And how a voice there murmurs against her
Who came on the refulgence of your sphere.
II
A sweet Thought, which was once the life within
This heavy heart, many a time and oft
15
Went up before our Father’s feet, and there
It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft;
And its sweet talk of her my soul did win,
So that I said, Thither I too will fare.’
That Thought is fled, and one doth now appear
20
Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress,
That my heart trembles—ye may see it leap—
And on another Lady bids me keep
Mine eyes, and says—Who would have blessedness
Let him but look upon that Lady’s eyes,
25
Let him not fear the agony of sighs.
III
This lowly Thought, which once would talk with me
Of a bright seraph sitting crowned on high,
Found such a cruel foe it died, and so
My Spirit wept, the grief is hot even now—
30
And said, Alas for me! how swift could flee
That piteous Thought which did my life console!
And the afflicted one questioning
Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they never,
And why they would …
35
I said: ‘Beneath those eyes might stand for ever
He whom regards must kill with …
To have known their power stood me in little stead,
Those eyes have looked on me, and I am dead.’
IV
‘Thou art not dead, but thou hast wanderèd,
40
Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost fret,’
A Spirit of gentle Love beside me said;
For that fair Lady, whom thou dost regret,
Hath so transformed the life which thou hast led,
Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou made.
45
And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid,
Yet courteous, in her majesty she is.
And still call thou her Woman in thy thought;
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not,
Thou wilt behold decked with such loveliness,
50
That thou wilt cry [Love] only Lord, lo! here
Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt with her.
V
My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain.
55
Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring
Thee to base company, as chance may do,
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again,
My last delight; tell them that they are dull,
60
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.
MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS
FROM THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, CANTO XXVIII, ll. 1–51
AND earnest to explore within—around—
The divine wood, whose thick green living woof
Tempered the young day to the sight—I wound
Up the green slope, beneath the forest’s roof,
5
With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain’s steep,
And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof
Against the air, that in that stillness deep
And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare,
The slow, soft stroke of a continuous …
10
In which the leaves tremblingly were
All bent towards that part where earliest
The sacred hill obscures the morning air.
Yet were they not so shaken from the rest,
But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,
15
Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,
With perfect joy received the early day,
Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound
Kept a low burden to their roundelay,
Such as from bough to bough gathers around
20
The pine forest on bleak Chiassi’s shore,
When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound.
My slow steps had already borne me o’er
Such space within the antique wood, that I
Perceived not where I entered any more,—
25
When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by,
Bending towards the left through grass that grew
Upon its bank, impeded suddenly
My going on. Water of purest hue
On earth, would appear turbid and impure
30
Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,
Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure
Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms
The rays of moon or sunlight ne’er endure.
I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms
35
Pierced with my charmèd eye, contemplating
The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms
Which starred that night, when, even as a thing
That suddenly, for blank astonishment,
Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,—
40
A solitary woman! and she went
Singing and gathering flower after flower,
With which her way was painted and besprent.
‘Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power
To bear true witness of the heart within,
45
Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower
Towards this bank. I prithee let me win
This much of thee, to come, that I may hear
Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna’s glen,
Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here
50
And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when
She lost the Spring, and Ceres her, more dear.’
FRAGMENT
ADAPTED FROM THE VITA NUOVA OF DANTE
WHAT Mary is when she a little smiles
I cannot even tell or call to mind,
It is a miracle so new, so rare.
UGOLINO
INFERNO xxxiii. 22–75
Now had the loophole of that dungeon, still
Which bears the name of Famine’s Tower from me,
And where ’tis fit that many another will
Be doomed to linger in captivity,
5
Shown through its narrow opening in my cell
Moon after moon slow waning, when a sleep,
That of the future burst the veil, in dream
Visited me. It was a slumber deep
And evil; for I saw, or I did seem
10
To see, that tyrant Lord his revels keep,
The leader of the cruel hunt to them,
Chasing the wolf and wolf-cubs up the steep
Ascent, that from the Pisan is the screen
Of Lucca; with him Gualandi came,
15
Sismondi, and Lanfranchi, bloodhounds lean,
Trained to the sport and eager for the game
Wide ranging in his front; but soon were seen
Though by so short a course, with spirits tame,
The father and his whelps to flag at once,
20
And then the sharp fangs gored their bosoms deep
Ere morn I roused myself, and heard my sons,
For they were with me, moaning in their sleep,
And begging bread. Ah, for those darling ones!
Right cruel art thou, if thou dost not weep
25
In thinking of my soul’s sad augury;
And if thou weepest not now, weep never more!
They were alread
y waked, as wont drew nigh
The allotted hour for food, and in that hour
Each drew a presage from his dream. When I
30
Heard locked beneath me of that horrible tower
The outlet; then into their eyes alone
I looked to read myself, without a sign
Or word. I wept not—turned within to stone.
They wept aloud, and little Anselm mine,
35
Said—’twas my youngest, dearest little one,—
‘What ails thee, father? Why look so at thine?’
In all that day, and all the following night,
I wept not, nor replied; but when to shine
Upon the world, not us, came forth the light
40
Of the new sun, and thwart my prison thrown
Gleamed through its narrow chink, a doleful sight.
Three faces, each the reflex of my own,
Were imaged by its faint and ghastly ray,
Then I, of either hand unto the bone,
45
Gnawed, in my agony; and thinking they
’Twas done from sudden pangs, in their excess,
All of a sudden raise themselves, and say,
‘Father! our woes, so great, were yet the less
Would you but eat of us,—’twas you who clad
50
Our bodies in these weeds of wretchedness;
Despoil them.’ Not to make their hearts more sad,
I hushed myself. That day is at its close,—
Another—still we were all mute. Oh, had
The obdurate earth opened to end our woes!
55
The fourth day dawned, and when the new sun shone,
Outstretched himself before me as it rose
My Gaddo, saying, ‘Help, father! hast thou none
For thine own child—is there no help from thee?’
He died—there at my feet—and one by one,
60
I saw them fall, plainly as you see me.
Between the fifth and sixth day, ere ’twas dawn,
I found myself blind-groping o’er the three.
Three days I called them after they were gone.
Famine of grief can get the mastery.
SONNET
FROM THE ITALIAN OF CAVALCANTI
GUIDO CAVALCANTI TO DANTE ALIGHIERI
RETURNING from its daily quest, my Spirit
Changed thoughts and vile in thee doth weep to find:
It grieves me that thy mild and gentle mind
Those ample virtues which it did inherit
5
Has lost. Once thou didst loathe the multitude
Of blind and madding men—I then loved thee—
I loved thy lofty songs and that sweet mood
When thou wert faithful to thyself and me.
I dare not now through thy degraded state
10
Own the delight thy strains inspire—in vain
I seek what once thou wert—we cannot meet
And we were wont. Again and yet again
Ponder my words: so the false Spirit shall fly
And leave to thee thy true integrity.
SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO
FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON
SCENE I.—Enter CYPRIAN, dressed as a Student; CLARIN and MOSCON as poor Scholars, with books.
Cyprian. In the sweet solitude of this calm place,
This intricate wild wilderness of trees
And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants,
Leave me; the books you brought out of the house
5
To me are ever best society.
And while with glorious festival and song,
Antioch now celebrates the consecration
Of a proud temple to great Jupiter,
And bears his image in loud jubilee
10
To its new shrine, I would consume what still
Lives of the dying day in studious thought,
Far from the throng and turmoil. You. my friends,
Go, and enjoy the festival; it will
Be worth your pains. You may return for me
15
When the sun seeks its grave among the billows
Which, among dim gray clouds on the horizon,
Dance like white plumes upon a hearse;—and here
I shall expect you.
Moscon. I cannot bring my mind,
Great as my haste to see the festival
20
Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without
Just saying some three or four thousand words.
How is it possible that on a day
Of such festivity, you can be content
To come forth to a solitary country
25
With three or four old books, and turn your back
On all this mirth?
Clarin. My master’s in the right;
There is not anything more tiresome
Than a procession day, with troops, and priests,
And dances, and all that.
Moscon. From first to last,
30
Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer;
You praise not what you feel but what he does;—
Toadeater!
Clarin. You lie—under a mistake—
For this is the most civil sort of lie
That can be given to a man’s face. I now
Say what I think.
35
Cyprian. Enough, you foolish fellows!
Puffed up with your own doting ignorance,
You always take the two sides of one question.
Now go; and as I said, return for me
When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide
40
This glorious fabric of the universe.
Moscon. How happens it, although you can maintain
The folly of enjoying festivals,
That yet you go there?
Clarin. Nay, the consequence
Is clear:—who ever did what he advises
Others to do?—
45
Moscon. Would that my feet were wings,
So would I fly to Livia.
[Exit.
Clarin. To speak truth,
Livia is she who has surprised my heart;
But he is more than half-way there.—Soho!
Livia, I come; good sport, Livia, soho!
[Exit.
50
Cyprian. Now, since I am alone, let me examine
The question which has long disturbed my mind
With doubt, since first I read in Plinius
The words of mystic import and deep sense
In which he defines God. My intellect
55
Can find no God with whom these marks and signs
Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth
Which I must fathom.
[CYPRIAN reads; the DAEMON, dressed in a Court dress, enters.
Daemon. Search even as thou wilt,
But thou shalt never find what I can hide.
Cyprian. What noise is that among the boughs? Who moves?
What art thou?—
60
Daemon. ’Tis a foreign gentleman.
Even from this morning I have lost my way
In this wild place; and my poor horse at last,
Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon
The enamelled tapestry of this mossy mountain,
65
And feeds and rests at the same time. I was
Upon my way to Antioch upon business
Of some importance, but wrapped up in cares
(Who is exempt from this inheritance?)
I parted from my company, and lost
70
My way, and lost my servants and my comrades.
Cyprian. ’Tis singular that even within the sight
Of the high towers of Antioch you could
lose
Your way. Of all the avenues and green paths
Of this wild wood there is not one but leads,
75
As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch;
Take which you will, you cannot miss your road.
Daemon. And such is ignorance! Even in the sight
Of knowledge, it can draw no profit from it.
But as it still is early, and as I
80
Have no acquaintances in Antioch,
Being a stranger there, I will even wait
The few surviving hours of the day,
Until the night shall conquer it. I see
Both by your dress and by the books in which
85
You find delight and company, that you
Are a great student;—for my part, I feel
Much sympathy in such pursuits.
Cyprian. Have you
Studied much?
Daemon. No,—and yet I know enough
Not to be wholly ignorant.
Cyprian. Pray, Sir,
What science may you know?—
Daemon. Many.
90
Cyprian. Alas!
Much pains must we expend on one alone,
And even then attain it not;—but you
Have the presumption to assert that you
Know many without study.
Daemon. And with truth.
95
For in the country whence I come the sciences
The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book) Page 110
