V.

Comes Blithesomeness with mirth and merriment, All decked in flowers she seemeth a rose-tree; Of linen, silk, cloth, fur, now beareth she To the new knight a rich habiliment; Head-gear and cap and garland flower-besprent, So brave they were, Maybloom he seemed to be; With such a rout, so many and such glee, That the floor shook. Then to her work she went; And stood him on his feet in hose and shoon; And purse and gilded girdle neath the fur That drapes his goodly limbs, she buckles on; Then bids the singers and sweet music stir, And showeth him to ladies for a boon And all who in that following went with her.

_THE CRY FOR COURTESY._

Courtesy! Courtesy! Courtesy! I call: But from no quarter comes there a reply. They who should show her, hide her; wherefore I And whoso needs her, ill must us befall. Greed with his hook hath ta'en men one and all, And murdered every grace that dumb doth lie: Whence, if I grieve, I know the reason why; From you, great men, to God I make my call: For you my mother Courtesy have cast So low beneath your feet she there must bleed; Your gold remains, but you're not made to last Of Eve and Adam we are all the seed: Able to give and spend, you hold wealth fast: Ill is the nature that rears such a breed!

_ON THE GHIBELLINE VICTORIES._

I praise thee not, O God, nor give thee glory, Nor yield thee any thanks, nor bow the knee, Nor pay thee service; for this irketh me More than the souls to stand in purgatory; Since thou hast made us Guelphs a jest and story Unto the Ghibellines for all to see: And if Uguccion claimed tax of thee, Thou'dst pay it without interrogatory. Ah, well I wot they know thee! and have stolen St. Martin from thee, Altopascio, St. Michael, and the treasure thou hast lost; And thou that rotten rabble so hast swollen That pride now counts for tribute; even so Thou'st made their heart stone-hard to thine own cost.

_TO THE PISANS._

Ye are more silky-sleek than ermines are, Ye Pisan counts, knights, damozels, and squires, Who think by combing out your hair like wires To drive the men of Florence from their car. Ye make the Ghibellines free near and far, Here, there, in cities, castles, buts, and byres, Seeing how gallant in your brave attires, How bold you look, true paladins of war. Stout-hearted are ye as a hare in chase, To meet the sails of Genoa on the sea; And men of Lucca never saw your face. Dogs with a bone for courtesy are ye: Could Folgore but gain a special grace, He'd have you banded 'gainst all men that be.

_ON DISCRETION._

Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a flower; Nor every flower that blossoms, fruit doth bear; Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare; Nor every stone in earth its healing power: This thing is good when mellow, that when sour; One seems to grieve, within doth rest from care; Not every torch is brave that flaunts in air; There is what dead doth seem, yet flame doth shower. Wherefore it ill behooveth a wise man His truss of every grass that grows to bind, Or pile his back with every stone he can, Or counsel from each word to seek to find, Or take his walks abroad with Dick and Dan: Not without cause I'm moved to speak my mind.

_ON DISORDERED WILL._

What time desire hath o'er the soul such sway That reason finds nor place nor puissance here, Men oft do laugh at what should claim a tear, And over grievous dole are seeming gay. He sure would travel far from sense astray Who should take frigid ice for fire; and near Unto this plight are those who make glad cheer For what should rather cause their soul dismay. But more at heart might he feel heavy pain Who made his reason subject to mere will, And followed wandering impulse without rein; Seeing no lordship is so rich as still One's upright self unswerving to sustain, To follow worth, to flee things vain and ill.

APPENDIX III.

_Translations from Alesso Donati._

(See Chapter III. p. 157.)

_THE NUN._

The knotted cord, dark veil and tunic gray, I'll fling aside, and eke this scapulary, Which keeps me here a nun immured alway: And then with thee, dressed like a gallant gay, With girded loins and limber gait and free, I'll roam the world, where chance us twain may carry. I am content slave, scullion-wench to be; That will not irk me as this irketh me!

_THE LOVERS._

Nay, get thee gone now, but so quietly, By God, so gently go, my love, That yon damned villain may hear naught thereof! He's quick of hearing: if he hears but me Turn myself round in bed, He clasps me tight for fear I may be sped. God curse whoever joined me to this hind, Or hopes in churls good merchandise to find!

_THE GIRL._

In dole I dree the days all lonely here, A young girl by her mother shut from life, Who guardeth me with jealousy and strife: But by the cross of God I swear to her, If still she keeps me pent up thus to pine, I'll say: "Aroint thee, thou fell hag malign!" And fling yon wheel and distaff to the wall, And fly to thee, my love, who art mine all!

APPENDIX IV.

_Jacopone's Presepio, Corrotto, and Cantico dell'Amore Superardente, Translated into English Verse._

(See Chapter V. pp. 291 _et seq._)

THREE POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO JACOPONE DA TODI.

Though judging it impossible to preserve the least part of Jacopone's charm in a translation, I have made versions of the Christmas Carol, the Passion Poem, and the Hymn of Divine Love, alluded to in chapter v., pp. 291-298. The metrical structure of the first is confused in the original; but I have adopted a stanza which follows the scheme pretty closely, and reproduces the exact number of the lines. In the second I have forced myself to repeat the same rhyme at the close of each of the thirty-four strophes, which in the Italian has a very fine effect--the sound being _ato_. No English equivalent can do it justice. The third poem I admit to be really untranslatable. The recurrences of strong voweled endings in _ore_, _are_, _ezza_, _ate_ cannot be imitated.

_THE PRESEPIO._

By thy great and glorious merit, Mary, Mother, Maid! In thy firstling, new-born child All our life is laid.

That sweet smiling infant child, Born for us, I wis; That majestic baby mild, Yield him to our kiss!

Clasping and embracing him, We shall drink of bliss. Who could crave a deeper joy?-- Purer none was made.

For thy beauteous baby boy We a-hungered burn; Yea, with heart and soul of grace Long for him and yearn. Grant us then this prayer; his face Toward our bosom turn: Let him keep us in his care, On his bosom stayed!

Mary, in the manger where Thou hast strewn his nest, With thy darling baby we Fain would dwell at rest Those who cannot take him, see, Place him on their breast! Who shall be so rude and wild As to spurn thee, Maid?

Come and look upon her child Nestling in the hay! See his fair arms opened wide, On her lap to play! And she tucks him by her side, Cloaks him as she may; Gives her paps unto his mouth, Where his lips are laid.

For the little babe had drouth, Sucked the breast she gave; All he sought was that sweet breast, Broth he did not crave; With his tiny mouth he pressed, Tiny mouth that clave: Ah, the tiny baby thing, Mouth to bosom laid!

She with left hand cradling Rocked and hushed her boy, And with holy lullabies Quieted her toy. Who so churlish but would rise To behold heaven's joy Sleeping?--In what darkness drowned, Dead and renegade?--

Little angels all around Danced, and carols flung; Making verselets sweet and true, Still of love they sung; Calling saints and sinners too With love's tender tongue; Now that heaven's high glory is On this earth displayed.

Choose we gentle courtesies, Churlish ways forswear; Let us one and all behold Jesus sleeping there. Earth, air, heaven he will unfold, Flowering, laughing fair; Such a sweetness, such a grace From his eyes hath rayed.

O poor humble human race, How uplift art thou! With the divine dignity Re-united now! Even the Virgin Mary, she All amazed doth bow; And to us who sin inherit, Seems as though she prayed.

By thy great glorious merit, Mary, Mother, Maid! In thy firstling, new-born child All our life is laid.

_THE CORROTTO._

_Messenger._ Lady of Paradise, woe's me, Thy son is taken, even he, Christ Jesus, that saint blessed! Run, Lady, look amain How the folk him constrain: Methinks they him have slain, Sore scourged, with rods opprest. _Mary._ Nay, how could this thing be? To folly ne'er turned he, Jesus, the hope of me: How did they him arrest? _Messenger._ Lady, he was betrayed; Judas sold him, and bade Those thirty crowns be paid-- Poor gain, where bad is best. _Mary._ Ho, succor! Magdalen! The storm is on me: men My own son, Christ, have ta'en! This news hath pierced my breast. _Messenger._ Aid, Lady! Up and run! They spit upon thy son, And hale him through the town; To Pilate they him wrest. _Mary._ O Pilate, do not let My son to pain be set! That he is guiltless, yet With proofs I can protest. _The Jews._ Crucify! Crucify! Who would be King, must die. He spurns the Senate by Our laws, as these attest. We'll see if, stanch of state, He can abide this fate; Die shall he at the gate, And Barab be redressed. _Mary._ I pray thee, hear my prayer! Think on my pain and care! Perchance thou then wilt bear New thoughts and change thy quest. _The Jews._ Bring forth the thieves, for they Shall walk with him this day: Crown him with thorns, and say He was made king in jest. _Mary._ Son, Son, Son, dear Son! O Son, my lovely Son! Son, who shall shed upon My anguished bosom rest? O jocund eyes, sweet Son! Why art Thou silent? Son! Son, wherefore dost Thou shun This thy own mother's breast? _Messenger._ Lady, behold the tree! The people bring it, see, Where the true Light must be Lift up at man's behest! _Mary._ O cross, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou my Son undo? Him will they fix on you, Him who hath ne'er transgressed? _Messenger._ Up, full of grief and bale! They strip thy son, and rail; The folk are fain to nail Him on yon cross they've dressed. _Mary._ If ye his raiment strip, I'll see him, breast and hip! Lo, how the cruel whip Hath bloodied back and chest! _Messenger._ Lady, his hand outspread Unto the cross is laid: 'Tis pierced; the huge nail's head Down to the wood they've pressed. They seize his other hand, And on the tree expand: His pangs are doubled and Too keen to be expressed! Lady, his feet they take, And pin them to the stake, Rack every joint, and make Each sinew manifest! _Mary._ I now the dirge commence. Son, my life's sole defense! Son, who hath torn thee hence? Sweet Son, my Son caressed! Far better done had they My heart to pluck away, Than by thy cross to lay Of thee thus dispossessed! _Christ._ Mother, why weep'st thou so? Thou dealest me death's blow. To watch thy tears, thy woe Unstinted, tears my breast. _Mary._ Son, who hath twinned us two? Son, father, husband true! Son, who thy body slew? Son, who hath thee suppressed? _Christ._ Mother, why wail and chide? I will thou shouldst abide, And serve those comrades tried I saved amid the rest. _Mary._ Son, say not this to me! Fain would I hang with thee Pierced on the cross, and be By thy side dying blessed! One grave should hold us twain, Son of thy mother's pain! Mother and Son remain By one same doom oppressed! _Christ._ Mother, heart-full of woe, I bid thee rise and go To John, my chosen!--so Is he thy son confessed. John, this my mother see: Take her in charity: Cherish her piteously: The sword hath pierced her breast. _Mary._ Son! Ah, thy soul hath flown! Son of the woman lone! Son of the overthrown! Son, poisoned by sin's pest! Son of white ruddy cheer! Son without mate or peer! Son, who shall help me here, Son, left by thee, distressed! Son, white and fair of face! Son of pure jocund grace! Son, why did this wild place, This world, Son, thee detest? Son, sweet and pleasant Son! Son of the sorrowing one! Son, why hath thee undone To death this folk unblessed? John, my new son, behold Thy brother he is cold! I feel the sword foretold, Which prophecies attest. Lo, Son and mother slain! Dour death hath seized the twain: Mother and Son, they strain Upon one cross embraced.

Here the miserable translation ends. But I would that I could summon from the deeps of memory some echo of the voice I heard at Perugia, one dark Good Friday evening, singing Penitential Psalms. This made me feel of what sort was the _Corrotto_, chanted by the confraternities of Umbria. The psalms were sung on that occasion to a monotonous rhythm of melodiously simple outline by three solo voices in turn--soprano, tenor, and bass. At the ending of each psalm a candle before the high-altar was extinguished, until all light and hope and spiritual life went out for the damned soul. The soprano, who sustained the part of pathos, had the fullness of a powerful man's chest and larynx, with the pitch of a woman's and the timbre of a boy's voice. He seemed able to do what he chose in prolonging and sustaining notes, with wonderful effects of _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ passing from the wildest and most piercing _forte_ to the tenderest _pianissimo_. He was hidden in the organ-loft; and as he sang, the organist sustained his cry with long-drawn shuddering chords and deep groans of the diapason. The whole church throbbed with the vibrations of the rising, falling melody; and the emotional thrill was as though Christ's or Mary's soul were speaking through the darkness to our hearts. I never elsewhere heard a soprano of this sort sing in tune so perfect or with so pure an intonation. The dramatic effect produced by the contrast between this soprano and the bass and tenor was simple but exceedingly striking. Englishmen, familiar with cathedral music, may have derived a somewhat similar impression from the more complex Motett of Mendelssohn upon Psalm xxii. I think that when the Umbrian Laud began to be dramatic, the parts in such a hymn as Jacopone's _Corrotto_ must have been distributed after the manner of these Perugian Good Friday services. Mary's was undoubtedly given to the soprano; that of the Jews, possibly, to the bass; Christ's, and perhaps the messenger's also, to the tenor. And it is possible that the rhythm was almost identical with what I heard; for that had every mark of venerable antiquity and popular sincerity.

I now pass to the Hymn of Divine Love, which Tresatti entitles _Cantico dell'Amore Superardente_ (Book vi. 16). It consists of three hundred and seventy lines, all of which I have translated, though I content myself here with some extracts:

O Love of Charity! Why didst thou so wound me? Why breaks my heart through thee, My heart which burns with Love?

It burns and glows and finds no place to stay; It cannot fly, for it is bound so tight; It melts like wax before the flame away; Living, it dies; swoons, faints, dissolves outright; Prays for the force to fly some little way; Finds itself in the furnace fiery-white; Ah me, in this sore plight, Who, what consumes my breath? Ah, thus to live is death! So swell the flames of Love.

Or ere I tasted Jesus, I besought To love him, dreaming pure delights to prove, And dwell at peace mid sweet things honey-fraught, Far from all pain on those pure heights above: Now find I torment other than I sought; I knew not that my heart would break for love! There is no image of The semblance of my plight! I die, drowned in delight, And live heart-lost in Love!

Lost is my heart and all my reason gone, My will, my liking, and all sentiment; Beauty is mere vile mud for eyes to shun; Soft cheer and wealth are naught but detriment; One tree of love, laden with fruit, but one, Fixed in my heart, supplies me nourishment: Hourly therefrom are sent, With force that never tires But varies still, desires, Strength, sense, the gifts of Love.

* * * * *

Let none rebuke me then, none reprehend, If love so great to madness driveth me! What heart from love her fortress shall defend? So thralled, what heart from love shall hope to flee? Think, how could any heart not break and rend, Or bear this furnace-flame's intensity?-- Could I but only be Blest with some soul that knows, Pities and feels the woes Which whelm my heart with Love!

Lo, heaven, lo, earth cries out, cries out for aye, And all things cry that I must love even thus! Each calls:--With all thy heart to that Love fly, Loving, who strove to clasp thee, amorous; That Love who for thy love did seek and sigh, To draw thee up to him, He fashioned us!-- Such beauty luminous, Such goodness, such delight, Flows from that holy light, Beams on my soul from Love!

* * * * *

For thee, O Love, I waste, swooning away! I wander calling loud with thee to be! When thou departest, I die day by day; I groan and weep to have thee close to me: When thou returnest, my heart swells; I pray To be transmuted utterly in thee! Delay not then!--Ah me! Love deigns to bring me grace! Binds me in his embrace, Consumes my heart with Love!

* * * * *

Love, Love, thou hast me smitten, wounded sore! No speech but Love, Love, Love! can I deliver! Love, I am one with thee, to part no more! Love, Love, thee only shall I clasp for ever! Love, Love, strong Love, thou forcest me to soar Heavenward! my heart expands; with love I quiver; For thee I swoon and shiver, Love, pant with thee to dwell! Love, if thou lovest me well, Oh, make me die of Love!

Love, Love, Love, Jesus, I have scaped the seas! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, thou has guided me! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, give me rest and peace! Love, Love, Love, Jesus, I'm inflamed by thee! Love, Love, Love, Jesus! From wild waves release! Make me, Love, dwell for ever clasped with thee! And be transformed in thee, In truest charity, In highest verity, Of pure transmuted Love!

Love, Love, Love, Love, the world's exclaim and cry! Love, Love, Love, Love, each thing this cry returns! Love, Love, Love, Love, thou art so deep, so high: Whoso clasps thee, for thee more madly yearns! Love, Love, thou art a circle like the sky; Who enters, with thy love for ever burns! Web, woof, art thou; he learns, Who clothes himself with thee, Such sweetness, suavity, That still he shouts, Love, Love!

Love, Love, Love, Love, thou giv'st me such strong pain! Love, Love, Love, Love, how shall I bear this ache? Love, Love, Love, Love, thou fill'st my heart amain! Love, Love, Love, Love, I feel my heart must break! Love, Love, Love, Love, thou dost me so constrain! Love, Love, Love, Love, absorb me for Love's sake! Love-languor, sweet to take! Love, my Love amorous! Love, my delicious! Swallow my soul in Love!

Love, Love, Love, Love, my heart it is so riven! Love, Love, Love, Love, what wounds I feel, what bliss! Love, Love, Love, Love, I'm drawn and rapt to heaven! Love, Love, I'm ravished by thy beauteousness! Love, Love, life's naught, for less than nothing given! Love, Love, the other life is one with this! Thy love the soul's life is! To leave thee were death's anguish! Thou mak'st her swoon and languish, Clasped, overwhelmed in Love!

Love, Love, Love, Love, O Jesus amorous! Love, Love, fain would I die embracing Thee! Love, Love, Love, Love, O Jesus my soul's Spouse! Love, Love, Love, Love, death I demand of thee! Love, Love, Love, Love, Jesus, my lover, thus Resume me, let me be transformed in thee! Where am I? Love! Ah me! Jesus, my hope! in thee Ingulf me, whelm in Love!

APPENDIX V.

_Passages translated from the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci._

(See Chapter VII. pp. 444 _et seq._) Morgante xviii. 115.

Answered Margutte: "Friend, I never boasted: I don't believe in black more than in blue, But in fat capons, boiled, or may be roasted; And I believe sometimes in butter too, In beer and must, where bobs a pippin toasted; Sharp liquor more than sweet I reckon true; But mostly to old wine my faith I pin, And hold him saved who firmly trusts therein.

"I believe in the tartlet and the tart; One is the mother, t'other is her son: The perfect paternoster is a part Of liver, fried in slips, three, two, or one; Which also from the primal liver start: And since I'm dry, and fain would swill a tun, If Mahomet forbids the juice of grape, I reckon him a nightmare, phantom, ape.

"Apollo's naught but a delirious vision, And Trivigant perchance a midnight specter; Faith, like the itch, is catching; what revision This sentence needs, you'll make, nor ask the rector: To waste no words, you may without misprision Dub me as rank a heretic as Hector: I don't disgrace my lineage, nor indeed Am I the cabbage-ground for any creed.

"Faith's as man gets it, this, that, or another! See then what sort of creed I'm bound to follow: For you must know a Greek nun was my mother, My sire at Brusa, mid the Turks, a mollah; I played the rebeck first, and made a pother About the Trojan war, flattered Apollo, Praised up Achilles, Hector, Helen fair, Not once, but twenty thousand times, I swear.

"Next, growing weary of my light guitar, I donned a military bow and quiver; One day within the mosque I went to war, And shot my grave old daddy through the liver: Then to my loins I girt this scimitar, And journeyed forth o'er sea, land, town, and river Taking for comrades in each holy work The congregated sins of Greek and Turk.

"That's much the same as all the sins of hell! I've seventy-seven at least about me, mortal; Summer and winter in my breast they swell: Guess now how many venial crowd the portal! 'Twere quite impossible, I know full well, If the world never ended, to report all The crimes I've done in this one life alone; Each item too is catalogued and known.

"I pray you listen for one little minute; The skein shall be unraveled in a trice:-- When I've got cash, I'm gay as any linnet, Cast with who calls, cut cards, and fling the dice; All times, all places, or the devil's in it, Serve me for play; I've spent on this one vice Fame, fortune--staked my coat, my shirt, my breeches; I hope this specimen will meet your wishes.

"Don't ask what juggler's tricks I teach the boxes! Or whether sixes serve me when I call, Or jumps an ace up!--Foxes pair with foxes; The same pitch tars our fingers, one and all!-- Perhaps I don't know how to fleece the doxies? Perhaps I can't cheat, cozen, swindle, bawl? Perhaps I never learned to patter slang?-- I know each trick, each turn, and lead the gang.

"Gluttony after gambling's my prime pleasure. Here it behooves one to be learned and wise, To gauge the merits and the virtues measure Of pheasant, partridge, fowl; with practiced eyes Noting each part, of every dish at leisure, Seeking where tender slice or morsel lies; And since I've touched upon this point, I'll tell ye How best to grease your jaws and stuff your belly.

"If I could only show you how I baste, If you could see me turn the spit and ladle, You'd swear I had a most consummate taste! Of what ingredients are black-puddings made all? Not to be burned, and not to run to waste, Not over-hot nor frozen in the cradle, Done to a turn, juicy, not bathed in butter, Smooth, plump and swelling!--Don't you hear 'em sputter?

"About fried liver now receive my say: It wants five pieces--count them on your fingers; It must be round--keep this in mind, I pray!-- Fire on this side or that the frying injures! Be careful not to brush the fat away, Which keeps the stew soft while it drops and lingers; You must divide it in two parts, and see That each part is apportioned equally.

"It should not be too large; but there's a saw-- Stint not your bag-pudding of hose and jacket: Now mark me, for I'm laying down the law-- Don't overcook the morsel in the packet; It ought to melt, midway twixt done and raw, Like a ripe autumn fig, when you attack it: Serve it up hissing, and then sound the tabors With spice and orange peel, to end your labors!

"I've got a hundred hints to give the wary! But take it on my word, ragouts and pies Are the true test of science culinary: A lamprey now--you'd scarce believe your eyes To see its stews and salmis, how they vary! Yet all are known and numbered by the wise.-- True gourmandize hath seventy-two divisions, Besides a few that are my own additions:

"If one be missed, the cooking's spoiled, that's granted: Not heaven itself can save a ruined platter!-- From now till noon I'd hold your sense enchanted With secrets of my art, if I dared chatter!-- I kept an inn at Corinth once, and wanted To argue publicly upon the matter.-- But we must leave this point, for 'twill divert you To hear about another cardinal virtue.

"Only to F these confidences carry; Just think what 'twill be when we come to R! I plow (no nonsense) with ass, cassiowary, Ox, camel--any other beast bizarre. A thousand bonfires, prisons, by Lord Harry, My tricks have earned, and something uglier far: Where my head will not pass, I stick my tail in, And what I like's to hear the good folk railing.

"Take me to balls, to banquets, for an airing; I'll do my duty there with hands and feet: I'm rude, importunate, a bore, and daring; On friends no less than foes I'll take a seat: To shame I've said farewell; nor am I sparing Of fawning like a cur when kicks I meet, But tell my tale and swagger up and down, And with a thousand fibs each exploit crown.

"No need to ask if I've kept geese at grass, Purveyed stewed prunes, taught kittens how to play. Suppose a thousand--widow, wife, and lass: That's just about my figure, I dare say. When mid the women by mishap I pass, Six out of every five become my prey; I make the pretty dears so deuced cunning, They beat nurse, maid, duenna out of running.

"Three of my moral qualities are these-- Gluttony, dicing, as I said, and drinking: But, since we'll drain the barrel to the lees, Hear now the fourth and foremost to my thinking. No need of hooks or ladders, crows or keys, I promise, where my hands are! Without blinking I've worn the cross and miter on my forehead-- No pope's nor priest's, but something much more horrid!

"Screws, files and jemmies are my stock in trade, Springs, picklocks, of more sorts than I could mention; Rope and wood ladders, levers, slippers made Of noiseless felt--my patented invention-- Drowsing all ears, where'er my feet are laid; I fashioned them to take my mind's intention; Fire too that by itself no light delivers, But when I spit on it, springs up and quivers.

"See me but in a church alone and frisky! I'm keener on the robbing of an altar Than gaugers when they scent a keg of whiskey; Then to the alms-box off I fly, nor falter: Sacristies are my passion; though 'tis risky, With cross and sacring cup I never palter, But pull the crucifixes down and stow 'em-- Virgins and saints and effigies, you know 'em!

"I've swept, may-be, a hen-roost in my day And if you'd seen me loot a lot of washing, You'd swear that never maid or housewife gay Could clear it in a style so smart and dashing! If naught, Morgante, 's left but blooming May To strip, I steal it--I can't keep from flashing! I ne'er drew difference twixt thine and mine: All things, to start with, were effects divine.

"But ere I learned to thieve thus on the sly, I ran the highway rig as bold as any; I would have robbed the biggest saint on high-- If there _are_ saints above us--for a penny; But loving peace and fair tranquillity, I left assassination to the many: Not that my will was weak--I'd rather say, Because theft mixed with murder does not pay.

"My virtues theological now smile on! God knows if I can forge or falsify: I'll turn an H into a Greek Upsilon-- You could not write a neater, prettier Y! I gut the pages of a book, and pile on New rubrics for new chapters, change the die, Change title, cover, index, name--the poet Who wrote the verse I counterfeit, won't know it.

"False oaths and perjuries come trickling down Out of my mouth as smooth and sweet as honey, Ripe figs, or macaroni nicely brown, Or anything that's natural and funny: Suppose they brain some guileless count or clown; All's one; ware heads, I cry, and pouch my money! I've set on foot full many a strife and wrangle, And left 'em in inextricable tangle.

"With ready coin I always square a scandal: Of oaths I've got a perfect stock in trade; Each saint supplies my speech with some choice handle; I run them off in rows from A to Z: In lying no man holds to me a candle; Truth's always the reverse of what I've said:-- I'd like to see more fire than land or water, In heaven and earth naught but plague, famine, slaughter.

"Don't fancy that in fasting, prayer and prate, Or charities my spare time I employ! Not to seem stiff, I beg from gate to gate, And always utter something to annoy: Proud, envious, tiresome and importunate-- This character I've cherished from a boy; For the seven deadly sins and all the other Vices have brought me up to be their brother!

"So that I'd roam the world, cross ban and border, Hood-winked, nor ever fear to miss my way; As sweet and clean as any lump of ordure, I leave my trail like slugs where'er I stray, Nor seek to hide that slimy self-recorder: Creeds, customs, friends I slough from day to day; Change skin and climate, as it suits me best, For I was evil even in the nest.

"I've left a whole long chapter undiscussed Of countless peccadilloes in a jumble: Were I to catalogue each crime and lust, The medley of my sins might make you grumble: 'Twould take from now till June to lay the dust, If in this mud heap we began to tumble; One only point I'd have you still perpend-- I never in my life betrayed a friend."

MORGANTE XXV. 119.

There is a spirit, Astarotte height, Wise, terrible, and fierce exceedingly; In Hell's dark caves profound he hides from sight: No goblin, but a fiend far blacker he.-- Malagigi summoned him one deep midnight, And cried: "How fares Rinaldo, tell to me! Then will I say what more I'd have thee work; But look not on me with face so mirk!

"If thou wilt do this bidding, I declare I'll never call nor conjure thee by force, But burn upon my death yon book, I swear, Which can alone compel thee in due course: So shalt thou live thenceforward free as air."-- Thereat the fiend swaggered, and had recourse To threatening wiles, and would not yield an inch, If haply he could make the master flinch.

But when he saw Malagigi's blood was stirred, In act to flash the ring of his dread art, And hurl him to some tomb by book and word, He threw his cards up with a sudden start, And cried: "Of your will yet I've nothing heard." Then Malagigi answered: "In what part Are Ricciardetto and Rinaldo now? Tell all the truth, or you'll repent, I vow!"

MORGANTE XXV. 135.

Said Astarotte: "This point remains obscure, Unless I thought the whole night through thereon; Nor would my best of judgments be secure;-- The paths of heaven for us are all undone, Our sight of things to be is no more sure Than that of sages gazing on the sun; For neither man nor beast would 'scape from Hell, Had not our wings been shortened when we fell.

"Of the Old Testament I've much to teach, And of what happened in the days gone by; But all things do not come within our reach: One only Power there is, who sees on high, As in a glass before him, all and each, Past, present, and remote futurity: He who made all that is, alone knows all, Nor doth the Son well know what shall befall.

"Therefore I could not without thought intense Tell thee the destined fate of Charlemain:-- Know that the air around us now is dense With spirits; in their hands I see them strain Astrolabe, almanac, and tablet, whence To read yon signs in heaven of strife and bane-- The blood and treason, overthrow and war, Menaced by Mars in Scorpio angular.

"And for thy better understanding, he Is joined with Saturn in the ascendant, so Charged with all-powerful malignity That e'en the wars of Turnus had less woe. Slaughters of many peoples we shall see, With dire disasters in confusion flow, And change of states and mighty realms; for I Know that these signs were never wont to lie.

"I know not whether thou hast fixed thy thought Upon those comets which appeared of late, Veru and Dominus and Ascon, brought Treasons and wars and strife to indicate, With deaths of princes and great nobles fraught? These, too, ne'er falsified the word of fate. So that it seems from what I learn and see, That what I say, and worse, is like to be.

"What Gano with Marsilio planned before, I know not, since I did not think thereon: But he's the same, methinks, he was of yore; Wherefore this needs no divination: A seat is waiting for him at hell's core; And if his life's book I correctly con, That evil soul will very shortly go To weep his sins in everlasting woe."

Then spake Malagigi: "Something thou hast said Which holds my sense and reason still in doubt, That some things even from the Son are hid; This thy dark saying I can fathom not." Then Astarotte: "Thou, it seems, hast read But ill thy Bible, or its words forgot; For when the Son was asked of that great day, Only the Father knows, He then did say.

"Mark my words, Malagigi! Thou shalt hear, Now if thou wilt, the fiend's theology: Then to thy churchmen go, and make it clear. You say: Three Persons in one entity, One substance; and to this we, too, adhere: One flawless, pure, unmixed activity:-- Wherefore it follows from what went before, That this alone is what you all adore.

"One mover, whence all movement is impelled: One order, whence all order hath its rise; One cause, whereby all causes are compelled; One power, whence flow all powers and energies; One fire, wherein all radiances are held; One principle, which every truth implies; One knowledge, whence all wisdom hath been given; One Good, which made all good in earth and heaven.

"This is that Father and that ancient King, Who hath made all things and can all things know, But cannot change His own wise ordering, Else heaven and earth to ruin both would go. Having lost His friendship, I no more may wing My flight unto the mirror, where our woe Perchance e'en now is clearly shown to view; Albeit futurity I never knew.

"If Lucifer had known the doom to be, He had not brought those fruits of rashness forth; Nor had he ruined for eternity, Seeking his princely station in the North; But being impotent all things to see, He and we all were damned 'neath heaven and earth; And since he was the first to sin, he first Fell to Giudecca, and still fares the worst.

"Nor had we vainly tempted all the blest, Who now sit crowned with stars in Paradise, If, as I said, a veil by God's behest Had not been drawn before our mental eyes; Nor would that Saint, of Saints the first and best Been tempted, as your Gospel testifies, And borne by Satan to the pinnacle Where at the last he saw His miracle.

"And forasmuch as He makes nothing ill, And all hath circumscribed by fixed decrees, And what He made is present with Him still, Being established on just premises, Know that this Lord repents not of His will; Nay, if one saith that change hath been, he sees Falsehood for truth, in sense and judgment blind For what is now, was in the primal mind."

"Tell me," then answered Malagigi, "more, Since thou'rt an angel sage and rational! If that first Mover, whom we all adore, Within His secret soul foreknew your fell, If time and hour were both foreseen before, His sentence must be found tyrannical, Lacking both justice and true charity; Since, while creating, and while damning, He

"Foreknew you to be frail and formed in sin; Nathless you call Him just and piteous, Nor was there room, you say, pardon to win:-- This makes our God the partisan of those Angels who stayed the gates of heaven within, Who knew the true from false, discerning thus Which side would prosper, which would lose the day, Nor went, like you, with Lucifer astray."

Astarotte, like the devil, raged with pain; Then cried: "That just Sabaoth loved no more Michael than Lucifer; nor made he Cain More apt than Abel to shed brother's gore: If one than Nimrod was more proud and vain, If the other, all unlike to Gabriel, swore He'd not repent nor bellow psalms to heaven, It was free-will condemned both unforgiven.

"That was the single cause that damned us all: His clemency, moreover, gave full time, Wherein 'twas granted us to shun the fall, And by repentance to compound our crime; But now we've fallen from grace beyond recall: Just was our sentence from that Judge sublime; His foresight shortened not our day of grace, For timely penitence aye finds a place.

"Just is the Father, Son, and just the Word! His justice with great mercy was combined: Through pride no more than thanklessness we erred; That was our sin malignant and unkind: Nor hath remorse our stubborn purpose stirred, Seeing that evil nourished in the mind And will of those who knew the good, and were Untempted, never yet was changed to fair.

"Adam knew not the nature of his sin; Therefore his primal error was forgiven, Because the tempter took him in a gin: Only his disobedience angered heaven; Therefore, though cast from Eden, he might win Grace, when repentance from his heart had driven The wicked will, with peace to end his strife, And mercy also in eternal life.

"But the angelic nature, once debased, Can never more to purity return: It sinned with science and corrupted taste: Whence in despair incurable we burn. Now, if that wise one answered not, nor raised His voice, when Pilate asked of him to learn What was the truth, the truth was at his side; This ignorance was therefore justified.

"Pilate was lost, because in doing well He persevered not when he washed his hand; And Judas, too, beyond redemption fell, Because, though penitent at last, he banned Hope, without which no soul escapes from hell: His doom no Origen shall countermand, Nor who to Judas give what's meant for Judah-- _In diebus illis salvabitur Juda._

"Thus there is one first Power in heaven who knew All things, by whom all things were also made: Making and damning us, He still was true; On Truth and Justice all His work is laid: Future and past are present to his view; For it must follow, as I elsewhere said, That the whole world before His face should lie, From whom proceeds force, virtue, energy.

"But now that thou hast bound me to relate, My master thou, the cause of our mischance, Thou fain would'st hear why He who rules o'er fate, And of our fall foresaw each circumstance, Labored in vain, and made us reprobate?-- Sealed is that rubric, closed from every glance, Reserved for Him, the Lord victorious: I know not, I can only answer thus!

"Nor speak I this to put thy mind to proof; But forasmuch as I discern that men Weave on this warp of doubts a misty woof, Seeking to learn; albeit they cannot ken Whence flows the Nile--the Danube's not enough! Assure thy soul, nor ask the how and when, That heaven's high Master, as the Psalmist taught, Is just and true in all that he hath wrought.

"The things whereof I speak are known not by Poet or prophet, moralist or sage: Yet mortal men in their presumption try To rank the hierarchies, stage over stage! A chieftain among Seraphim was I; Yet knew not what in many a learned page Denys and Gregory wrote!--Full surely they Who paint heaven after earth will go astray!

"But above all things see thou art not led By elves and wandering sprites, a tricksy kind, Who never speak one word of truth, but shed Doubt and suspicion on the hearer's mind; Their aim is injury toward fools ill-sped: And, mark this well, they ne'er have been confined To glass or water, but reside in air, Playing their pranks here, there, and everywhere.

"From ear to ear they pass, and 'tis their vaunt Ever to make things seem that are not so: For one delights in horseplay, jeer and jaunt; One deals in science; one pretends to show Where treasures lurk in some forgotten haunt: Others, more grave, futurity foreknow:-- But now I've given thee hints enough, to tell That courtesy can even be found in Hell!"

MORGANTE XXV. 282.

And when Rinaldo had learned all his need, "Astarotte," he cried, "thou art a perfect friend, And I am bound to thee henceforth indeed! This I say truly: if God's will should bend, If grace divine should e'er so much concede As to reverse heaven's ordinance, amend Its statutes, sentences, or high decrees, I will remember these thy services.

"More at the present time I cannot give: The soul returns to Him from whom it flew: The rest of us, thou knowest, will not live! O love supreme, rare courtesy and new."-- I have no doubt that all my friends believe This verse belongs to Petrarch; yet 'tis true Rinaldo spoke it very long ago: But who robs not, is called a rogue, you know.--

Said Astarotte: "Thanks for your good will! Yet shall those keys be lost for us for ever: High treason was our crime, measureless ill. Thrice happy Christians! One small tear can sever _Your_ bonds!--One sigh, sent from the contrite will: Lord, to Thee only did I sin!--But never Shall _we_ find grace: we sinned once; now we lie Sentenced to hell for all eternity.

"If after, say, some thousand million ages We might have hope yet once to see again The least spark of that Love, this pang that rages Here at the core, could scarce be reckoned pain!-- But wherefore annotate such dreary pages? To wish for what can never be, is vain. Therefore I mean with your kind approbation To change the subject of our conversation."

MORGANTE XXV. 73.

What God ordains is no chance miracle. Next prodigies and signs in heaven were seen; For the sun suddenly turned ghastly pale, And clouds with rain o'erladen flew between, Muttering low prelude to their thunder-knell, As when Jove shakes the world with awful spleen: Next wind and fury, hail and tempest, hiss O'er earth and skies--Good God, what doom is this?

Then while they cowered together dumb with dread, Lightning flashed forth and hurtled at their side, Which struck a laurel's leaf-embowered head, And burned it; cleft unto the earth, it died. O Phoebus! yon fair curls of gold outspread! How could'st thou bear to see thy love, thy pride, Thus thunder-smitten? Hath thy sacred bay Lost her inviolable rights to-day?

Marsilio cries: "Mahound! What can it mean! What doleful mystery lies hid beneath? O Bianciardino, to our State, I ween, This omen brings some threat of change or death!" But, while he spoke, an earthquake shook the scene, Nay, shook both hemispheres with blustering breath: Falseron's face changed hue, grew cold and hot, And even Bianciardino liked it not.

Yet none for very fear dared move a limb, The while above their heads a sudden flush Spread like live fire, that made the daylight dim; And from the font they saw the water gush In gouts and crimson eddies from the brim; And what it sprinkled, with a livid flush Burned: yea, the grass flared up on every side; For the well boiled, a fierce and sanguine tide.

Above the fountain rose a locust-tree, The tree where Judas hanged himself, 'tis said; This turned the heart of Gano sick to see, For now it ran with ruddy sweat and bled, Then dried both trunk and branches suddenly, Moulting its scattered leaves by hundreds dead; And on his pate a bean came tumbling down, Which made the hairs all bristle on his crown.

The beasts who roamed at will within the park, Set up a dismal howl and wail of woe; Then turned and rushed amuck with yelp and bark, Butting their horns and charging to and fro: Marsilio and his comrades in the dark Watched all dismayed to see how things would go; And none knew well what he should say or do, So dreadful was heaven's wrath upon the crew.

MORGANTE XXV. 115.

I had it in my mind once to curtail This story, knowing not how I should bring Rinaldo all that way to Roncesvale, Until an angel straight from heaven did wing, And showed me Arnald to recruit my tale: He cries, "Hold, Louis! Wherefore cease to sing? Perchance Rinaldo will turn up in time!" So, just as he narrates, I'll trim my rhyme.

I must ride straight as any arrow flies, Nor mix a fib with all the truths I say; This is no story to be stuffed with lies! If I diverge a hand's breadth from the way, One croaks, one scolds, while everybody cries, "Ware madman!" when he sees me trip or stray. I've made my mind up to a hermit's life, So irksome are the crowd and all their strife.

Erewhile my Academe and my Gymnasia Were in the solitary woods I love, Whence I can see at will Afric or Asia; There nymphs with baskets tripping through the grove, Shower jonquils at my feet or colocasia: Far from the town's vexations there I'd rove, Haunting no more your Areopagi, Where folk delight in calumny and lie.

MORGANTE XXVII. 6.

Then answered Baldwin: "If my sire in sooth Hath brought us here by treason, as you say, Should I survive this battle, by God's truth, With this good sword I will my father slay!-- But, Roland, I'm no traitor--I forsooth, Who followed thee with love as clear as day!-- How could'st thou fling worse insult on thy friend?" Then with fierce force the mantle he did rend,

And cried: "I will return into the fight, Since thou hast branded me with treason, thou! I am no traitor! May God give me might, As living thou shalt see me ne'er from now!" Straight toward the Paynim battle spurs the knight, Still shouting, "Thou hast done me wrong, I vow!" Roland repents him of the words he spake, When the youth, mad with passion, from him brake.

MORGANTE XXVIII. 138.

I ask not for that wreath of bay or laurel Which on Greek brows or Roman proudly shone: With this plain quill and style I do not quarrel, Nor have I sought to sing of Helicon: My Pegasus is but a rustic sorrel; Untutored mid the graves I still pipe on: Leave me to chat with Corydon and Thyrsis; I'm no good shepherd, and can't mend my verses.

Indeed I'm not a rash intrusive claimant, Like the mad piper of those ancient days, From whom Apollo stripped his living raiment, Nor quite the Satyr that my face bewrays. A nobler bard shall rise and win the payment Fame showers on loftier style and worthier lays: While I mid beech-woods and plain herdsmen dwell, Who love the rural muse of Pulci well.

I'll tempt the waters in my little wherry, Seeking safe shallows where a skiff may swim: My only care is how to make men merry With these thick-crowding thoughts that take my whim: 'Tis right that all things in this world should vary;-- Various are wits and faces, stout and slim, One dotes on white, while one dubs black sublime, And subjects vary both in prose and rhyme.

APPENDIX VI.

_Translations of Elegiac Verses by Girolamo Benivieni and Michelangelo Buonarroti._

(See page 321).

The heavenly sound is hushed, from earth is riven The harmony of that delighted lyre, Which leaves the world in grief, to gladden heaven. Yea, even as our sobs from earth aspire, Mourning his loss, so ring the jocund skies With those new songs, and dance the angelic choir. Ah happy he, who from this vale of sighs, Poisonous and dark, heavenward hath flown, and lost Only the vesture, frail and weak, that dies! Freed from the world, freed from the tempest-tossed Warfare of sin, his splendor now doth gaze Full on the face of God through endless days.

* * * * *

Thou'rt dead of dying, and art made divine; Nor need'st thou fear to change or life or will; Wherefore my soul well-nigh doth envy thine. Fortune and time across thy threshold still Shall dare not pass, the which mid us below Bring doubtful joyance blent with certain ill. Clouds are there none to dim for thee heaven's glow; The measured hours compel not thee at all; Chance or necessity thou canst not know. Thy splendor wanes not when our night doth fall, Nor waxes with day's light however clear, Nor when our suns the season's warmth recall.

END OF THE FIRST PART.