The dawn was vanquishing the matin hour,Which fled before it,-so that from afarI recognized the trembling of the sea.
The dawn was vanquishing the matin hour,
Which fled before it,-so that from afar
I recognized the trembling of the sea.
And how vivid this is:
The airImpregnate changed to water. Fell the rain:And to the fosses came all that the landContain'd not, and, as mightiest streams are wont,To the great river with such headlong sweepRush'd, that naught stayed its course.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 odour 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, lean'd trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade;Yet were not so disordered; but that stillUpon their top the feather'd quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysKept tenour; even as from branch to branchAlong the piny forests on the shoreOf Chiassi rolls the gathering melody,When Eolus hath from his cavern loosedThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Tho' slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had enter'd; when behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which to the leftWith little rippling waters bent the grassThat issued from its brink.
The airImpregnate changed to water. Fell the rain:And to the fosses came all that the landContain'd not, and, as mightiest streams are wont,To the great river with such headlong sweepRush'd, that naught stayed its course.
The air
Impregnate changed to water. Fell the rain:
And to the fosses came all that the land
Contain'd not, and, as mightiest streams are wont,
To the great river with such headlong sweep
Rush'd, that naught stayed its course.
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 odour 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, lean'd trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade;Yet were not so disordered; but that stillUpon their top the feather'd quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysKept tenour; even as from branch to branchAlong the piny forests on the shoreOf Chiassi rolls the gathering melody,When Eolus hath from his cavern loosedThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Tho' slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had enter'd; when behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which to the leftWith little rippling waters bent the grassThat issued from its brink.
Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade
With lively greenness the new-springing day
Attempered, eager now to roam and search
Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank;
Along the champaign leisurely my way
Pursuing, o'er the ground that on all sides
Delicious odour breathed. A pleasant air,
That intermitted never, never veered,
Smote on my temples gently, as a wind
Of softest influence, at which the sprays,
Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part
Where first the holy mountain casts his shade;
Yet were not so disordered; but that still
Upon their top the feather'd quiristers
Applied their wonted art, and with full joy
Welcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrill
Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays
Kept tenour; even as from branch to branch
Along the piny forests on the shore
Of Chiassi rolls the gathering melody,
When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed
The dripping south. Already had my steps,
Tho' slow, so far into that ancient wood
Transported me, I could not ken the place
Where I had enter'd; when behold! my path
Was bounded by a rill, which to the left
With little rippling waters bent the grass
That issued from its brink.
and this of the heavenly Paradise:
I looked,And, in the likeness of a river, sawLight flowing, from whose amber-seeming wavesFlash'd up effulgence, as they glided on'Twixt banks, on either side, painted with spring,Incredible how fair; and, from the tide,There, ever and anon outstarting, flewSparkles instinct with life; and in the flowersDid set them, like to rubies chased in gold;Then, as if drunk with odours, plunged againInto the wondrous flood, from which, as oneRe-entered, still another rose.
I looked,
And, in the likeness of a river, saw
Light flowing, from whose amber-seeming waves
Flash'd up effulgence, as they glided on
'Twixt banks, on either side, painted with spring,
Incredible how fair; and, from the tide,
There, ever and anon outstarting, flew
Sparkles instinct with life; and in the flowers
Did set them, like to rubies chased in gold;
Then, as if drunk with odours, plunged again
Into the wondrous flood, from which, as one
Re-entered, still another rose.
His numerous comparisons conjure up whole scenes, perfect in truth to Nature, and shewing a keen and widely ranging eye. For example:
Bellowing, there groanedA noise, as of a sea in tempest tornBy warring winds.(Inferno.)O'er better waves to steer her rapid courseThe light bark of my genius lifts the sail,Well pleased to leave so cruel sea behind.(Purgatorio.)All ye, who in small bark have following sail'd,Eager to listen on the adventurous trackOf my proud keel, that singing cuts her way.(Paradiso.)As sails full spread and bellying with the windDrop suddenly collapsed, if the mast split,So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend.(Inferno.)As, near upon the hour of dawn,Through the thick vapours Mars with fiery beamGlares down in west, over the ocean floor.(Purgatorio.)As 'fore the sunThat weighs our vision down, and veils his formIn light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'dUnequal.(Purgatorio.)As sunshine cheersLimbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my lookUnloosed her tongue.And now there came o'er the perturbed waves,Loud crashing, terrible, a sound that madeEither shore tremble, as if of a windImpetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung,That, 'gainst some forest driving all his might,Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurlsAfar; then, onward pressing, proudly sweepsHis whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.(Inferno.)As florets, by the frosty air of nightBent down and closed, when day has blanch'd their leavesRise all unfolded on their spiry stems,So was my fainting vigour new restored.(Inferno.)As fall off the light autumnal leaves,One still another following, till the boughStrews all its honours on the earth beneath.(Inferno.)
Bellowing, there groaned
A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn
By warring winds.
(Inferno.)
O'er better waves to steer her rapid course
The light bark of my genius lifts the sail,
Well pleased to leave so cruel sea behind.
(Purgatorio.)
All ye, who in small bark have following sail'd,
Eager to listen on the adventurous track
Of my proud keel, that singing cuts her way.
(Paradiso.)
As sails full spread and bellying with the wind
Drop suddenly collapsed, if the mast split,
So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend.
(Inferno.)
As, near upon the hour of dawn,
Through the thick vapours Mars with fiery beam
Glares down in west, over the ocean floor.
(Purgatorio.)
As 'fore the sun
That weighs our vision down, and veils his form
In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'd
Unequal.
(Purgatorio.)
As sunshine cheers
Limbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my look
Unloosed her tongue.
And now there came o'er the perturbed waves,
Loud crashing, terrible, a sound that made
Either shore tremble, as if of a wind
Impetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung,
That, 'gainst some forest driving all his might,
Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls
Afar; then, onward pressing, proudly sweeps
His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.
(Inferno.)
As florets, by the frosty air of night
Bent down and closed, when day has blanch'd their leaves
Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems,
So was my fainting vigour new restored.
(Inferno.)
As fall off the light autumnal leaves,
One still another following, till the bough
Strews all its honours on the earth beneath.
(Inferno.)
Bees, dolphins, rays of sunlight, snow, starlings, doves, frogs, a bull, falcons, fishes, larks, and rooks are all used, generally with characteristic touches of detail.
Specially tender is this:
E'en as the bird, who 'mid the leafy bowerHas, in her nest, sat darkling through the nightWith her sweet brood; impatient to descryTheir wished looks, and to bring home their food,In the fond quest, unconscious of her toil;She, of the time prevenient, on the sprayThat overhangs their couch, with wakeful gazeExpects the sun, nor, ever, till the dawnRemoveth from the east her eager ken,So stood the dame erect.
E'en as the bird, who 'mid the leafy bowerHas, in her nest, sat darkling through the nightWith her sweet brood; impatient to descryTheir wished looks, and to bring home their food,In the fond quest, unconscious of her toil;
E'en as the bird, who 'mid the leafy bower
Has, in her nest, sat darkling through the night
With her sweet brood; impatient to descry
Their wished looks, and to bring home their food,
In the fond quest, unconscious of her toil;
She, of the time prevenient, on the sprayThat overhangs their couch, with wakeful gazeExpects the sun, nor, ever, till the dawnRemoveth from the east her eager ken,So stood the dame erect.
She, of the time prevenient, on the spray
That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze
Expects the sun, nor, ever, till the dawn
Removeth from the east her eager ken,
So stood the dame erect.
The most important forward step was made by Petrarch, and it is strange that this escaped Humboldt in his famous sketch in the second volume ofCosmos, as well as his commentator Schaller, and Friedlander.
For when we turn from Hellenism to Petrarch, it does not seem as if many centuries lay between; but rather as if notes first struck in the one had just blended into distinct harmony in the other.
The modern spirit arose from a union of the genius of the Italian people of the thirteenth century with antiquity, and the feeling for Nature had a share in the wider culture, both as to sentimentality and grasp of scenery. Classic and modern joined hands in Petrarch. Many Hellenic motives handed on by Roman poets reappear in his poetry, but always with that something in addition of which antiquity shewed but a trace--the modern subjectivity and individuality. It was the change from early bud to full blossom. He was one of the first to deserve the name of modern--modern, that is, in his whole feeling and mode of thought, in his sentimentality and his melancholy, and in the fact that 'more than most before and after him, he tried to know himself and to hand on to others what he knew.' (Geiger.) It is an appropriate remark of Hettner's, that the phrase, 'he has discovered his heart,' might serve as a motto for Petrarch's songs and sonnets. He knew that he had that sentimental disorder which he called 'acedia,' and wished to be rid of it. This word has a history of its own. To the Greeks, to Apollonius, for instance,[4]it meant carelessness, indifference; and, joined with the genitive [Greek: nooio]--that is, of the mind--it meant, according to the scholiasts,as much as [Greek: lypê] (Betrübnis)--that is, distress or grief. In the Middle Ages it became 'dislike of intellect so far as that is a divine gift'--that disease of the cloister which a monkish chronicler defined as 'a sadness or loathing and an immoderate distress of mind, caused by mental confusion, through which happiness of mind was destroyed, and the mind thrown back upon itself as from an abyss of despair.'
To Dante it meant the state--
SadIn the sweet air, made gladsome by the sun,
Sad
In the sweet air, made gladsome by the sun,
distaste for the good and beautiful.
The modern meaning which it took with Petrarch is well defined by Geiger as being neither ecclesiastic nor secular sin,[5]but
Entirely human and peculiar to the cleverest--the battle between reality and seeming, the attempt to people the arid wastes of the commonplace with philosophic thought--the unhappiness and despair that arise from comparing the unconcern of the majority with one's own painful unrest, from the knowledge that the results of striving do not express the effort made--that human life is but a ceaseless and unworthy rotation, in which the bad are always to the fore, and the good fall behind ... as pessimism, melancholy, world pain (Weltschmerz)--that tormenting feeling which mocks all attempt at definition, and is too vitally connected with erring and striving human nature to be curable--that longing at once for human fellowship and solitude, for active work and a life of contemplation.
Entirely human and peculiar to the cleverest--the battle between reality and seeming, the attempt to people the arid wastes of the commonplace with philosophic thought--the unhappiness and despair that arise from comparing the unconcern of the majority with one's own painful unrest, from the knowledge that the results of striving do not express the effort made--that human life is but a ceaseless and unworthy rotation, in which the bad are always to the fore, and the good fall behind ... as pessimism, melancholy, world pain (Weltschmerz)--that tormenting feeling which mocks all attempt at definition, and is too vitally connected with erring and striving human nature to be curable--that longing at once for human fellowship and solitude, for active work and a life of contemplation.
Petrarch knew too the pleasure of sadness, what Goethe called 'Wonne der Wehmuth,' thedolendi voluptas.
Lo, what new pleasure human wits devise!For oftentimes one lovesWhatever new thing movesThe sighs, that will in closest order go;And I'm of those whom sorrowing behoves;And that with some successI labour, you may guess,When eyes with tears, and heart is brimmed with woe.
Lo, what new pleasure human wits devise!
For oftentimes one loves
Whatever new thing moves
The sighs, that will in closest order go;
And I'm of those whom sorrowing behoves;
And that with some success
I labour, you may guess,
When eyes with tears, and heart is brimmed with woe.
In Sonnet 190:
My chiefest pleasure now is making moan.Oh world, oh fruitless thought,Oh luck, my luck, who'st led me thus for spite!...For loving well, with pain I'm rent....Nor can I yet repent,My heart o'erflowed with deadly pleasantness.Now wait I from no lessA foe than dealt me my first blow, my last.And were I slain full fast,'Twould seem a sort of mercy to my mind....My ode, I shall i' the fieldStand firm; to perish flinching were a shame,In fact, myself I blameFor such laments; my portion is so sweet.Tears, sighs, and death I greet.O reader that of death the servant art,Earth can no weal, to match my woes, impart.
My chiefest pleasure now is making moan.
My chiefest pleasure now is making moan.
Oh world, oh fruitless thought,Oh luck, my luck, who'st led me thus for spite!...For loving well, with pain I'm rent....Nor can I yet repent,My heart o'erflowed with deadly pleasantness.Now wait I from no lessA foe than dealt me my first blow, my last.And were I slain full fast,'Twould seem a sort of mercy to my mind....My ode, I shall i' the fieldStand firm; to perish flinching were a shame,In fact, myself I blameFor such laments; my portion is so sweet.Tears, sighs, and death I greet.O reader that of death the servant art,Earth can no weal, to match my woes, impart.
Oh world, oh fruitless thought,
Oh luck, my luck, who'st led me thus for spite!...
For loving well, with pain I'm rent....
Nor can I yet repent,
My heart o'erflowed with deadly pleasantness.
Now wait I from no less
A foe than dealt me my first blow, my last.
And were I slain full fast,
'Twould seem a sort of mercy to my mind....
My ode, I shall i' the field
Stand firm; to perish flinching were a shame,
In fact, myself I blame
For such laments; my portion is so sweet.
Tears, sighs, and death I greet.
O reader that of death the servant art,
Earth can no weal, to match my woes, impart.
His poems are full of scenes and comparisons from Nature; for the sympathy for her which goes with this modern and sentimental tone is a deep one:
In that sweet season of my age's primeWhich saw the sprout and, as it were, green bladeOf the wild passion....Changed meFrom living man into green laurel whoseArray by winter's cold no leaf can lose.(Ode 1.)
In that sweet season of my age's primeWhich saw the sprout and, as it were, green bladeOf the wild passion....
In that sweet season of my age's prime
Which saw the sprout and, as it were, green blade
Of the wild passion....
Changed meFrom living man into green laurel whoseArray by winter's cold no leaf can lose.(Ode 1.)
Changed me
From living man into green laurel whose
Array by winter's cold no leaf can lose.
(Ode 1.)
Love is that by which
My darknesses were made as brightAs clearest noonday light. (Ode 4.)
My darknesses were made as bright
As clearest noonday light. (Ode 4.)
Elsewhere it is the light of heaven breaking in his heart, and springtime which brings the flowers.
In Sonnet 44 he plays with impossibilities, like the Greek and Roman poets:
Ah me! the sea will have no waves, the snowWill warm and darken, fish on Alps will dwell,And suns droop yonder, where from common cellThe springs of Tigris and Euphrates flow,Or ever I shall here have truce or peaceOr love....
Ah me! the sea will have no waves, the snow
Will warm and darken, fish on Alps will dwell,
And suns droop yonder, where from common cell
The springs of Tigris and Euphrates flow,
Or ever I shall here have truce or peace
Or love....
and uses the same comparisons, Sestina 7:
So many creatures throng not ocean's wave,So many, above the circle of the moon,Of stars were never yet beheld by night;So many birds reside not in the groves;So many herbs hath neither field nor shore,But my heart's thoughts outnumber them each eve.
So many creatures throng not ocean's wave,
So many, above the circle of the moon,
Of stars were never yet beheld by night;
So many birds reside not in the groves;
So many herbs hath neither field nor shore,
But my heart's thoughts outnumber them each eve.
Many of his poems witness to the truth that the love-passion is the best interpreter of Nature, especially in its woes. The woes of love are his constant theme, and far more eloquently expressed than its bliss:
So fair I have not seen the sun arise,When heaven was clearest of all cloudy stain--The welkin-bow I have not after rainSeen varied with so many shifting dyes,But that her aspect in more splendid guiseUpon the day when I took up Love's chainDiversely glowed, for nothing mortal viesTherewith.... (Sonnet 112.)From each fair eyelid's tranquil firmamentSo brightly shine my stars untreacherous,That none, whose love thoughts are magnanimous,Would from aught else choose warmth or guidance lent.Oh, 'tis miraculous, when on the grassShe sits, a very flower, or when she laysUpon its greenness down her bosom white.(Sonnet 127.)Oh blithe and happy flowers, oh favoured sod,That by my lady in passive mood are pressed,Lawn, which her sweet words hear'st and treasurest,Faint traces, where her shapely foot hath trod,Smooth boughs, green leaves, which now raw juices load,Pale darling violets, and woods which restIn shadow, till that sun's beam you attest,From which hath all your pride and grandeur flowed;Oh land delightsome, oh thou river pureWhich bathest her fair face and brilliant eyesAnd winn'st a virtue from their living light,I envy you each clear and comely guiseIn which she moves. (Sonnet 129.)
So fair I have not seen the sun arise,When heaven was clearest of all cloudy stain--The welkin-bow I have not after rainSeen varied with so many shifting dyes,But that her aspect in more splendid guiseUpon the day when I took up Love's chainDiversely glowed, for nothing mortal viesTherewith.... (Sonnet 112.)
So fair I have not seen the sun arise,
When heaven was clearest of all cloudy stain--
The welkin-bow I have not after rain
Seen varied with so many shifting dyes,
But that her aspect in more splendid guise
Upon the day when I took up Love's chain
Diversely glowed, for nothing mortal vies
Therewith.... (Sonnet 112.)
From each fair eyelid's tranquil firmamentSo brightly shine my stars untreacherous,That none, whose love thoughts are magnanimous,Would from aught else choose warmth or guidance lent.Oh, 'tis miraculous, when on the grassShe sits, a very flower, or when she laysUpon its greenness down her bosom white.(Sonnet 127.)
From each fair eyelid's tranquil firmament
So brightly shine my stars untreacherous,
That none, whose love thoughts are magnanimous,
Would from aught else choose warmth or guidance lent.
Oh, 'tis miraculous, when on the grass
She sits, a very flower, or when she lays
Upon its greenness down her bosom white.
(Sonnet 127.)
Oh blithe and happy flowers, oh favoured sod,That by my lady in passive mood are pressed,Lawn, which her sweet words hear'st and treasurest,Faint traces, where her shapely foot hath trod,Smooth boughs, green leaves, which now raw juices load,Pale darling violets, and woods which restIn shadow, till that sun's beam you attest,From which hath all your pride and grandeur flowed;Oh land delightsome, oh thou river pureWhich bathest her fair face and brilliant eyesAnd winn'st a virtue from their living light,I envy you each clear and comely guiseIn which she moves. (Sonnet 129.)
Oh blithe and happy flowers, oh favoured sod,
That by my lady in passive mood are pressed,
Lawn, which her sweet words hear'st and treasurest,
Faint traces, where her shapely foot hath trod,
Smooth boughs, green leaves, which now raw juices load,
Pale darling violets, and woods which rest
In shadow, till that sun's beam you attest,
From which hath all your pride and grandeur flowed;
Oh land delightsome, oh thou river pure
Which bathest her fair face and brilliant eyes
And winn'st a virtue from their living light,
I envy you each clear and comely guise
In which she moves. (Sonnet 129.)
These recall Nais in Theocritus:
When she crept or trembling footsteps laid,Green bright and soft she madeWood, water, earth, and stone; yea, with conceitThe grasses freshened 'neath her palms and feet.And her fair eyes the fields around her dressedWith flowers, and the winds and storms she stilledWith utterance unskilledAs from a tongue that seeketh yet the breast,(Sonnet 25.)As oft as yon white foot on fresh green sodComelily sets the gentle step, a dowerOf grace, that opens and revives each flower,Seems by the delicate palm to be bestowed.(Sonnet 132.)I seem to hear her, hearing airs and sprays,And leaves, and plaintive bird notes, and the brookThat steals and murmurs through the sedges green.Such pleasure in lone silence and the mazeOf eerie shadowy woods I never took,Though too much tow'r'd my sun they intervene.(Sonnet 143.)
When she crept or trembling footsteps laid,Green bright and soft she madeWood, water, earth, and stone; yea, with conceitThe grasses freshened 'neath her palms and feet.And her fair eyes the fields around her dressedWith flowers, and the winds and storms she stilledWith utterance unskilledAs from a tongue that seeketh yet the breast,(Sonnet 25.)
When she crept or trembling footsteps laid,
Green bright and soft she made
Wood, water, earth, and stone; yea, with conceit
The grasses freshened 'neath her palms and feet.
And her fair eyes the fields around her dressed
With flowers, and the winds and storms she stilled
With utterance unskilled
As from a tongue that seeketh yet the breast,
(Sonnet 25.)
As oft as yon white foot on fresh green sodComelily sets the gentle step, a dowerOf grace, that opens and revives each flower,Seems by the delicate palm to be bestowed.(Sonnet 132.)
As oft as yon white foot on fresh green sod
Comelily sets the gentle step, a dower
Of grace, that opens and revives each flower,
Seems by the delicate palm to be bestowed.
(Sonnet 132.)
I seem to hear her, hearing airs and sprays,And leaves, and plaintive bird notes, and the brookThat steals and murmurs through the sedges green.Such pleasure in lone silence and the mazeOf eerie shadowy woods I never took,Though too much tow'r'd my sun they intervene.(Sonnet 143.)
I seem to hear her, hearing airs and sprays,
And leaves, and plaintive bird notes, and the brook
That steals and murmurs through the sedges green.
Such pleasure in lone silence and the maze
Of eerie shadowy woods I never took,
Though too much tow'r'd my sun they intervene.
(Sonnet 143.)
and like Goethe's:
I think of thee when the bright sunlight shimmersAcross the sea;When the clear fountain in the moonbeam glimmersI think of thee....I hear thee, when the tossing waves' low rumblingCreeps up the hill;I go to the lone wood and listen tremblingWhen all is still....
I think of thee when the bright sunlight shimmersAcross the sea;When the clear fountain in the moonbeam glimmersI think of thee....
I think of thee when the bright sunlight shimmers
Across the sea;
When the clear fountain in the moonbeam glimmers
I think of thee....
I hear thee, when the tossing waves' low rumblingCreeps up the hill;I go to the lone wood and listen tremblingWhen all is still....
I hear thee, when the tossing waves' low rumbling
Creeps up the hill;
I go to the lone wood and listen trembling
When all is still....
So Petrarch sings in Ode 15:
Now therefore, when in youthful guise I seeThe world attire itself in soft green hue,I think that in this age unripe I viewThat lovely girl, who's now a lady's mien.Then, when the sun ariseth all aglow,I trace the wonted showOf amorous fire, in some fine heart made queen...When leaves or boughs or violets on earthI see, what time the winter's cold decays,And when the kindly stars are gathering might,Mine eye that violet and green portrays(And nothing else) which, at my warfare's birth,Armed Love so well that yet he worsts me quite.I see the delicate fine tissue lightIn which our little damsel's limbs are dressed....Oft on the hills a feeble snow-streak lies,Which the sun smiteth in sequestered place.Let sun rule snow! Thou, Love, my ruler art,When on that fair and more than human faceI muse, which from afar makes soft my eyes....I never yet saw after mighty rainThe roving stars in the calm welkin glideAnd glitter back between the frost and dew,But straight those lovely eyes are at my side....If ever yet, on roses white and red,My eyes have fallen, where in bowl of goldThey were set down, fresh culled by virgin hands,There have I seemed her aspect to behold....But when the year has fleckedSome deal with white and yellow flowers the braes,I forthwith recollectThat day and place in which I first admiredLaura's gold hair outspread, and straight was fired....That I could number all the stars anonAnd shut the waters in a tiny glassBelike I thought, when in this narrow sheetI got a fancy to record, alas,How many ways this Beauty's paragonHath spread her light, while standing self-complete,So that from her I never could retreat....She's closed for me all paths in earth and sky.
Now therefore, when in youthful guise I see
The world attire itself in soft green hue,
I think that in this age unripe I view
That lovely girl, who's now a lady's mien.
Then, when the sun ariseth all aglow,
I trace the wonted show
Of amorous fire, in some fine heart made queen...
When leaves or boughs or violets on earth
I see, what time the winter's cold decays,
And when the kindly stars are gathering might,
Mine eye that violet and green portrays
(And nothing else) which, at my warfare's birth,
Armed Love so well that yet he worsts me quite.
I see the delicate fine tissue light
In which our little damsel's limbs are dressed....
Oft on the hills a feeble snow-streak lies,
Which the sun smiteth in sequestered place.
Let sun rule snow! Thou, Love, my ruler art,
When on that fair and more than human face
I muse, which from afar makes soft my eyes....
I never yet saw after mighty rain
The roving stars in the calm welkin glide
And glitter back between the frost and dew,
But straight those lovely eyes are at my side....
If ever yet, on roses white and red,
My eyes have fallen, where in bowl of gold
They were set down, fresh culled by virgin hands,
There have I seemed her aspect to behold....
But when the year has flecked
Some deal with white and yellow flowers the braes,
I forthwith recollect
That day and place in which I first admired
Laura's gold hair outspread, and straight was fired....
That I could number all the stars anon
And shut the waters in a tiny glass
Belike I thought, when in this narrow sheet
I got a fancy to record, alas,
How many ways this Beauty's paragon
Hath spread her light, while standing self-complete,
So that from her I never could retreat....
She's closed for me all paths in earth and sky.
The reflective modern mind is clear in this, despite its loquacity. He was yet more eloquent and intense, more fertile in comparisons, when his happiest days were over.
In Ode 24, standing at a window he watches the strange forms his imagination conjures up--a wild creature torn in pieces by two dogs, a ship wrecked by a storm, a laurel shattered by lightning:
Within this wood, out of a rock did riseA spring of water, mildly rumbling down,Whereto approached not in any wiseThe homely shepherd nor the ruder clown,But many muses and the nymphs withal....But while herein I took my chief delight,I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devourThe spring, the place, and all clean out of sight--Which yet aggrieves my heart unto this hour....At last, so fair a lady did I spy,That thinking yet on her I burn and quake,On herbs and flowers she walked pensively....A stinging serpent by the heel her caught,Wherewith she languished as the gathered flower.Now Zephyrus the blither days brings on,With flowers and leaves, his gallant retinue,And Progne's chiding, Philomela's moan,And maiden spring all white and pink of hue;Now laugh the meadows, heaven is radiant grown,And blithely now doth Love his daughter view;Air, water, earth, now breathe of love alone,And every creature plans again to woo.Ah me! but now return the heaviest sighs,Which my heart from its last resources yieldsTo her that bore its keys to heaven away.And songs of little birds and blooming fieldsAnd gracious acts of ladies, fair and wise,Are desert land and uncouth beasts of prey.(Sonnet 269.)The nightingale, who maketh moan so sweetOver his brood belike or nest-mate dear,So deft and tender are his notes to hear,That fields and skies are with delight replete;And all night long he seems with me to treat,And my hard lot recall unto my ear.(Sonnet 270.)In every dellThe sands of my deep sighs are circumfused.(Ode 1.)Oh banks, oh dales, oh woods, oh streams, oh fieldsYe vouchers of my life's o'erburdened cause,How often Death you've heard me supplicate.(Ode 8.)Whereso my foot may pass,A balmy rapture wakesWhen I think, here that darling light hath played.If flower I cull or grass,I ponder that it takesRoot in that soil, where wontedly she strayedBetwixt the stream and glade,And found at times a seatGreen, fresh, and flower-embossed. (Ode 13.)Whenever plaintive warblings, or the noteOf leaves by summer breezes gently stirred,Or baffled murmur of bright waves I've heardAlong the green and flowery shore to float,Where meditating love I sat and wrote,Then her whom earth conceals, whom heaven conferred,I hear and see, and know with living wordShe answereth my sighs, though so remote.'Ah, why art thou,' she pityingly says,'Pining away before thy hour?'(Sonnet 238.)The waters and the branches and the shore,Birds, fishes, flowers, grasses, talk of love,And me to love for ever all invite.(Sonnet 239.)Thou'st left the world, oh Death, without a sun....Her mourners should be earth and sea and air.(Sonnet 294.)
Within this wood, out of a rock did riseA spring of water, mildly rumbling down,Whereto approached not in any wiseThe homely shepherd nor the ruder clown,But many muses and the nymphs withal....But while herein I took my chief delight,I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devourThe spring, the place, and all clean out of sight--Which yet aggrieves my heart unto this hour....At last, so fair a lady did I spy,That thinking yet on her I burn and quake,On herbs and flowers she walked pensively....A stinging serpent by the heel her caught,Wherewith she languished as the gathered flower.
Within this wood, out of a rock did rise
A spring of water, mildly rumbling down,
Whereto approached not in any wise
The homely shepherd nor the ruder clown,
But many muses and the nymphs withal....
But while herein I took my chief delight,
I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devour
The spring, the place, and all clean out of sight--
Which yet aggrieves my heart unto this hour....
At last, so fair a lady did I spy,
That thinking yet on her I burn and quake,
On herbs and flowers she walked pensively....
A stinging serpent by the heel her caught,
Wherewith she languished as the gathered flower.
Now Zephyrus the blither days brings on,With flowers and leaves, his gallant retinue,And Progne's chiding, Philomela's moan,And maiden spring all white and pink of hue;Now laugh the meadows, heaven is radiant grown,And blithely now doth Love his daughter view;Air, water, earth, now breathe of love alone,And every creature plans again to woo.Ah me! but now return the heaviest sighs,Which my heart from its last resources yieldsTo her that bore its keys to heaven away.And songs of little birds and blooming fieldsAnd gracious acts of ladies, fair and wise,Are desert land and uncouth beasts of prey.(Sonnet 269.)
Now Zephyrus the blither days brings on,
With flowers and leaves, his gallant retinue,
And Progne's chiding, Philomela's moan,
And maiden spring all white and pink of hue;
Now laugh the meadows, heaven is radiant grown,
And blithely now doth Love his daughter view;
Air, water, earth, now breathe of love alone,
And every creature plans again to woo.
Ah me! but now return the heaviest sighs,
Which my heart from its last resources yields
To her that bore its keys to heaven away.
And songs of little birds and blooming fields
And gracious acts of ladies, fair and wise,
Are desert land and uncouth beasts of prey.
(Sonnet 269.)
The nightingale, who maketh moan so sweetOver his brood belike or nest-mate dear,So deft and tender are his notes to hear,That fields and skies are with delight replete;And all night long he seems with me to treat,And my hard lot recall unto my ear.(Sonnet 270.)
The nightingale, who maketh moan so sweet
Over his brood belike or nest-mate dear,
So deft and tender are his notes to hear,
That fields and skies are with delight replete;
And all night long he seems with me to treat,
And my hard lot recall unto my ear.
(Sonnet 270.)
In every dellThe sands of my deep sighs are circumfused.(Ode 1.)
In every dell
The sands of my deep sighs are circumfused.
(Ode 1.)
Oh banks, oh dales, oh woods, oh streams, oh fieldsYe vouchers of my life's o'erburdened cause,How often Death you've heard me supplicate.(Ode 8.)
Oh banks, oh dales, oh woods, oh streams, oh fields
Ye vouchers of my life's o'erburdened cause,
How often Death you've heard me supplicate.
(Ode 8.)
Whereso my foot may pass,A balmy rapture wakesWhen I think, here that darling light hath played.If flower I cull or grass,I ponder that it takesRoot in that soil, where wontedly she strayedBetwixt the stream and glade,And found at times a seatGreen, fresh, and flower-embossed. (Ode 13.)
Whereso my foot may pass,
A balmy rapture wakes
When I think, here that darling light hath played.
If flower I cull or grass,
I ponder that it takes
Root in that soil, where wontedly she strayed
Betwixt the stream and glade,
And found at times a seat
Green, fresh, and flower-embossed. (Ode 13.)
Whenever plaintive warblings, or the noteOf leaves by summer breezes gently stirred,Or baffled murmur of bright waves I've heardAlong the green and flowery shore to float,Where meditating love I sat and wrote,Then her whom earth conceals, whom heaven conferred,I hear and see, and know with living wordShe answereth my sighs, though so remote.'Ah, why art thou,' she pityingly says,'Pining away before thy hour?'(Sonnet 238.)
Whenever plaintive warblings, or the note
Of leaves by summer breezes gently stirred,
Or baffled murmur of bright waves I've heard
Along the green and flowery shore to float,
Where meditating love I sat and wrote,
Then her whom earth conceals, whom heaven conferred,
I hear and see, and know with living word
She answereth my sighs, though so remote.
'Ah, why art thou,' she pityingly says,
'Pining away before thy hour?'
(Sonnet 238.)
The waters and the branches and the shore,Birds, fishes, flowers, grasses, talk of love,And me to love for ever all invite.(Sonnet 239.)
The waters and the branches and the shore,
Birds, fishes, flowers, grasses, talk of love,
And me to love for ever all invite.
(Sonnet 239.)
Thou'st left the world, oh Death, without a sun....Her mourners should be earth and sea and air.(Sonnet 294.)
Thou'st left the world, oh Death, without a sun....
Her mourners should be earth and sea and air.
(Sonnet 294.)
Here we have happiness and misery felt in the modern way, and Nature in the modern way drawn into the circle of thought and feeling, and personified.
Petrarch was the first, since the days of Hellenism, to enjoy the pleasures of solitude quite consciously.
How often to my darling place of rest,Fleeing from all, could I myself but flee,I walk and wet with tears my path and breast.(Sonnet 240.)
How often to my darling place of rest,
Fleeing from all, could I myself but flee,
I walk and wet with tears my path and breast.
(Sonnet 240.)
He shared Schiller's thought:
Oh Nature is perfect, wherever we stray,'Tis man that deforms it with care.As love from thought to thought, from hill to hill,Directs me, when all ways that people treadSeem to the quiet of my being, foes,If some lone shore, or fountain-head, or rillOr shady glen, between two slopes outspread,I find--my daunted soul doth there repose....On mountain heights, in briary woods, I findSome rest; but every dwelling place on earthAppeareth to my eyes a deadly bane....Where some tall pine or hillock spreads a shade,I sometimes halt, and on the nearest brinkHer lovely face I picture from my mind....Oft hath her living likeness met my sight, (Oh who'll believe the word?) in waters clear,On beechen stems, on some green lawny space,Or in white cloud....Her loveliest portrait there my fancy draws,And when Truth overawesThat sweet delusion, frozen to the core,I then sit down, on living rock, dead stone,And seem to muse, and weep and write thereon....Then touch my thoughts and senseThose widths of air which hence her beauty part,Which always is so near, yet far away....Beyond that Alp, my Ode,Where heaven above is gladdest and most clear,Again thou'lt meet me where the streamlet flowsAnd thrilling airs discloseThe fresh and scented laurel thicket near,There is my heart and she that stealeth it.(Ode 17.)
Oh Nature is perfect, wherever we stray,'Tis man that deforms it with care.
Oh Nature is perfect, wherever we stray,
'Tis man that deforms it with care.
As love from thought to thought, from hill to hill,Directs me, when all ways that people treadSeem to the quiet of my being, foes,If some lone shore, or fountain-head, or rillOr shady glen, between two slopes outspread,I find--my daunted soul doth there repose....On mountain heights, in briary woods, I findSome rest; but every dwelling place on earthAppeareth to my eyes a deadly bane....Where some tall pine or hillock spreads a shade,I sometimes halt, and on the nearest brinkHer lovely face I picture from my mind....Oft hath her living likeness met my sight, (Oh who'll believe the word?) in waters clear,On beechen stems, on some green lawny space,Or in white cloud....Her loveliest portrait there my fancy draws,And when Truth overawesThat sweet delusion, frozen to the core,I then sit down, on living rock, dead stone,And seem to muse, and weep and write thereon....Then touch my thoughts and senseThose widths of air which hence her beauty part,Which always is so near, yet far away....Beyond that Alp, my Ode,Where heaven above is gladdest and most clear,Again thou'lt meet me where the streamlet flowsAnd thrilling airs discloseThe fresh and scented laurel thicket near,There is my heart and she that stealeth it.(Ode 17.)
As love from thought to thought, from hill to hill,
Directs me, when all ways that people tread
Seem to the quiet of my being, foes,
If some lone shore, or fountain-head, or rill
Or shady glen, between two slopes outspread,
I find--my daunted soul doth there repose....
On mountain heights, in briary woods, I find
Some rest; but every dwelling place on earth
Appeareth to my eyes a deadly bane....
Where some tall pine or hillock spreads a shade,
I sometimes halt, and on the nearest brink
Her lovely face I picture from my mind....
Oft hath her living likeness met my sight, (Oh who'll believe the word?) in waters clear,
On beechen stems, on some green lawny space,
Or in white cloud....
Her loveliest portrait there my fancy draws,
And when Truth overawes
That sweet delusion, frozen to the core,
I then sit down, on living rock, dead stone,
And seem to muse, and weep and write thereon....
Then touch my thoughts and sense
Those widths of air which hence her beauty part,
Which always is so near, yet far away....
Beyond that Alp, my Ode,
Where heaven above is gladdest and most clear,
Again thou'lt meet me where the streamlet flows
And thrilling airs disclose
The fresh and scented laurel thicket near,
There is my heart and she that stealeth it.
(Ode 17.)
It is the same idea as Goethe's inKnowest thou the Land? Again:
Alone, engrossed, the least frequented strandsI traverse with my footsteps faint and slow,And often wary glances round me throw,To flee, should human trace imprint the sands.(Sonnet 28.)A life of solitude I've ever sought,This many a field and forest knows, and will.(Sonnet 221.)
Alone, engrossed, the least frequented strandsI traverse with my footsteps faint and slow,And often wary glances round me throw,To flee, should human trace imprint the sands.(Sonnet 28.)
Alone, engrossed, the least frequented strands
I traverse with my footsteps faint and slow,
And often wary glances round me throw,
To flee, should human trace imprint the sands.
(Sonnet 28.)
A life of solitude I've ever sought,This many a field and forest knows, and will.(Sonnet 221.)
A life of solitude I've ever sought,
This many a field and forest knows, and will.
(Sonnet 221.)
Love of solitude and feeling for Nature limit or increase each other; and Petrarch; like Dante, took scientific interest in her, and found her a stimulant to mental work.
Burckhardt says: 'The enjoyment of Nature is for him the favourite accompaniment of intellectualpursuits; it was to combine the two that he lived in learned retirement at Vaucluse and elsewhere, that he from time to time fled from the world and from his age.'
He wrote a bookOn a Life of Solitude (De Vita Solitaria)by the little river Sorgue, and said in a letter from Vaucluse: 'O if you could imagine the delight with which I breathe here, free and far from the world, with forests and mountains, rivers and springs, and the books of clever men.'
Purely objective descriptions, such as his picture of the Gulf of Spezzia and Porto Venere at the end of the sixth book of theAfrica, were rare with him; but, as we have already seen, he admired mountain scenery. He refers to the hills on the Riviera di Levante as 'hills distinguished by most pleasant wildness and wonderful fertility.'[6]
The scenery of Reggio moved him, as he said,[7]to compose a poem. He described the storm at Naples in 1343, and the earthquake at Basle. As we have seen from one of his odes, he delighted in the wide view from mountain heights, and the freedom from the oppression of the air lower down. In this respect he was one of Rousseau's forerunners, though his 'romantic' feeling was restrained within characteristic limits. In a letter of April 26, 1335, interesting both as to the period and the personality of the writer, he described to Dionisius da Borgo San Sepolchro the ascent of Mt. Ventoux near Avignon which he made when he was thirty-two, and greatly enjoyed, though those who were with him did not understand his enjoyment. When they had laboured through the difficulties of the climb, and saw the clouds below them, he was immensely impressed. It was in accordance with his love of solitude that lonely mountain tops should attract him, and the letter shows that he fully appreciated both climb and view.
'It was a long day, the air fine. We enjoyed theadvantages of vigour of mind, and strength and agility of body, and everything else essential to those engaged in such an undertaking, and so had no other difficulties to face than those of the region itself.' ... 'At first, owing to the unaccustomed quality of the air and the effect of the great sweep of view spread out before me, I stood like one dazed. I beheld the clouds under our feet, and what I had read of Athos and Olympus seemed less incredible as I myself witnessed the same things from a mountain of less fame. I turned my eyes towards Italy, whither my heart most inclined. The Alps, rugged and snow-capped, seemed to rise close by, although they were really at a great distance.... The Bay of Marseilles, the Rhone itself, lay in sight.'
It was a very modern effect of the wide view that 'his whole past life with all its follies rose before his mind; he remembered that ten years ago, that day, he had quitted Bologna a young man, and turned a longing gaze towards his native country: he opened a book which was then his constant companion,The Confessions of St Augustine, and his eye fell on the passage in the tenth chapter:
And men go about and admire lofty mountains and broad seas, and roaring torrents and the ocean, and the course of the stars, and forget their own selves while doing so.
And men go about and admire lofty mountains and broad seas, and roaring torrents and the ocean, and the course of the stars, and forget their own selves while doing so.
His brother, to whom he read these words, could not understand why he closed the book and said no more. His feeling had suddenly changed.
He knew, when he began the climb, that he was doing something very unusual, even unheard of among his contemporaries, and justified himself by the example of Philip V. of Macedon, arguing that a young man of private station might surely be excused for what was not thought blamable in a grey-haired king. Then on the mountain top, lost in the view, the passage in St Augustine suddenly occurred to him, and he started blaming himselffor admiring earthly things so much. 'I was amazed ... angry with myself for marvelling but now at earthly things, when I ought to have learnt long ago that nothing save the soul was marvellous, and that to the greatness of the soul nought else was great'; and he closed with an explanation flavoured with theology to the taste of his confessor, to whom he was writing. The mixture of thoroughly modern delight in Nature[8]with ascetic dogma in this letter, gives us a glimpse into the divided feelings of one who stood upon the threshold between two eras, mediæval and modern, into the reaction of the mediæval mind against the budding modern feeling.
This is, at any rate, the first mountain ascent for pleasure since Hellenic days, of which we have detailed information. From Greece before Alexander we have nothing; but the Persian King Darius, in his expedition against the Scythians in the region of Chalcedon, ascended the mountain on which stood the Urios temple to Zeus, and there 'sitting in the temple, he took a view of the Euxine Sea, which is worthy of admiration.' (Herodotus.)
Philip V. of Macedon ascended the Hæmus B.C. 181, and Apollonios Rhodios describes the panorama spread out before the Argonauts as they ascended the Dindymon, and elsewhere recalls the view from Mt. Olympus. These are the oldest descriptions of distant views conceived as landscape in the classic literature preserved to us. Petrarch's ascent comes next in order.
This sentimental and subjective feeling for Nature, half-idyllic, half-romantic, which seemed to arise suddenly and spontaneously in Petrarch, is not to be wholly explained by a marked individuality, nourished by the tendencies of the period; the influence of Roman literature, the re-birth of the classic, must also be taken into account. For the Renaissance attitude towards Nature was closely allied tothe Roman, and therefore to the Hellenic; and the fact that the first modern man arose on Italian soil was due to the revival of antiquity plus its union with the genius of the Italian people. Many direct analogies can be traced between Petrarch and the Roman poets; it was in their school that his eyes opened to the wonders of Nature, and he learnt to blend the inner with the outer life.
Boccaccio does not lead us much further. There is idyllic quality in his description of a wood in theAmeto,[9]and especially inFiammetta, in which he praises country life and describes the spring games of the Florentine youth.
This is the description of a valley in theDecameron: 'After a walk of nearly a mile, they came to the Ladies' Valley, which they entered by a straight path, whence there issued forth a fine crystal current, and they found it so extremely beautiful and pleasant, especially at that sultry season, that nothing could exceed it, and, as some of them told me afterwards, the plain in the valley was so exact a circle, as if it had been described by a pair of compasses, though it seemed rather the work of Nature than of art, and was about half a mile in circumference, surrounded by six hills of moderate height, on each of which was a palace built in the form of a little castle.... The part that looks toward the south was planted as thick as they could stand together with vines, olives, almonds, cherries, figs, and most other kinds of fruit trees, and on the northern side were fine plantations of oak, ash, etc., so tall and regular that nothing could be more beautiful. The vale, which had only that one entrance, was full of firs, cypress trees, laurels, and pines, all placed in such order as if it had been done by the direction of some exquisite artist, and through which little or no sun could penetrate to the ground, which was covered with a thousand different flowers.... But what gave no less delight than any of the rest was arivulet that came through a valley which divided two of the mountains, and running through the vein of a rock, made a most agreeable murmur with its fall, appealing, as it was dashed and sprinkled into drops, like so much quicksilver.'
Description of scenery for its own sake is scarcely more than attempted here, nor do Petrarch's lyrics, with their free thought of passion and overpowering consciousness of the joys and sorrows of love, reach the level of Hellenism in this respect. Yet it advanced with the Renaissance. Pope Pius II. (Æneas Sylvius) was the first to describe actual landscape (Italian), not merely in a few subjective lines, but with genuine modern enjoyment. He was one of those figures in the world's history in whom all the intellectual life and feeling of a time come to a focus.
He had a heart for everything, and an all-round enthusiasm for Nature unique in his day. Antiquity and Nature were his two passions, and the most beautiful descriptions of Nature before Rousseau and Goethe are contained in hisCommentaries.
Writing of the country round his home, he says:
'The sweet spring time had begun, and round about Siena the smiling hills were clothed with leaves and flowers, and the crops were rising in plenty in the fields. Even the pasture land quite close to the town affords an unspeakably lovely view; gently sloping hills, either planted with homely trees or vines, or ploughed for corn, look down on pleasant valleys in which grow crops, or green fields are to be seen, and brooks are even flowing. There are, too, many plantations, either natural or artificial, in which the birds sing with wondrous sweetness. Nor is there a mound on which the citizens have not built a magnificent estate; they are thus a little way out of the town. Through this district the Pope walked with joyous head.'
Again and again love of Nature drew him awayeven in old age from town life and the circle of courtiers and flatterers; he was for ever finding new reasons to prolong hisvilleggiatura, despite the grumbling of his court, which had to put up with wretched inns or monasteries overrun by mice, where the rain came through the roofs and the necessaries of life were scanty.[10]
His taste for these beautifully-situated monastic solitudes was a riddle to those around him. He wrote of his summer residence in Tibur:
'On all sides round the town in summer there are most lovely plantations, to which the Pope with his cardinals often retired for relaxation, sitting sometimes on some green sward beneath the olives, sometimes in a green meadow on the bank of the river Aino, whence he could see the clear waters. There are some meadows in a retired glen, watered by many streams; Pius often rested in these meadows near the luxuriant streams and the shady trees. He lived at Tibur with the Minorites on an elevation whence he could see the town and the course of the Aino as it flowed into the plain beneath him and through the quiet gardens, nor did anything else give him pleasure.
'When the summer was over, he had his bedroom in the house overlooking the Aino; from there the most beautiful view was to be seen, and also from a neighbouring mountain on the other side of the river, still covered with a green and leafy grove ... he completed a great part of his journey with the greatest enjoyment.'
In May 1462 he went to the baths at Viterbo, and, old man as he was, gives this appreciative description of spring beauties by the way:
'The road by which he made for Sorianum was at that time of the year delightful; there was a tremendous quantity of genista, so that a great part of the field seemed a mass of flowering yellow, while the rest, covered as it was by shrubs and variousgrasses, brought purple and white and a thousand different colours before the eyes. It was the month of May, and everything was green. On one side were the smiling fields, on the other the smiling woods, in which the birds made sweet harmony. At early dawn he used to walk into the fields to catch the exquisite breeze before the day should grow hot, and gaze at the green crops and the flowering flax, which then, emulating heaven's own blue, gave the greatest joy to all beholders.... Now the crows are holding vigil, and the ringdoves; and the owl at times utters lament with funeral note. The place is most lovely; the view in the direction of Siena stretches as far as Amiata, and in the west reaches Mt. Argentarius.'
In the plains the plague was raging; the sight of the people appealing to him as to a god, moved him to tears as he thought how few of the children would survive in the heat. He travelled to a castle charmingly placed on the lake of Bolsena, where 'there is a shady circular walk in the vineyard under the big grapes; stone steps shaded by the vine leaves lead down to the bank, where ilex oaks, alive with the songs of blackbirds, stand among the crags.' Halfway up the mountain, in the monastery of San Salvatore, he and his court took up their quarters.
'The most lovely scenery met the eye. As you look to the west from the higher houses, the view reaches beyond Ilcinum and Siena as far as the Pistorian Alps. To the north a variety of hills and the pleasant green of woods presents itself, stretching a distance of five miles; if your sight is good, your eye will travel as far as the Apennine range and can see Cortona.'
There he passed the time, shooting birds, fishing, and rowing.
'In the cool air of the hills, among the old oaks and chestnuts, on the green meadows where there were no thorns to wound the feet, and no snakesor insects to hurt or annoy, the Pope passed days of unclouded happiness.'
This is thoroughly modern: 'Silvarum amator,' as he calls himself, he includes both the details of the near and the general effect of the far-distant landscape.
And with age his appreciation of it only seemed to increase; for instance, he says of Todi:
'A most lovely view meets the eye wherever you turn; you can see Perusia and all the valley that lies between, full of wide--spreading forts and fertile fields, and honoured by the river Tiber, which, drawing its coils along like a snake, divides Tuscia from Umbria, and, close to the city itself, enters many a mountain, passing through which it descends to the plain, murmuring as it goes, as though constrained against its will.'
This is his description of a lake storm, during an excursion to the Albanian Mountains:
As far as Ostia 'he had a delightful voyage; at night the sea began to be most unwontedly troubled, and a severe storm arose. The east wind rolled up the waters from their lowest depths, huge waves beat the shore; you could have heard the sea, as it were, groaning and wailing. So great was the force of the winds, that nothing seemed able to resist it; they raged and alternately fled and put one another to rout, they overturned woods and anything that withstood them. The air glittered with frequent lightning, the sky thundered, and terrific thunder-bolts fell from the clouds.... The night was pitch dark, though the flashes of lightning were continuous.'
And of a lake at rest he says:
'The beauty of that lake is remarkable; everywhere it is surrounded by high rocks, the water is transparently clear. Nature, so far superior to art, provided a most pleasant journey. The Nemorian lake, with its crystal-clear waters, reflects the facesof those that look into it, and fills a deep basin. The descent from the top to the bottom is wooded. The poetic genius would never be awakened if it slept here; you would say it was the dwelling-place of the Muses, the home of the Nymphs, and, if there is any truth in legends, the hiding-place of Diana.'
He visited the lakes among the mountains, climbing and resting under the trees; the view from Monte Cavo was his favourite, from which he could see Terracina, the lakes of Nemi and Albano, etc. He noted their extent and formation, and added:
'The genista, however, was especially delightful, covering, as it did with its flowers, the greater part of the plains. Then, moreover, Rome presented itself fully to the eyes, together with Soracte and the Sabine Land, and the Apennine range white with snow, and Tibur and Præneste.'
It is clear that it was a thoroughly modern enthusiasm which attracted Æneas Sylvius to the country and gave him this ready pen for everything in Nature--everything, that is, except bare mountain summits.
It is difficult to attribute this faculty for enjoying and describing scenery to the influence of antiquity alone, for, save the younger Pliny, I know of no Roman under the Empire who possessed it, and, besides, we do not know how far Pius II. was acquainted with Roman literature. We know that the re-awakening of classic literature exerted an influence upon the direction of the feeling for Nature in general, and, for the rest, very various elements coalesced. Like times produce like streams of tendency, and Hellenism, the Roman Empire, and the Renaissance were alike to some extent in the conditions of their existence and the results that flowed from them; the causal nexus between them is undeniable, and makes them the chief stepping-stones on the way to the modern.
Theocritus, Meleager, Petrarch, and Æneas Sylviusmay serve as representatives of the development of the feeling for Nature from classic to modern; they are the ancestors of our enthusiasm, the links in the chain which leads up to Rousseau, Goethe, Byron, and Shelley.
From the autobiography of Æneas Sylvius and the lyrics of Petrarch we gain a far truer picture of the feeling of the period up to the sixteenth century than from any poetry in other countries. Even the epic had a more modern tone in Italy; Ariosto's descriptions were far ahead of any German epic.
Humboldt pointed out very clearly the difference between the epic of the people and the epic of art--between Homer and Ariosto. Both, he said, are true painters of the world and Nature; but Ariosto pleases more by his brilliance and wealth of colour, Homer by purity of form and beauty of composition. Ariosto achieves through general effect, Homer through perfection of form. Nature is more naive in Homer, the subject is paramount, and the singer disappears; in Ariosto, Nature is sentimental, and the poet always remains in view upon the stage. In Homer all is closely knit, while Ariosto's threads are loosely spun, and he breaks them himself in play. Homer almost never describes, Ariosto always does.
Ariosto's scenes and comparisons from Nature, being calculated for effect, are more subjective, and far more highly-coloured than Homer's. But they shew a sympathetic grasp.
The modern bloom, so difficult to define, lies over them--something at once sensuous, sentimental, and chivalrous. He is given to describing lonely woodland scenery, fit places for trysts and lovers' rendezvous.
In the 1st Canto ofMad Orlando:
With flowery thorns, vermilion roses nearHer, she upon a lovely bush doth meet,That mirrored doth in the bright waves appear,Shut out by lofty oaks from the sun's heat.Amidst the thickest shades there is a clearSpace in the middle for a cool retreat;So mixed the leaves and boughs are, through them noneCan see; they are impervious to the sun.
With flowery thorns, vermilion roses near
Her, she upon a lovely bush doth meet,
That mirrored doth in the bright waves appear,
Shut out by lofty oaks from the sun's heat.
Amidst the thickest shades there is a clear
Space in the middle for a cool retreat;
So mixed the leaves and boughs are, through them none
Can see; they are impervious to the sun.
In the 6th Canto the Hippogriff carries Roger into a country:
Nor could he, had he searched the whole world through,Than this a more delightful country see....Soft meads, clear streams, and banks affording shade,Hillocks and plains, by culture fertile made.Fair thickets of the cedar, palm and noLess pleasant myrtle, of the laurel sweet,Of orange trees, where fruit and flow'rs did grow,And which in various forms, all lovely, meetWith their thick shades against the fervid glowOf summer days, afforded a retreat;And nightingales, devoid of fear, amongThose branches fluttered, pouring forth their song.Amid the lilies white and roses red,Ever more freshened by the tepid air,The stag was seen, with his proud lofty head,And feeling safe, the rabbit and the hare....Sapphires and rubies, topazes, pearls, gold,Hyacinths, chrysolites, and diamonds wereLike the night flow'rs, which did their leaves unfoldThere on those glad plains, painted by the airSo green the grass, that if we did beholdIt here, no emeralds could therewith compare;As fair the foliage of the trees was, whichWith fruit and flow'r eternally were rich.Amid the boughs, sing yellow, white, and blue,And red and green small feathered creatures gay;The crystals less limpidity of hueThan the still lakes or murmuring brooks display.A gentle breeze, that seemeth still to wooAnd never change from its accustomed way,Made all around so tremulous the airThat no annoyance was the day's hot glare.(Canto 34.)
Nor could he, had he searched the whole world through,
Than this a more delightful country see....
Soft meads, clear streams, and banks affording shade,
Hillocks and plains, by culture fertile made.
Fair thickets of the cedar, palm and no
Less pleasant myrtle, of the laurel sweet,
Of orange trees, where fruit and flow'rs did grow,
And which in various forms, all lovely, meet
With their thick shades against the fervid glow
Of summer days, afforded a retreat;
And nightingales, devoid of fear, among
Those branches fluttered, pouring forth their song.
Amid the lilies white and roses red,
Ever more freshened by the tepid air,
The stag was seen, with his proud lofty head,
And feeling safe, the rabbit and the hare....
Sapphires and rubies, topazes, pearls, gold,
Hyacinths, chrysolites, and diamonds were
Like the night flow'rs, which did their leaves unfold
There on those glad plains, painted by the air
So green the grass, that if we did behold
It here, no emeralds could therewith compare;
As fair the foliage of the trees was, which
With fruit and flow'r eternally were rich.
Amid the boughs, sing yellow, white, and blue,
And red and green small feathered creatures gay;
The crystals less limpidity of hue
Than the still lakes or murmuring brooks display.
A gentle breeze, that seemeth still to woo
And never change from its accustomed way,
Made all around so tremulous the air
That no annoyance was the day's hot glare.
(Canto 34.)
Descriptions of time are short: