on no new thing has ever lookedWas the creator of this visible language,Novel to us, for here it is not found."
Longfellow.
"To behold the tablet next,Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,I moved me. There was storied on the rockThe exalted glory of the Roman prince,Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earnHis mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.A widow at his bridle stood, attiredIn tears and mourning. Round about them troopedFull throng of knights; and overhead in goldThe eagles floated, struggling with the wind.The wretch appeared amid all these to say:'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:'Wait now till I return.' And she, as oneMade hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thouDost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee,'At length he answers. 'It beseemeth wellMy duty be performed, ere I move hence:So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'He, whose ken nothing new surveys, producedThat visible speaking, new to us and strange,The like not found on earth."—Cary.
"To behold the tablet next,Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,I moved me. There was storied on the rockThe exalted glory of the Roman prince,Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earnHis mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.A widow at his bridle stood, attiredIn tears and mourning. Round about them troopedFull throng of knights; and overhead in goldThe eagles floated, struggling with the wind.The wretch appeared amid all these to say:'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:'Wait now till I return.' And she, as oneMade hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thouDost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee,'At length he answers. 'It beseemeth wellMy duty be performed, ere I move hence:So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'He, whose ken nothing new surveys, producedThat visible speaking, new to us and strange,The like not found on earth."—Cary.
How different is the character of the following description, which fills the ear with its grand and varied harmony, as it fills the mind with a rapid succession of pictures!
"Io m'era mosso e seguia volentieriDel mio maestro i passi, ed amendueGià mostravam com'eravam leggieri,Quando mi disse: Volgi gli occhi in giue;Buon ti sarà per alleggiar la viaVeder lo letto delle piante tue.Come, perchè di lor memoria fia,Sovr'a'sepolti le tombe terragnePortan segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;Onde li molte volte si ripiagnePer la puntura della rimembranzaChe solo a'pii dà delle calcagne:Si vid'io li, ma di miglior sembianza,Secondo l'artificio, figuratoQuanto per via di fuor del monte avanza.Vedea colui che fu nobil creatoPiù d'altra creatura giù dal cieloFolgoreggiando scendere da un lato.Vedeva Briareo fitto dal teioCelestial giacer dall'altra parte,Grave alia terra per lo mortal geloVedea Timbreo, vedea Pallade e MarteArmati ancora intorno al padre loroMirar le membra de'giganti sparte.Vedea Nembrotto appiè del gran lavoroQuasi smarrito riguardar le gentiChe'n Sennaar con lui insieme foro.O Niobe, con che occhi dolentiVedev'io te segnata in su la stradaTra sette e sette tuoi figliuoli spenti!O Saul, come'n su la propria spadaQuivi parevi morto in GelboèChe poi non sentì pioggia nè rugiada!O folle Aragne, si vedea io teGià mezza ragna, trista in su gli stracciDell opera che mal per te si fe'.O Roboam, già non par che minnacciQuivi il tuo segno, ma pien di spaventoNel porta un carro prima ch' altri'l cacci.Mostrava ancora il duro pavimentoCome Almeone a sua madre fe'caroParer lo sventurato adornamento.Mostrava come i figli si gittaroSovra Sennacherib dentro dal tempio,E come morto lui quivi lasciaro.Mostrava la ruina e'l crudo scempioChe fe'Tamiri quando disse a CiroSangue sitisti, ed io di sangue t'empio.Mostrava come in rotta si fuggiroGli Assiri poi che fu morto Oloferne,Ed anche le reliquie del martiro.Vedeva Troja in cenere e in caverne:O Ilion, come te basso e vileMostrava il segno che lì si discerne!Qual di pennel fu maestro o di stile,Che ritraesse l'ombre e gli atti ch'iviMirar farieno uno'ngegno sottile?Morti li morti, e i vivi parean vivi.Non vide me'di me chi vide'l vero,Quant'io calcai fin che chinato givi."Purgatorio, XII. 10-69
"Io m'era mosso e seguia volentieriDel mio maestro i passi, ed amendueGià mostravam com'eravam leggieri,Quando mi disse: Volgi gli occhi in giue;Buon ti sarà per alleggiar la viaVeder lo letto delle piante tue.Come, perchè di lor memoria fia,Sovr'a'sepolti le tombe terragnePortan segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;Onde li molte volte si ripiagnePer la puntura della rimembranzaChe solo a'pii dà delle calcagne:Si vid'io li, ma di miglior sembianza,Secondo l'artificio, figuratoQuanto per via di fuor del monte avanza.Vedea colui che fu nobil creatoPiù d'altra creatura giù dal cieloFolgoreggiando scendere da un lato.Vedeva Briareo fitto dal teioCelestial giacer dall'altra parte,Grave alia terra per lo mortal geloVedea Timbreo, vedea Pallade e MarteArmati ancora intorno al padre loroMirar le membra de'giganti sparte.Vedea Nembrotto appiè del gran lavoroQuasi smarrito riguardar le gentiChe'n Sennaar con lui insieme foro.O Niobe, con che occhi dolentiVedev'io te segnata in su la stradaTra sette e sette tuoi figliuoli spenti!O Saul, come'n su la propria spadaQuivi parevi morto in GelboèChe poi non sentì pioggia nè rugiada!O folle Aragne, si vedea io teGià mezza ragna, trista in su gli stracciDell opera che mal per te si fe'.O Roboam, già non par che minnacciQuivi il tuo segno, ma pien di spaventoNel porta un carro prima ch' altri'l cacci.Mostrava ancora il duro pavimentoCome Almeone a sua madre fe'caroParer lo sventurato adornamento.Mostrava come i figli si gittaroSovra Sennacherib dentro dal tempio,E come morto lui quivi lasciaro.Mostrava la ruina e'l crudo scempioChe fe'Tamiri quando disse a CiroSangue sitisti, ed io di sangue t'empio.Mostrava come in rotta si fuggiroGli Assiri poi che fu morto Oloferne,Ed anche le reliquie del martiro.Vedeva Troja in cenere e in caverne:O Ilion, come te basso e vileMostrava il segno che lì si discerne!Qual di pennel fu maestro o di stile,Che ritraesse l'ombre e gli atti ch'iviMirar farieno uno'ngegno sottile?Morti li morti, e i vivi parean vivi.Non vide me'di me chi vide'l vero,Quant'io calcai fin che chinato givi."
Purgatorio, XII. 10-69
"I had moved on, and followed willinglyThe footsteps of my Master, and we bothAlready showed how light of foot we were,When unto me he said: 'Cast down thine eyes;'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.'As, that some memory may exist of them,Above the buried dead their tombs in earthBear sculptured on them what they were before;Whence often there we weep for them afresh,From pricking of remembrance, which aloneTo the compassionate doth set its spur;So saw I there, but of a better semblanceIn point of artifice, with figures coveredWhate'er as pathway from the mount projects.I saw that one who was created nobleMore than all other creatures, down from heavenFlaming with lightnings fall upon one side.I saw Briareus smitten by the dartCelestial, lying on the other side,Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.I saw Thymbræus, Pallas saw, and Mars,Still clad in armor round about their father,Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.I saw, at foot of his great labor, Nimrod,As if bewildered, looking at the peopleWho had been proud with him in Sennaar.O Niobe! with what afflicted eyesThee I beheld upon the pathway traced,Between thy seven and seven children slain!O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper swordDidst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!O mad Arachne! so I thee beheldE'en then half spider, sad upon the shredsOf fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!O Rehoboam! no more seems to threatenThine image there; but full of consternationA chariot bears it off, when none pursues!Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavementHow unto his own mother made AlcmæonCostly appear the luckless ornament;Displayed how his own sons did throw themselvesUpon Sennacherib within the temple,And how, he being dead, they left him there;Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnageThat Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said,'Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!'Displayed how routed fled the AssyriansAfter that Holofernes had been slain,And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns;O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased,Displayed the image that is there discerned!Who e'er of pencil master was or stile,That could portray the shades and traits which thereWould cause each subtile genius to admire?Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;Better than I saw not who saw the truth,All that I trod upon while bowed I went."Longfellow.
"I had moved on, and followed willinglyThe footsteps of my Master, and we bothAlready showed how light of foot we were,When unto me he said: 'Cast down thine eyes;'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.'As, that some memory may exist of them,Above the buried dead their tombs in earthBear sculptured on them what they were before;Whence often there we weep for them afresh,From pricking of remembrance, which aloneTo the compassionate doth set its spur;So saw I there, but of a better semblanceIn point of artifice, with figures coveredWhate'er as pathway from the mount projects.I saw that one who was created nobleMore than all other creatures, down from heavenFlaming with lightnings fall upon one side.I saw Briareus smitten by the dartCelestial, lying on the other side,Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.I saw Thymbræus, Pallas saw, and Mars,Still clad in armor round about their father,Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.I saw, at foot of his great labor, Nimrod,As if bewildered, looking at the peopleWho had been proud with him in Sennaar.O Niobe! with what afflicted eyesThee I beheld upon the pathway traced,Between thy seven and seven children slain!O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper swordDidst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!O mad Arachne! so I thee beheldE'en then half spider, sad upon the shredsOf fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!O Rehoboam! no more seems to threatenThine image there; but full of consternationA chariot bears it off, when none pursues!Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavementHow unto his own mother made AlcmæonCostly appear the luckless ornament;Displayed how his own sons did throw themselvesUpon Sennacherib within the temple,And how, he being dead, they left him there;Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnageThat Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said,'Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!'Displayed how routed fled the AssyriansAfter that Holofernes had been slain,And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns;O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased,Displayed the image that is there discerned!Who e'er of pencil master was or stile,That could portray the shades and traits which thereWould cause each subtile genius to admire?Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;Better than I saw not who saw the truth,All that I trod upon while bowed I went."
Longfellow.
"I now my leader's track not loath pursued;And each had shown how light we fared along,When thus he warned me: 'Bend thine eyesight down:For thou, to ease the way, shalt find it goodTo ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.'As, in memorial of the buried, drawnUpon earth-level tombs, the sculptured formOf what was once, appears, (at sight whereofTears often stream forth, by remembrance waked,Whose sacred stings the piteous often feel,)So saw I there, but with more curious skillOf portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of spaceFrom forth the mountain stretches. On one partHim I beheld, above all creatures erstCreated noblest, lightening fall from heaven:On the other side, with bolt celestial pierced,Briareus; cumbering earth he lay, through dintOf mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbræan god,With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,Armed still, and gazing on the giants' limbsStrewn o'er the ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:At foot of the stupendous work he stood,As if bewildered, looking on the crowdLeagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain.O Niobe! in what a trance of woeThee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,Seven sons on either side thee slain. O Saul!How ghastly didst thou look, on thine own swordExpiring, in Gilboa, from that hourNe'er visited with rain from heaven, or dew.O fond Arachne! thee I also saw,Half spider now, in anguish, crawling upThe unfinished web thou weavedst to thy bane.O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seemLowering no more defiance; but fear-smote,With none to chase him, in his chariot whirled.Was shown beside upon the solid floor,How dear Alcmæon forced his mother rateThat ornament, in evil hour received:How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fellHis sons, and how a corpse they left him there.Was shown the scath, and cruel mangling madeBy Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried,'Blood thou didst thirst for: take thy fill of blood.'Was shown how routed in the battle fledThe Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'enThe relics of the carnage. Troy I marked,In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fallen,How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!What master of the pencil or the styleHad traced the shades and lines, that might have madeThe subtlest workman wonder? Dead, the dead;The living seemed alive: with clearer viewHis eye beheld not who beheld the truth,Than mine what I did tread on, while I wentLow bending."—Cary.
"I now my leader's track not loath pursued;And each had shown how light we fared along,When thus he warned me: 'Bend thine eyesight down:For thou, to ease the way, shalt find it goodTo ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.'As, in memorial of the buried, drawnUpon earth-level tombs, the sculptured formOf what was once, appears, (at sight whereofTears often stream forth, by remembrance waked,Whose sacred stings the piteous often feel,)So saw I there, but with more curious skillOf portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of spaceFrom forth the mountain stretches. On one partHim I beheld, above all creatures erstCreated noblest, lightening fall from heaven:On the other side, with bolt celestial pierced,Briareus; cumbering earth he lay, through dintOf mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbræan god,With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,Armed still, and gazing on the giants' limbsStrewn o'er the ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:At foot of the stupendous work he stood,As if bewildered, looking on the crowdLeagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain.O Niobe! in what a trance of woeThee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,Seven sons on either side thee slain. O Saul!How ghastly didst thou look, on thine own swordExpiring, in Gilboa, from that hourNe'er visited with rain from heaven, or dew.O fond Arachne! thee I also saw,Half spider now, in anguish, crawling upThe unfinished web thou weavedst to thy bane.O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seemLowering no more defiance; but fear-smote,With none to chase him, in his chariot whirled.Was shown beside upon the solid floor,How dear Alcmæon forced his mother rateThat ornament, in evil hour received:How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fellHis sons, and how a corpse they left him there.Was shown the scath, and cruel mangling madeBy Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried,'Blood thou didst thirst for: take thy fill of blood.'Was shown how routed in the battle fledThe Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'enThe relics of the carnage. Troy I marked,In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fallen,How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!What master of the pencil or the styleHad traced the shades and lines, that might have madeThe subtlest workman wonder? Dead, the dead;The living seemed alive: with clearer viewHis eye beheld not who beheld the truth,Than mine what I did tread on, while I wentLow bending."—Cary.
The following is distinguished from all that we have cited thus far by softness and delicacy of touch.
"Vago già di cercar dentro e d'intornoLa divina foresta spessa e vivaCh'agli occhi temperava il nuovo giorno,Senza più aspettar lasciai la rivaPrendendo la campagna lento lentoSu per lo suol che d'ogni parte oliva.Un'aura dolce senza mutamentoAvere in se, mi feria per la fronte,Non di più colpo che soave vento:Per cui le fronde tremolando pronteTutte quante piegavano alla parteU'la prim' ombra gitta il santo monte;Non però dal loro esser dritto sparteTanto, che gli augelletti per le cimeLasciasser d'operare ogni lor arte;Ma con piena letizia l'ore primeCantando ricevieno intra le foglieChe tenevan bordone alle sue rime,Tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccogliePer la pineta in sul lito di Chiassi,Quand'Eolo scirocco fuor discioglie.Gia m'avean trasportato i lenti passiDentro all'antica selva tanto, ch'ioNon potea rivedere ond'io m'entrassi;Ed ecco il più andar mi tolse un rioChe'nver sinistra con sue picciol'ondePiegava l'erba che'n sua ripa uscio.Tutte l'acque che son di qua più mondeParrieno avere in se mistura alcunaVerso di quella che nulla nasconde,Avvegna che si muova bruna brunaSotto l'ombra perpetua, che maiRaggiar non lascia sole ivi nè luna.Co' piè ristetti e con gli occhi passaiDi là dal fiumicel per ammirareLa gran variazion de'freschi mai;E là m'apparve, si com'egli appareSubitamente cosa che disviaPer maraviglia tutt'altro pensare,Una donna soletta che si giaCantando ed iscegliendo fior da fioreOnd' era pinta tutta la sua via."Purgatorio, XXVIII. 1-42.
"Vago già di cercar dentro e d'intornoLa divina foresta spessa e vivaCh'agli occhi temperava il nuovo giorno,Senza più aspettar lasciai la rivaPrendendo la campagna lento lentoSu per lo suol che d'ogni parte oliva.Un'aura dolce senza mutamentoAvere in se, mi feria per la fronte,Non di più colpo che soave vento:Per cui le fronde tremolando pronteTutte quante piegavano alla parteU'la prim' ombra gitta il santo monte;Non però dal loro esser dritto sparteTanto, che gli augelletti per le cimeLasciasser d'operare ogni lor arte;Ma con piena letizia l'ore primeCantando ricevieno intra le foglieChe tenevan bordone alle sue rime,Tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccogliePer la pineta in sul lito di Chiassi,Quand'Eolo scirocco fuor discioglie.Gia m'avean trasportato i lenti passiDentro all'antica selva tanto, ch'ioNon potea rivedere ond'io m'entrassi;Ed ecco il più andar mi tolse un rioChe'nver sinistra con sue picciol'ondePiegava l'erba che'n sua ripa uscio.Tutte l'acque che son di qua più mondeParrieno avere in se mistura alcunaVerso di quella che nulla nasconde,Avvegna che si muova bruna brunaSotto l'ombra perpetua, che maiRaggiar non lascia sole ivi nè luna.Co' piè ristetti e con gli occhi passaiDi là dal fiumicel per ammirareLa gran variazion de'freschi mai;E là m'apparve, si com'egli appareSubitamente cosa che disviaPer maraviglia tutt'altro pensare,Una donna soletta che si giaCantando ed iscegliendo fior da fioreOnd' era pinta tutta la sua via."
Purgatorio, XXVIII. 1-42.
"Eager already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living-green,Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Taking the level country slowly, slowlyOver the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance.A softly-breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, upon the forehead smote meNo heavier blow than of a gentle wind,Whereat the branches, lightly tremulous,Did all of them bow downward toward that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction swayed,So that the little birds upon their topsShould leave the practice of each art of theirs;But with full ravishment the hours of prime,Singing, received they in the midst of leaves,That ever bore a burden to their rhymes,Such as from branch to branch goes gathering onThrough the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi,When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco.Already my slow steps had carried meInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould not perceive where I had entered it.And lo! my further course a stream cut off,Which tow'rd the left hand with its little wavesBent down the grass that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid areWould seem to have within themselves some mixtureCompared with that which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves on with a brown, brown currentUnder the shade perpetual, that neverRay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passedBeyond the rivulet, to look uponThe great variety of the fresh may.And there appeared to me (even as appearsSuddenly something that doth turn asideThrough very wonder every other thought)A lady all alone, who went alongSinging and culling floweret after floweret,With which her pathway was all painted over."Longfellow.
"Eager already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living-green,Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Taking the level country slowly, slowlyOver the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance.A softly-breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, upon the forehead smote meNo heavier blow than of a gentle wind,Whereat the branches, lightly tremulous,Did all of them bow downward toward that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction swayed,So that the little birds upon their topsShould leave the practice of each art of theirs;But with full ravishment the hours of prime,Singing, received they in the midst of leaves,That ever bore a burden to their rhymes,Such as from branch to branch goes gathering onThrough the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi,When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco.Already my slow steps had carried meInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould not perceive where I had entered it.And lo! my further course a stream cut off,Which tow'rd the left hand with its little wavesBent down the grass that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid areWould seem to have within themselves some mixtureCompared with that which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves on with a brown, brown currentUnder the shade perpetual, that neverRay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passedBeyond the rivulet, to look uponThe great variety of the fresh may.And there appeared to me (even as appearsSuddenly something that doth turn asideThrough very wonder every other thought)A lady all alone, who went alongSinging and culling floweret after floweret,With which her pathway was all painted over."
Longfellow.
"Through that celestial forest, whose thick shadeWith lively greenness the new-springing dayAttempered, eager now to roam, and searchIts limits round, forthwith I left the bank;Along the champaign leisurely my wayPursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sidesDelicious odor breathed. A pleasant air,That intermitted never, never veered,Smote on my temples, gently, as a windOf softest influence: at which the sprays,Obedient all, leaned trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade;Yet were not so disordered, but that stillUpon their top the feathered quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysKept tenor; even as from branch to branch,Along the piny forests on the shoreOf Chiassi, rolls the gathering melody.When Eolus hath from his cavern loosedThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Though slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had entered; when, behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which, to the left,With little rippling waters bent the grassThat issued from its brink. On earth no waveHow clean soe'er, that would not seem to haveSome mixture in itself, compared with this,Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it rolledDarkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'erAdmits or sun or moonlight there to shine.My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyesPassed onward, o'er the streamlet, to surveyThe tender May-bloom, flushed through many a hue,In prodigal variety: and there,As object, rising suddenly to view,That from our bosom every thought besideWith the rare marvel chases, I beheldA lady all alone, who, singing, went,And culling flower from flower, wherewith her wayWas all o'er painted."—Cary.
"Through that celestial forest, whose thick shadeWith lively greenness the new-springing dayAttempered, eager now to roam, and searchIts limits round, forthwith I left the bank;Along the champaign leisurely my wayPursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sidesDelicious odor breathed. A pleasant air,That intermitted never, never veered,Smote on my temples, gently, as a windOf softest influence: at which the sprays,Obedient all, leaned trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade;Yet were not so disordered, but that stillUpon their top the feathered quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysKept tenor; even as from branch to branch,Along the piny forests on the shoreOf Chiassi, rolls the gathering melody.When Eolus hath from his cavern loosedThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Though slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had entered; when, behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which, to the left,With little rippling waters bent the grassThat issued from its brink. On earth no waveHow clean soe'er, that would not seem to haveSome mixture in itself, compared with this,Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it rolledDarkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'erAdmits or sun or moonlight there to shine.My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyesPassed onward, o'er the streamlet, to surveyThe tender May-bloom, flushed through many a hue,In prodigal variety: and there,As object, rising suddenly to view,That from our bosom every thought besideWith the rare marvel chases, I beheldA lady all alone, who, singing, went,And culling flower from flower, wherewith her wayWas all o'er painted."—Cary.
We give a characteristic passage from the Paradiso.
"Fiorenza dentro dalla cerchia antica,Ond'ella toglie ancora e terza e nona,Si stava in pace sobria e pudica.Non avea catenella, non corona,Non donne contigiate, non cinturaChe fosse a veder più che la persona.Non faceva nascendo ancor pauraLa figlia al padre, che il tempo e la doteNon fuggian quinci e quindi la misura.Non avea case di famiglia vote;Non v'era giunto ancor SardanapaloA mostrar ciò ch'in camera si puote.Non era vinto ancora MontemaloDal vostro Uccellatoio, che com'è vintoNel montar su, così sarà nel calo.Bellincion Berti vid'io andar cintoDi cuojo e d'osso, e venir dallo specchioLa donna sua senza'l viso dipinto:E vidi quel di Nerli e quel del VecchioEsser contenti alla pelle scoverta,E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio:Oh fortunate! e ciascuna era certaDella sua sepoltura, ed ancor nullaEra per Francia nel letto deserta.L'una vegghiava a studio della culla,E consolando usava l'idiomaChe pria li padri e le madri trastulla:L'altra traendo alla rocca la chiomaFavoleggiava con la sua famigliaDe'Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.Saria tenuta allor tal maravigliaUna Cianghella, un Lapo Salterello,Qual or saria Cincinnato e Corniglia.A così riposato, a così belloViver di cittadini, a così fidaCittadinanza, a così dolce ostello,Maria mi diè, chiamata in alte grida;E nell'antico vostro BatisteoInsieme fui Cristiano e Cacciaguida."Paradiso, XV. 97-135.
"Fiorenza dentro dalla cerchia antica,Ond'ella toglie ancora e terza e nona,Si stava in pace sobria e pudica.Non avea catenella, non corona,Non donne contigiate, non cinturaChe fosse a veder più che la persona.Non faceva nascendo ancor pauraLa figlia al padre, che il tempo e la doteNon fuggian quinci e quindi la misura.Non avea case di famiglia vote;Non v'era giunto ancor SardanapaloA mostrar ciò ch'in camera si puote.Non era vinto ancora MontemaloDal vostro Uccellatoio, che com'è vintoNel montar su, così sarà nel calo.Bellincion Berti vid'io andar cintoDi cuojo e d'osso, e venir dallo specchioLa donna sua senza'l viso dipinto:E vidi quel di Nerli e quel del VecchioEsser contenti alla pelle scoverta,E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio:Oh fortunate! e ciascuna era certaDella sua sepoltura, ed ancor nullaEra per Francia nel letto deserta.L'una vegghiava a studio della culla,E consolando usava l'idiomaChe pria li padri e le madri trastulla:L'altra traendo alla rocca la chiomaFavoleggiava con la sua famigliaDe'Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.Saria tenuta allor tal maravigliaUna Cianghella, un Lapo Salterello,Qual or saria Cincinnato e Corniglia.A così riposato, a così belloViver di cittadini, a così fidaCittadinanza, a così dolce ostello,Maria mi diè, chiamata in alte grida;E nell'antico vostro BatisteoInsieme fui Cristiano e Cacciaguida."
Paradiso, XV. 97-135.