We sometimes feel in dreams; all, sore beset,
But with unequal anguish; wearied all;
Round the first circuit; purging as they go
The world's gross darkness off. In our behoof
If there vows still be offer'd, what can here
For them be vow'd and done by such, whose wills
Have root of goodness in them1? Well beseems
That we should help them wash away the stains
They carried hence; that so, made pure and light,
They may spring upward to the starry spheres.
"Ah! so may mercy-temper'd justice rid
Your burdens speedily; that ye have power
To stretch your wing, which e'en to your desire
Shall lift you; as ye show us on which hand
Toward the ladder leads the shortest way.
And if there be more passages than one,
Instruct us of that easiest to ascend:
For this man, who comes with me, and bears yet
The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him,
Despite his better will, but slowly mounts."
From whom the answer came unto these words,
Which my guide spake, appear'd not; but 't was said:
"Along the bank to rightward come with us;
And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil
Of living man to climb: and were it not
That I am hinder'd by the rock, wherewith
This arrogant neck is tamed, whence needs I stoop
My visage to the ground; him, who yet lives,
Whose name thou speak'st not, him I fain would view;
To mark if e'er I knew him, and to crave
His pity for the fardel that I bear.
I was of Latium2; of a Tuscan born,
A mighty one: Aldobrandesco's name,
My sire's, I know not if ye e'er have heard.
My old blood and forefathers' gallant deeds
Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot
The common mother; and to such excess
Wax'd in my scorn of all men, that I fell,
Fell therefore; by what fate, Sienna's sons,
Have root of goodness in them.] The Poet has before told us, that there are no others on earth whose prayers avail to shorten the pains of those who are in Purgatory.
2 I was of Latium.] Omberto, the son of Guglielmo Aldobrandesco, Count of Santafiore, in the territory of Sienna. His arrogance provoked his countrymen to such a pitch of fury against him, that he was murdered by them at Campagnatico.
Each child in Campagnatico, can tell.
I am Omberto: not me, only, pride
Hath injured, but my kindred all involved
In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains
Under this weight to groan, till I appease
God's angry justice, since I did it not
Amongst the living, here amongst the dead."
Listening I bent my visage down: and one
(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight
That urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and
Holding his eyes with difficulty fix'd [call'd;
Intent upon me, stooping as I went
Companion of their way. "O!" I exclaim'd,
"Art thou not Oderigi1? art not thou
Agobbio's glory, glory of that art
Which they of Paris call the limner's skill?"
"Brother!" said he, "with tints, that gayer smile,
Bolognian Franco's 2 pencil lines the leaves.
His all the honour now; my light obscured.
In truth, I had not been thus courteous to him
The whilst I lived, through eagerness of zeal
For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.
Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid3.
Nor were I even here, if, able still
To sin, I had not turn'd me unto God.
O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipt
E'en in its height of verdure, if an age
Less bright succeed not1. Cimabue 5 thought
Oderigi.] The illuminator, or miniature painter, a friend of Giotto and Dante.
2 Bolognian Franco.] Franco of Bologna, who is said to have been a pupil of Öderigi's.
3 The forfeiture is paid.]
Di tal superbia quì si paga il fio.
So in the Inferno, c. xxvii. 135.
in che si paga il fio.
And Ariosto, Orl. Fur. c. xxii. 59.
Prestate olà, che quì si paga il fio.
Less bright succeed not.] If a generation of men do not follow, among whom none exceeds or equals those who have immediately preceded them. "Etati grosse;" to which Volpi remarks a similar expression in Boileau.
Villon sût le premier, dans ces siécles grossiers,
Debrouiller l'art confus de nos vieux romanciers.
5 Cimabue.] Giovanna Cimabue, the restorer of painting, was born at Florence, of a noble family, in 1240, and died in 1300. The passage in the text is an allusion to his epitaph. Credidit ut Cimabos picturæ castra tenere,
Sic tenuit vivens: nunc tenet astra poli.
To lord it over painting's field; and now
The cry is Giotto's1, and his name eclipsed.
Thus hath one Guido from the other2 snatch'd
The cry is Giotto's.] In Giotto we have a proof at how early a period the fine arts were encouraged in Italy. His talents were discovered by Cimabue, while he was tending sheep for his father in the neighbourhood of Florence, and he was afterwards patronized by Pope Benedict XI. and Robert King of Naples; and enjoyed the society and friendship of Dante, whose likeness he has transmitted to posterity. He died in 1336, at the age of 60.
2 One Guido from the other.] Guido Cavalcanti, the friend of our Poet, (see Hell, Canto x. 59) had eclipsed the literary fame of Guido Guinicelli, of a noble family in Bologna, whom we shall meet with in the twenty-sixth Canto, and of whom frequent and honourable mention is made by our Poet in his treatise de Vulg. Eloq. Guinicelli died in 1276, as is proved by Fantuzzi, on the Bolognian writers, tom. iv. p. 345. See Mr. Mathias's Tiraboschi, tom. i. p. 110. There are more of Guinicelli's poems to be found in Allacci's Collection, than Tiraboschi, who tells us he had not seen it, supposed. From these I have selected two which appear to me singularly pathetic. It must however be observed that the former of them is attributed in the Vatican MS. 3213. to Cino da Pistoia, as Bottari informs us in the notes to Lettere di Fra Guittone d'Arezzo, p. 171. Many of Cavalcanti's writings, hitherto in MS. are said to be publishing at Florence. See Esprit des Journaux, Jan. 1813. [They were edited there in that year, but not for sale, by Antonio Cicciaporci, as I learn from Gamba's Testi di Lingua Ital. 272.]
Noi provamo ch' in questo cieco mondo
Ciascun si vive in angosciosa doglia,
Ch' in onni avversita ventura 'l tira.
Beata l'alma che lassa tal pondo.
E va nel ciel, dove è compita zoglia,
Zoglioso cor far de corrotto e dira.
Or dunque di chel vostro cor sospira
Che rallegrar si dè del suo migliore,
Che Dio, nostro signore,
Volse di lei, come avea l'angel detto,
Fare il ciel perfetto.
Per nuova cosa ogni santo la mira:
Ed ella sta d'avante alla salute;
Ed in ver lei parla ogni vertute.
Allacci. Ediz. Napoli, 1661, p. 378
By proof, in this blind mortal world, we know,
That each one lives in grief and sore annoy;
Such ceaseless strife of fortune we sustain.
Blessed the soul, that leaves this weight below,
And goes its way to heaven, where it hath joy
Entire, without a touch of wrath or pain.
Now then what reason hath thy heart to sigh,
That should be glad, as for desire fulfill'd,
That God, our sovereign, will'd
She, as He told His angel, should be given
To bless and perfect heaven?
The letter'd prize and he, perhaps, is born1, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Each saint looks on her with admiring eye;
And she stands ever in salvation's sight;
And every virtue bends on her its light.
Conforto già conforto l'amor chiama,
E pietà prega per Dio, fatti resto;
Or v' inchinate a sì dolce preghiera ;
Spogliatevi di questa vesta grama,
Da che voi sete per ragion richiesto.
Che l'uomo per dolor more e dispera.
Con voi vedeste poi la bella ciera.
Se v' accogliesse morte in disperanza,
De si grave pesanza
Traete il vostro cor ormai per Dio,
Che non sia cosi rio
Ver l'alma vostra che ancora spiera
Vederla in ciel e star nelle sue braccia,
Dunque spene dè confortar vi piaccia.
Allacci. Ediz. Napoli, 1661, p. 380
"Comfort thee, comfort thee," exclaimeth Love;
And Pity by thy God adjures thee "rest :"
Oh then incline ye to such gentle prayer;
Nor Reason's plea should ineffectual prove,
Who bids ye lay aside this dismal vest :
For man meets death through sadness and despair.
Amongst you ye have seen a face so fair:
Be this in mortal mourning some relief.
And, for more balm of grief,
Rescue thy spirit from its heavy load,
Remembering thy God;
And that in heaven thou hopest again to share
In sight of her, and with thine arms to fold:
Hope then; nor of this comfort quit thy hold.
To these I will add a sonnet by the same writer, from the poems printed with the Bella Mano of Giusto de' Conti. Ediz. 1715. p. 167.
Io vo dal ver la mia donna laudare,
E rassembrarla alla rosa, ed al giglio.
Più che stella Diana splende, e pare,
Ciò che lassù è bello a lei somiglio.
Verdi rivere a lei rassembro, l'are,
Tutto color di porpora, e vermiglio,
Oro, ed argento, e ricche gioie preclare;
Medesmo amor per lei raffina miglio.
Passa per via adorna, e sì gentile,
Cui bassa orgoglio, a cui dona salute,
E fal di nostra fe, se non la crede.
E non le può appressare, uom che sia vile,
Ancor ve ne dirò maggior vertute,
Nullo uom può mal pensar finchè la vede.
I would from truth my lady's praise supply,
Resembling her to lily and to rose;
Brighter than morning's lucid star she shows,
And fair as that which fairest is on high.
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
To the blue wave, I liken her, and sky,
All colour that with pink and crimson glows,
Gold, silver and rich stones: nay lovelier grows
E'en love himself, when she is standing by.
She passeth on so gracious and so mild,
One's pride is quench'd, and one of sick is well:
And they believe, who from the faith did err;
And none may near her come by harm defiled.
A mightier virtue have I yet to tell;
No man may think of evil, seeing her.
The two following sonnets of Guido Cavalcanti may enable the reader to form some judgment whether Dante had sufficient reason for preferring him to his predecessor Guinicelli. Io temo che la mia disavventura
Non faccia sì ch' io dico io mi dispero,
Però ch' io sento nel cor un pensero,
Che fa tremar la mente di paura.
par ch' ei dica: Amor non t'assicura
În guisa che tu possa di leggiero
Alla tua donna sì contare il vero,
Che morte non ti ponga in sua figura.
Della gran doglia, che l'anima sente,
Si parte dallo core un tal sospiro
Che va dicendo: spiritei fuggite;
Allor null' uom, che sia pietoso, miro;
Che consolasse mia vita dolente,
Dicendo: spiritei non vi partite.
Anecdota Literaria ex MSS. Codicibus eruta.
Ediz. Roma. (no year) v. iii. p. 452.
I fear lest my mischance may so prevail,
That it may make me of myself despair.
For, my heart searching, I discover there
A thought that makes the mind with terror quail.
It says, meseemeth, "Love shall not avail
To strengthen thee so much, that thou shalt dare
Tell her, thou lovest, thy passion or thy prayer,
To save from power of death thy visage pale."
Through the dread sorrow that o'erwhelms my soul,
There issues from my bosom such a sigh,
As passeth, crying; "Spirits, flee away."
And then, when I am fainting in my dole,
No man so merciful there standeth by,
To comfort me, and answer, "Spirits, stay."
Beltà di donna, e di saccente core,
E cavalieri armati, che sian genti,
Cantar d'augelli, e ragionar d'amore,
Adorni legni in mar, forti e correnti:
Aria serena, quando appar l'albore,
E bianca neve scender senza venti,
Rivera d'acqua, e prato d'ogni fiore,
Oro, e argento, azurro in ornamenti:
Ciò che può la beltate, e la valenza
Della mia donna in suo gentil coraggio,
Par che rassembra vile a chi cio guarda.
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