"Per me si va nella città dolente;
Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;
Per me si va tra la perduta gente;
Giustizia mosse'l mio alto fattore;
Fecemi la divina potestate,
La somma sapienza e'l primo amore.
Dinanzi a me non fur cose create
Se non eterne, ed io eterno duro:
Lasciate ogni speranza voi che'ntrate.
Queste parole di colore oscuro
Vid'io scritte al sommo d'una porta;
Perch'io: maestro, il senso lor m'è duro.
Ed egli a me, come persona accorta:
Qui si convien lasciare ogni sospetto,
Ogni viltà convien che qui sia morta.
Noi sem venuti al luogo ov'io t'ho detto
Che vederai le genti dolorose
Ch' hanno perduto il ben dello'ntelletto.
E poichè la sua mano alla mia pose
Con lieto volto, ond'io mi confortai,
Mi mise dentro alle secrete cose.
Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai
Risonavan per l'aer senza stelle,
Perch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.
Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,
Parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,
Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle,
Facevano un tumulto il qual s'aggira
Sempre'n quell'aria senza tempo tinta,
Come la rena quando'l turbo spira."
Inferno, III. 1-30.
"'Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost.
Justice incited my sublime Creator;
Created me divine Omnipotence,
The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.
Before me there were no created things,
Only eterne, and I eternal last.
All hope abandon, ye who enter in!'
These words in sombre color I beheld
Written upon the summit of a gate;
Whence I: 'Their sense is, Master, hard to me!'
And he to me, as one experienced:
'Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,
All cowardice must needs be here extinct.
We to the place have come, where I have told thee
Thou shalt behold the people dolorous
Who have foregone the good of intellect.'
And after he had laid his hand on mine
With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,
He led me in among the secret things.
There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
Resounded through the air without a star,
Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.
Languages diverse, horrible dialects,
Accents of anger, words of agony,
And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,
Made up a tumult that goes whirling on
Forever in that air forever black,
Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes."—Longfellow.
"'Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.'
Such characters, in color dim, I marked
Over a portal's lofty arch inscribed.
Whereat I thus: 'Master, these words import
Hard meaning.' He as one prepared replied:
'Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;
Here be vile fear extinguished. We are come
Where I have told thee we shall see the souls
To misery doomed, who intellectual good
Have lost.' And when his hand he had stretched forth
To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered.
Into that secret place he led me on.
Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans,
Resounded through the air pierced by no star,
That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,
Horrible languages, outcries of woe,
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,
With hands together smote that swelled the sounds,
Made up a tumult, that forever whirls
Round through that air with solid darkness stained,
Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies."
Cary.
The following, though less remarkable for its poetry than many others
which we might select, is very difficult for the translator. We cite it
as an illustration of the boldness with which Mr. Longfellow meets
difficulties.
"E quale è quei che suo dannaggio sogna,
Che sognando disidera sognare,
Si che quel ch'è, come non fosse, agogna;
Tal mi fec'io non potendo parlare:
Che disiava scusarmi e scusava
Me tuttavia e not mi credea fare
Maggior difetto men vergogna lava,
Disse'l maestro, che'l tuo non è stato:
Però d'ogni tristizia ti disgrava;
E fa ragion ch'io ti sempre allato,
Se più avvien che fortuna t'accoglia
Dove sien genti in simigliante piato:
Che voler ciò udire è bassa voglia."
Inferno, XXX. 136-148.
"And as he is who dreams of his own harm.
Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,
So that he craves what is, as if it were not;
Such I became, not having power to speak,
For to excuse myself I wished, and still
Excused myself, and did not think I did it.
'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'
The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;
Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,
And make account that I am aye beside thee,
If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee
Where there are people in a like dispute;
For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"
Longfellow.
"As a man that dreams of harm
Befallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,
And that which is, desires as if it were not;
Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,
Wished to excuse myself, and all the while
Excused me, though unweeting that I did.
'More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,'
My master cried, 'might expiate. Therefore cast
All sorrow from thy soul; and if again
Chance bring thee where like conference is held,
Think I am ever at thy side. To hear
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.'"
Cary.
The following passage from the Purgatorio is not only strikingly
difficult, but strikingly beautiful.
"Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,
Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,
E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamava
Tenendo gli occhi con fatica fisi
A me che tutto chin con loro andava.
Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,
L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arte
Ch'alluminare è chiamata in Parisi?
Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carte
Che pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:
L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.
Ben non sare'io stato sì cortese
Mentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disio
Dell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.
Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:
Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosse
Che, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.
Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,
Com' poco verde in su la cima dura
Se non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!
Credette Cimabue nella pintura
Tenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,
Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.
Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro Guido
La gloria della lingua; e forse è nato
Chi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.
Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiato
Di vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,
E muta nome perchè muta lato.
Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindi
Da te la carne, che se fossi morto
Innanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,
Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più corto
Spazio all' eterno ch'un muover di ciglia
Al cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.
Colui che del cammin sì poco piglia
Diranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,
Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,
Ond'era sire, quando fu distrutta
La rabbia Fiorentina, che superba
Fu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.
La vostra nominanza è color d'erba
Che viene e va, e quei la discolora
Per cui ell'esce della terra acerba."
Purgatorio, XI. 74-117.
"And one of them, not this one who was speaking,
Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,
And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,
Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed
On me, who all bowed down was going with them.
'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,
Agobbio's honor, and honor of that art
Which is in Paris called illuminating?'
'Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leaves
Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;
All his the honor now, and mine in part.
In sooth I had not been so courteous
While I was living, for the great desire
Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:
And yet I should not be here, were it not
That, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers,
How little green upon thy summit lingers,
If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!
In painting Cimabue thought that he
Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,
So that the other's fame is growing dim.
So has one Guido from the other taken
The glory of our tongue, and he perchance
Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.
Naught is this mundane rumor but a breath
Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,
And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off
From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead
Before thou left the pappo and the dindi,
Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter
Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye
Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.
With him, who takes so little of the road
In front of me, all Tuscany resounded;
And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
Where he was lord, what time was overthrown
The Florentine delirium, that superb
Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute.
Your reputation is the color of grass
Which comes and goes, and that discolors it
By which it issues green from out the earth.'"
Longfellow.
"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 called;
Holding his eyes with difficulty fixed
Intent upon me, stooping as I went
Companion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,
'Art thou not Oderigi? 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 pencil lines the leaves.
His all the honor now; my light obscured.
In truth, I had not been thus courteous to him
The while I lived, through eagerness of zeal
For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.
Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.
Nor were I even here, if, able still
To sin, I had not turned me unto God.
O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipped
E'en in its height of verdure, if an age
Less bright succeed not. Cimabue thought
To lord it over painting's field; and now
The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.
Thus hath one Guido from the other snatched
The lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,
Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more
Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh
Part shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst died
Before the coral and the pap were left,
Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and that
Is, to eternity compared, a space
Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye
To the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treads
So leisurely before me, far and wide
Through Tuscany resounded once; and now
Is in Sienna scarce with whispers named:
There was he sovereign, when destruction caught
The maddening rage of Florence, in that day
Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth.'"—Cary.
For much the same reason as that already stated, we give the following
beautiful passage, a touching story in itself, but how deeply touching
in the energetic directness and simplicity of Dante's verse!
"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stava
Per avvisar da presso un'altra storia
Che diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.
Quivi era storiata l'alta gloria
Del roman prence lo cui gran valore
Mosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:
I' dico di Trajano imperadore;
Ed una vedovella gli era al freno
Di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
Di cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oro
Sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
Parea dicer: signor, fammi vendetta
Del mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;
Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspetta
Tanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio
(Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)
Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,
La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui bene
A te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?
Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che conviene
Ch'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:
Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.
Colui che mai non vide cosa nuova
Produsse esto visibile parlare,
Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova."
Purgatorio, X. 70-96.
"I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
Seemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'
And he to answer her: 'Now wait until
I shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like one
In whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou not
Return?' And he: 'Who shall be where I am
Will give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?
Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'
He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found."
Longfellow.
"To behold the tablet next,
Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,
I moved me. There was storied on the rock
The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attired
In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped
Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appeared amid all these to say:
'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:
'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thou
Dost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,
If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee,'
At length he answers. 'It beseemeth well
My duty be performed, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'
He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
The like not found on earth."—Cary.
How different is the character of the following description, which fills
the ear with its grand and varied harmony, as it fills the mind with a
rapid succession of pictures!
"Io m'era mosso e seguia volentieri
Del mio maestro i passi, ed amendue
Già mostravam com'eravam leggieri,
Quando mi disse: Volgi gli occhi in giue;
Buon ti sarà per alleggiar la via
Veder lo letto delle piante tue.
Come, perchè di lor memoria fia,
Sovr'a'sepolti le tombe terragne
Portan segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;
Onde li molte volte si ripiagne
Per la puntura della rimembranza
Che solo a'pii dà delle calcagne:
Si vid'io li, ma di miglior sembianza,
Secondo l'artificio, figurato
Quanto per via di fuor del monte avanza.
Vedea colui che fu nobil creato
Più d'altra creatura giù dal cielo
Folgoreggiando scendere da un lato.
Vedeva Briareo fitto dal teio
Celestial giacer dall'altra parte,
Grave alia terra per lo mortal gelo
Vedea Timbreo, vedea Pallade e Marte
Armati ancora intorno al padre loro
Mirar le membra de'giganti sparte.
Vedea Nembrotto appiè del gran lavoro
Quasi smarrito riguardar le genti
Che'n Sennaar con lui insieme foro.
O Niobe, con che occhi dolenti
Vedev'io te segnata in su la strada
Tra sette e sette tuoi figliuoli spenti!
O Saul, come'n su la propria spada
Quivi parevi morto in Gelboè
Che poi non sentì pioggia nè rugiada!
O folle Aragne, si vedea io te
Già mezza ragna, trista in su gli stracci
Dell opera che mal per te si fe'.
O Roboam, già non par che minnacci
Quivi il tuo segno, ma pien di spavento
Nel porta un carro prima ch' altri'l cacci.
Mostrava ancora il duro pavimento
Come Almeone a sua madre fe'caro
Parer lo sventurato adornamento.
Mostrava come i figli si gittaro
Sovra Sennacherib dentro dal tempio,
E come morto lui quivi lasciaro.
Mostrava la ruina e'l crudo scempio
Che fe'Tamiri quando disse a Ciro
Sangue sitisti, ed io di sangue t'empio.
Mostrava come in rotta si fuggiro
Gli Assiri poi che fu morto Oloferne,
Ed anche le reliquie del martiro.
Vedeva Troja in cenere e in caverne:
O Ilion, come te basso e vile
Mostrava il segno che lì si discerne!
Qual di pennel fu maestro o di stile,
Che ritraesse l'ombre e gli atti ch'ivi
Mirar farieno uno'ngegno sottile?
Morti li morti, e i vivi parean vivi.
Non vide me'di me chi vide'l vero,
Quant'io calcai fin che chinato givi."
Purgatorio, XII. 10-69
"I had moved on, and followed willingly
The footsteps of my Master, and we both
Already showed how light of foot we were,
When unto me he said: 'Cast down thine eyes;
'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,
To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.'
As, that some memory may exist of them,
Above the buried dead their tombs in earth
Bear sculptured on them what they were before;
Whence often there we weep for them afresh,
From pricking of remembrance, which alone
To the compassionate doth set its spur;
So saw I there, but of a better semblance
In point of artifice, with figures covered
Whate'er as pathway from the mount projects.
I saw that one who was created noble
More than all other creatures, down from heaven
Flaming with lightnings fall upon one side.
I saw Briareus smitten by the dart
Celestial, lying on the other side,
Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.
I saw Thymbræus, Pallas saw, and Mars,
Still clad in armor round about their father,
Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.
I saw, at foot of his great labor, Nimrod,
As if bewildered, looking at the people
Who had been proud with him in Sennaar.
O Niobe! with what afflicted eyes
Thee I beheld upon the pathway traced,
Between thy seven and seven children slain!
O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword
Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,
That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!
O mad Arachne! so I thee beheld
E'en then half spider, sad upon the shreds
Of fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!
O Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten
Thine image there; but full of consternation
A chariot bears it off, when none pursues!
Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavement
How unto his own mother made Alcmæon
Costly appear the luckless ornament;
Displayed how his own sons did throw themselves
Upon Sennacherib within the temple,
And how, he being dead, they left him there;
Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnage
That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said,
'Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!'
Displayed how routed fled the Assyrians
After that Holofernes had been slain,
And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.
I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns;
O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased,
Displayed the image that is there discerned!
Who e'er of pencil master was or stile,
That could portray the shades and traits which there
Would cause each subtile genius to admire?
Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;
Better than I saw not who saw the truth,
All that I trod upon while bowed I went."
Longfellow.
"I now my leader's track not loath pursued;
And each had shown how light we fared along,
When thus he warned me: 'Bend thine eyesight down:
For thou, to ease the way, shalt find it good
To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.'
As, in memorial of the buried, drawn
Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptured form
Of what was once, appears, (at sight whereof
Tears often stream forth, by remembrance waked,
Whose sacred stings the piteous often feel,)
So saw I there, but with more curious skill
Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space
From forth the mountain stretches. On one part
Him I beheld, above all creatures erst
Created noblest, lightening fall from heaven:
On the other side, with bolt celestial pierced,
Briareus; cumbering earth he lay, through dint
Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbræan god,
With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,
Armed still, and gazing on the giants' limbs
Strewn o'er the ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:
At foot of the stupendous work he stood,
As if bewildered, looking on the crowd
Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain.
O Niobe! in what a trance of woe
Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,
Seven sons on either side thee slain. O Saul!
How ghastly didst thou look, on thine own sword
Expiring, in Gilboa, from that hour
Ne'er visited with rain from heaven, or dew.
O fond Arachne! thee I also saw,
Half spider now, in anguish, crawling up
The unfinished web thou weavedst to thy bane.
O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem
Lowering no more defiance; but fear-smote,
With none to chase him, in his chariot whirled.
Was shown beside upon the solid floor,
How dear Alcmæon forced his mother rate
That ornament, in evil hour received:
How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fell
His sons, and how a corpse they left him there.
Was shown the scath, and cruel mangling made
By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried,
'Blood thou didst thirst for: take thy fill of blood.'
Was shown how routed in the battle fled
The Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en
The relics of the carnage. Troy I marked,
In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fallen,
How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!
What master of the pencil or the style
Had traced the shades and lines, that might have made
The subtlest workman wonder? Dead, the dead;
The living seemed alive: with clearer view
His eye beheld not who beheld the truth,
Than mine what I did tread on, while I went
Low bending."—Cary.
The following is distinguished from all that we have cited thus far by
softness and delicacy of touch.
"Vago già di cercar dentro e d'intorno
La divina foresta spessa e viva
Ch'agli occhi temperava il nuovo giorno,
Senza più aspettar lasciai la riva
Prendendo la campagna lento lento
Su per lo suol che d'ogni parte oliva.
Un'aura dolce senza mutamento
Avere in se, mi feria per la fronte,
Non di più colpo che soave vento:
Per cui le fronde tremolando pronte
Tutte quante piegavano alla parte
U'la prim' ombra gitta il santo monte;
Non però dal loro esser dritto sparte
Tanto, che gli augelletti per le cime
Lasciasser d'operare ogni lor arte;
Ma con piena letizia l'ore prime
Cantando ricevieno intra le foglie
Che tenevan bordone alle sue rime,
Tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie
Per la pineta in sul lito di Chiassi,
Quand'Eolo scirocco fuor discioglie.
Gia m'avean trasportato i lenti passi
Dentro all'antica selva tanto, ch'io
Non potea rivedere ond'io m'entrassi;
Ed ecco il più andar mi tolse un rio
Che'nver sinistra con sue picciol'onde
Piegava l'erba che'n sua ripa uscio.
Tutte l'acque che son di qua più monde
Parrieno avere in se mistura alcuna
Verso di quella che nulla nasconde,
Avvegna che si muova bruna bruna
Sotto l'ombra perpetua, che mai
Raggiar non lascia sole ivi nè luna.
Co' piè ristetti e con gli occhi passai
Di là dal fiumicel per ammirare
La gran variazion de'freschi mai;
E là m'apparve, si com'egli appare
Subitamente cosa che disvia
Per maraviglia tutt'altro pensare,
Una donna soletta che si gia
Cantando ed iscegliendo fior da fiore
Ond' era pinta tutta la sua via."
Purgatorio, XXVIII. 1-42.
"Eager already to search in and round
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green,
Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day,
Withouten more delay I left the bank,
Taking the level country slowly, slowly
Over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance.
A softly-breathing air, that no mutation
Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me
No heavier blow than of a gentle wind,
Whereat the branches, lightly tremulous,
Did all of them bow downward toward that side
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;
Yet not from their upright direction swayed,
So that the little birds upon their tops
Should leave the practice of each art of theirs;
But with full ravishment the hours of prime,
Singing, received they in the midst of leaves,
That ever bore a burden to their rhymes,
Such as from branch to branch goes gathering on
Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi,
When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco.
Already my slow steps had carried me
Into the ancient wood so far, that I
Could not perceive where I had entered it.
And lo! my further course a stream cut off,
Which tow'rd the left hand with its little waves
Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.
All waters that on earth most limpid are
Would seem to have within themselves some mixture
Compared with that which nothing doth conceal,
Although it moves on with a brown, brown current
Under the shade perpetual, that never
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.
With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passed
Beyond the rivulet, to look upon
The great variety of the fresh may.
And there appeared to me (even as appears
Suddenly something that doth turn aside
Through very wonder every other thought)
A lady all alone, who went along
Singing and culling floweret after floweret,
With which her pathway was all painted over."
Longfellow.
"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 odor 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, leaned trembling to that part
Where first the holy mountain casts his shade;
Yet were not so disordered, but that still
Upon their top the feathered 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 tenor; 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,
Though slow, so far into that ancient wood
Transported me, I could not ken the place
Where I had entered; 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. On earth no wave
How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have
Some mixture in itself, compared with this,
Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it rolled
Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er
Admits or sun or moonlight there to shine.
My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyes
Passed onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey
The tender May-bloom, flushed through many a hue,
In prodigal variety: and there,
As object, rising suddenly to view,
That from our bosom every thought beside
With the rare marvel chases, I beheld
A lady all alone, who, singing, went,
And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way
Was all o'er painted."—Cary.
We give a characteristic passage from the Paradiso.
"Fiorenza dentro dalla cerchia antica,
Ond'ella toglie ancora e terza e nona,
Si stava in pace sobria e pudica.
Non avea catenella, non corona,
Non donne contigiate, non cintura
Che fosse a veder più che la persona.
Non faceva nascendo ancor paura
La figlia al padre, che il tempo e la dote
Non fuggian quinci e quindi la misura.
Non avea case di famiglia vote;
Non v'era giunto ancor Sardanapalo
A mostrar ciò ch'in camera si puote.
Non era vinto ancora Montemalo
Dal vostro Uccellatoio, che com'è vinto
Nel montar su, così sarà nel calo.
Bellincion Berti vid'io andar cinto
Di cuojo e d'osso, e venir dallo specchio
La donna sua senza'l viso dipinto:
E vidi quel di Nerli e quel del Vecchio
Esser contenti alla pelle scoverta,
E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio:
Oh fortunate! e ciascuna era certa
Della sua sepoltura, ed ancor nulla
Era per Francia nel letto deserta.
L'una vegghiava a studio della culla,
E consolando usava l'idioma
Che pria li padri e le madri trastulla:
L'altra traendo alla rocca la chioma
Favoleggiava con la sua famiglia
De'Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.
Saria tenuta allor tal maraviglia
Una Cianghella, un Lapo Salterello,
Qual or saria Cincinnato e Corniglia.
A così riposato, a così bello
Viver di cittadini, a così fida
Cittadinanza, a così dolce ostello,
Maria mi diè, chiamata in alte grida;
E nell'antico vostro Batisteo
Insieme fui Cristiano e Cacciaguida."
Paradiso, XV. 97-135.