Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece Part 37

My task it is, since thus Love wills, who strains And forces all the world beneath his sway, In lowly verse to say The great delight that in my bosom reigns.

For if perchance I took but little pains To tell some part of all the joy I find, I might be deem'd unkind By one who knew my heart's deep happiness.

He feels but little bliss who hides his bliss; Small joy hath he whose joy is never sung; And he who curbs his tongue Through cowardice, knows but of love the name.

Wherefore to succour and augment the fame Of that pure, virtuous, wise, and lovely may, Who like the star of day s.h.i.+nes mid the stars, or like the rising sun, Forth from my burning heart the words shall run.

Far, far be envy, far be jealous fear, With discord dark and drear, And all the choir that is of love the foe.-- The season had returned when soft winds blow, The season friendly to young lovers coy, Which bids them clothe their joy In divers garbs and many a masked disguise.

Then I to track the game 'neath April skies Went forth in raiment strange apparelled, And by kind fate was led Unto the spot where stayed my soul's desire.

The beauteous nymph who feeds my soul with fire, I found in gentle, pure, and prudent mood, In graceful att.i.tude, Loving and courteous, holy, wise, benign.

So sweet, so tender was her face divine, So gladsome, that in those celestial eyes Shone perfect paradise, Yea, all the good that we poor mortals crave.

Around her was a band so n.o.bly brave Of beauteous dames, that as I gazed at these Methought heaven's G.o.ddesses That day for once had deigned to visit earth.

But she who gives my soul sorrow and mirth, Seemed Pallas in her gait, and in her face Venus; for every grace And beauty of the world in her combined.

Merely to think, far more to tell my mind Of that most wondrous sight, confoundeth me, For mid the maidens she Who most resembled her was found most rare.

Call ye another first among the fair; Not first, but sole before my lady set: Lily and violet And all the flowers below the rose must bow.

Down from her royal head and l.u.s.trous brow The golden curls fell sportively unpent, While through the choir she went With feet well lessoned to the rhythmic sound.

Her eyes, though scarcely raised above the ground, Sent me by stealth a ray divinely fair; But still her jealous hair Broke the bright beam, and veiled her from my gaze.

She, born and nursed in heaven for angels' praise, No sooner saw this wrong, than back she drew, With hand of purest hue, Her truant curls with kind and gentle mien.

Then from her eyes a soul so fiery keen, So sweet a soul of love she cast on mine, That scarce can I divine How then I 'scaped from burning utterly.

These are the first fair signs of love to be, That bound my heart with adamant, and these The matchless courtesies Which, dreamlike, still before mine eyes must hover.

This is the honeyed food she gave her lover, To make him, so it pleased her, half-divine; Nectar is not so fine, Nor ambrosy, the fabled feast of Jove.

Then, yielding proofs more clear and strong of love, As though to show the faith within her heart, She moved, with subtle art, Her feet accordant to the amorous air.

But while I gaze and pray to G.o.d that ne'er Might cease that happy dance angelical, O harsh, unkind recall!

Back to the banquet was she beckoned.

She, with her face at first with pallor spread, Then tinted with a blush of coral dye, 'The ball is best!' did cry, Gentle in tone and smiling as she spake.

But from her eyes celestial forth did break Favour at parting; and I well could see Young love confusedly Enclosed within the furtive fervent gaze, Heating his arrows at their beauteous rays, For war with Pallas and with Dian cold.

Fairer than mortal mould, She moved majestic with celestial gait; And with her hand her robe in royal state Raised, as she went with pride ineffable.

Of me I cannot tell, Whether alive or dead I there was left.

Nay, dead, methinks! since I of thee was reft, Light of my life! and yet, perchance, alive-- Such virtue to revive My lingering soul possessed thy beauteous face, But if that powerful charm of thy great grace Could then thy loyal lover so sustain, Why comes there not again More often or more soon the sweet delight?

Twice hath the wandering moon with borrowed light Stored from her brother's rays her crescent horn, Nor yet hath fortune borne Me on the way to so much bliss again.

Earth smiles anew; fair spring renews her reign: The gra.s.s and every shrub once more is green; The amorous birds begin, From winter loosed, to fill the field with song.

See how in loving pairs the cattle throng; The bull, the ram, their amorous jousts enjoy: Thou maiden, I a boy, Shall we prove traitors to love's law for aye?

Shall we these years that are so fair let fly?

Wilt thou not put thy flower of youth to use?

Or with thy beauty choose To make him blest who loves thee best of all?

Haply I am some hind who guards the stall, Or of vile lineage, or with years outworn, Poor, or a cripple born, Or faint of spirit that you spurn me so?

Nay, but my race is n.o.ble and doth grow With honour to our land, with pomp and power; My youth is yet in flower, And it may chance some maiden sighs for me.

My lot it is to deal right royally With all the goods that fortune spreads around, For still they more abound, Shaken from her full lap, the more I waste.

My strength is such as whoso tries shall taste; Circled with friends, with favours crowned am I: Yet though I rank so high Among the blest, as men may reckon bliss, Still without thee, my hope, my happiness, It seems a sad, and bitter thing to live!

Then stint me not, but give That joy which holds all joys enclosed in one.

Let me pluck fruits at last, not flowers alone!

With much that is frigid, artificial, and tedious in this old-fas.h.i.+oned love-song, there is a curious monotony of sweetness which commends it to our ears; and he who reads it may remember the profile portrait of Simonetta from the hand of Piero della Francesca in the Pitti Palace at Florence.

It is worth comparing Poliziano's treatment of popular or semi-popular verse-forms with his imitations of Petrarch's manner. For this purpose I have chosen a _Canzone_, clearly written in compet.i.tion with the celebrated 'Chiare, fresche e dolci acque,' of Laura's lover. While closely modelled upon Petrarch's form and similar in motive, this Canzone preserves Poliziano's special qualities of fluency and emptiness of content.

Hills, valleys, caves and fells, With flowers and leaves and herbage spread; Green meadows; shadowy groves where light is low; Lawns watered with the rills That cruel Love hath made me shed, Cast from these cloudy eyes so dark with woe; Thou stream that still dost know What fell pangs pierce my heart, So dost thou murmur back my moan; Lone bird that chauntest tone for tone, While in our descant drear Love sings his part: Nymphs, woodland wanderers, wind and air; List to the sound out-poured from my despair!

Seven times and once more seven The roseate dawn her beauteous brow Enwreathed with orient jewels hath displayed; Cynthia once more in heaven Hath orbed her horns with silver now; While in sea waves her brother's light was laid; Since this high mountain glade Felt the white footsteps fall Of that proud lady, who to spring Converts whatever woodland thing She may o'ershadow, touch, or heed at all.

Here bloom the flowers, the gra.s.ses spring From her bright eyes, and drink what mine must bring.

Yea, nourished with my tears Is every little leaf I see, And the stream rolls therewith a prouder wave.

Ah me! through what long years Will she withhold her face from me, Which stills the stormy skies howe'er they rave?

Speak! or in grove or cave If one hath seen her stray, Plucking amid those gra.s.ses green Wreaths for her royal brows serene, Flowers white and blue and red and golden gay!

Nay, prithee, speak, if pity dwell Among these woods, within this leafy dell!

O Love! 'twas here we saw, Beneath the new-fledged leaves that spring From this old beech, her fair form lowly laid:-- The thought renews my awe!

How sweetly did her tresses fling Waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed Fire, frost within me played, While I beheld the bloom Of laughing flowers--O day of bliss!-- Around those tresses meet and kiss, And roses in her lap of Love the home!

Her grace, her port divinely fair, Describe it, Love! myself I do not dare.

In mute intent surprise I gazed, as when a hind is seen To dote upon its image in a rill; Drinking those love-lit eyes, Those hands, that face, those words serene, That song which with delight the heaven did fill, That smile which thralls me still, Which melteth stones unkind, Which in this woodland wilderness Tames every beast and stills the stress Of hurrying waters. Would that I could find Her footprints upon field or grove!

I should not then be envious of Jove.

Thou cool stream rippling by, Where oft it pleased her to dip Her naked foot, how blest art thou!

Ye branching trees on high, That spread your gnarled roots on the lip Of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven's dew!

She often leaned on you, She who is my life's bliss!

Thou ancient beech with moss o'ergrown, How do I envy thee thy throne, Found worthy to receive such happiness!

Ye winds, how blissful must ye be, Since ye have borne to heaven her harmony!

The winds that music bore, And wafted it to G.o.d on high, That Paradise might have the joy thereof.

Flowers here she plucked, and wore Wild roses from the thorn hard by: This air she lightened with her look of love: This running stream above, She bent her face!--Ah me!

Where am I? What sweet makes me swoon?

What calm is in the kiss of noon?

Who brought me here? Who speaks? What melody?

Whence came pure peace into my soul?

What joy hath rapt me from my own control?

Poliziano's refrain is always: 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. It is spring-time now and youth. Winter and old age are coming!' A _Maggio_, or May-day song, describing the games, dances, and jousting matches of the Florentine lads upon the morning of the first of May, expresses this facile philosophy of life with a quaintness that recalls Herrick.

It will be noticed that the Maggio is built, so far as rhymes go, on the same system as Poliziano's Ballata. It has considerable historical interest, for the opening couplet is said to be Guido Cavalcanti's, while the whole poem is claimed by Roscoe for Lorenzo de' Medici, and by Carducci with better reason for Poliziano.

Welcome in the May And the woodland garland gay!

Welcome in the jocund spring Which bids all men lovers be!

Maidens, up with carolling, With your sweethearts stout and free, With roses and with blossoms ye Who deck yourselves this first of May!

Up, and forth into the pure Meadows, mid the trees and flowers!

Every beauty is secure With so many bachelors: Beasts and birds amid the bowers Burn with love this first of May.

Maidens, who are young and fair, Be not harsh, I counsel you; For your youth cannot repair Her prime of spring, as meadows do: None be proud, but all be true To men who love, this first of May.

Dance and carol every one Of our band so bright and gay!

See your sweethearts how they run Through the jousts for you to-day!

She who saith her lover nay, Will deflower the sweets of May,

Lads in love take sword and s.h.i.+eld To make pretty girls their prize: Yield ye, merry maidens, yield To your lovers' vows and sighs: Give his heart back ere it dies: Wage not war this first of May.

He who steals another's heart, Let him give his own heart too: Who's the robber? 'Tis the smart Little cherub Cupid, who Homage comes to pay with you, Damsels, to the first of May.

Love comes smiling; round his head Lilies white and roses meet: 'Tis for you his flight is sped.

Fair one, haste our king to greet: Who will fling him blossoms sweet Soonest on this first of May?

Welcome, stranger! welcome, king!

Love, what hast thou to command?

That each girl with wreaths should ring Her lover's hair with loving hand, That girls small and great should band In Love's ranks this first of May.

The _Canto Carnascialesco_, for the final development if not for the invention of which all credit must be given to Lorenzo de' Medici, does not greatly differ from the Maggio in structure. It admitted, however, of great varieties, and was generally more complex in its interweaving of rhymes. Yet the essential principle of an exordium which should also serve for a refrain, was rarely, if ever, departed from. Two specimens of the Carnival Song will serve to bring into close contrast two very different aspects of Florentine history. The earlier was composed by Lorenzo de' Medici at the height of his power and in the summer of Italian independence. It was sung by masquers attired in cla.s.sical costume, to represent Bacchus and his crew.

Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away.-- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.