Renaissance in Italy Volume IV Part 39

_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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 gra.s.s 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 d.i.c.k 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 G.o.d, so gently go, my love, That yon d.a.m.ned 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.

G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 Pa.s.sion 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!