SCENE I.--_A Hall in the Castle of Manfred_.[150]
MANFRED _and_ HERMAN.
_Man_. What is the hour?
_Her_. It wants but one till sunset, And promises a lovely twilight.
_Man_. Say, Are all things so disposed of in the tower As I directed?
_Her_. All, my Lord, are ready: Here is the key and casket.[151]
_Man_. It is well: Thou mayst retire. [_Exit_ HERMAN.
_Man_. (_alone_). There is a calm upon me-- Inexplicable stillness! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did not know Philosophy To be of all our vanities the motliest, 10 The merest word that ever fooled the ear From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem The golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found,[152] And seated in my soul. It will not last, But it is well to have known it, though but once: It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, And I within my tablets would note down That there is such a feeling. Who is there?
_Re-enter_ HERMAN.
_Her_. My Lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves[153] To greet your presence.
_Enter the_ ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE.
_Abbot_. Peace be with Count Manfred! 20
_Man_. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those Who dwell within them.
_Abbot_. Would it were so, Count!-- But I would fain confer with thee alone.
_Man_. Herman, retire.--What would my reverend guest?
_Abbot_. Thus, without prelude:--Age and zeal--my office-- And good intent must plead my privilege; Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, May also be my herald. Rumours strange, And of unholy nature, are abroad, 30 And busy with thy name--a noble name For centuries: may he who bears it now Transmit it unimpaired!
_Man_. Proceed,--I listen.
_Abbot_. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the things Which are forbidden to the search of man; That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, The many evil and unheavenly spirits Which walk the valley of the Shade of Death, Thou communest. I know that with mankind, Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 40 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude Is as an Anchorite's--were it but holy.
_Man_. And what are they who do avouch these things?
_Abbot_. My pious brethren--the scaréd peasantry-- Even thy own vassals--who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril!
_Man_. Take it.
_Abbot_. I come to save, and not destroy: I would not pry into thy secret soul; But if these things be sooth, there still is time For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 50 With the true church, and through the church to Heaven.
_Man_. I hear thee. This is my reply--whate'er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself--I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator--Have I sinned Against your ordinances? prove and punish![154]
_Abbot_. My son! I did not speak of punishment,[155] But penitence and pardon;--with thyself The choice of such remains--and for the last, Our institutions and our strong belief 60 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin To higher hope and better thoughts; the first I leave to Heaven,--"Vengeance is mine alone!" So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness His servant echoes back the awful word.
_Man_. Old man! there is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast, Nor agony--nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep Despair, 70 Which is Remorse without the fear of Hell, But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of Heaven--can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense Of its own sins--wrongs--sufferance--and revenge Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self--condemned He deals on his own soul.
_Abbot_. All this is well; For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 80 With calm assurafice to that blessed place, Which all who seek may win, whatever be Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: And the commencement of atonement is The sense of its necessity. Say on-- And all our church can teach thee shall be taught; And all we can absolve thee shall be pardoned.
_Man_. When Rome's sixth Emperor[156] was near his last, The victim of a self-inflicted wound, To shun the torments of a public death[bd] 90 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, With show of loyal pity, would have stanched The gushing throat with his officious robe; The dying Roman thrust him back, and said-- Some empire still in his expiring glance-- "It is too late--is this fidelity?"
_Abbot_. And what of this?
_Man_. I answer with the Roman-- "It is too late!"
_Abbot_. It never can be so, To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope? 100 'Tis strange--even those who do despair above, Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth, To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.
_Man_. Aye--father! I have had those early visions, And noble aspirations in my youth, To make my own the mind of other men, The enlightener of nations; and to rise I knew not whither--it might be to fall; But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 110 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, (Which casts up misty columns that become Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)[157] Lies low but mighty still.--But this is past, My thoughts mistook themselves.
_Abbot_. And wherefore so?
_Man_.I could not tame my nature down; for he Must serve who fain would sway; and soothe, and sue, And watch all time, and pry into all place, And be a living Lie, who would become A mighty thing amongst the mean--and such 120 The mass are; I disdained to mingle with A herd, though to be leader--and of wolves, The lion is alone, and so am I.
_Abbot_. And why not live and act with other men?
_Man_. Because my nature was averse from life; And yet not cruel; for I would not make, But find a desolation. Like the Wind, The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,[158] Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 130 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, But being met is deadly,--such hath been The course of my existence; but there came Things in my path which are no more.
_Abbot_. Alas! I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid From me and from my calling; yet so young, I still would----
_Man_. Look on me! there is an order Of mortals on the earth, who do become Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,[159] 140 Without the violence of warlike death; Some perishing of pleasure--some of study-- Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness,-- Some of disease--and some insanity-- And some of withered, or of broken hearts; For this last is a malady which slays More than are numbered in the lists of Fate, Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. Look upon me! for even of all these things Have I partaken; and of all these things, 150 One were enough; then wonder not that I Am what I am, but that I ever was, Or having been, that I am still on earth.
_Abbot_. Yet, hear me still--
_Man_. Old man! I do respect Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain: Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself, Far more than me, in shunning at this time All further colloquy--and so--farewell. [Exit MANFRED.
_Abbot_. This should have been a noble creature: he 160 Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements, Had they been wisely mingled; as it is, It is an awful chaos--Light and Darkness-- And mind and dust--and passions and pure thoughts Mixed, and contending without end or order,-- All dormant or destructive. He will perish-- And yet he must not--I will try once more, For such are worth redemption; and my duty Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 170 I'll follow him--but cautiously, though surely. [Exit ABBOT.
SCENE II.--_Another Chamber_.
MANFRED _and_ HERMAN.
_Her_. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: He sinks behind the mountain.
_Man_. Doth he so? I will look on him. [MANFRED _advances to the Window of the Hall_. Glorious Orb! the idol[160] Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons[161] Of the embrace of Angels, with a sex More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring Spirits who can ne'er return.-- Most glorious Orb! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was revealed! 10 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured[162] Themselves in orisons! Thou material God! And representative of the Unknown-- Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief Star! Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth Endurable and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy rays! Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes, 20 And those who dwell in them! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee Even as our outward aspects;--thou dost rise, And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well! I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance Of love and wonder was for thee, then take My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been Of a more fatal nature. He is gone-- I follow. [_Exit_ MANFRED.
SCENE III.--_The Mountains_--_The Castle of Manfred at some distance_--_A Terrace before a Tower_.--_Time, Twilight_.
HERMAN, MANUEL, _and other dependants of_ MANFRED.
_Her_. 'Tis strange enough! night after night, for years, He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, Without a witness. I have been within it,-- So have we all been oft-times; but from it, Or its contents, it were impossible To draw conclusions absolute, of aught His studies tend to. To be sure, there is One chamber where none enter: I would give The fee of what I have to come these three years, To pore upon its mysteries.
_Manuel_. 'Twere dangerous; 10 Content thyself with what thou know'st already.
_Her_. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle-- How many years is't?
_Manuel_. Ere Count Manfred's birth, I served his father, whom he nought resembles.
_Her_. There be more sons in like predicament! But wherein do they differ?
_Manuel_. I speak not Of features or of form, but mind and habits; Count Sigismund was proud, but gay and free,-- A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not 20 With books and solitude, nor made the night A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside From men and their delights.
_Her_. Beshrew the hour, But those were jocund times! I would that such Would visit the old walls again; they look As if they had forgotten them.
_Manuel_. These walls Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen Some strange things in them, Herman.[be]
_Her_. Come, be friendly; 30 Relate me some to while away our watch: I've heard thee darkly speak of an event Which happened hereabouts, by this same tower.
_Manuel_. That was a night indeed! I do remember 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such Another evening:--yon red cloud, which rests On Eigher's pinnacle,[163] so rested then,-- So like that it might be the same; the wind Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows Began to glitter with the climbing moon; 40 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,-- How occupied, we knew not, but with him The sole companion of his wanderings And watchings--her, whom of all earthly things That lived, the only thing he seemed to love,-- As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, The Lady Astarte, his----[164] Hush! who comes here?
_Enter the_ ABBOT.
_Abbot_. Where is your master?
_Her_. Yonder in the tower.
_Abbot_. I must speak with him.
_Manuel_. 'Tis impossible; He is most private, and must not be thus 50 Intruded on.
_Abbot_. Upon myself I take The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be-- But I must see him.
_Her_. Thou hast seen him once his eve already.
_Abbot_. Herman! I command thee,[bf] Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.
_Her_. We dare not.
_Abbot_. Then it seems I must be herald Of my own purpose.
_Manuel_. Reverend father, stop-- I pray you pause.
_Abbot_. Why so?
_Manuel_. But step this way, And I will tell you further. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE IV.--_Interior of the Tower_.
MANFRED _alone_.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.--Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night[165] Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering,--upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall,[166] 10 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Cæsars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,[167] Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind.[168] Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 20 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.-- 30 And thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not--till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the Great of old,-- The dead, but sceptred, Sovereigns, who still rule 40 Our spirits from their urns. 'Twas such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.
_Enter the_ ABBOT.
_Abbot_. My good Lord! I crave a second grace for this approach; But yet let not my humble zeal offend By its abruptness--all it hath of ill Recoils on me; its good in the effect May light upon your head--could I say _heart_-- 50 Could I touch _that_, with words or prayers, I should Recall a noble spirit which hath wandered, But is not yet all lost.
_Man_. Thou know'st me not; My days are numbered, and my deeds recorded: Retire, or 'twill be dangerous--Away!
_Abbot_. Thou dost not mean to menace me?
_Man_. Not I! I simply tell thee peril is at hand, And would preserve thee.
_Abbot_. What dost thou mean?
_Man_. Look there! What dost thou see?
_Abbot_. Nothing.
_Man_. Look there, I say, And steadfastly;--now tell me what thou seest? 60
_Abbot_. That which should shake me,--but I fear it not: I see a dusk and awful figure rise, Like an infernal god, from out the earth; His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form Robed as with angry clouds: he stands between Thyself and me--but I do fear him not.
_Man_. Thou hast no cause--he shall not harm thee--but His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. I say to thee--Retire!
_Abbot_. And I reply-- Never--till I have battled with this fiend:-- 70 What doth he here?
_Man_. Why--aye--what doth he here? I did not send for him,--he is unbidden.
_Abbot_. Alas! lost Mortal! what with guests like these Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake: Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him? Ah! he unveils his aspect: on his brow The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye[169] Glares forth the immortality of Hell-- Avaunt!--
_Man_. Pronounce--what is thy mission?
_Spirit_. Come!
_Abbot_. What art thou, unknown being? answer!--speak! 80
_Spirit_. The genius of this mortal.--Come!'tis time.
_Man_. I am prepared for all things, but deny The Power which summons me. Who sent thee here?
_Spirit_. Thou'lt know anon--Come! come!
_Man_. I have commanded Things of an essence greater far than thine, And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!
_Spirit_. Mortal! thine hour is come--Away! I say.
_Man_. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not To render up my soul to such as thee: Away! I'll die as I have lived--alone. 90
_Spirit_. Then I must summon up my brethren.--Rise![bg] [_Other Spirits rise._
_Abbot_. Avaunt! ye evil ones!--Avaunt! I say,-- Ye have no power where Piety hath power, And I do charge ye in the name--
_Spirit_. Old man! We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, It were in vain: this man is forfeited. Once more--I summon him--Away! Away!
_Man_. I do defy ye,--though I feel my soul Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye; 100 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath To breathe my scorn upon ye--earthly strength To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take Shall be ta'en limb by limb.
_Spirit_. Reluctant mortal! Is this the Magian who would so pervade The world invisible, and make himself Almost our equal? Can it be that thou Art thus in love with life? the very life Which made thee wretched?
_Man_. Thou false fiend, thou liest! My life is in its last hour,--_that_ I know, 110 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; I do not combat against Death, but thee And thy surrounding angels; my past power Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, But by superior science--penance, daring, And length of watching, strength of mind, and skill In knowledge of our Fathers--when the earth Saw men and spirits walking side by side, And gave ye no supremacy: I stand Upon my strength--I do defy--deny-- 120 Spurn back, and scorn ye!--
_Spirit_. But thy many crimes Have made thee--
_Man_. What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punished but by other crimes, And greater criminals?--Back to thy hell! Thou hast no power upon me, _that_ I feel; Thou never shalt possess me, _that_ I know: What I have done is done; I bear within A torture which could nothing gain from thine: The Mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts,-- 130 Is its own origin of ill and end-- And its own place and time:[170] its innate sense, When stripped of this mortality, derives No colour from the fleeting things without, But is absorbed in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert. _Thou_ didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me; I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey-- But was my own destroyer, and will be My own hereafter.--Back, ye baffled fiends! 140 The hand of Death is on me--but not yours! [_The Demons disappear._
_Abbot_. Alas! how pale thou art--thy lips are white-- And thy breast heaves--and in thy gasping throat The accents rattle: Give thy prayers to Heaven-- Pray--albeit but in thought,--but die not thus.
_Man_. 'Tis over--my dull eyes can fix thee not; But all things swim around me, and the earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well-- Give me thy hand.
_Abbot_. Cold--cold--even to the heart-- But yet one prayer--Alas! how fares it with thee? 150
_Man_. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.[171] [MANFRED _expires._
_Abbot_. He's gone--his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight; Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone.[172]
FOOTNOTES:
[106] {86}[The MS. of _Manfred_, now in Mr. Murray's possession, is in Lord Byron's handwriting. A note is prefixed: "The scene of the drama is amongst the higher Alps, partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the mountains." The date, March 18, 1817, is in John Murray's handwriting.]
[107] [So, too, Faust is discovered "in a high--vaulted narrow Gothic chamber."]
[108] [Compare _Faust,_ act i. sc. 1--
"Alas! I have explored Philosophy, and Law, and Medicine, And over deep Divinity have pored, Studying with ardent and laborious zeal."
Anster's Faust, 1883, p. 88.]
[ap] {86}
_Eternal Agency!_ _Ye spirits of the immortal Universe!_--[MS. M.]
[aq] _Of inaccessible mountains are the haunts_.--[MS. M.]
[109] [_Faust_ contemplates the sign of the macrocosm, and makes use of the sign of the Spirit of the Earth. _Manfred's_ written charm may have been "Abraxas," which comprehended the Greek numerals 365, and expressed the all-pervading spirits of the Universe.]
[110] [The Prince of the Spirits is Arimanes, _vide post,_ act ii. sc. 4, line 1, _seq._]
[111] {87}[Compare _Childe Harold,_ Canto I. stanza lxxxiii. lines 8, 9.]
[ar] _Which is fit for my pavilion_.--[MS. M.]
[as] _Or makes its ice delay_.--[MS. M.]
[112] {89}[Compare "Creatures of clay, I receive you into mine empire."--_Vathek,_ 1887, p. 179.]
[at] {90}_The Mind which is my Spirit--the high Soul._--[MS. erased.]
[au] _Answer--or I will teach ye._--[MS. M.]
[113] [So the MS., in which the word "say" clearly forms part of the _Spirit's_ speech.]
[114] {91}[Compare "Stanzas for Music," i. 3, _Poetical Works,_ 1900, iii 435.]
[115] [It is evident that the female figure is not that of Astarte, but of the subject of the "Incantation."]
[116] [The italics are not indicated in the MS.]
[117] N.B.--Here follows the "Incantation," which being already transcribed and (I suppose) published I do not transcribe again at present, because you can insert it in MS. here--as it belongs to this place: with its conclusion the 1st Scene closes.
[The "Incantation" was first published in "_The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems_. London: Printed for John Murray, Albemarle Street, 1816." Immediately below the title is a note: "The following Poem was a Chorus in an unpublished Witch Drama, which was begun some years ago."]
[118] {92}[Manfred was done into Italian by a translator "who was unable to find in the dictionaries ... any other signification of the 'wisp' of this line than 'a bundle of straw.'" Byron offered him two hundred francs if he would destroy the MS., and engage to withhold his hand from all past or future poems. He at first refused; but, finding that the alternative was to be a horsewhipping, accepted the money, and signed the agreement.--_Life_, p. 375, note.]
[av] {93}_I do adjure thee to this spell._--[MS. M.]
[119] {94}[Compare--
ὦ δῖος αἰθὴρ, κ.τ.λ. [Greek: ô~) di~os ai)thê\r, k.t.l.]
Æschylus, _Prometheus Vinctus,_ lines 88-91.]
[120] {95}[Compare Hamlet's speech to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (_Hamlet,_ act ii. sc. 2, lines 286, _sq._).]
[121] [The germs of this and of several other passages in _Manfred_ may be found, as Lord Byron stated, in the Journal of his Swiss tour, which he transmitted to his sister. "Sept. 19, 1816.--Arrived at a lake in the very nipple of the bosom of the Mountain; left our quadrupeds with a Shepherd, and ascended further; came to some snow in patches, upon which my forehead's perspiration fell like rain, making the same dints as in a sieve; the chill of the wind and the snow turned me giddy, but I scrambled on and upwards. Hobhouse went to the highest _pinnacle._ ... The whole of the Mountain superb. A Shepherd on a very steep and high cliff playing upon his _pipe_; very different from _Arcadia,_ (where I saw the pastors with a long Musquet instead of a Crook, and pistols in their Girdles).... The music of the Cows' bells (for their wealth, like the Patriarchs', is cattle) in the pastures, (which reach to a height far above any mountains in Britain), and the Shepherds' shouting to us from crag to crag, and playing on their reeds where the steeps appeared almost inaccessible, with the surrounding scenery, realized all that I have ever heard or imagined of a pastoral existence:--much more so than Greece or Asia Minor, for there we are a little too much of the sabre and musquet order; and if there is a Crook in one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the other:--but this was pure and unmixed--solitary, savage, and patriarchal.... As we went, they played the 'Ranz des Vaches' and other airs, by way of farewell. I have lately repeopled my mind with Nature" (_Letters_, 1899, in. 354, 355).]
[122] {96}[Compare--
"Like an unbodied joy, whose race is just begun."
_To a Skylark_, by P. B. Shelley, stanza iii. line 5.]
[123] ["Passed _whole woods of withered pines, all withered_; trunks stripped and barkless, branches lifeless; done by a _single winter_,--their appearance reminded me of me and my family" (_Letters_, 1899, iii. 360).]
[124] {97}["Ascended the Wengen mountain.... Heard the Avalanches falling every five minutes nearly--as if God was pelting the Devil down from Heaven with snow balls" (_Letters_, 1899, in. 359).]
[aw] _Like foam from the round ocean of old Hell_.--[MS. M.]
[125] ["The clouds rose from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices like the foam of the Ocean of Hell, during a Spring-tide--it was white, and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appearance. The side we ascended was (of course) not of so precipitous a nature; but on arriving at the summit, we looked down the other side upon a boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crags on which we stood (these crags on one side quite perpendicular) ... In passing the masses of snow, I made a snowball and pelted Hobhouse with it" (_ibid_, pp. 359. 360).]
[126] [The fall of the Rossberg took place September 2, 1806. "A huge mass of conglomerate rock, 1000 feet broad and 100 feet thick, detached itself from the face of the mountain (Rossberg or Rufiberg, near Goldau, south of Lake Zug), and slipped down into the valley below, overwhelming the villages of Goldau, Busingen, and Rothen, and part of Lowertz. More than four hundred and fifty human beings perished, and whole herds of cattle were swept away. Five minutes sufficed to complete the work of destruction. The inhabitants were first roused by a loud and grating sound like thunder ... and beheld the valleys shrouded in a cloud of dust; when it had cleared away they found the face of nature changed."--_Handbook of Switzerland,_ Part 1. pp 58, 59.]
[127] {99}[The critics of the day either affected to ignore or severely censured (e.g. writers in the _Critical_, _European_, and _Gentleman's_ Magazines) the allusions to an incestuous passion between Manfred and Astarte. Shelley, in a letter to Mrs. Gisborne, November 16, 1819, commenting on Calderon's _Los Cabellos de Absalon,_ discusses the question from an ethical as well as critical point of view: "The incest scene between Amon and Tamar is perfectly tremendous. Well may Calderon say, in the person of the former--
Si sangre sin fuego hiere Qua fara sangre con fuego.'
Incest is, like many other incorrect things, a very poetical circumstance. It may be the defiance of everything for the sake of another which clothes itself in the glory of the highest heroism, or it may be that cynical rage which, confounding the good and the bad in existing opinions, breaks through them for the purpose of rioting in selfishness and antipathy."--_Works of P. B. Shelley,_ 1880, iv. 142.]
[ax] {100} ----_and some insaner sin_.--[MS. erased.]
[128] [Compare _Childe Harold,_ Canto III. stanza v. lines 1, 2.]
[129] {102}This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower part of the Alpine torrents; it is exactly like a rainbow come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk into it: this effect lasts till noon. ["Before ascending the mountain, went to the torrent (7 in the morning) again; the Sun upon it forming a _rainbow_ of the lower part of all colours, but principally purple and gold; the bow moving as you move; I never saw anything like this; it is only in the Sunshine" (_Letters_, 1899, iii, 359).]
[130] ["Arrived at the foot of the Mountain (the Yung frau, i.e. the Maiden); Glaciers; torrents; one of these torrents _nine hundred feet_ in height of visible descent ... heard an Avalanche fall, like thunder; saw Glacier--enormous. Storm came on, thunder, lightning, hail; all in perfection, and beautiful.... The torrent is in shape curving over the rock, like the _tail_ of a white horse streaming in the wind, such as it might be conceived would be that of the '_pale_ horse' on which _Death_ is mounted in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water, but a something between both; it's immense height ... gives it a wave, a curve, a spreading here, a condensation there, wonderful and indescribable" (ibid., pp. 357, 358).]
[ay] {103}_Wherein seems glassed_----.--[MS. of extract, February 15, 1817.]
[131] {104}[Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto III. stanza lxxii. lines 2, 3, note 2.]
[132] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza clxxxiv. line 3, note 2.]
[133] [Compare--
"The moving moon went up the sky."
_The Ancient Mariner_, Part IV. line 263.
Compare, too--
"The climbing moon."
Act iii. sc. 3, line 40.]
[134] {105}[Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto II. stanzas v.-xi.]
[135] The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the raising of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life by Eunapius. It is well told. ["It is reported of him," says Eunapius, "that while he and his scholars were bathing in the hot baths of Gadara, in Syria, a dispute arising concerning the baths, he, smiling, ordered his disciples to ask the inhabitants by what names the two lesser springs, that were fairer than the rest, were called. To which the inhabitants replied, that 'the one was called Love, and the other Love's Contrary, but for what reason they knew not.' Upon which Iamblichus, who chanced to be sitting on the fountain's edge where the stream flowed out, put his hand on the water, and, having uttered a few words, called up from the depths of the fountain a fair-skinned lad, not over-tall, whose golden locks fell in sunny curls over his breast and back, so that he looked like one fresh from the bath; and then, going to the other spring, and doing as he had done before, called up another Amoretto like the first, save that his long-flowing locks now seemed black, now shot with sunny gleams. Whereupon both the Amoretti nestled and clung round Iamblichus as if they had been his own children ... after this his disciples asked him no more questions."--Eunapii Sardiani _Vitæ Philosophorum et Sophistarum_ (28, 29), _Philostratorum_, etc., _Opera_, Paris, 1829, p. 459, lines 20-50.]
[136] {107}[There may be some allusion here to "the squall off Meillerie" on the Lake of Geneva (see Letter to Murray, June 27, 1816, _Letters,_ 1899, iii. 333).]
[137] [Compare the concluding sentence of the Journal in Switzerland (_ibid.,_ p. 364).]
[az] _And live--and live for ever_.--[Specimen sheet.]
[ba] {108}_As from a bath_--.--[MS, erased.]
[138] The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who commanded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and afterwards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedæmonians), and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life of Cimon; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the sophist in his description of Greece.
[The following is the passage from Plutarch: "It is related that when Pausanias was at Byzantium, he cast his eyes upon a young virgin named Cleonice, of a noble family there, and insisted on having her for a mistress. The parents, intimidated by his power, were under the hard necessity of giving up their daughter. The young woman begged that the light might be taken out of his apartment, that she might go to his bed in secresy and silence. When she entered he was asleep, and she unfortunately stumbled upon the candlestick, and threw it down. The noise waked him suddenly, and he, in his confusion, thinking it was an enemy coming to assassinate him, unsheathed a dagger that lay by him, and plunged it into the virgin's heart. After this he could never rest. Her image appeared to him every night, and with a menacing tone repeated this heroic verse--
'Go to the fate which pride and lust prepare!'
The allies, highly incensed at this infamous action, joined Cimon to besiege him in Byzantium. But he found means to escape thence; and, as he was still haunted by the spectre, he is said to have applied to a temple at Heraclea, where the _manes_ of the dead were consulted. There he invoked the spirit of Cleonice, and entreated her pardon. She appeared, and told him 'he would soon be delivered from all his troubles, after his return to Sparta:' in which, it seems, his death was enigmatically foretold." "Thus," adds the translator in a note, "we find that it was a custom in the pagan as well as in the Hebrew theology to conjure up the spirits of the dead, and that the witch of Endor was not the only witch in the world."--Langhorne's _Plutarch_, 1838, p. 339.
The same story is told in the _Periegesis Græcæ_, lib. iii. cap. xvii., but Pausanias adds, "This was the deed from the guilt of which Pausanias could never fly, though he employed all-various purifications, received the deprecations of Jupiter Phyxius, and went to Phigalea to the Arcadian evocators of souls."--_Descr. of Greece_ (translated by T. Taylor), 1794, i. 304, 305.]
[139] {109}[Compare--
"But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow."
_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza lxxiii. lines 6, 7.
Byron did not know, or ignored, the fact that the Jungfrau was first ascended in 1811, by the brothers Meyer, of Aarau.]
[140] {110}[Compare--
"And who commanded (and the silence came) Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? * * * * * Motionless torrents! silent cataracts."
_Hymn before Sunrise, etc.,_ by S.T. Coleridge, lines 47, 48, 53.
"Arrived at the Grindenwald; dined, mounted again, and rode to the higher Glacier--twilight, but distinct--very fine Glacier, like _a frozen hurricane_" (Letters, 1899, iii. 360).]
[141] [The idea of the Witches' Festival may have been derived from the Walpurgisnacht on the Brocken.]
[142] [Compare--
"Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; * * * * * When once more her hosts assemble, Tyrants shall believe and tremble-- Smile they at this idle threat? Crimson tears will follow yet."
_Ode from the French,_ v. 8, 11-14. _Poetical Works,_ 1900, iii. 435.
Compare, too, _Napoleon's Farewell_, stanza 3, ibid., p. 428. The "Voice" prophesies that St. Helena will prove a second Elba, and that Napoleon will "live to fight another day."]
[143] {111}[Byron may have had in his mind Thomas Lord Cochrane (1775-1860), "who had done brilliant service in his successive commands--the _Speedy_, _Pallas_, _Impérieuse_, and the flotilla of fire-ships at Basque Roads in 1809." In his Diary, March 10, 1814, he speaks of him as "the stock-jobbing hoaxer" (_Letters_, 1898, ii. 396, note 1).]
[144] {112}[Arimanes, the Aherman of _Vathek_, the Arimanius of Greek and Latin writers, is the Ahriman (or Angra Mainyu, "who is all death," the spirit of evil, the counter-creator) of the _Zend-Avesta_, "Fargard," i. 5 (translated by James Darmesteter, 1895, p. 4). Byron may have got the form Arimanius (_vide_ Steph., _Thesaurus_) from D'Herbelot, and changed it to Arimanes.]
[145] [The "formidable Eblis" sat on a globe of fire--"in his hand ... he swayed the iron sceptre that causes ... all the powers of the abyss to tremble."--_Vathek_, by William Beckford, 1887, p. 178.]
[bb] {112}_The comets herald through the burning skies_.--[Alternative reading in MS.]
[146] {114}[Compare--
"Sorrow is Knowledge."
Act I. sc. 1, line 10, _vide ante_, p. 85.
Compare, too--
"Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 'All that we know is, nothing can be known.'"
_Childe Harold_, Canto II. stanza vii. lines 1, 2, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 103.]
[147] {115}[Astarte is the classical form (_vide_ Cicero, _De Naturâ Deorum_, iii. 23, and Lucian, _De Syriâ Deâ_, iv.) of Milton's
"Moonéd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both."
Cicero says that she was married to Adonis, alluding, no doubt, to the myth of the Phoenician Astoreth, who was at once the bride and mother of Tammuz or Adonis.]
[bc] {116}_Or dost Qy?_--[Marginal reading in MS.]
[148] [Compare--
" ... illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red."
_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza cii. lines 7-9.]
[149] {118}[Compare--
" ... a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concentered recompense."
_Prometheus_, iii. 55-57, _vide ante_, p. 51.]
[150] {119}[On September 22, 1816 (_Letters_, 1899, iii. 357, note 2), Byron rode from Neuhaus, at the Interlaken end of Lake Thun, to the Staubbach. On the way between Matten and Müllinen, not far from the village of Wilderswyl, he passed the baronial Castle of Unspunnen, the traditional castle of Manfred. It is "but a square tower, with flanking round turrets, rising picturesquely above the surrounding brushwood." On the same day and near the same spot he "passed a rock; inscription--two brothers--one murdered the other; just the place for it." Here, according to the Countess Guiccioli, was "the origin of _Manfred_." It is somewhat singular that, on the appearance of _Manfred_, a paper was published in the June number of the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, 1817, vol. i. pp. 270-273, entitled, "Sketch of a Tradition related by a Monk in Switzerland." The narrator, who signs himself P. F., professes to have heard the story in the autumn of 1816 from one of the fathers "of Capuchin Friars, not far from Altorf." It is the story of the love of two brothers for a lady with whom they had "passed their infancy." She becomes the wife of the elder brother, and, later, inspires the younger brother with a passion against which he struggles in vain. The fate of the elder brother is shrouded in mystery. The lady wastes away, and her paramour is found dead "in the same pass in which he had met his sister among the mountains." The excuse for retelling the story is that there appeared to be "a striking coincidence in some characteristic features between Lord Byron's drama and the Swiss tradition."]
[151] [The "revised version" makes no further mention of the "key and casket;" but in the first draft (_vide infra_, p. 122) they were used by Manfred in calling up Astaroth (_Selections from Byron_, New York, 1900, p. 370).]
[152] {120}[Byron may have had in his mind a sentence in a letter of C. Cassius to Cicero (_Epist.,_ xv. 19), in which he says, "It is difficult to persuade men that goodness is desirable for its own sake (τὸ καλὸν δἰ αὐτὸ αἱρετὸν [Greek: to\ kalo\n di) au)to\ ai(reto\n]); and yet it is true, and may be proved, that pleasure and calm are won by virtue, justice, in a word by goodness (τῷ καλῷ [Greek: tô~| kalô~|])."]
[153] St. Maurice is in the Rhone valley, some sixteen miles from Villeneuve. The abbey (now occupied by Augustinian monks) was founded in the fourth century, and endowed by Sigismund, King of Burgundy.
[154] {121}[Thus far the text stands as originally written. The rest of the scene as given in the first MS. is as follows:--
_Abbot_. Then, hear and tremble! For the headstrong wretch Who in the mail of innate hardihood Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, There is the stake on earth--and beyond earth Eternal--
_Man_. Charity, most reverend father, Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, That I would call thee back to it: but say, What would'st thou with me?
_Abbot_. It may be there are Things that would shake thee--but I keep them back, And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 10 Then if thou dost not all devote thyself To penance, and with gift of all thy lands To the Monastery----
_Man_. I understand thee,--well!
_Abbot_. Expect no mercy; I have warned thee.
_Man_. (_opening the casket_). Stop-- There is a gift for thee within this casket. [MANFRED _opens the casket, strikes a light, and burns some incense._ Ho! Ashtaroth!
_The_ DEMON ASHTAROTH _appears, singing as follows:--_
The raven sits On the Raven-stone,[*] And his black wing flits O'er the milk--white bone; 20 To and fro, as the night--winds blow, The carcass of the assassin swings; And there alone, on the Raven-stone, The raven flaps his dusky wings.
The fetters creak--and his ebon beak Croaks to the close of the hollow sound; And this is the tune, by the light of the Moon, To which the Witches dance their round-- Merrily--merrily--cheerily--cheerily-- Merrily--merrily--speeds the ball: 30 The dead in their shrouds, and the Demons in clouds, Flock to the Witches' Carnival.
_Abbot_. I fear thee not--hence--hence-- Avaunt thee, evil One!--help, ho! without there!
_Man_. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn--to its peak-- To its extremest peak--watch with him there From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know He ne'er again will be so near to Heaven. But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks, Set him down safe in his cell--away with him! 40
_Ash_. Had I not better bring his brethren too, Convent and all, to bear him company?
_Man_. No, this will serve for the present. Take him up.
_Ash_. Come, Friar! now an exorcism or two, And we shall fly the lighter.
ASHTAROTH _disappears with the_ ABBOT, _singing as follows:_--
A prodigal son, and a maid undone,[§] And a widow re-wedded within the year; And a worldly monk, and a pregnant nun, Are things which every day appear.
MANFRED _alone._
_Man_. Why would this fool break in on me, and force 50 My art to pranks fantastical?--no matter, It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens, And weighs a fixed foreboding on my soul. But it is calm--calm as a sullen sea After the hurricane; the winds are still, But the cold waves swell high and heavily, And there is danger in them. Such a rest Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, And every thought a wound, till I am scarred In the immortal part of me.--What now?] 60
[*] "Raven-stone (Rabenstein), a translation of the German word for the gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent, and made of stone." [Compare _Werner,_ act ii. sc. 2. Compare, too, Anster's _Faust,_ 1883, p. 306.]
[§] _A prodigal son--and a pregnant nun, nun,_ _And a widow re-wedded within the year--_ _And a calf at grass--and a priest at mass._ _Are things which every day appear_.--[MS. erased.]
[155] {122}[A supplementary MS. supplies the text for the remainder of the scene.]
[156] {124}[For the death of Nero, "Rome's sixth Emperor," _vide_ _C. Suet. Tranq_., lib. vi. cap. xlix.]
[bd]
/ _not loss of life, but_ \ _To shun_ < > _public death_--[MS. M.] \ _the torments of a_ /
[157] [A reminiscence of the clouds of spray from the Fall of the Staubbach, which, in certain aspects, appear to be springing upwards from the bed of the waterfall.]
[158] {125}[Compare _The Giaour,_ lines 282-284. Compare, too, _Don Juan,_ Canto IV. stanza lvii. line 8.]
[159] [Here, as in so many other passages of _Manfred,_ Byron is recording his own feelings and forebodings. The same note is struck in the melancholy letters of the autumn of 1811. See, for example, the letter to Dallas, October 11, "It seems as though I were to experience in my youth the greatest misery of age," etc. (_Letters,_ 1898, ii. 52).]
[160] {126}["Pray, was Manfred's speech to _the Sun_ still retained in Act third? I hope so: it was one of the best in the thing, and better than the Colosseum."--Letter to Murray, July 9, 1817, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 147. Compare Byron's early rendering of "Ossian's Address to the Sun 'in Carthon.'"--_Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 229.]
[161] {127} "And it came to pass, that the _Sons of God_ saw the daughters of men, that they were fair," etc.--"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the _Sons of God_ came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."--_Genesis_, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4.
[162] [For the "Chaldeans" and "mountain-tops," see _Childe Harold_, Canto III, stanza xiv. line i, and stanza xci. lines 1-3.]
[be] {129}_Some strange things in these far years_.--[MS. M.]
[163] [The Grosse Eiger is a few miles to the south of the Castle of Unspunnen.]
[164] The remainder of the act in its original shape, ran thus--
_Her_. Look--look--the tower-- The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth! what sound, What dreadful sound is that? [_A crash like thunder_.
_Manuel_. Help, help, there!--to the rescue of the Count,-- The Count's in danger,--what ho! there! approach! [_The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach stupifed with terror_. If there be any of you who have heart And love of human kind, and will to aid Those in distress--pause not--but follow me-- The portal's open, follow. [MANUEL _goes in_.
_Her_. Come--who follows? What, none of ye?--ye recreants! shiver then 10 Without. I will not see old Manuel risk His few remaining years unaided. [HERMAN _goes in_.
_Vassal_. Hark!-- No--all is silent--not a breath--the flame Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone: What may this mean? Let's enter!
_Peasant_. Faith, not I,-- Not but, if one, or two, or more, will join, I then will stay behind; but, for my part, I do not see precisely to what end. _Vassal_. Cease your vain prating--come.
_Manuel_ (_speaking within_). 'Tis all in vain-- He's dead.
_Her_. (_within_). Not so--even now methought he moved; 20 But it is dark--so bear him gently out-- Softly--how cold he is! take care of his temples In winding down the staircase.
_Re-enter_ MANUEL _and_ HERMAN, _bearing_ MANFRED _in their arms_.
_Manuel_. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed For the leech to the city--quick! some water there!
_Her_. His cheek is black--but there is a faint beat Still lingering about the heart. Some water. [_They sprinkle_ MANFRED _with water: after a pause, he gives some signs of life_.
_Manuel_. He seems to strive to speak--come--cheerly, Count! He moves his lips--canst hear him! I am old, 30 And cannot catch faint sounds. [HERMAN _inclining his head and listening_.
_Her_. I hear a word Or two--but indistinctly--what is next? What's to be done? let's bear him to the castle. [MANFRED _motions with his hand not to remove him_.
_Manuel_. He disapproves--and 'twere of no avail-- He changes rapidly.
_Her_. 'Twill soon be over.
_Manuel_. Oh! what a death is this! that I should live To shake my gray hairs over the last chief Of the house of Sigismund.--And such a death! Alone--we know not how--unshrived--untended-- With strange accompaniments and fearful signs-- 40 I shudder at the sight--but must not leave him.
_Manfred_ (_speaking faintly and slowly_). Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die. [MANFRED, _having said this, expires_.
_Her_. His eyes are fixed and lifeless.--He is gone.--
_Manuel_. Close them.--My old hand quivers.--He departs-- Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone!
End of Act Third, and of the poem."]
[bf] {131}_Sirrah! I command thee_.--[MS.]
[165] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto III. stanza lxxxvi. line 1; stanza lxxxix. lines 1, 2; and stanza xc. lines 1, 2.]
[166] ["Drove at midnight to see the Coliseum by moonlight: but what can I say of the Coliseum? It must be _seen_; to describe it I should have thought impossible, if I had not read _Manfred_.... His [Byron's] description is the very thing itself; but what cannot he do on such a subject, when his pen is like the wand of Moses, whose touch can produce waters even from the barren rock?"--Matthews's _Diary of an Invalid_, 1820, pp. 158, 159. (Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanzas cxxviii.-cxxxi.)]
[167] {132}[Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanzas cvi.-cix.]
[168] [For "begun," compare _Don Juan_, Canto II. stanza clxvii. line 1.]
[169] {133}[Compare--
" ... but his face Deep scars of thunder had intrenched."
_Paradise Lost_, i. 600.]
[bg] _Summons_----.-[MS. M.]
[170] {135}
["The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."
_Paradise Lost_, i. 254, 255.]
[171] {136}[In the first edition (p. 75), this line was left out at Gifford's suggestion (_Memoirs, etc.,_ 1891, i. 387). Byron was indignant, and wrote to Murray, August 12, 1817 (_Letters,_ 1900, iv. 157), "You have destroyed the whole effect and moral of the poem, by omitting the last line of Manfred's speaking."]
[172] [For Goethes translation of the following passages in _Manfred_, viz (i) Manfred's soliloquy, act 1. sc. 1, line 1 _seq._; (ii) "The Incantation." act i. sc. 1, lines 192-261; (iii)Manfred's soliloquy, act ii, sc. 2 lines 164-204; (iv.) the duologue between Manfred and Astarte, act ii. sc. 4, lines 116-155; (v) a couplet, "For the night hath been to me," etc., act iii. sc. 4, lines 3, 4;--see Professor A. Brandl's _Goethe-Jahrbuch._ 1899, and Goethe's _Werke,_ 1874, iii. 201, as quoted in Appendix II., _Letters,_ 1901. v. 503-514.]
THE LAMENT OF TASSO.
INTRODUCTION TO _THE LAMENT OF TASSO_.
The MS. of the _Lament of Tasso_ is dated April 20, 1817. It was despatched from Florence April 23, and reached England May 12 (see _Memoir of John Murray_, 1891, i. 384). Proofs reached Byron June 7, and the poem was published July 17, 1817.
"It was," he writes (April 26), "written in consequence of my having been lately in Ferrara." Again, writing from Rome (May 5, 1817), he asks if the MS. has arrived, and adds, "I look upon it as a 'These be good rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy" (_Letters_, 1900, iv. 112-115). Two months later he reverted to the theme of Tasso's ill-treatment at the hands of Duke Alphonso, in the memorable stanzas xxxv.-xxxix. of the Fourth Canto of _Childe Harold_ (_Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 354-359; and for examination of the circumstances of Tasso's imprisonment in the Hospital of Sant' Anna, _vide ibid._, pp. 355, 356, note 1).
Notices of the _Lament of Tasso_ appeared in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, August, 1817, vol. 87, pp. 150, 151; in _The Scot's Magazine_, August, 1817, N.S., vol. i. pp. 48, 49; and a eulogistic but uncritical review in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, November, 1817, vol. ii. pp. 142-144.
ADVERTISEMENT
At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme[173] and of Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the monument of Ariosto--at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated: the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon.[174]
THE LAMENT OF TASSO.[175]
I.
Long years!--It tries the thrilling frame to bear And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song-- Long years of outrage--calumny--and wrong; Imputed madness, prisoned solitude,[176] And the Mind's canker in its savage mood, When the impatient thirst of light and air Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate, Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; 10 And bare, at once, Captivity displayed Stands scoffing through the never-opened gate, Which nothing through its bars admits, save day, And tasteless food, which I have eat alone Till its unsocial bitterness is gone; And I can banquet like a beast of prey, Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave Which is my lair, and--it may be--my grave. All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; 20 For I have battled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revelled among men and things divine, And poured my spirit over Palestine,[177] In honour of the sacred war for Him, The God who was on earth and is in Heaven, For He has strengthened me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 30 I have employed my penance to record How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.
II.
But this is o'er--my pleasant task is done:--[178] My long-sustaining Friend of many years! If I do blot thy final page with tears,[179] Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. But Thou, my young creation! my Soul's child! Which ever playing round me came and smiled, And wooed me from myself with thy sweet sight, Thou too art gone--and so is my delight: 40 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed With this last bruise upon a broken reed. Thou too art ended--what is left me now? For I have anguish yet to bear--and how? I know not that--but in the innate force Of my own spirit shall be found resource. I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, Nor cause for such: they called me mad--and why? Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply?[180] I was indeed delirious in my heart 50 To lift my love so lofty as thou art; But still my frenzy was not of the mind: I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent. That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind; But let them go, or torture as they will, My heart can multiply thine image still; Successful Love may sate itself away; The wretched are the faithful; 't is their fate 60 To have all feeling, save the one, decay, And every passion into one dilate, As rapid rivers into Ocean pour; But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.
III.
Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity. And hark! the lash and the increasing howl, And the half-inarticulate blasphemy! There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, Some who do still goad on the o'er-laboured mind, 70 And dim the little light that's left behind With needless torture, as their tyrant Will Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:[181] With these and with their victims am I classed, 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have passed; 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close: So let it be--for then I shall repose.
IV.
I have been patient, let me be so yet; I had forgotten half I would forget, But it revives--Oh! would it were my lot 80 To be forgetful as I am forgot!-- Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell In this vast Lazar-house of many woes? Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind; Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell-- For we are crowded in our solitudes-- Many, but each divided by the wall, Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods; 90 While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call-- None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, Who was not made to be the mate of these, Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here? Who have debased me in the minds of men, Debarring me the usage of my own, Blighting my life in best of its career, Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 100 And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan? The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, Which undermines our Stoical success? No!--still too proud to be vindictive--I Have pardoned Princes' insults, and would die. Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake I weed all bitterness from out my breast, It hath no business where _thou_ art a guest: Thy brother hates--but I can not detest; Thou pitiest not--but I can not forsake. 110
V.
Look on a love which knows not to despair, But all unquenched is still my better part, Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, As dwells the gathered lightning in its cloud, Encompassed with its dark and rolling shroud, Till struck,--forth flies the all-ethereal dart! And thus at the collision of thy name The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, And for a moment all things as they were Flit by me;--they are gone--I am the same. 120 And yet my love without ambition grew; I knew thy state--my station--and I knew A Princess was no love-mate for a bard;[182] I told it not--I breathed it not[183]--it was Sufficient to itself, its own reward; And if my eyes revealed it, they, alas! Were punished by the silentness of thine, And yet I did not venture to repine. Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, Worshipped at holy distance, and around 130 Hallowed and meekly kissed the saintly ground; Not for thou wert a Princess, but that Love Had robed thee with a glory, and arrayed Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayed-- Oh! not dismayed--but awed, like One above! And in that sweet severity[184] there was A something which all softness did surpass-- I know not how--thy Genius mastered mine-- My Star stood still before thee:--if it were Presumptuous thus to love without design, 140 That sad fatality hath cost me dear; But thou art dearest still, and I should be Fit for this cell, which wrongs me--but for _thee_. The very love which locked me to my chain Hath lightened half its weight; and for the rest, Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, And look to thee with undivided breast, And foil the ingenuity of Pain.
VI.
It is no marvel--from my very birth My soul was drunk with Love,--which did pervade 150 And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth: Of objects all inanimate I made Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks, whereby they grew, a Paradise, Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dreamed uncounted hours, Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise Shook their white agéd heads o'er me, and said Of such materials wretched men were made, And such a truant boy would end in woe, 160 And that the only lesson was a blow;[185]-- And then they smote me, and I did not weep, But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt Returned and wept alone, and dreamed again The visions which arise without a sleep. And with my years my soul began to pant With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, But undefined and wandering, till the day I found the thing I sought--and that was thee; 170 And then I lost my being, all to be Absorbed in thine;--the world was past away;-- _Thou_ didst annihilate the earth to me!
VII.
I loved all Solitude--but little thought To spend I know not what of life, remote From all communion with existence, save The maniac and his tyrant;--had I been Their fellow, many years ere this had seen My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave.[bh] But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? 180 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more Than the wrecked sailor on his desert shore; The world is all before him--_mine_ is _here_, Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. What though _he_ perish, he may lift his eye, And with a dying glance upbraid the sky; I will not raise my own in such reproof, Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof.
VIII.
Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,[186] But with a sense of its decay: I see 190 Unwonted lights along my prison shine, And a strange Demon,[187] who is vexing me With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below The feeling of the healthful and the free; But much to One, who long hath suffered so, Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, And all that may be borne, or can debase. I thought mine enemies had been but Man, But Spirits may be leagued with them--all Earth Abandons--Heaven forgets me;--in the dearth 200 Of such defence the Powers of Evil can-- It may be--tempt me further,--and prevail Against the outworn creature they assail. Why in this furnace is my spirit proved, Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? Because I loved what not to love, and see, Was more or less than mortal, and than me.
IX.
I once was quick in feeling--that is o'er;-- My scars are callous, or I should have dashed My brain against these bars, as the sun flashed 210 In mockery through them;--- If I bear and bore The much I have recounted, and the more Which hath no words,--'t is that I would not die And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame Stamp Madness deep into my memory, And woo Compassion to a blighted name, Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. No--it shall be immortal!--and I make A future temple of my present cell, 220 Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.[bi] While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell The ducal chiefs within thee, shall fall down, And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, A Poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,-- A Poet's dungeon thy most far renown, While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls! And thou, Leonora!--thou--who wert ashamed That such as I could love--who blushed to hear To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 230 Go! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed By grief--years--weariness--and it may be A taint of that he would impute to me-- From long infection of a den like this, Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,-- Adores thee still;--and add--that when the towers And battlements which guard his joyous hours Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, Or left untended in a dull repose, This--this--shall be a consecrated spot! 240 But _Thou_--when all that Birth and Beauty throws Of magic round thee is extinct--shalt have One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave.[188] No power in death can tear our names apart, As none in life could rend thee from my heart.[bj] Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate To be entwined[189] for ever--but too late![190]
FOOTNOTES:
[173] {141}[A MS. of the _Gerusalemme_ is preserved and exhibited at Sir John Soane's Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields.]
[174] [The original MS. of this poem is dated, "The Apennines, April 20, 1817."]
[175] {143}[The MS. of the _Lament of Tasso_ corresponds, save in three lines where alternate readings are superscribed, _verbatim et literatim_ with the text. A letter dated August 21, 1817, from G. Polidori to John Murray, with reference to the translation of the _Lament_ into Italian, and a dedicatory letter (in Polidori's handwriting) to the Earl of Guilford, dated August 3, 1817, form part of the same volume.]
[176] [In a letter written to his friend Scipio Gonzaga ("Di prizione in Sant' Anna, questo mese di mezzio l'anno 1579"), Tasso exclaims, "Ah, wretched me! I had designed to write, besides two epic poems of most noble argument, four tragedies, of which I had formed the plan. I had schemed, too, many works in prose, on subjects the most lofty, and most useful to human life; I had designed to unite philosophy with eloquence, in such a manner that there might remain of me an eternal memory in the world. Alas! I had expected to close my life with glory and renown; but now, oppressed by the burden of so many calamities, I have lost every prospect of reputation and of honour. The fear of perpetual imprisonment increases my melancholy; the indignities which I suffer augment it; and the squalor of my beard, my hair, and habit, the sordidness and filth, exceedingly annoy me. Sure am I, that, if she who so little has corresponded to my attachment--if she saw me in such a state, and in such affliction--she would have some compassion on me."--_Lettere di Torouato Tasso_, 1853, ii. 60.]
[177] {144}[Compare--
"The second of a tenderer sadder mood, Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem."
_Prophecy of Dante_, Canto IV. lines 136, 137.]
[178] [Tasso's imprisonment in the Hospital of Sant' Anna lasted from March, 1579, to July, 1586. The _Gerusalemme_ had been finished many years before. He sent the first four cantos to his friend Scipio Gonzaga, February 17, and the last three on October 4, 1575 (_Lettere di Torquato Tasso_, 1852, i. 55-117). A mutilated first edition was published in 1580 by "Orazio _alias_ Celio de' Malespini, avventuriere intrigante" (Solerti's _Vita, etc._, 1895, i. 329).]
[179] [So, too, Gibbon was overtaken by a "sober melancholy" when he had finished the last line of the last page of the _Decline and Fall_ on the night of June 27, 1787.]
[180] {145}[Not long after his imprisonment, Tasso appealed to the mercy of Alfonso, in a canzone of great beauty, ... and ... in another ode to the princesses, whose pity he invoked in the name of their own mother, who had herself known, if not the like horrors, the like solitude of imprisonment, and bitterness of soul, made a similar appeal. (See _Life of Tasso_, by John Black, 1810, ii. 64, 408.) Black prints the canzone in full; Solerti (_Vita, etc._, i. 316-318) gives selections.]
[181] {146}["For nearly the first year of his confinement Tasso endured all the horrors of a solitary sordid cell, and was under the care of a gaoler whose chief virtue, although he was a poet and a man of letters, was a cruel obedience to the commands of his prince.... His name was Agostino Mosti.... Tasso says of him, in a letter to his sister, 'ed usa meco ogni sorte di rigore ed inumanità.'"--Hobhouse, _Historical Illustrations, etc_., 1818, pp. 20, 21, note 1.
Tasso, in a letter to Angelo Grillo, dated June 16, 1584 (Letter 288, _Le Lettere, etc_., ii. 276), complains that Mosti did not interfere to prevent him being molested by the other inmates, disturbed in his studies, and treated disrespectfully by the governor's subordinates. In the letter to his sister Cornelia, from which Hobhouse quotes, the allusion is not to Mosti, but, according to Solerti, to the Cardinal Luigi d'Este. Elsewhere (Letter 133, _Lettere_, ii. 88, 89) Tasso describes Agostino Mosti as a rigorous and zealous Churchman, but far too cultivated and courteous a gentleman to have exercised any severity towards him _proprio motu_, or otherwise than in obedience to orders.]
[182] {147}[It is highly improbable that Tasso openly indulged, or secretly nourished, a consuming passion for Leonora d'Este, and it is certain that the "Sister of his Sovereign" had nothing to do with his being shut up in the Hospital of Sant' Anna. That poet and princess had known each other for over thirteen years, that the princess was seven years older than the poet, and, in March, 1579, close upon forty-two years of age, are points to be considered; but the fact that she died in February, 1581, and that Tasso remained in confinement for five years longer, is a stronger argument against the truth of the legend. She was a beautiful woman, his patroness and benefactress, and the theme of sonnets and canzoni; but it was not for her "sweet sake" that Tasso lost either his wits or his liberty.]
[183] Compare--
"I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name."
[184] {148}[Compare the following lines from the canzone entitled, "La Prima di Tre Sorelle Scritte a Madaroa Leonora d'Este ... 1567:"--
"E certo il primo dì che'l bel sereno Delia tua fronte agli occhi miei s'offerse E vidi armato spaziarvi Amore, Se non che riverenza allor converse, E Meraviglia in fredda selce il seno, Ivi pería con doppia morte il core; Ma parte degli strali, e dell' ardore Sentii pur anco entro 'l gelato marmo."]
[185] {149}[Ariosto (_Sat._ 7, Terz. 53) complains that his father chased him "not with spurs only, but with darts and lances, to turn over old texts," etc.; but Tasso was a studious and dutiful boy, and, though he finally deserted the law for poetry, and "crossed" his father's wishes and intentions, he took his own course reluctantly, and without any breach of decorum. But, perhaps, the following translations from the _Rinaldo,_ which Black supplies in his footnotes (i. 41. 97), suggested this picture of a "poetic child" at variance with the authorities:--
"Now hasting thence a verdant mead he found, Where flowers of fragrant smell adorned the ground; Sweet was the scene, and here from human eyes Apart he sits, and thus he speaks mid sighs."
Canto I. stanza xviii.
"Thus have I sung in youth's aspiring days Rinaldo's pleasing plains and martial praise: While other studies slowly I pursued Ere twice revolved nine annual suns I viewed; Ungrateful studies, whence oppressed I groaned, A burden to myself and to the world unknown.
* * * * *
But this first-fruit of new awakened powers! Dear offspring of a few short studious hours! Thou infant volume child of fancy born Where Brenta's waves the sunny meads adorn."
Canto XII. stanza xc.]
[bh] {150}_My mind like theirs adapted to its grave_.--[MS.]
[186] ["Nor do I lament," wrote Tasso, shortly after his confinement, "that my heart is deluged with almost constant misery, that my head is always heavy and often painful, that my sight and hearing are much impaired, and that all my frame is become spare and meagre; but, passing all this with a short sigh, what I would bewail is the infirmity of my mind.... My mind sleeps, not thinks; my fancy is chill, and forms no pictures; my negligent senses will no longer furnish the images of things; my hand is sluggish in writing, and my pen seems as if it shrunk from the office. I feel as if I were chained in all my operations, and as if I were overcome by an unwonted numbness and oppressive stupor."--_Opere_, Venice, 1738, viii. 258, 263.]
[187] [In a letter to Maurizio Cataneo, dated December 25, 1585, Tasso gives an account of his sprite (_folletto_): "The little thief has stolen from me many crowns.... He puts all my books topsy-turvy (_mi mette tutti i libri sottosopra_), opens my chest and steals my keys, so that I can keep nothing." Again, December 30, with regard to his hallucinations he says, "Know then that in addition to the wonders of the Folletto ... I have many nocturnal alarms. For even when awake I have seemed to behold small flames in the air, and sometimes my eyes sparkle in such a manner, that I dread the loss of sight, and I have ... seen sparks issue from them."--Letters 454, 456, _Le Lettere_, 1853, ii. 475, 479.]
[bi] {151}
/ _nations yet_ \ _Which_ < > _shall visit for my sake_.--[MS.] \ _after days_ /
[188] {152}["Tasso, notwithstanding the criticisms of the Cruscanti, would have been crowned in the Capitol, but for his death," Reply to _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_ (Ravenna, March 15, 1820), _Letters_, 1900, iv. Appendix IX. p. 487.]
[bj]
/ _wrench_ \ _As none in life could_ < > _thee from my heart_.--[MS.] \ _wring_ /
[189] [Compare--
"From Life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined."
_Epistle to Augusta_, stanza xvi. lines 6, 7, _vide ante_, p. 62.]
[190] [The Apennines, April 20, 1817.]
BEPPO:
A VENETIAN STORY.
_Rosalind_. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a _Gondola_.
_As You Like It_, act iv, sc. I, lines 33-35.
_Annotation of the Commentators_. That is, _been at Venice_, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was _then_ what _Paris_ is _now_--the seat of all dissoluteness.--S. A.[191]
[The initials S. A. (Samuel Ayscough) are not attached to this note, but to another note on the same page (see _Dramatic Works_ of William Shakspeare, 1807, i. 242).]
INTRODUCTION TO _BEPPO_
_BEPPO_ was written in the autumn (September 6--October 12, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 172) of 1817, whilst Byron was still engaged on the additional stanzas of the Fourth Canto of _Childe Harold_. His new poem, as he admitted from the first, was "after the excellent manner" of John Hookham Frere's _jeu d'esprit_, known as _Whistlecraft_ (_Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work_ by William and Robert Whistlecraft, London, 1818[192]), which must have reached him in the summer of 1817. Whether he divined the identity of "Whistlecraft" from the first, or whether his guess was an after-thought, he did not hesitate to take the water and shoot ahead of his unsuspecting rival. It was a case of plagiarism _in excelsis_, and the superiority of the imitation to the original must be set down to the genius of the plagiary, unaided by any profound study of Italian literature, or an acquaintance at first hand with the parents and inspirers of _Whistlecraft_.
It is possible that he had read and forgotten some specimens of Pulci's _Morgante Maggiore_, which J. H. Merivale had printed in the _Monthly Magazine_ for 1806-1807, vol. xxi. pp. 304, 510, etc., and it is certain that he was familiar with his _Orlando in Roncesvalles_, published in 1814. He distinctly states that he had not seen W. S. Rose's[193] translation of Casti's _Animali Parlanti_ (first edition [anonymous], 1816), but, according to Pryse Gordon (_Personal Memoirs_, ii. 328), he had read the original. If we may trust Ugo Foscolo (see "Narrative and Romantic Poems of the Italians" in the _Quart. Rev_., April, 1819, vol. xxi. pp. 486-526), there is some evidence that Byron had read Forteguerri's _Ricciardetto_ (translated in 1819 by Sylvester (Douglas) Lord Glenbervie, and again, by John Herman Merivale, under the title of _The Two First Cantos of Richardetto_, 1820), but the parallel which he adduces (_vide post_, p. 166) is not very striking or convincing.
On the other hand, after the poem was completed (March 25, 1818), he was under the impression that "Berni was the original of _all_ ... the father of that kind [i.e. the mock-heroic] of writing;" but there is nothing to show whether he had or had not read the _rifacimento_ of Orlando's _Innamorato_, or the more distinctively Bernesque _Capitoli_. Two years later (see Letter to Murray, February 21, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 407; and "Advertisement" to _Morgante Maggiore_) he had discovered that "Pulci was the parent of _Whistlecraft_, and the precursor and model of Berni," but, in 1817, he was only at the commencement of his studies. A time came long before the "year or two" of his promise (March 25, 1818) when he had learned to simulate the _vera imago_ of the Italian Muse, and was able not only to surpass his "immediate model," but to rival his model's forerunners and inspirers. In the meanwhile a tale based on a "Venetian anecdote" (perhaps an "episode" in the history of Colonel Fitzgerald and the Marchesa Castiglione,--see Letter to Moore, December 26, 1816, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 26) lent itself to "the excellent manner of Mr. Whistlecraft," and would show "the knowing ones," that is, Murray's advisers, Gifford, Croker, Frere, etc., that "he could write cheerfully," and "would repel the charge of monotony and mannerism."
Eckermann, mindful of Goethe's hint that Byron had too much _empeiria_ (an excess of _mondanité_--a _this_-worldliness), found it hard to read _Beppo_ after _Macbeth_. "I felt," he says, "the predominance of a nefarious, empirical world, with which the mind which introduced it to us has in a certain measure associated itself" (_Conversations of Goethe, etc._, 1874, p. 175). But _Beppo_ must be taken at its own valuation. It is _A Venetian Story_, and the action takes place behind the scenes of "a comedy of Goldoni." A less subtle but a more apposite criticism may be borrowed from "Lord Byron's Combolio" (_sic_), _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, 1822, xi. 162-165.
"The story that's in it May be told in a minute; But _par parenthèse_ chatting, On this thing and that thing, Keeps the shuttlecock flying, And attention from dying."
_Beppo, a Venetian Story_ (xcv. stanzas) was published February 28, 1818; and a fifth edition, consisting of xcix. stanzas, was issued May 4, 1818.
Jeffrey, writing in the _Edinburgh Review_ (February, 1818, vol. xxix. pp. 302-310), is unconcerned with regard to _Whistlecraft_, or any earlier model, but observes "that the nearest approach to it [_Beppo_] is to be found in some of the tales and lighter pieces of Prior--a few stanzas here and there among the trash and burlesque of Peter Pindar, and in several passages of Mr. Moore, and the author of the facetious miscellany entitled the _Twopenny Post Bag_."
Other notices, of a less appreciative kind, appeared in the _Monthly Review_, March, 1818, vol. 85, pp. 285-290; and in the _Eclectic Review_, N.S., June, 1818, vol. ix. pp. 555-557.
BEPPO.[194]
I.
'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout All countries of the Catholic persuasion,[195] Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, The People take their fill of recreation, And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, However high their rank, or low their station, With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing, And other things which may be had for asking.
II.
The moment night with dusky mantle covers The skies (and the more duskily the better), The Time less liked by husbands than by lovers Begins, and Prudery flings aside her fetter; And Gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming.[196]
III.
And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos; All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, But no one in these parts may quiz the Clergy,-- Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye.
IV.
You'd better walk about begirt with briars, Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on A single stitch reflecting upon friars, Although you swore it only was in fun; They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron's bubble That boiled your bones, unless you paid them double.
V.
But saving this, you may put on whate'er You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, Would rig you out in seriousness or joke; And even in Italy such places are, With prettier name in softer accents spoke, For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on No place that's called "Piazza" in Great Britain.[197]
VI.
This feast is named the Carnival, which being Interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh:" So called, because the name and thing agreeing, Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, Is more than I can tell, although I guess 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, In the Stage-Coach or Packet, just at starting.
VII.
And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, To live for forty days on ill-dressed fishes, Because they have no sauces to their stews; A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes," And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse), From travellers accustomed from a boy To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy;
VIII.
And therefore humbly I would recommend "The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross (Or if set out beforehand, these may send By any means least liable to loss), Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye;
IX.
That is to say, if your religion's Roman, And you at Rome would do as Romans do, According to the proverb,--although no man, If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you, If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, Would rather dine in sin on a ragout-- Dine and be d--d! I don't mean to be coarse, But that's the penalty, to say no worse.
X.
Of all the places where the Carnival Was most facetious in the days of yore, For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, And Masque, and Mime, and Mystery, and more Than I have time to tell now, or at all, Venice the bell from every city bore,-- And at the moment when I fix my story, That sea-born city was in all her glory.
XI.
They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, Black eyes, arched brows, and sweet expressions still; Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, In ancient arts by moderns mimicked ill; And like so many Venuses of Titian's[198] (The best's at Florence--see it, if ye will,) They look when leaning over the balcony, Or stepped from out a picture by Giorgione,[199]
XII.
Whose tints are Truth and Beauty at their best; And when you to Manfrini's palace go,[200] That picture (howsoever fine the rest) Is loveliest to my mind of all the show; It may perhaps be also to _your_ zest, And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so: Tis but a portrait of his Son, and Wife, And self; but _such_ a Woman! Love in life![201]
XIII.
Love in full life and length, not love ideal, No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, But something better still, so very real, That the sweet Model must have been the same; A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, Wer't not impossible, besides a shame: The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, You once have seen, but ne'er will see again;
XIV.
One of those forms which flit by us, when we Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; And, oh! the Loveliness at times we see In momentary gliding, the soft grace, The Youth, the Bloom, the Beauty which agree, In many a nameless being we retrace, Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, Like the lost Pleiad[202] seen no more below.
XV.
I said that like a picture by Giorgione Venetian women were, and so they _are_, Particularly seen from a balcony, (For beauty's sometimes best set off afar) And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni,[202A] They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar; And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, And rather like to show it, more's the pity!
XVI.
For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, Which flies on wings of light-heeled Mercuries, Who do such things because they know no better; And then, God knows what mischief may arise, When Love links two young people in one fetter, Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads.
XVII.
Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona As very fair, but yet suspect in fame,[202B] And to this day from Venice to Verona Such matters may be probably the same, Except that since those times was never known a Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, Because she had a "Cavalier Servente."[203]
XVIII.
Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) Is of a fair complexion altogether, Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, Which smothers women in a bed of feather, But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, When weary of the matrimonial tether His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, But takes at once another, or _another's_.
XIX.
Didst ever see a Gondola? For fear You should not, I'll describe it you exactly: 'Tis a long covered boat that's common here, Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, Rowed by two rowers, each call'd "Gondolier," It glides along the water looking blackly, Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, Where none can make out what you say or do.
XX.
And up and down the long canals they go, And under the Rialto[204] shoot along, By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe,-- But not to them do woeful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done.
XXI.
But to my story.--'Twas some years ago, It may be thirty, forty, more or less, The Carnival was at its height, and so Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress; A certain lady went to see the show, Her real name I know not, nor can guess, And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, Because it slips into my verse with ease.
XXII.
She was not old, nor young, nor at the years Which certain people call a "_certain age_,"[205] Which yet the most uncertain age appears, Because I never heard, nor could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, To name, define by speech, or write on page, The period meant precisely by that word,-- Which surely is exceedingly absurd.
XXIII.
Laura was blooming still, had made the best Of Time, and Time returned the compliment, And treated her genteelly, so that, dressed, She looked extremely well where'er she went; A pretty woman is a welcome guest, And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent; Indeed, she shone all smiles, and seemed to flatter Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.
XXIV.
She was a married woman; 'tis convenient, Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; Whereas if single ladies play the fool, (Unless within the period intervenient A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) I don't know how they ever can get over it, Except they manage never to discover it.
XXV.
Her husband sailed upon the Adriatic, And made some voyages, too, in other seas, And when he lay in Quarantine for pratique[206] (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, For thence she could discern the ship with ease: He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, His name Giuseppe, called more briefly, Beppo.[207]
XXVI.
He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; Though coloured, as it were, within a tanyard, He was a person both of sense and vigour-- A better seaman never yet did man yard; And she, although her manners showed no rigour, Was deemed a woman of the strictest principle, So much as to be thought almost invincible.[208]
XXVII.
But several years elapsed since they had met; Some people thought the ship was lost, and some That he had somehow blundered into debt, And did not like the thought of steering home; And there were several offered any bet, Or that he would, or that he would not come; For most men (till by losing rendered sager) Will back their own opinions with a wager.
XXVIII.
'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, As partings often are, or ought to be, And their presentiment was quite prophetic, That they should never more each other see, (A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, Which I have known occur in two or three,) When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee He left this Adriatic Ariadne.
XXIX.
And Laura waited long, and wept a little, And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; She almost lost all appetite for victual, And could not sleep with ease alone at night; She deemed the window-frames and shutters brittle Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, And so she thought it prudent to connect her With a vice-husband, _chiefly_ to _protect her_.
XXX.
She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, If only you will but oppose their choice?) Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, A man some women like, and yet abuse-- A Coxcomb was he by the public voice; A Count of wealth, they said as well as quality, And in his pleasures of great liberality.[bk]
XXXI.
And then he was a Count, and then he knew Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; The last not easy, be it known to you, For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. He was a critic upon operas, too, And knew all niceties of sock and buskin; And no Venetian audience could endure a Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura!"[209]
XXXII.
His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound Hushed "Academie" sighed in silent awe; The fiddlers trembled as he looked around, For fear of some false note's detected flaw; The "Prima Donna's" tuneful heart would bound, Dreading the deep damnation of his "Bah!" Soprano, Basso, even the Contra-Alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
XXXIII.
He patronised the Improvisatori, Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as Italians can be, though in this their glory Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; In short, he was a perfect Cavaliero, And to his very valet seemed a hero.[210]
XXXIV.
Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous; So that no sort of female could complain, Although they're now and then a little clamorous, He never put the pretty souls in pain; His heart was one of those which most enamour us, Wax to receive, and marble to retain: He was a lover of the good old school, Who still become more constant as they cool.
XXXV.
No wonder such accomplishments should turn A female head, however sage and steady-- With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, In law he was almost as good as dead, he Nor sent, nor wrote, nor showed the least concern, And she had waited several years already: And really if a man won't let us know That he's alive, he's _dead_--or should be so.
XXXVI.
Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 'Tis, I may say, permitted to have _two_ men; I can't tell who first brought the custom in, But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common, And no one notices or cares a pin; An we may call this (not to say the worst) A _second_ marriage which corrupts the _first_.
XXXVII.
The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo,"[211] But _that_ is now grown vulgar and indecent; The Spaniards call the person a "_Cortejo_,"[212] For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent; In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent: But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! Or what becomes of damage and divorces?
XXXVIII.[213]
However, I still think, with all due deference To the fair _single_ part of the creation, That married ladies should preserve the preference In _tête à tête_ or general conversation-- And this I say without peculiar reference To England, France, or any other nation-- Because they know the world, and are at ease, And being natural, naturally please.
XXXIX.
'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, But shy and awkward at first coming out, So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming, All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout; And glancing at _Mamma_, for fear there's harm in What you, she, it, or they, may be about: The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter-- Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.[214]
XL.
But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase Used in politest circles to express This supernumerary slave, who stays Close to the lady as a part of dress, Her word the only law which he obeys. His is no sinecure, as you may guess; Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.
XLI.
With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy's a pleasant place to me, Who love to see the Sun shine every day, And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree Festooned, much like the back scene of a play, Or melodrame, which people flock to see, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the South of France.
XLII.
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sure My cloak is round his middle strapped about, Because the skies are not the most secure; I know too that, if stopped upon my route, Where the green alleys windingly allure, Reeling with _grapes_ red wagons choke the way,-- In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray.
XLIII.
I also like to dine on becaficas, To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all Heaven t'himself; the day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.
XLIV.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,[215] Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,[216] With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
XLV.
I like the women too (forgive my folly!), From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,[bl] And large black eyes that flash on you a volley Of rays that say a thousand things at once, To the high Dama's brow, more melancholy, But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.[bm]
XLVI.
Eve of the land which still is Paradise! Italian Beauty didst thou not inspire Raphael,[217] who died in thy embrace, and vies With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeathed us?--in what guise, Though flashing from the fervour of the Lyre, Would _words_ describe thy past and present glow, While yet Canova[218] can create below?[219]
XLVII.
"England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"[220] I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill; I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); I like a Parliamentary debate, Particularly when 'tis not too late;
XLVIII.
I like the taxes, when they're not too many; I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; Have no objection to a pot of beer; I like the weather,--when it is not rainy, That is, I like two months of every year. And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and every thing.
XLIX.
Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we're free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, All these I can forgive, and those forget, And greatly venerate our recent glories, And wish they were not owing to the Tories.
L.
But to my tale of Laura,--for I find Digression is a sin, that by degrees Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, And, therefore, may the reader too displease-- The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, And caring little for the Author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means--a hard And hapless situation for a Bard.
LI.
Oh! that I had the art of easy writing What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian,[221] or _Ass_yrian tale; And sell you, mixed with western Sentimentalism, Some samples of the _finest Orientalism._
LII.
But I am but a nameless sort of person, (A broken Dandy[222] lately on my travels) And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils; I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, But verse is more in fashion--so here goes!
LIII.
The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, For half a dozen years without estrangement; They had their little differences, too; Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant; In such affairs there probably are few Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble.
LIV.
But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them: The World beheld them with indulgent air; The pious only wished "the Devil take them!" He took them not; he very often waits, And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.
LV.
But they were young: Oh! what without our Youth Would Love be! What would Youth be without Love! Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth-- One of few things Experience don't improve; Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows Are always so preposterously jealous.
LVI.
It was the Carnival, as I have said Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so Laura the usual preparations made, Which you do when your mind's made up to go To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade,[223] Spectator, or Partaker in the show; The only difference known between the cases Is--_here_, we have six weeks of "varnished faces."
LVII.
Laura, when dressed, was (as I sang before) A pretty woman as was ever seen, Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, Or frontispiece of a new Magazine,[224] With all the fashions which the last month wore, Coloured, and silver paper leaved between That and the title-page, for fear the Press Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.
LVIII.
They went to the Ridotto;[225] 'tis a hall Where People dance, and sup, and dance again; Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, But that's of no importance to my strain; 'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain; The company is "mixed" (the phrase I quote is As much as saying, they're below your notice);
LIX.
For a "mixed company" implies that, save Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, Whom you may bow to without looking grave, The rest are but a vulgar set, the Bore Of public places, where they basely brave The fashionable stare of twenty score Of well-bred persons, called "_The World_;" but I, Although I know them, really don't know why.
LX.
This is the case in England; at least was During the dynasty of Dandies, now Perchance succeeded by some other class Of imitated Imitators:--how[bn] Irreparably soon decline, alas! The Demagogues of fashion: all below Is frail; how easily the world is lost By Love, or War, and, now and then,--by Frost!
LXI.
Crushed was Napoleon by the northern Thor, Who knocked his army down with icy hammer, Stopped by the _Elements_[226]--like a Whaler--or A blundering novice in his new French grammar; Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, And as for Fortune--but I dare not d--n her, Because, were I to ponder to Infinity, The more I should believe in her Divinity.[227]
LXII.
She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage; I cannot say that she's done much for me yet; Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage; Meantime the Goddess I'll no more importune, Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune.
LXIII.
To turn,--and to return;--the Devil take it! This story slips for ever through my fingers, Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, It needs must be--and so it rather lingers; This form of verse began, I can't well break it, But must keep time and tune like public singers; But if I once get through my present measure, I'll take another when I'm next at leisure.
LXIV.
They went to the Ridotto ('tis a place To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,[228] Just to divert my thoughts a little space Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face May lurk beneath each mask; and as my sorrow Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, Something shall leave it half an hour behind.)
LXV.
Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, Complains of warmth, and this complaint avowed, Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being dressed so ill.
LXVI.
One has false curls, another too much paint, A third--where did she buy that frightful turban? A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo! an eighth appears,--"I'll see no more!" For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.
LXVII.
Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, Others were levelling their looks at her; She heard the men's half-whispered mode of praising And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir; The women only thought it quite amazing That, at her time of life, so many were Admirers still,--but "Men are so debased, Those brazen Creatures always suit their taste."
LXVIII.
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand Why naughty women--but I won't discuss A thing which is a scandal to the land, I only don't see why it should be thus; And if I were but in a gown and band, Just to entitle me to make a fuss, I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly Should quote in their next speeches from my homily.
LXIX.
While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what, So that her female friends, with envy broiling, Beheld her airs, and triumph, and all that; And well-dressed males still kept before her filing, And passing bowed and mingled with her chat; More than the rest one person seemed to stare With pertinacity that's rather rare.
LXX.
He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,[bo] Although their usage of their wives is sad; 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum."
LXXI.
They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, They scarcely can behold their male relations, So that their moments do not pass so gaily As is supposed the case with northern nations; Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either passed in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.
LXXII.
They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; Nor write, and so they don't affect the Muse; Were never caught in epigram or witticism, Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,-- In Harams learning soon would make a pretty schism, But luckily these Beauties are no "Blues;" No bustling _Botherby_[229] have they to show 'em "That charming passage in the last new poem:"
LXXIII.
No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, Who having angled all his life for Fame, And getting but a nibble at a time, Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime Of Mediocrity, the furious tame, The Echo's echo, usher of the school Of female wits, boy bards--in short, a fool!
LXXIV.
A stalking oracle of awful phrase, The approving _"Good!"_ (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze, The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,[bp] Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better.
LXXV.
One hates an author that's _all author_--fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; Of Coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquenched snuffings of the midnight taper.
LXXVI.
Of these same we see several, and of others. Men of the world, who know the World like Men, Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, Who think of something else besides the pen; But for the children of the "Mighty Mother's," The would-be wits, and can't-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily "tea is ready,"[230] Smug coterie, and literary lady.
LXXVII.
The poor dear Mussul_women_ whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And _one_ would seem to them a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author--just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.
LXXVIII.
No Chemistry for them unfolds her gases, No Metaphysics are let loose in lectures, No Circulating Library amasses Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures Upon the living manners, as they pass us; No Exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in Mathematics.[231]
LXXIX.
Why I thank God for that is no great matter, I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose; I fear I have a little turn for Satire, And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though Laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.
LXXX.[232]
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days! In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, Abominable Man no more allays His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, I love you both, and both shall have my praise: Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy!--- Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.
LXXXI.
Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour, And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay." Could staring win a woman, this had won her, But Laura could not thus be led astray; She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle Even at this Stranger's most outlandish ogle.
LXXXII.
The morning now was on the point of breaking, A turn of time at which I would advise Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking In any other kind of exercise, To make their preparations for forsaking The ball-room ere the Sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, His blushes make them look a little pale.
LXXXIII.
I've seen some balls and revels in my time, And stayed them over for some silly reason, And then I looked (I hope it was no crime) To see what lady best stood out the season; And though I've seen some thousands in their prime Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) Whose bloom could after dancing dare the Dawn.
LXXXIV.
The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, Although I might, for she was nought to me More than that patent work of God's invention, A charming woman, whom we like to see; But writing names would merit reprehension, Yet if you like to find out this fair _She,_ At the next London or Parisian ball You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.
LXXXV.
Laura, who knew it would not do at all To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball, To make her curtsey thought it right and fitting; The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, And they the room were on the point of quitting, When lo! those curséd Gondoliers had got Just in the very place where they _should not._
LXXXVI.
In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause Is much the same--the crowd, and pulling, hauling, With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, They make a never intermitted bawling. At home, our Bow-street gem'men keep the laws, And here a sentry stands within your calling; But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.
LXXXVII.
The Count and Laura found their boat at last, And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, Discussing all the dances gone and past; The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; Some little scandals eke; but all aghast (As to their palace-stairs the rowers glide) Sate Laura by the side of her adorer,[bq] When lo! the Mussulman was there before her!
LXXXVIII.
"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, "Your unexpected presence here will make It necessary for myself to crave Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake; I hope it is so; and, at once to waive All compliment, I hope so for _your_ sake; You understand my meaning, or you _shall._" "Sir," (quoth the Turk) "'tis no mistake at all:
LXXXIX.
"That Lady is _my wife!_" Much wonder paints The lady's changing cheek, as well it might; But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, Italian females don't do so outright; They only call a little on their Saints, And then come to themselves, almost, or quite; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.
XC.
She said,--what could she say? Why, not a word; But the Count courteously invited in The Stranger, much appeased by what he heard: "Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within," Said he; "don't let us make ourselves absurd In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, For then the chief and only satisfaction Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."
XCI.
They entered, and for Coffee called--it came, A beverage for Turks and Christians both, Although the way they make it's not the same. Now Laura, much recovered, or less loth To speak, cries "Beppo! what's your pagan name? Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth! And how came you to keep away so long? Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong?
XCII.
"And are you _really, truly,_ now a Turk? With any other women did you wive? Is't true they use their fingers for a fork? Well, that's the prettiest Shawl--as I'm alive! You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. And how so many years did you contrive To--Bless me! did I ever? No, I never Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver?
XCIII.
"Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not; It shall be shaved before you're a day older: Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot-- Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it's grown!"
XCIV.
What answer Beppo made to these demands Is more than I know. He was cast away About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands; Became a slave of course, and for his pay Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, He joined the rogues and prospered, and became A renegade of indifferent fame.
XCV.
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so Keen the desire to see his home again, He thought himself in duty bound to do so, And not be always thieving on the main; Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacca, Manned with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.
XCVI.
Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten!) cash, He then embarked, with risk of life and limb, And got clear off, although the attempt was rash; _He_ said that _Providence_ protected him-- For my part, I say nothing--lest we clash In our opinions:--well--the ship was trim, Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.[233]
XCVII.
They reached the Island, he transferred his lading, And self and live stock to another bottom, And passed for a true Turkey-merchant, trading With goods of various names--but I've forgot 'em. However, he got off by this evading, Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; And thus at Venice landed to reclaim His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.
XCVIII.
His wife received, the Patriarch re-baptised him, (He made the Church a present, by the way;) He then threw off the garments which disguised him, And borrowed the Count's smallclothes for a day: His friends the more for his long absence prized him, Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, For stories--but _I_ don't believe the half of them.
XCIX.
Whate'er his youth had suffered, his old age With wealth and talking made him some amends; Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, I've heard the Count and he were always friends. My pen is at the bottom of a page, Which being finished, here the story ends: 'Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
FOOTNOTES:
[191] {153}["Although I was in Italie only ix. days, I saw, in that little tyme, more liberty to sin than ever I heard tell of in our noble citie of London in ix. yeares."--_Schoolmaster_, bk. i. _ad fin_. By Roger Ascham.]
[192] {155}
["I've often wish'd that I could write a book, Such as all English people might peruse; I never shall regret the pains it took, That's just the sort of fame that I should choose: To sail about the world like Captain Cook, I'd sling a cot up for my favourite Muse, And we'd take verses out to Demerara, To New South Wales, and up to Niagara.
"Poets consume exciseable commodities, They raise the nation's spirit when victorious, They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, Making our commerce and revenue glorious; As an industrious and pains-taking body 'tis That Poets should be reckoned meritorious: And therefore I submissively propose To erect one Board for Verse and one for Prose.
"Princes protecting Sciences and Art I've often seen in copper-plate and print; I never saw them elsewhere, for my part, And therefore I conclude there's nothing in't: But every body knows the Regent's heart; I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint; Each Board to have twelve members, with a seat To bring them in per ann. five hundred neat:--
"From Princes I descend to the Nobility: In former times all persons of high stations, Lords, Baronets, and Persons of gentility, Paid twenty guineas for the dedications; This practice was attended with utility; The patrons lived to future generations, The poets lived by their industrious earning,-- So men alive and dead could live by Learning.
"Then twenty guineas was a little fortune; Now, we must starve unless the times should mend: Our poets now-a-days are deemed importune If their addresses are diffusely penned; Most fashionable authors make a short one To their own wife, or child, or private friend, To show their independence, I suppose; And that may do for Gentlemen like those.
"Lastly, the common people I beseech-- Dear People! if you think my verses clever, Preserve with care your noble parts of speech, And take it as a maxim to endeavour To talk as your good mothers used to teach, And then these lines of mine may last for ever; And don't confound the language of the nation With long-tailed words in _osity_ and _ation_."
Canto I. stanzas i.-vi.]
[193] {156}[For some admirable stanzas in the metre and style of _Beppo_, by W.S. Rose, who passed the winter of 1817-18 in Venice, and who sent them to Byron from Albaro in the spring of 1818, see _Letters_, 1900 iv. 211-214, note 1.]
[194] {159}[The MS. of _Beppo_, in Byron's handwriting, is now in the possession of Captain the Hon. F. L. King Noel. It is dated October 10, 1817.]
[195] [The use of "persuasion" as a synonime for "religion," is, perhaps, of American descent. Thomas Jefferson, in his first inaugural address as President of U.S.A., speaks "of whatever state or persuasion, political or religious." At the beginning of the nineteenth century theological niceties were not regarded, and the great gulph between a religion and a sect or party was imperfectly discerned. Hence the solecism.]
[196] [Compare the lines which Byron enclosed in a letter to Moore, dated December 24, 1816 (_Letters_, 1900, iv. 30)--
"But the Carnival's coming, Oh Thomas Moore, * * * * * Masking and humming, Fifing and drumming, Guitarring and strumming, Oh Thomas Moore."]
[197] {160}[Monmouth Street, now absorbed in Shaftesbury Avenue (west side), was noted throughout the eighteenth century for the sale of second-hand clothes. Compare--
"Thames Street gives cheeses, Covent Garden fruits, Moorfields old books, and Monmouth Street old suits."
Gay's _Trivia_, ii. 547, 548.
Rag Fair or Rosemary Lane, now Royal Mint Street, was the Monmouth Street of the City. Compare--
"Where wave the tattered ensigns of Rag Fair."
Pope's _Dunciad_, i. 29, _var_.
The Arcade, or "Piazza," so called, which was built by Inigo Jones in 1652, ran along the whole of the north and east sides of the _Piazza_ or Square of Covent Garden. The Arcade on the north side is still described as the "Piazzas."--_London Past and Present_, by H. B. Wheatley, 1891, i. 461, ii. 554, iii. 145.]
[198] {162}["At Florence I remained but a day.... What struck me most was ... the mistress of Titian, a portrait; a Venus of Titian in the Medici Gallery ..."--Letter to Murray, April 27, 1817, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 113. Compare, too, _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza xlix. line i, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 365, note 2.]
[199] ["I know nothing of pictures myself, and care almost as little: but to me there are none like the Venetian--above all, Giorgione. I remember well his Judgment of Solomon in the Mareschalchi Gallery [in the Via Delle Asse, formerly celebrated for its pictures] in Bologna."--Letter to William Bankes, February 26, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 411.]
[200] ["I also went over the Manfrini Palace, famous for its pictures. Among them, there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian [now in the possession of the Earl of Rosebery], surpassing all my anticipations of the power of painting or human expression: it is the poetry of portrait, and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of some learned lady, centuries old, whose name I forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw greater beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom:--it is the kind of face to go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame.... What struck me most in the general collection was the extreme resemblance of the style of the female faces in the mass of pictures, so many centuries or generations old, to those you see and meet every day amongst the existing Italians. The Queen of Cyprus and Giorgione's wife, particularly the latter, are Venetians as it were of yesterday; the same eyes and expression, and, to my mind, there is none finer,"--Letter to Murray, April 14, 1817, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 105. The picture which caught Byron's fancy was the so-called _Famiglia di Giorgione_, which was removed from the Manfrini Palace in 1856, and is now in the Palazzo Giovanelli. It represents "an almost nude woman, probably a gipsy, seated with a child in her lap, and a standing warrior gazing upon her, a storm breaking over the landscape."--_Handbook of Painting_, by Austen H. Layard, 1891, part ii. p. 553.]
[201] {163}[According to Vasari and others, Giorgione (Giorgio Barbarelli, b. 1478) was never married. He died of the plague, A.D. 1511.]
[202] {164} "Quæ septem dici, sex tanien esse solent."--Ovid., [_Fastorum_, lib. iv. line 170.]
[202A] [Carlo Goldoni (1707-1793). His play, _Belisarius_, was first performed November 24, 1734; _Le Bourru Bienfaisant_, November 4, 1771. _La Bottega del Caffé_, _La Locandiera, etc_., still hold the stage. His _Mémoires_ were published in 1787.]
[202B] ["Look to't: * * * * * In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown."
_Othello_, act iii. sc. 3, lines 206-208.]
[203] {165}[Compare--
"An English lady asked of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing, some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called 'Cavalier Servente,' a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art. The dame, pressed to disclose them, Said--'Lady, I beseech you to _suppose them_.'"
_Don Juan_, Canto IX. stanza li.
A critic, in the _Monthly Review_ (March, 1818, vol. lxxxv. p. 286), took Byron to task for omitting the _e_ in _Cavaliere_. In a letter to Murray, April 17, 1818, he shows that he is right, and takes his revenge on the editor (George Edward) Griffiths, and his "scribbler Mr. Hodgson."--_Letters_, 1900, iv. 226.]
[204] ["An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of the bridge, but of the island from which it is called; and the Venetians say, _Il ponti di Rialto_, as we say Westminster Bridge. In that island is the Exchange; and I have often walked there as on classic ground.... 'I Sopportichi,' says Sansovino, writing in 1580 [_Venetia_, 1581, p. 134], 'sono ogni giorno frequentati da i mercatanti Fiorentini, Genovesi, Milanesi, Spagnuoli, Turchi, e d'altre nationi diverse del mondo, i quali vi concorrono in tanta copia, che questa piazza è annoverata fra le prime dell' universo.' It was there that the Christian held discourse with the Jew; and Shylock refers to it when he says--
"'Signer Antonio, many a time and oft, In the Rialto you have rated me.'
'Andiamo a Rialto,'--' L'ora di Rialto,' were on every tongue; and continue so to the present day, as we learn from the Comedies of Goldoni, and particularly from his _Mercanti_."--Note to the _Brides of Venice_, Poems, by Samuel Rogers, 1852, ii. 88, 89. See, too, _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza iv. line 6, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 331.]
[205] {166}[Compare "At the epoch called a certain age she found herself an old maid."--Jane Porter, _Thaddeus of Warsaw_ (1803), cap. xxxviii. (See _N. Eng. Dict_., art. "Certain.")
Ugo Foscolo, in his article in the _Quarterly Review_, April, 1819, vol. xxi. pp. 486-556, quotes these lines in illustration of a stanza from Forteguerri's _Ricciardetto_, iv. 2--
Quando si giugne ad una certa età, Ch'io non voglio descrivervi qual è," etc.]
[206] {167}[A clean bill of health after quarantine. Howell spells the word "pratic," and Milton "pratticke."]
[207] Beppo is the "Joe" of the Italian Joseph.
[208] {168}["The general state of morals here is much the same as in the Doges' time; a woman is virtuous (according to the code) who limits herself to her husband and one lover; those who have two, three, or more, are a little wild; but it is only those who are indiscriminately diffuse, and form a low connection ... who are considered as over-stepping the modesty of marriage.... There is no convincing a woman here, that she is in the smallest degree deviating from the rule of right, or the fitness of things, in having an _Amoroso._"--Letter to Murray, January 2, 1817, _Letters,_ 1900, iv. 40, 41.]
[bk] {169}
_A Count of wealth inferior to his quality,_ _Which somewhat limited his liberality_.--[MS.]
[209]["Some of the Italians liked him [a famous improvisatore], others called his performance '_seccatura_' (a devilish good word, by the way), and all Milan was in controversy about him."--Letter to Moore, November 6, 1816, _Letters_, 1899, iii. 384.]
[210] {170}[The saying, "Il n'y a point de héros pour son valet de chambre," is attributed to Maréchal (Nicholas) Catinat (1637-1712). His biographer speaks of presenting "_le héros en déshabillé_." (See his _Mémoires_, 1819, ii. 118.)]
[211] {171}[The origin of the word is obscure. According to the _Vocab. della Crusca_, "cicisbeo" is an inversion of "bel cece," beautiful chick (pea). Pasqualino, cited by Diez, says it is derived from the French _chiche beau_.--_N. Eng. Dict._, art. "Cicisbeo."]
[212] Cortejo is pronounced Corte_h_o, with an aspirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there is as yet no precise name for in England, though the practice is as common as in any tramontane country whatever.
[213] [Stanzas xxxviii., xxxix., are not in the original MS.]
[214] {172}[For the association of bread and butter with immaturity, compare, "Ye bread-and-butter rogues, do ye run from me?" (Beaumont and Fletcher, _The Humorous Lieutenant_, act iii. sc. 7). (See _N. Eng. Dict._, art. "Bread.")]
[215] {173}[Compare--
" ... the Tuscan's siren tongue? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech?"
_Childe Harold,_ Canto IV. stanza lviii. lines 4-6, _Poetical Works,_ 1899, ii. 374, note i.]
[216] _Sattin,_ eh? Query, I can't spell it.--[MS.]
[bl] _From the tall peasant with her ruddy bronze_.--[MS.]
[bm] _Like her own clime, all sun, and bloom, and skies_.--[MS.]
[217] {174}[For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's death, see his Lives. "Fidem matrimonii quidem dederat nepti cuidam Cardinal. Bibiani, sed partim Cardinalatûs spe lactatus partim pro seculi locique more, Romæ enim plerumque vixit, vagis amoribus delectatus, morbo hinc contracto, obiit A.C. 1520, ætat. 37."--Art. "Raphael," _apud_ Hofmann, _Lexicon Universale_. It would seem that Raphael was betrothed to Maria, daughter of Antonio Divizio da Bibiena, the nephew of Cardinal Bibiena (see his letter to his uncle Simone di Battista di Ciarla da Urbino, dated July 1, 1514), and it is a fact that a girl named Margarita, supposed to be his mistress, is mentioned in his will. But the "causes of his death," April 6, 1520, were a delicate constitution, overwork, and a malarial fever, caught during his researches among the ruins of ancient Rome" (_Raphael of Urbino_, by J. D. Passavant, 1872, pp. 140, 196, 197. See, too, _Raphael_, by E. Muntz, 1888).]
[218] [Compare the lines enclosed in a letter to Murray, dated November 25, 1816--
"In this belovéd marble view, Above the works and thoughts of man, What Nature _could_ but _would not_ do, And Beauty and Canova can."]
[219]
["(In talking thus, the writer, more especially Of women, would be understood to say, He speaks as a Spectator, not officially, And always, Reader, in a modest way; Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he Appear to have offended in this lay, Since, as all know, without the Sex, our Sonnets Would seem unfinished, like their untrimmed bonnets.) "(Signed) Printer's Devil."]
[220] [_The Task_, by William Cowper, ii. 206. Compare _The Farewell_, line 27, by Charles Churchill--
"Be England what she will, With all her faults, she is my Country still."]
[221] {175}[The allusion is to Gally Knight's _Ilderim,_ a Syrian Tale. See, too, Letter to Moore, March 25, 1817, _Letters,_ 1900, iv. 78: "Talking of tail, I wish you had not called it [_Lalla Rookh_] a '_Persian Tale_.' Say a 'Poem,' or 'Romance,' but not 'Tale.' I am very sorry that I called some of my own things 'Tales.' ... Besides, we have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turkish, and Assyrian Tales." _Beppo_, it must be remembered, was published anonymously, and in the concluding lines of the stanza the satire is probably directed against his own "Tales."]
[222] {176}["The expressions '_blue-stocking_' and '_dandy_' may furnish matter for the learning of a commentator at some future period. At this moment every English reader will understand them. Our present ephemeral dandy is akin to the maccaroni of my earlier days. The first of these expressions has become classical, by Mrs. Hannah More's poem of '_Bas-Bleu_' and the other by the use of it in one of Lord Byron's poems. Though now become familiar and rather trite, their day may not be long.
' ... Cadentque Quæ nunc sunt in honore vocabula.'"
--Translation of Forteguerri's _Ricciardetto_, by Lord Glenbervie, 1822 (note to stanza v.).
Compare, too, a memorandum of 1820. "I liked the Dandies; they were always very civil to _me_, though in general they disliked literary people ... The truth is, that, though I gave up the business early, I had a tinge of Dandyism in my minority, and probably retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at four-and-twenty."--_Letters_, 1901, v. 423.]
[223] {177}[The _Morning Chronicle_ of June 17, 1817, reports at length "Mrs. Boehm's Grand Masquerade." "On Monday evening this distinguished lady of the _haut ton_ gave a splendid masquerade at her residence in St. James's Square." "The Dukes of Gloucester, Wellington, etc., were present in plain dress. Among the dominoes were the Duke and Duchess of Grafton, etc." Lady Caroline Lamb was among the guests.]
[224] {178}[The reference is, probably, to the _Repository of Arts, Literature, Commerce, Manufactures, Fashions, and Politics_ (1809-1829), which was illustrated by coloured plates of dresses, "artistic" furniture, Gothic cottages, park lodges, etc.]
[225] [For "Ridotto," see Letter to Moore, January 28, 1817, _Letters,_ 1900, iv. 49, note 1.]
[bn] _Of Imited_ (_sic_) _Imitations, how soon! how._--[MS.]
[226] ["When Brummell was obliged ... to retire to France, he knew no French; and having obtained a Grammar for the purposes of study, our friend Scrope Davies was asked what progress Brummell had made in French ... he responded, 'that Brummell had been stopped, like Buonaparte in Russia, by the _Elements_.' I have put this pun into _Beppo,_ which is 'a fair exchange and no robbery;' for Scrope made his fortune at several dinners (as he owned himself), by repeating occasionally, as his own, some of the buffooneries with which I had encountered him in the Morning."--_Detached Thoughts_, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 422, 423.]
[227] ["Like Sylla, I have always believed that all things depend upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. I am not aware of any one thought or action, worthy of being called good to myself or others, which is not to be attributed to the Good Goddess--Fortune!"--_Ibid_., p. 451.]
[228] "January 19th, 1818. To-morrow will be a Sunday, and full Ridotto."--[MS.]
[bo] {181} ----_philoguny,_--[MS.]
[229] {182}[Botherby is, of course, Sotheby. In the _English Bards_ (line 818) he is bracketed with Gifford and Macneil _honoris causti,_ but at this time (1817-18) Byron was "against" Sotheby, under the impression that he had sent him "an anonymous note ... accompanying a copy of the _Castle of Chillon,_ etc. [_sic_]." Sotheby affirmed that he had not written the note, but Byron, while formally accepting the disclaimer, refers to the firmness of his "former persuasion," and renews the attack with increased bitterness. "As to _Beppo,_ I will not alter or suppress a syllable for any man's pleasure but my own. If there are resemblances between Botherby and Sotheby, or Sotheby and Botherby, the fault is not mine, but in the person who resembles,--or the persons who trace a resemblance. _Who_ find out this resemblance? Mr. S.'s _friends._ _Who_ go about moaning over him and laughing? Mr. S.'s _friends"_ (Letters to Murray, April 17, 23, 1818, _Letters,_ 1900, iv. 226-230). A writer of satires is of necessity satirical, and Sotheby, like "Wordswords and Co.," made excellent "copy." If he had not written the "anonymous note," he was, from Byron's point of view, ridiculous and a bore, and "ready to hand" to be tossed up in rhyme as _Botherby._ (For a brief account of Sotheby, see _Poetical Works,_ i. 362, note 2.)]
[bp] {183}_Gorging the slightest slice of Flattery raw_.--[MS. in a letter to Murray, April 11, 1818, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 218.]
[230] {184}[So, too, elsewhere. Wordsworth and Coleridge had depreciated Voltaire, and Byron, _en revanche_, contrasts the "tea-drinking neutrality of morals" of the _school_, i.e. the Lake poets, with "their convenient treachery in politics" (see _Letters,_ 1901, v. 600).]
[231] {184}["Lady Byron," her husband wrote, "would have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge." Compare--
"Her favourite science was the mathematical."
_Don Juan,_ Canto I. stanza xii. line 1.]
[232] {185}[Stanza lxxx. is not in the original MS.]
[bq] {186}_Sate Laura with a kind of comic horror_.--[MS.]
[233] {189}[Cap Bon, or Ras Adden, is the northernmost point of Tunis.]
ODE ON VENICE
ODE ON VENICE[234]
I.
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do?--anything but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers--as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, 10 That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. Oh! agony--that centuries should reap No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years[235] Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears; And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; And even the Lion all subdued appears,[236] And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 20 With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy Tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song, That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas[237]--and to the busy hum Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 30 Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoftened terrors, And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere Death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 40 Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; And then he talks of Life, and how again He feels his spirit soaring--albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy 50 Chamber swims round and round--and shadows busy, At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth.[238]
II.
There is no hope for nations!--Search the page Of many thousand years--the daily scene, The flow and ebb of each recurring age, The everlasting _to be_ which _hath been_, Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean 60 On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air; For't is our nature strikes us down: the beasts Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order--they must go Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return? A heritage of servitude and woes, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 70 What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,[239] O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And deem this proof of loyalty the _real_; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your Sires have left you, all that Time Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Spring from a different theme!--Ye see and read, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! Save the few spirits who, despite of all, 80 And worse than all, the sudden crimes engendered By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tendered, Gushing from Freedom's fountains--when the crowd,[240] Maddened with centuries of drought, are loud, And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore,--in which long yoked they ploughed The sand,--or if there sprung the yellow grain, 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bowed, 90 And their dead palates chewed the cud of pain:-- Yes! the few spirits--who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations--fair, when free-- For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee! 100
III.
Glory and Empire! once upon these towers[241] With Freedom--godlike Triad! how you sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit--in her fate All were enwrapped: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled--with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;--even her crimes 110 Were of the softer order, born of Love-- She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead, But gladdened where her harmless conquests spread; For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallowed her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,[242] Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles; 120 Yet she but shares with them a common woe, And called the "kingdom"[243] of a conquering foe,-- But knows what all--and, most of all, _we_ know-- With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
IV.
The name of Commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;[244] If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, 130 For Tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean[245] Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeathed--a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a Monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 140 Full of the magic of exploded science-- Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquered and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!--She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,[246] May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earned with blood.--Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 150 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Dammed like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering:--better be Where the extinguished Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh,--or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee![247] 160
FOOTNOTES:
[234] {193}[The _Ode on Venice_ (originally _Ode_) was completed by July 10, 1818 (_Letters_, 1900, iv. 245), but was published at the same time as _Mazeppa_ and _A Fragment_, June 28, 1819. The _motif_, a lamentation over the decay and degradation of Venice, re-echoes the sentiments expressed in the opening stanzas (i.-xix.) of the Fourth Canto of _Childe Harold_. A realistic description of the "Hour of Death" (lines 37-55), and a eulogy of the United States of America (lines 133-160), give distinction to the _Ode_.]
[235] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza xiii. lines 4-6.]
[236] [Compare _ibid._, stanza xi. lines 5-9.]
[237] {194}[Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza iii lines 1-4.]
[238] [Compare _The Prisoner of Chillon_, line 178, note 2, _vide ante_, p. 21.]
[239] {195}[In contrasting Sheridan with Brougham, Byron speaks of "the red-hot ploughshares of public life."--_Diary_, March 10, 1814, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 397.]
[240] [Compare--
"At last it [the mob] takes to weapons such as men Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. Then comes 'the tug of war;'--'t will come again, I rather doubt; and I would fain say 'fie on't,' If I had not perceived that revolution Alone can save the earth from Hell's pollution."
_Don Juan_, Canto VIII. stanza li. lines 3-8.]
[241] {196}[Compare Lord Tennyson's stanzas--
"Of old sat Freedom on the heights."]
[242] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza xiv. line 3, note 1, and line 6, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 339, 340.]
[243] {197}[In 1814 the Italian possessions of the Emperor of Austria were "constituted into separate and particular states, under the title of the kingdom of Venetian Lombardy."--Koch's _Europe_, p. 234.]
[244] [The Prince of Orange ... was proclaimed Sovereign Prince of the Low Countries, December 1, 1813; and in the following year, August 13, 1814, on the condition that he should make a part of the Germanic Confederation, he received the title of King of the Netherlands.-_Ibid_., p. 233.]
[245] [Compare "Oceano dissociabili," Hor., _Odes_, I. iii 22.]
[246] [In October, 1812, the American sloop _Wasp_ captured the English brig _Frolic_; and December 29, 1812, the _Constitution_ compelled the frigate _Java_ to surrender. In the following year, February 24, 1813, the _Hornet_ met the _Peacock_ off the Demerara, and reduced her in fifteen minutes to a sinking condition. On June 28, 1814, the sloop-of-war _Wasp_ captured and burned the sloop _Reindeer_, and on September 11, 1814, the _Confiance_, commanded by Commodore Downie, and other vessels surrendered."--_History of America_, by Justin Winsor, 1888, vii. 380, _seq_.]
[247] {198}[Byron repented, or feigned to repent, this somewhat provocative eulogy of the Great Republic: "Somebody has sent me some American abuse of _Mazeppa_ and 'the Ode;' in future I will compliment nothing but Canada, and desert to the English."--Letter to Murray, February 21, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 410. It is possible that the allusion is to an article, "Mazeppa and Don Juan," in the _Analectic Magazine_, November, 1819, vol. xiv, pp. 405-410.]
MAZEPPA.
INTRODUCTION TO _MAZEPPA_
_Mazeppa_, a legend of the Russian Ukraine, or frontier region, is based on the passage in Voltaire's _Charles XII_. prefixed as the "Advertisement" to the poem. Voltaire seems to have known very little about the man or his history, and Byron, though he draws largely on his imagination, was content to take his substratum of fact from Voltaire. The "true story of Mazeppa" is worth re-telling for its own sake, and lends a fresh interest and vitality to the legend. Ivan Stepanovitch Mazeppa (or Mazepa), born about the year 1645, was of Cossack origin, but appears to have belonged, by descent or creation, to the lesser nobility of the semi-Polish Volhynia. He began life (1660) as a page of honour in the Court of King John Casimir V. of Poland, where he studied Latin, and acquired the tongue and pen of eloquent statesmanship. Banished from the court on account of a quarrel, he withdrew to his mother's estate in Volhynia, and there, to beguile the time, made love to the wife of a neighbouring magnate, the _pane_ or Lord Falbowski. The intrigue was discovered, and to avenge his wrongs the outraged husband caused Mazeppa to be stripped to the skin, and bound to his own steed. The horse, lashed into madness, and terror-stricken by the discharge of a pistol, started off at a gallop, and rushing "thorough bush, thorough briar," carried his torn and bleeding rider into the courtyard of his own mansion!
With regard to the sequel or issue of this episode, history is silent, but when the curtain rises again (A.D. 1674) Mazeppa is discovered in the character of writer-general or foreign secretary to Peter Doroshénko, hetman or president of the Western Ukraine, on the hither side of the Dniéper. From the service of Doroshénko, who came to an untimely end, he passed by a series of accidents into the employ of his rival, Samoïlovitch, hetman of the Eastern Ukraine, and, as his secretary or envoy, continued to attract the notice and to conciliate the good will of the (regent) Tzarina Sophia and her eminent _boyard_, Prince Basil Golitsyn. A time came (1687) when it served the interests of Russia to degrade Samoïlovitch, and raise Mazeppa to the post of hetman, and thenceforward, for twenty years and more, he held something like a regal sway over the whole of the Ukraine (a fertile "no-man's land," watered by the Dniéper and its tributaries), openly the loyal and zealous ally of his neighbour and suzerain, Peter the Great.
How far this allegiance was genuine, or whether a secret preference for Poland, the land of his adoption, or a long-concealed impatience of Muscovite suzerainty would in any case have urged him to revolt, must remain doubtful, but it is certain that the immediate cause of a final reversal of the allegiance and a break with the Tsar was a second and still more fateful _affaire du coeur_. The hetman was upwards of sixty years of age, but, even so, he fell in love with his god-daughter, Matréna, who, in spite of difference of age and ecclesiastical kinship, not only returned his love, but, to escape the upbraidings and persecution of her mother, took refuge under his roof. Mazeppa sent the girl back to her home, but, as his love-letters testify, continued to woo her with the tenderest and most passionate solicitings; and, although she finally yielded to _force majeure_ and married another suitor, her parents nursed their revenge, and endeavoured to embroil the hetman with the Tsar. For a time their machinations failed, and Matréna's father, Kotchúbey, together with his friend Iskra, were executed with the Tsar's assent and approbation. Before long, however, Mazeppa, who had been for some time past in secret correspondence with the Swedes, signalized his defection from Peter by offering his services first to Stanislaus of Poland, and afterwards to Charles XII. of Sweden, who was meditating the invasion of Russia.
"Pultowa's day," July 8, 1709, was the last of Mazeppa's power and influence, and in the following year (March 31, 1710), "he died of old age, perhaps of a broken heart," at Várnitza, a village near Bender, on the Dniester, whither he had accompanied the vanquished and fugitive Charles.
Such was Mazeppa, a man destined to pass through the crowded scenes of history, and to take his stand among the greater heroes of romance. His deeds of daring, his intrigues and his treachery, have been and still are sung by the wandering minstrels of the Ukraine. His story has passed into literature. His ride forms the subject of an _Orientale_ (1829) by Victor Hugo, who treats Byron's theme symbolically; and the romance of his old age, his love for his god-daughter Matréna, with its tragical issue, the judicial murder of Kotchúbey and Iskra, are celebrated by the "Russian Byron" Pushkin, in his poem _Poltava_. He forms the subject of a novel, _Iwan Wizigin_, by Bulgarin, 1830, and of tragedies by I. Slowacki, 1840, and Rudolph von Gottschall. From literature Mazeppa has passed into art in the "symphonic poem" of Franz Lizt (1857); and, yet again, _pour comble de gloire_, _Mazeppa, or The Wild Horse of Tartary_, is the title of a "romantic drama," first played at the Royal Amphitheatre, Westminster Bridge, on Easter Monday, 1831; and revived at Astley's Theatre, when Adah Isaacs Menken appeared as "Mazeppa," October 3, 1864. (_Peter the Great_, by Eugene Schuyler, 1884, ii. 115, _seq_.; _Le Fils de Pierre Le Grand, Mazeppa, etc_., by Viscount E. Melchior de Vogüé, Paris, 1884; _Peter the Great_, by Oscar Browning, 1899, pp. 219-229.)
Of the composition of Mazeppa we know nothing, except that on September 24, 1818, "it was still to finish" (_Letters_, 1900, iv. 264). It was published together with an _Ode_ (_Venice: An Ode_) and _A Fragment_ (see _Letters_, 1899, iii. Appendix IV. pp. 446-453), June 28, 1819.
Notices of _Mazeppa_ appeared in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, July, 1819, vol. v. p. 429 (for _John Gilpin_ and _Mazeppa_, by William Maginn, _vide ibid_., pp. 434-439); the _Monthly Review_, July, 1819, vol. 89, pp. 309-321; and the _Eclectic Review_, August, 1819, vol. xii. pp. 147-156.
ADVERTISEMENT.
"Celui qui remplissait alors cette place était un gentilhomme Polonais, nominé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Podolie: il avait été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris à sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été découverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était du pays de l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supériorité de ses lumières lui donna une grande considération parmi les Cosaques: sa réputation s'augmentant de jour en jour, obligea le Czar à le faire Prince de l'Ukraine."--Voltaire, _Hist. de Charles XII_., 1772, p. 205.
"Le roi, fuyant et poursuivi, eut son cheval tué sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois à cheval, dans la fuite,[br] ce conquérant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant la bataille."--p. 222.
"Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse, où il était, rompit dans la marche; on le remit à cheval. Pour comble de disgrâce, il s'égara pendant la nuit dans un bois; là, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer, à ses forces épuisées, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'être surpris à tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tous côtés."--p. 224.
MAZEPPA
I.
'Twas after dread Pultowa's day,[248] When Fortune left the royal Swede-- Around a slaughtered army lay, No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had passed to the triumphant Czar, And Moscow's walls were safe again-- Until a day more dark and drear,[249] And a more memorable year, 10 Should give to slaughter and to shame A mightier host and haughtier name; A greater wreck, a deeper fall, A shock to one--a thunderbolt to all.
II.
Such was the hazard of the die; The wounded Charles was taught to fly[250] By day and night through field and flood, Stained with his own and subjects' blood; For thousands fell that flight to aid: And not a voice was heard to upbraid 20 Ambition in his humbled hour, When Truth had nought to dread from Power. His horse was slain, and Gieta gave His own--and died the Russians' slave. This, too, sinks after many a league Of well-sustained, but vain fatigue; And in the depth of forests darkling, The watch-fires in the distance sparkling-- The beacons of surrounding foes-- A King must lay his limbs at length. 30 Are these the laurels and repose For which the nations strain their strength? They laid him by a savage tree,[251] In outworn Nature's agony; His wounds were stiff, his limbs were stark; The heavy hour was chill and dark; The fever in his blood forbade A transient slumber's fitful aid: And thus it was; but yet through all, Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 40 And made, in this extreme of ill, His pangs the vassals of his will: All silent and subdued were they. As once the nations round him lay.
III.
A band of chiefs!--alas! how few, Since but the fleeting of a day Had thinned it; but this wreck was true And chivalrous: upon the clay Each sate him down, all sad and mute, Beside his monarch and his steed; 50 For danger levels man and brute, And all are fellows in their need. Among the rest, Mazeppa made[252] His pillow in an old oak's shade-- Himself as rough, and scarce less old, The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold; But first, outspent with this long course, The Cossack prince rubbed down his horse, And made for him a leafy bed, And smoothed his fetlocks and his mane, 60 And slacked his girth, and stripped his rein, And joyed to see how well he fed; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews: But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board; But spirited and docile too, Whate'er was to be done, would do. Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 70 All Tartar-like he carried him; Obeyed his voice, and came to call, And knew him in the midst of all: Though thousands were around,--and Night, Without a star, pursued her flight,-- That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn.
IV.
This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, And laid his lance beneath his oak, Felt if his arms in order good 80 The long day's march had well withstood-- If still the powder filled the pan, And flints unloosened kept their lock-- His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, And whether they had chafed his belt; And next the venerable man, From out his havresack and can, Prepared and spread his slender stock; And to the Monarch and his men The whole or portion offered then 90 With far less of inquietude Than courtiers at a banquet would. And Charles of this his slender share With smiles partook a moment there, To force of cheer a greater show, And seem above both wounds and woe;-- And then he said--"Of all our band, Though firm of heart and strong of hand, In skirmish, march, or forage, none Can less have said or more have done 100 Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth So fit a pair had never birth, Since Alexander's days till now, As thy Bucephalus and thou: All Scythia's fame to thine should yield For pricking on o'er flood and field." Mazeppa answered--"Ill betide The school wherein I learned to ride!" Quoth Charles--"Old Hetman, wherefore so, Since thou hast learned the art so well?" 110 Mazeppa said--"'Twere long to tell; And we have many a league to go, With every now and then a blow, And ten to one at least the foe, Before our steeds may graze at ease, Beyond the swift Borysthenes:[253] And, Sire, your limbs have need of rest, And I will be the sentinel Of this your troop."--"But I request," Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell 120 This tale of thine, and I may reap, Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; For at this moment from my eyes The hope of present slumber flies."
"Well, Sire, with such a hope, I'll track My seventy years of memory back: I think 'twas in my twentieth spring,-- Aye 'twas,--when Casimir was king[254]-- John Casimir,--I was his page Six summers, in my earlier age:[255] 130 A learnéd monarch, faith! was he, And most unlike your Majesty; He made no wars, and did not gain New realms to lose them back again; And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) He reigned in most unseemly quiet; Not that he had no cares to vex; He loved the Muses and the Sex;[256] And sometimes these so froward are, They made him wish himself at war; 140 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took Another mistress--or new book: And then he gave prodigious fetes-- All Warsaw gathered round his gates To gaze upon his splendid court, And dames, and chiefs, of princely port. He was the Polish Solomon, So sung his poets, all but one, Who, being unpensioned, made a satire, And boasted that he could not flatter. 150 It was a court of jousts and mimes, Where every courtier tried at rhymes; Even I for once produced some verses, And signed my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.' There was a certain Palatine,[257] A Count of far and high descent, Rich as a salt or silver mine;[258] And he was proud, ye may divine, As if from Heaven he had been sent; He had such wealth in blood and ore 160 As few could match beneath the throne; And he would gaze upon his store, And o'er his pedigree would pore, Until by some confusion led, Which almost looked like want of head, He thought their merits were his own. His wife was not of this opinion; His junior she by thirty years, Grew daily tired of his dominion; And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 170 To Virtue a few farewell tears, A restless dream or two--some glances At Warsaw's youth--some songs, and dances, Awaited but the usual chances, Those happy accidents which render The coldest dames so very tender, To deck her Count with titles given, 'Tis said, as passports into Heaven; But, strange to say, they rarely boast Of these, who have deserved them most. 180
V.
"I was a goodly stripling then; At seventy years I so may say, That there were few, or boys or men, Who, in my dawning time of day, Of vassal or of knight's degree, Could vie in vanities with me; For I had strength--youth--gaiety, A port, not like to this ye see, But smooth, as all is rugged now; For Time, and Care, and War, have ploughed 190 My very soul from out my brow; And thus I should be disavowed By all my kind and kin, could they Compare my day and yesterday; This change was wrought, too, long ere age Had ta'en my features for his page: With years, ye know, have not declined My strength--my courage--or my mind, Or at this hour I should not be Telling old tales beneath a tree, 200 With starless skies my canopy. But let me on: Theresa's[259] form-- Methinks it glides before me now, Between me and yon chestnut's bough, The memory is so quick and warm; And yet I find no words to tell The shape of her I loved so well: She had the Asiatic eye, Such as our Turkish neighbourhood Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 210 Dark as above us is the sky; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight; Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, Which seemed to melt to its own beam; All love, half languor, and half fire, Like saints that at the stake expire, And lift their raptured looks on high, As though it were a joy to die.[bs] A brow like a midsummer lake, 220 Transparent with the sun therein, When waves no murmur dare to make, And heaven beholds her face within. A cheek and lip--but why proceed? I loved her then, I love her still; And such as I am, love indeed In fierce extremes--in good and ill. But still we love even in our rage, And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past,-- 230 As is Mazeppa to the last.
VI.
"We met--we gazed--I saw, and sighed; She did not speak, and yet replied; There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines-- Involuntary sparks of thought, Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, And form a strange intelligence, Alike mysterious and intense, Which link the burning chain that binds, 240 Without their will, young hearts and minds; Conveying, as the electric[260] wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire. I saw, and sighed--in silence wept, And still reluctant distance kept, Until I was made known to her, And we might then and there confer Without suspicion--then, even then, I longed, and was resolved to speak; But on my lips they died again, 250 The accents tremulous and weak, Until one hour.--There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the day; It is--I have forgot the name-- And we to this, it seems, were set, By some strange chance, which I forget: I recked not if I won or lost, It was enough for me to be So near to hear, and oh! to see 260 The being whom I loved the most. I watched her as a sentinel, (May ours this dark night watch as well!) Until I saw, and thus it was, That she was pensive, nor perceived Her occupation, nor was grieved Nor glad to lose or gain; but still Played on for hours, as if her will Yet bound her to the place, though not That hers might be the winning lot[bt]. 270 Then through my brain the thought did pass, Even as a flash of lightning there, That there was something in her air Which would not doom me to despair; And on the thought my words broke forth, All incoherent as they were; Their eloquence was little worth, But yet she listened--'tis enough-- Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice-- 280 And one refusal no rebuff.
VII.
"I loved, and was beloved again-- They tell me, Sire, you never knew Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, I shorten all my joy or pain; To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; But all men are not born to reign, Or o'er their passions, or as you Thus o'er themselves and nations too. I am--or rather _was_--a Prince, 290 A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on where each would foremost bleed; But could not o'er myself evince The like control--But to resume: I loved, and was beloved again; In sooth, it is a happy doom, But yet where happiest ends in pain.-- We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to that lady's bower Was fiery Expectation's dower. 300 My days and nights were nothing--all Except that hour which doth recall, In the long lapse from youth to age, No other like itself: I'd give The Ukraine back again to live It o'er once more, and be a page, The happy page, who was the lord Of one soft heart, and his own sword, And had no other gem nor wealth, Save Nature's gift of Youth and Health. 310 We met in secret--doubly sweet[261], Some say, they find it so to meet; I know not that--I would have given My life but to have called her mine In the full view of Earth and Heaven; For I did oft and long repine That we could only meet by stealth.
VIII.
"For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us; the Devil On such occasions should be civil-- 320 The Devil!--I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long, But to his pious bile gave vent-- But one fair night, some lurking spies Surprised and seized us both. The Count was something more than wroth-- I was unarmed; but if in steel, All cap-à-pie from head to heel, What 'gainst their numbers could I do? 330 'Twas near his castle, far away From city or from succour near, And almost on the break of day; I did not think to see another, My moments seemed reduced to few; And with one prayer to Mary Mother, And, it may be, a saint or two, As I resigned me to my fate, They led me to the castle gate: Theresa's doom I never knew, 340 Our lot was henceforth separate. An angry man, ye may opine, Was he, the proud Count Palatine; And he had reason good to be, But he was most enraged lest such An accident should chance to touch Upon his future pedigree; Nor less amazed, that such a blot His noble 'scutcheon should have got, While he was highest of his line; 350 Because unto himself he seemed The first of men, nor less he deemed In others' eyes, and most in mine. 'Sdeath! with a _page_--perchance a king Had reconciled him to the thing; But with a stripling of a page-- I felt--but cannot paint his rage.
IX.
"'Bring forth the horse!'--the horse was brought! In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 360 Who looked as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs; but he was wild, Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefiled-- 'Twas but a day he had been caught; And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led: They bound me on, that menial throng, Upon his back with many a thong; 370 They loosed him with a sudden lash-- Away!--away!--and on we dash!-- Torrents less rapid and less rash.
X.
"Away!--away!--My breath was gone, I saw not where he hurried on: 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on he foamed--away!--away! The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, 380 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout: With sudden wrath I wrenched my head, And snapped the cord, which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And, writhing half my form about, Howled back my curse; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 390 It vexes me--for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. I paid it well in after days: There is not of that castle gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, Stone--bar--moat--bridge--or barrier left; Nor of its fields a blade of grass, Save what grows on a ridge of wall, Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; And many a time ye there might pass, 400 Nor dream that e'er the fortress was. I saw its turrets in a blaze, Their crackling battlements all cleft, And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorched and blackening roof, Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launched, as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again, 410 With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They played me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank: At length I played them one as frank-- For Time at last sets all things even-- And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, 420 The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.
XI.
"Away!--away!--my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind! All human dwellings left behind, We sped like meteors through the sky, When with its crackling sound the night[262] Is chequered with the Northern light. Town--village--none were on our track, But a wild plain of far extent, 430 And bounded by a forest black[263]; And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some strong hold, Against the Tartars built of old, No trace of man. The year before A Turkish army had marched o'er; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, The verdure flies the bloody sod: The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, And a low breeze crept moaning by-- 440 I could have answered with a sigh-- But fast we fled,--away!--away!-- And I could neither sigh nor pray; And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane; But, snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career: At times I almost thought, indeed, He must have slackened in his speed; But no--my bound and slender frame 450 Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became: Each motion which I made to free My swoln limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright: I tried my voice,--'twas faint and low-- But yet he swerved as from a blow; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang: Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 460 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fierier far than flame.
XII.
"We neared the wild wood--'twas so wide, I saw no bounds on either side: 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste, And strips the forest in its haste,-- But these were few and far between, 470 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, Luxuriant with their annual leaves, Ere strown by those autumnal eyes That nip the forest's foliage dead, Discoloured with a lifeless red[bu], Which stands thereon like stiffened gore Upon the slain when battle's o'er; And some long winter's night hath shed Its frost o'er every tombless head-- So cold and stark--the raven's beak 480 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, The strong oak, and the hardy pine; But far apart--and well it were, Or else a different lot were mine-- The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs; and I found strength to bear My wounds, already scarred with cold; My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 490 We rustled through the leaves like wind,-- Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop, which can tire The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they followed on, Nor left us with the morning sun; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At day-break winding through the wood, 500 And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh! how I wished for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, And perish--if it must be so-- At bay, destroying many a foe! When first my courser's race begun, I wished the goal already won; But now I doubted strength and speed: Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 510 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe-- Nor faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewildered with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he passed-- Untired, untamed, and worse than wild-- All furious as a favoured child Balked of its wish; or--fiercer still-- A woman piqued--who has her will! 520
XIII.
"The wood was passed; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air, although in June; Or it might be my veins ran cold-- Prolonged endurance tames the bold; And I was then not what I seem, But headlong as a wintry stream, And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er: And what with fury, fear, and wrath, The tortures which beset my path-- 530 Cold--hunger--sorrow--shame--distress-- Thus bound in Nature's nakedness; Sprung from a race whose rising blood When stirred beyond its calmer mood, And trodden hard upon, is like The rattle-snake's, in act to strike-- What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk?[264] The earth gave way, the skies rolled round, I seemed to sink upon the ground; 540 But erred--for I was fastly bound. My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore, And throbbed awhile, then beat no more: The skies spun like a mighty wheel; I saw the trees like drunkards reel, And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, Which saw no farther. He who dies Can die no more than then I died, O'ertortured by that ghastly ride.[265] I felt the blackness come and go, 550 And strove to wake; but could not make My senses climb up from below: I felt as on a plank at sea, When all the waves that dash o'er thee, At the same time upheave and whelm, And hurl thee towards a desert realm. My undulating life was as The fancied lights that flitting pass Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when Fever begins upon the brain; 560 But soon it passed, with little pain, But a confusion worse than such: I own that I should deem it much, Dying, to feel the same again; And yet I do suppose we must Feel far more ere we turn to dust! No matter! I have bared my brow Full in Death's face--before--and now.
XIV.
"My thoughts came back. Where was I? Cold, And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 570 Life reassumed its lingering hold, And throb by throb,--till grown a pang Which for a moment would convulse, My blood reflowed, though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth noises rang, My heart began once more to thrill; My sight returned, though dim; alas! And thickened, as it were, with glass. Methought the dash of waves was nigh; There was a gleam too of the sky, 580 Studded with stars;--it is no dream; The wild horse swims the wilder stream! The bright broad river's gushing tide Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, And we are half-way, struggling o'er To yon unknown and silent shore. The waters broke my hollow trance, And with a temporary strength My stiffened limbs were rebaptized. My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 590 And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance! We reach the slippery shore at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear, And all before was night and fear. How many hours of night or day[266] In those suspended pangs I lay, I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew. 600
XV.
"With glossy skin, and dripping mane, And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank. We gain the top: a boundless plain Spreads through the shadow of the night, And onward, onward, onward--seems, Like precipices in our dreams,[267] To stretch beyond the sight; And here and there a speck of white, 610 Or scattered spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right: But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate The omen of a cottage gate; No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star; Not even an ignis-fatuus rose[268] To make him merry with my woes: 620 That very cheat had cheered me then! Although detected, welcome still, Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men.
XVI.
"Onward we went--but slack and slow; His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went: A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour! 630 But, useless all to me, His new-born tameness nought availed-- My limbs were bound; my force had failed, Perchance, had they been free. With feeble effort still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied, But still it was in vain; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolonged their pain. 640 The dizzy race seemed almost done, Although no goal was nearly won: Some streaks announced the coming sun-- How slow, alas! he came! Methought that mist of dawning gray Would never dapple into day, How heavily it rolled away! Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And called the radiance from their cars,[bv] 650 And filled the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own.
XVII.
"Uprose the sun; the mists were curled Back from the solitary world Which lay around--behind--before. What booted it to traverse o'er Plain--forest--river? Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil-- No sign of travel, none of toil-- 660 The very air was mute: And not an insect's shrill small horn,[269] Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a _werst,_ Panting as if his heart would burst, The weary brute still staggered on; And still we were--or seemed--alone: At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh, From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 670 Is it the wind those branches stirs?[270] No, no! from out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come! In one vast squadron they advance! I strove to cry--my lips were dumb! The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse, and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, 680 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet! The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, 690 He answered, and then fell! With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immoveable, His first and last career is done! On came the troop--they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong. They stop--they start--they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 700 Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed, Who seemed the Patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide; They snort--they foam--neigh--swerve aside, And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye. They left me there to my despair, Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, 710 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me--and there we lay, The dying on the dead! I little deemed another day Would see my houseless, helpless head.
"And there from morn to twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see 720 My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of, mind, That makes us feel at length resigned To that which our foreboding years Present the worst and last of fears: Inevitable--even a boon, Nor more unkind for coming soon, Yet shunned and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That Prudence might escape: 730 At times both wished for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes, And welcome in no shape. And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revelled beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer, oft than he Whose heritage was Misery. 740 For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future, (which is viewed Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve: The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distempered eyes, 750 Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; To-morrow would have given him power 760 To rule--to shine--to smite--to save-- And must it dawn upon his grave?
XVIII.
"The sun was sinking--still I lay Chained to the chill and stiffening steed! I thought to mingle there our clay;[271] And my dim eyes of death had need, No hope arose of being freed. I cast my last looks up the sky, And there between me and the sun[272] I saw the expecting raven fly, 770 Who scarce would wait till both should die, Ere his repast begun;[273] He flew, and perched, then flew once more, And each time nearer than before; I saw his wing through twilight flit, And once so near me he alit I could have smote, but lacked the strength; But the slight motion of my hand, And feeble scratching of the sand, The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 780 Which scarcely could be called a voice, Together scared him off at length. I know no more--my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fixed my dull eyes from afar, And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold--dull--swimming--dense Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath, 790 A little thrill--a short suspense, An icy sickness curdling o'er My heart, and sparks that crossed my brain-- A gasp--a throb--a start of pain, A sigh--and nothing more.
XIX.
"I woke--where was I?--Do I see A human face look down on me? And doth a roof above me close? Do these limbs on a couch repose? Is this a chamber where I lie? 800 And is it mortal yon bright eye, That watches me with gentle glance? I closed my own again once more, As doubtful that my former trance Could not as yet be o'er. A slender girl, long-haired, and tall, Sate watching by the cottage wall. The sparkle of her eye I caught, Even with my first return of thought; For ever and anon she threw 810 A prying, pitying glance on me With her black eyes so wild and free: I gazed, and gazed, until I knew No vision it could be,-- But that I lived, and was released From adding to the vulture's feast: And when the Cossack maid beheld My heavy eyes at length unsealed, She smiled--and I essayed to speak, But failed--and she approached, and made 820 With lip and finger signs that said, I must not strive as yet to break The silence, till my strength should be Enough to leave my accents free; And then her hand on mine she laid, And smoothed the pillow for my head, And stole along on tiptoe tread, And gently oped the door, and spake In whispers--ne'er was voice so sweet![274] Even music followed her light feet. 830 But those she called were not awake, And she went forth; but, ere she passed, Another look on me she cast, Another sign she made, to say, That I had nought to fear, that all Were near, at my command or call, And she would not delay Her due return:--while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone.
XX.
"She came with mother and with sire-- 840 What need of more?--I will not tire With long recital of the rest, Since I became the Cossack's guest. They found me senseless on the plain, They bore me to the nearest hut, They brought me into life again-- Me--one day o'er their realm to reign! Thus the vain fool who strove to glut His rage, refining on my pain, Sent me forth to the wilderness, 850 Bound--naked--bleeding--and alone, To pass the desert to a throne,-- What mortal his own doom may guess? Let none despond, let none despair! To-morrow the Borysthenes May see our coursers graze at ease Upon his Turkish bank,--and never Had I such welcome for a river As I shall yield when safely there.[275] Comrades, good night!"--The Hetman threw 860 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, With leafy couch already made-- A bed nor comfortless nor new To him, who took his rest whene'er The hour arrived, no matter where: His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. And if ye marvel Charles forgot To thank his tale, _he_ wondered not,-- The King had been an hour asleep!
FOOTNOTES:
[br] {205}_la suite_.--[MS. and First Edition.]
[248] {207}[The Battle of Poltáva on the Vórskla took place July 8, 1709. "The Swedish troops (under Rehnskjöld) numbered only 12,500 men.... The Russian army was four times as numerous.... The Swedes seemed at first to get the advantage, ... but everywhere the were overpowered and surrounded--beaten in detail; and though for two hours they fought with the fierceness of despair, they were forced either to surrender or to flee.... Over 2800 officers and men were taken prisoners."--_Peter the Great_, by Eugene Schuyler, 1884, ii. 148, 149.]
[249] [Napoleon began his retreat from Moscow, October 15, 1812. He was defeated at Vitepsk, November 14; Krasnoi, November 16-18; and at Beresina, November 25-29, 1812.]
[250] ["It happened ... that during the operations of June 27-28, Charles was severely wounded in the foot. On the morning of June 28 he was riding close to the river ... when a ball struck him on the left heel, passed through his foot, and lodged close to the great toe.... On the night of July 7, 1709 ... Charles had the foot carefully dressed, while he wore a spurred boot on his sound foot, put on his uniform, and placed himself on a kind of litter, in which he was drawn before the lines of the array.... [After the battle, July 8] those who survived took refuge in flight, the King--whose litter had been smashed by a cannon-ball, and who was carried by the soldiers on crossed poles--going with them, and the Russians neglecting to pursue. In this manner they reached their former camp."--_Charles XII._, by Oscar Browning, 1899, pp. 213, 220, 224, sq. For an account of his flight southwards into Turkish territory, _vide post_, p. 233, note 1. The bivouack "under a savage tree" must have taken place on the night of the battle, at the first halt, between Poltáva and the junction of the Vórskla and Dniéper.]
[251] {208}[Compare--
"Thus elms and thus the savage cherry grows."
Dryden's _Georgics_, ii. 24.]
[252] {209}[For some interesting particulars concerning the Hetman Mazeppa, see Barrow's _Memoir of the Life of Peter the Great_, 1832, pp. 181-202.]
[253] {211}[The Dniéper.]
[254] [John Casimir (1609-1672), Jesuit, cardinal, and king, was a Little-Polander, not to say a pro-Cossack, and suffered in consequence. At the time of his proclamation as King of Poland, November, 1649, Poland was threatened by an incursion of Cossacks. The immediate cause was, or was supposed to be, the ill treatment which [Bogdán Khmelnítzky] a Lithuanian had received at the hands of the Polish governor, Czaplinski. The governor, it was alleged, had carried off, ravished, and put to death Khmelnítzky's wife, and, not content with this outrage, had set fire to the house of the Cossack, "in which perished his infant son in his cradle." Others affirmed that the Cossack had begun the strife by causing the governor "to be publicly and ignominiously whipped," and that it was the Cossack's mill and not his house which he burnt. Be that as it may, Casimir, on being exhorted to take the field, declined, on the ground that the Poles "ought not to have set fire to Khmelnítzky's house." It is probably to this unpatriotic determination to look at both sides of the question that he earned the character of being an unwarlike prince. As a matter of fact, he fought and was victorious against the Cossacks and Tartars at Bereteskow and elsewhere. (See _Mod. Univ. Hist._, xxxiv. 203, 217; Puffend, _Hist. Gener._, 1732, iv. 328; and _Histoire des Kosaques_, par M. (Charles Louis) Le Sur, 1814, i. 321.)]
[255] [A.D. 1660 or thereabouts.]
[256] {212}[According to the editor of Voltaire's Works (_Oeuvres_, Beuchot, 1830, xix. 378, note 1), there was a report that Casimir, after his retirement to Paris in 1670, secretly married "_Marie Mignot, fille d'une blanchisseuse_;" and there are other tales of other loves, e.g. Ninon de Lenclos.]
[257] [According to the biographers, Mazeppa's intrigue took place after he had been banished from the court of Warsaw, and had retired to his estate in Volhynia. The _pane_ [Lord] Falbowsky, the old husband of the young wife, was a neighbouring magnate. It was a case of "love in idlenesse."--_Vide ante_, "The Introduction to _Mazeppa_," p. 201.]
[258] This comparison of a "_salt_ mine" may, perhaps, be permitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists greatly in the salt mines.
[259] {213}[It is improbable that Byron, when he wrote these lines, was thinking of Theresa Gamba, Countess Guiccioli. He met her for the first time "in the autumn of 1818, three days after her marriage," but it was not till April, 1819, that he made her acquaintance. (See _Life_, p. 393, and _Letters_, 1900, iv. 289.) The copy of _Mazeppa_ sent home to Murray is in the Countess Guiccioli's handwriting, but the assertion (see Byron's _Works_, 1832, xi. 178), that "it is impossible not to suspect that the Poet had some circumstances of his own personal history, when he portrayed the fair Polish _Theresa_, her faithful lover, and the jealous rage of the old Count Palatine," is open to question. It was Marianna Segati who had "large, black, Oriental eyes, with that peculiar expression in them which is seen rarely among _Europeans_ ... forehead remarkably good" (see lines 208-220); not Theresa Guiccioli, who was a "blonde," with a "brilliant complexion and blue eyes." (See Letters to Moore, November 17, 1816; and to Murray, May 6, 1819: _Letters_, 1900, iv. 8, 289, note 1.) Moreover, the "Maid of Athens" was called Theresa. Dr. D. Englaender, in his exhaustive monologue, _Lord Byron's Mazeppa_, pp. 48, sq., insists on the identity of the Theresa of the poem with the Countess Guiccioli, but from this contention the late Professor Kölbing (see _Englische Studien_, 1898, vol. xxiv. pp 448-458) dissents.]
[bs] {214}_Until it proves a joy to die_.--[MS. erased.]
[260] {215}[For the use of "electric" as a metaphor, compare _Parisina_, line 480, _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 524, note i.]
[bt] {216}
--_but not_ _For that which we had both forgot_.--[MS. erased.]
[261] {217}[Compare--
"We loved, Sir, used to meet: How sad, and bad, and mad it was! But then how it was sweet!"
_Confessions_, by Robert Browning.]
[262] {220}[Compare--
"In sleep I heard the northern gleams; ... In rustling conflict through the skies, I heard, I saw the flashes drive."
_The Complaint_, stanza i. lines 3, 5, 6.
See, too, reference to _Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay, etc_., in prefatory note, _Works_ of W. Wordsworth, 1889, p. 86.]
[263] [As Dr. Englaender points out (_Mazeppa_, 1897, p. 73), it is probable that Byron derived his general conception of the scenery of the Ukraine from passages in Voltaire's _Charles XII._, e.g.: "Depuis Grodno jusqu'au Borysthene, en tirant vers l'orient ce sont des marais, des déserts, des forêts immenses" (_Oeuvres_, 1829, xxiv. 170). The exquisite beauty of the virgin steppes, the long rich grass, the wild-flowers, the "diviner air," to which the Viscount de Vogüé testifies so eloquently in his _Mazeppa_, were not in the "mind's eye" of the poet or the historian.]
[bu] {222}
_And stains it with a lifeless red_.--[MS.] _Which clings to it like stiffened gore_.--[MS. erased.]
[264] {223}[The thread on which the successive tropes or images are loosely strung seems to give if not to snap at this point. "Considering that Mazeppa was sprung of a race which in moments of excitement, when an enemy has stamped upon its vitals, springs up to repel the attack, it was only to be expected that he should sink beneath the blow--and sink he did." The conclusion is at variance with the premiss.]
[265] {224}[Compare--
"'Alas,' said she, 'this ghastly ride, Dear Lady! it hath wildered you.'"
_Christabel_, Part I. lines 216, 217.]
[266] {225}[Compare--
"How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare."
_Ancient Mariner,_ Part V. lines 393, 394.]
[267] [Compare--
"From precipices of distempered sleep."
Sonnet, "No more my visionary soul shall dwell," by S. T. Coleridge, attributed by Southey to Favell.--_Letters of S. T. Coleridge,_ 1895, i. 83; Southey's _Life and Correspondence,_ 1849, i. 224.]
[268] {226}[Compare _Werner_, iii. 3--
"Burn still, Thou little light! Thou art my _ignis fatuus_. My stationary Will-o'-the-wisp!--So! So!"
Compare, too, _Don Juan_, Canto XI. stanza xxvii. line 6, and Canto XV, stanza liv. line 6.]
[bv] {227}
_Rose crimson, and forebade the stars_ _To sparkle in their radiant cars_.--[MS, erased.]
[269] [Compare--
"What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn."
_Lycidas,_ line 28.]
[270] [Compare--
"Was it the wind through some hollow stone?"
_Siege of Corinth,_ line 521, _Poetical Works,_ 1900, iii. 471, note 1.]
[271] {230}[Compare--
"The Architect ... did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought."
_Churchill's Grave_, lines 20-23 (_vide ante_, p. 47).]
[272] [Compare--
" ... that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun."
_Ancient Mariner_, Part III. lines 175, 176.]
[273] [_Vide infra_, line 816. The raven turns into a vulture a few lines further on. Compare--
"The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, The hair was tangled round his jaw: But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, There sat a vulture flapping a wolf."
_Siege of Corinth_, lines 471-474, _Poetical Works_, 1900, iv. 468.]
[274] {232}[Compare--
"Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, Although she told him, in good modern Greek, With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, That he was faint, and must not talk but eat.
"Now Juan could not understand a word, Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird, So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear."
_Don Juan_, Canto II. stanza cl. line 5 to stanza cli. line 4.]
[275] {233}["By noon the battle (of Poltáva) was over.... Charles had been induced to return to the camp and rally the remainder of the army. In spite of his wounded foot, he had to ride, lying on the neck of his horse.... The retreat (down the Vórskla to the Dniéper) began towards evening.... On the afternoon of July 11 the Swedes arrived at the little town of Perevolótchna, at the mouth of the Vórskla, where there was a ferry across the Dniéper ... the king, Mazeppa, and about 1000 men crossed the Dniéper.... The king, with the Russian cavalry in hot pursuit, rode as fast as he could to the Bug, where half his escourt was captured, and he barely escaped. Thence he went to Bender, on the Dniester, and for five years remained the guest of Turkey."--_Peter the Great_, by Eugene Schuyler, 1884, ii. 149-151.]
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.
"'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before."
Campbell, [_Lochiel's Warning_].
INTRODUCTION TO _THE PROPHECY OF DANTE_.
The _Prophecy of Dante_ was written at Ravenna, during the month of June, 1819, "to gratify" the Countess Guiccioli. Before she left Venice in April she had received a promise from Byron to visit her at Ravenna. "Dante's tomb, the classical pinewood," and so forth, had afforded a pretext for the invitation to be given and accepted, and, at length, when she was, as she imagined, "at the point of death," he arrived, better late than never, "on the Festival of the _Corpus Domini_" which fell that year on the tenth of June (see her communication to Moore, _Life_, p. 399). Horses and books were left behind at Venice, but he could occupy his enforced leisure by "writing something on the subject of Dante" (_ibid_., p. 402). A heightened interest born of fuller knowledge, in Italian literature and Italian politics, lent zest to this labour of love, and, time and place conspiring, he composed "the best thing he ever wrote" (Letter to Murray, March 23, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 422), his _Vision_ (or _Prophecy_) _of Dante_.
It would have been strange if Byron, who had sounded his _Lament_ over the sufferings of Tasso, and who had become _de facto_ if not _de jure_ a naturalized Italian, had forborne to associate his name and fame with the sacred memory of the "Gran padre Alighier." If there had been any truth in Friedrich Schlegel's pronouncement, in a lecture delivered at Vienna in 1814, "that at no time has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever been much the favourite of his countrymen," the reproach had become meaningless. As the sumptuous folio edition (4 vols.) of the _Divina Commedia_, published at Florence, 1817-19; a quarto edition (4 vols.) published at Rome, 1815-17; a folio edition (3 vols.) published at Bologna 1819-21, to which the Conte Giovanni Marchetti (_vide_ the Preface, _post_, p. 245) contributed his famous excursus on the allegory in the First Canto of the _Inferno_, and numerous other issues remain to testify, Dante's own countrymen were eager "to pay honours almost divine" to his memory. "The last age," writes Hobhouse, in 1817 (note 18 to Canto IV. of _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 496), "seemed inclined to undervalue him.... The present generation ... has returned to the ancient worship, and the _Danteggiare_ of the northern Italians is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans." Dante was in the air. As Byron wrote in his Diary (January 29, 1821), "Read Schlegel [probably in a translation published at Edinburgh, 1818]. Not a favourite! Why, they talk Dante, write Dante, and think and dream Dante at this moment (1821), to an excess which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it."
There was, too, another reason why he was minded to write a poem "on the subject of Dante." There was, at this time, a hope, if not a clear prospect, of political change--of throwing off the yoke of the Bourbon, of liberating Italy from the tyrant and the stranger. "Dante was the poet of liberty. Persecution, exile, the dread of a foreign grave, could not shake his principles" (Medwin, _Conversations_, 1824, p. 242). The _Prophecy_ was "intended for the Italians," intended to foreshadow as in a vision "liberty and the resurrection of Italy" (_ibid_., p. 241). As he rode at twilight through the pine forest, or along "the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood," the undying past inspired him with a vision of the future, delayed, indeed, for a time, "the flame ending in smoke," but fulfilled after many days, a vision of a redeemed and united Italy.
"The poem," he says, in the Preface, "may be considered as a metrical experiment." In _Beppo_, and the two first cantos of _Don Juan_, he had proved that the _ottava rima_ of the Italians, which Frere had been one of the first to transplant, might grow and flourish in an alien soil, and now, by way of a second venture, he proposed to acclimatize the _terza rima_. He was under the impression that Hayley, whom he had held up to ridicule as "for ever feeble, and for ever tame," had been the first and last to try the measure in English; but of Hayley's excellent translation of the three first cantos of the _Inferno_ (_vide post_, p. 244, note 1), praised but somewhat grudgingly praised by Southey, he had only seen an extract, and of earlier experiments he was altogether ignorant. As a matter of fact, many poets had already essayed, but timidly and without perseverance, to "come to the test in the metrification" of the _Divine Comedy_. Some twenty-seven lines, "the sole example in English literature of that period, of the use of _terza rima_, obviously copied from Dante" (_Complete Works of Chaucer_, by the Rev. W. Skeat, 1894, i. 76, 261), are imbedded in Chaucer's _Compleint to his Lady_. In the sixteenth century Sir Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey ("Description of the restless state of a lover"), "as novises newly sprung out of the schools of Dante, Ariosto, and Petrarch" (Puttenham's _Art of Poesie_, 1589, pp. 48-50); and later again, Daniel ("To the Lady Lucy, Countess of Bedford"), Ben Jonson, and Milton (_Psalms_ ii., vi.) afford specimens of _terza rima_. There was, too, one among Byron's contemporaries who had already made trial of the metre in his _Prince Athanase_ (1817) and _The Woodman and the Nightingale_ (1818), and who, shortly, in his _Ode to the West Wind_ (October, 1819, published 1820) was to prove that it was not impossible to write English poetry, if not in genuine _terza rima_, with its interchange of double rhymes, at least in what has been happily styled the "Byronic _terza rima_." It may, however, be taken for granted that, at any rate in June, 1819, these fragments of Shelley's were unknown to Byron. Long after Byron's day, but long years before his dream was realized, Mrs. Browning, in her _Casa Guidi Windows_ (1851), in the same metre, re-echoed the same aspiration (see her _Preface_), "that the future of Italy shall not be disinherited." (See for some of these instances of _terza rima_, _Englische Metrik_, von Dr. J. Schipper, 1888, ii. 896. See, too, _The Metre of Dante's Comedy discussed and exemplified_, by Alfred Forman and Harry Buxton Forman, 1878, p. 7.)
The MS. of the _Prophecy of Dante_, together with the Preface, was forwarded to Murray, March 14, 1820; but in spite of some impatience on the part of the author (Letter to Murray, May 8, 1820, _Letters_, 1901, v. 20), and, after the lapse of some months, a pretty broad hint (Letter, August 17, 1820, _ibid_., p. 165) that "the time for the Dante would be good now ... as Italy is on the eve of great things," publication was deferred till the following year. _Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice_, and the _Prophecy of Dante_ were published in the same volume, April 21, 1821.
The _Prophecy of Dante_ was briefly but favourably noticed by Jeffrey in his review of _Marino Faliero_ (_Edinb. Rev._, July, 1821, vol. 35, p. 285). "It is a very grand, fervid, turbulent, and somewhat mystical composition, full of the highest sentiment and the highest poetry; ... but disfigured by many faults of precipitation, and overclouded with many obscurities. Its great fault with common readers will be that it is not sufficiently intelligible.... It is, however, beyond all question, a work of a man of great genius."
Other notices of _Marino Faliero_ and the _Prophecy of Dante_ appeared in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, April, 1821, vol. 9, pp. 93-103; in the _Monthly Review_, May, 1821, Enlarged Series, vol. 95, pp. 41-50; and in the _Eclectic Review_, June 21, New Series, vol. xv. pp. 518-527.
DEDICATION.
Lady! if for the cold and cloudy clime Where I was born, but where I would not die, Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy I dare to build[276] the imitative rhyme, Harsh Runic[277] copy of the South's sublime, Thou art the cause; and howsoever I Fall short of his immortal harmony, Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obeyed Are one; but only in the sunny South Such sounds are uttered, and such charms displayed, So sweet a language from so fair a mouth--[278] Ah! to what effort would it not persuade?
Ravenna, June 21, 1819.
PREFACE
In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that having composed something on the subject of Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's exile,--the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects[279] of interest in that city, both to the native and to the stranger.
"On this hint I spake," and the result has been the following four cantos, in _terza rima_, now offered to the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the _Divina Commedia_ and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron,[280] and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the _terza rima_ of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto _tried in our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley_,[281] of whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to _Caliph Vathek_; so that--if I do not err--this poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same length of those of the poet, whose name I have borrowed and most likely taken in vain.
Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of _Childe Harold_[282] translated into Italian _versi sciolti_,--that is, a poem written in the _Spenserean stanza_ into _blank verse_, without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza or the sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic, should chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in the imitation of his great "Padre Alighier,"[283] I have failed in imitating that which all study and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory[284] in the first canto of the _Inferno_, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture may be considered as having decided the question.
He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation--their literature; and in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, Pindemonte, or Arici,[285] should be held up to the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, where my business is with the English one; and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both.
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.
CANTO THE FIRST.
Once more in Man's frail world! which I had left So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel The weight of clay again,--too soon bereft Of the Immortal Vision which could heal My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies Lift me from that deep Gulf without repeal, Where late my ears rung with the damned cries Of Souls in hopeless bale; and from that place Of lesser torment, whence men may arise Pure from the fire to join the Angelic race; 10 Midst whom my own bright Beatricē[286] blessed My spirit with her light; and to the base Of the Eternal Triad! first, last, best,[287] Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! Soul universal! led the mortal guest, Unblasted by the Glory, though he trod From star to star to reach the almighty throne.[bw] Oh Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod So long hath pressed, and the cold marble stone, Thou sole pure Seraph of my earliest love, 20 Love so ineffable, and so alone, That nought on earth could more my bosom move, And meeting thee in Heaven was but to meet That without which my Soul, like the arkless dove, Had wandered still in search of, nor her feet Relieved her wing till found; without thy light My Paradise had still been incomplete.[288] Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight Thou wert my Life, the Essence of my thought, Loved ere I knew the name of Love,[289] and bright 30 Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought With the World's war, and years, and banishment, And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; For mine is not a nature to be bent By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd, And though the long, long conflict hath been spent In vain,--and never more, save when the cloud Which overhangs the Apennine my mind's eye Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud Of me, can I return, though but to die, 40 Unto my native soil,--they have not yet Quenched the old exile's spirit, stern and high. But the Sun, though not overcast, must set And the night cometh; I am old in days, And deeds, and contemplation, and have met Destruction face to face in all his ways. The World hath left me, what it found me, pure, And if I have not gathered yet its praise, I sought it not by any baser lure; Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 50 May form a monument not all obscure, Though such was not my Ambition's end or aim, To add to the vain-glorious list of those Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows Their sail, and deem it glory to be classed With conquerors, and Virtue's other foes, In bloody chronicles of ages past. I would have had my Florence great and free;[290] Oh Florence! Florence![291] unto me thou wast 60 Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He Wept over, "but thou wouldst not;" as the bird Gathers its young, I would have gathered thee Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, Against the breast that cherished thee was stirred Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, And doom this body forfeit to the fire.[292] Alas! how bitter is his country's curse To him who _for_ that country would expire, 70 But did not merit to expire _by_ her, And loves her, loves her even in her ire. The day may come when she will cease to err, The day may come she would be proud to have The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer[bx] Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. But this shall not be granted; let my dust Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 80 My indignant bones, because her angry gust Forsooth is over, and repealed her doom; No,--she denied me what was mine--my roof, And shall not have what is not hers--my tomb. Too long her arméd wrath hath kept aloof The breast which would have bled for her, the heart That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, The man who fought, toiled, travelled, and each part Of a true citizen fulfilled, and saw For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art 90 Pass his destruction even into a law. These things are not made for forgetfulness, Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Of such endurance too prolonged to make My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though late repented; yet--yet for her sake I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, My own Beatricē, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, 100 And still is hallowed by thy dust's return, Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn At times with evil feelings hot and harsh,[293] And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch My brow with hopes of triumph,--let them go! Such are the last infirmities of those 110 Who long have suffered more than mortal woe, And yet being mortal still, have no repose But on the pillow of Revenge--Revenge, Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, When we shall mount again, and they that trod Be trampled on, while Death and Até range O'er humbled heads and severed necks----Great God! Take these thoughts from me--to thy hands I yield My many wrongs, and thine Almighty rod 120 Will fall on those who smote me,--be my Shield! As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, In turbulent cities, and the tented field-- In toil, and many troubles borne in vain For Florence,--I appeal from her to Thee! Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, Even in that glorious Vision, which to see And live was never granted until now, And yet thou hast permitted this to me. Alas! with what a weight upon my brow 130 The sense of earth and earthly things come back, Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect Of half a century bloody and black, And the frail few years I may yet expect Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, For I have been too long and deeply wrecked On the lone rock of desolate Despair, To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 140 Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare; Nor raise my voice--for who would heed my wail? I am not of this people, nor this age, And yet my harpings will unfold a tale Which shall preserve these times when not a page Of their perturbéd annals could attract An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,[by] Did not my verse embalm full many an act Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the doom Of spirits of my order to be racked 150 In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume Their days in endless strife, and die alone; Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, And pilgrims come from climes where they have known The name of him--who now is but a name, And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, Spread his--by him unheard, unheeded--fame; And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die Is nothing; but to wither thus--to tame My mind down from its own infinity-- 160 To live in narrow ways with little men, A common sight to every common eye, A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, Ripped from all kindred, from all home, all things That make communion sweet, and soften pain-- To feel me in the solitude of kings Without the power that makes them bear a crown-- To envy every dove his nest and wings Which waft him where the Apennine looks down On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 170 Within my all inexorable town, Where yet my boys are, and that fatal She,[294] Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought Destruction for a dowry--this to see And feel, and know without repair, hath taught A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free: I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, They made an Exile--not a Slave of me.
CANTO THE SECOND.
The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, When words were things that came to pass, and Thought Flashed o'er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought Forth from the abyss of Time which is to be, The Chaos of events, where lie half-wrought Shapes that must undergo mortality; What the great Seers of Israel wore within, That Spirit was on them, and is on me, And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 10 Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, The only guerdon I have ever known. Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, Italia? Ah! to me such things, foreshown With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget In thine irreparable wrongs my own; We can have but one Country, and even yet Thou'rt mine--my bones shall be within thy breast, 20 My Soul within thy language, which once set With our old Roman sway in the wide West; But I will make another tongue arise As lofty and more sweet, in which expressed The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs, Shall find alike such sounds for every theme That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, Shall realise a Poet's proudest dream, And make thee Europe's Nightingale of Song;[295] So that all present speech to thine shall seem 30 The note of meaner birds, and every tongue Confess its barbarism when compared with thine.[bz] This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, Thy Tuscan bard, the banished Ghibelline. Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries Is rent,--a thousand years which yet supine Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, Float from Eternity into these eyes; The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, 40 The unborn Earthquake yet is in the womb, The bloody Chaos yet expects Creation, But all things are disposing for thy doom; The Elements await but for the Word, "Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb! Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword,[296] Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise, Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice? Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields, 50 Ploughed by the sunbeams solely, would suffice For the world's granary; thou, whose sky Heaven gilds[ca] With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, And formed the Eternal City's ornaments From spoils of Kings whom freemen overthrew; Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of Saints, Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made[cb] Her home; thou, all which fondest Fancy paints, 60 And finds her prior vision but portrayed In feeble colours, when the eye--from the Alp Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp Nods to the storm--dilates and dotes o'er thee, And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still The more approached, and dearest were they free, Thou--Thou must wither to each tyrant's will: 70 The Goth hath been,--the German, Frank, and Hun[297] Are yet to come,--and on the imperial hill Ruin, already proud of the deeds done By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, And deepens into red the saffron water Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, 80 And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, Vowed to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased Their ministry: the nations take their prey, Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they Are; these but gorge the flesh, and lap the gore Of the departed, and then go their way; But those, the human savages, explore All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 90 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;[298] The chiefless army of the dead, which late Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate; Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. Oh! Rome, the Spoiler or the spoil of France, From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance, But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 100 Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Crush them, ye Rocks! Floods whelm them, and for ever! Why sleep the idle Avalanches so, To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? Why doth Eridanus but overflow The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? Over Cambyses' host[299] the desert spread Her sandy ocean, and the Sea-waves' sway Rolled over Pharaoh and his thousands,--why,[cc] 110 Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? And you, ye Men! Romans, who dare not die, Sons of the conquerors who overthrew Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ? Their passes more alluring to the view Of an invader? is it they, or ye, That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, And leave the march in peace, the passage free? 120 Why, Nature's self detains the Victor's car, And makes your land impregnable, if earth Could be so; but alone she will not war, Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth In a soil where the mothers bring forth men: Not so with those whose souls are little worth; For them no fortress can avail,--the den Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering. 130 Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring Against Oppression; but how vain the toil, While still Division sows the seeds of woe And weakness, till the Stranger reaps the spoil.[300] Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low, So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, When there is but required a single blow To break the chain, yet--yet the Avenger stops, And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee, 140 And join their strength to that which with thee copes; What is there wanting then to set thee free, And show thy beauty in its fullest light? To make the Alps impassable; and we, Her Sons, may do this with one deed--Unite.
CANTO THE THIRD.
From out the mass of never-dying ill,[cd] The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, Vials of wrath but emptied to refill And flow again, I cannot all record That crowds on my prophetic eye: the Earth And Ocean written o'er would not afford Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth; Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, Spread like a banner at the gate of Heaven, 10 The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven Athwart the sound of archangelic songs, And Italy, the martyred nation's gore, Will not in vain arise to where belongs[ce] Omnipotence and Mercy evermore: Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er The Seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 20 Earth's dust by immortality refined To Sense and Suffering, though the vain may scoff, And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow Before the storm because its breath is rough, To thee, my Country! whom before, as now, I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre And melancholy gift high Powers allow To read the future: and if now my fire Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive! I but foretell thy fortunes--then expire; 30 Think not that I would look on them and live. A Spirit forces me to see and speak, And for my guerdon grants _not_ to survive; My Heart shall be poured over thee and break: Yet for a moment, ere I must resume Thy sable web of Sorrow, let me take Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy night, And many meteors, and above thy tomb Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight: 40 And from thine ashes boundless Spirits rise To give thee honour, and the earth delight; Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, The gay, the learned, the generous, and the brave, Native to thee as Summer to thy skies, Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,[301] Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;[302] For _thee_ alone they have no arm to save, And all thy recompense is in their fame, A noble one to them, but not to thee-- 50 Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same? Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be The Being--and even yet he may be born-- The mortal Saviour who shall set thee free, And see thy diadem, so changed and worn By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; And the sweet Sun replenishing thy morn, Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced, And noxious vapours from Avernus risen, Such as all they must breathe who are debased 60 By Servitude, and have the mind in prison.[303] Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe[cf] Some voices shall be heard, and Earth shall listen; Poets shall follow in the path I show, And make it broader: the same brilliant sky Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow,[cg] And raise their notes as natural and high; Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing Many of Love, and some of Liberty, But few shall soar upon that Eagle's wing, 70 And look in the Sun's face, with Eagle's gaze, All free and fearless as the feathered King, But fly more near the earth; how many a phrase Sublime shall lavished be on some small prince In all the prodigality of Praise! And language, eloquently false, evince[ch] The harlotry of Genius, which, like Beauty,[ci] Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, And looks on prostitution as a duty.[304] He who once enters in a Tyrant's hall[cj][305] 80 As guest is slave--his thoughts become a booty, And the first day which sees the chain enthral A captive, sees his half of Manhood gone[306]-- The Soul's emasculation saddens all His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne Quails from his inspiration, bound to _please_,-- How servile is the task to please alone! To smooth the verse to suit his Sovereign's ease And royal leisure, nor too much prolong Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 90 Or force, or forge fit argument of Song! Thus trammelled, thus condemned to Flattery's trebles, He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong: For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, Should rise up in high treason to his brain, He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles In's mouth, lest Truth should stammer through his strain. But out of the long file of sonneteers There shall be some who will not sing in vain, And he, their Prince, shall rank among my peers,[307] And Love shall be his torment; but his grief Shall make an immortality of tears, And Italy shall hail him as the Chief Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. But in a farther age shall rise along The banks of Po two greater still than he; The World which smiled on him shall do them wrong Till they are ashes, and repose with me. The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 110 And fill the earth with feats of Chivalry:[308] His Fancy like a rainbow, and his Fire, Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his Thought Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire; Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, And Art itself seem into Nature wrought By the transparency of his bright dream.-- The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem; 120 He, too, shall sing of Arms, and Christian blood Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp Conflict, and final triumph of the brave And pious, and the strife of Hell to warp Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave The red-cross banners where the first red Cross Was crimsoned from His veins who died to save,[ck] Shall be his sacred argument; the loss 130 Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss Of Courts would slide o'er his forgotten name And call Captivity a kindness--meant To shield him from insanity or shame-- Such shall be his meek guerdon! who was sent To be Christ's Laureate--they reward him well! Florence dooms me but death or banishment, Ferrara him a pittance and a cell,[309] Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 140 Had stung the factions which I strove to quell; But this meek man who with a lover's eye Will look on Earth and Heaven, and who will deign To embalm with his celestial flattery, As poor a thing as e'er was spawned to reign,[310] What will _he_ do to merit such a doom? Perhaps he'll _love_,--and is not Love in vain Torture enough without a living tomb? Yet it will be so--he and his compeer, The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume[311] 150 In penury and pain too many a year, And, dying in despondency, bequeath To the kind World, which scarce will yield a tear, A heritage enriching all who breathe With the wealth of a genuine Poet's soul, And to their country a redoubled wreath, Unmatched by time; not Hellas can unroll Through her Olympiads two such names, though one[312] Of hers be mighty;--and is this the whole Of such men's destiny beneath the Sun?[313] 160 Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, The electric blood with which their arteries run,[cl] Their body's self turned soul with the intense Feeling of that which is, and fancy of That which should be, to such a recompense Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough Storm be still scattered? Yes, and it must be; For, formed of far too penetrable stuff, These birds of Paradise[314] but long to flee Back to their native mansion, soon they find 170 Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, And die or are degraded; for the mind Succumbs to long infection, and despair, And vulture Passions flying close behind, Await the moment to assail and tear;[315] And when, at length, the wingéd wanderers stoop, Then is the Prey-birds' triumph, then they share The spoil, o'erpowered at length by one fell swoop. Yet some have been untouched who learned to bear, Some whom no Power could ever force to droop, 180 Who could resist themselves even, hardest care! And task most hopeless; but some such have been, And if my name amongst the number were, That Destiny austere, and yet serene, Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblessed; The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen Than the Volcano's fierce eruptive crest, Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, While the scorched mountain, from whose burning breast A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 190 Shines for a night of terror, then repels Its fire back to the Hell from whence it sprung, The Hell which in its entrails ever dwells.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Many are Poets who have never penned Their inspiration, and perchance the best: They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compressed The God within them, and rejoined the stars Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed Than those who are degraded by the jars Of Passion, and their frailties linked to fame, Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. Many are Poets but without the name; 10 For what is Poesy but to create From overfeeling Good or Ill; and aim[316] At an external life beyond our fate, And be the new Prometheus of new men,[317] Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who, having lavished his high gift in vain, Lies to his lone rock by the sea-shore? So be it: we can bear.--But thus all they 20 Whose Intellect is an o'ermastering Power Which still recoils from its encumbering clay Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er The form which their creations may essay, Are bards; the kindled Marble's bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, Or deify the canvass till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below, 30 That they who kneel to Idols so divine Break no commandment, for high Heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated:[318] and the line Of Poesy, which peoples but the air With Thought and Beings of our thought reflected, Can do no more: then let the artist share The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected Faints o'er the labour unapproved--Alas! Despair and Genius are too oft connected. Within the ages which before me pass 40 Art shall resume and equal even the sway Which with Apelles and old Phidias She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive The Grecian forms at least from their decay, And Roman souls at last again shall live In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, And temples, loftier than the old temples, give New wonders to the World; and while still stands The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 50 A Dome,[319] its image, while the base expands Into a fane surpassing all before, Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er Such sight hath been unfolded by a door As this, to which all nations shall repair, And lay their sins at this huge gate of Heaven. And the bold Architect[320] unto whose care The daring charge to raise it shall be given, Whom all Arts shall acknowledge as their Lord, Whether into the marble chaos driven 60 His chisel bid the Hebrew,[321] at whose word Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone,[cm] Or hues of Hell be by his pencil poured Over the damned before the Judgement-throne,[322] Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown-- The Stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me[323] The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms Which form the Empire of Eternity. Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 70 The age which I anticipate, no less Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms Calamity the nations with distress, The Genius of my Country shall arise, A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar, Wafting its native incense through the skies. Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, Weaned for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 80 On canvass or on stone; and they who mar All beauty upon earth, compelled to praise, Shall feel the power of that which they destroy; And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, Emblems and monuments, and prostitute Her charms to Pontiffs proud,[324] who but employ The man of Genius as the meanest brute To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, To sell his labours, and his soul to boot. 90 Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, But free; who sweats for Monarchs is no more Than the gilt Chamberlain, who, clothed and feed, Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power[325] Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, Least like to thee in attributes divine, Tread on the universal necks that bow, And then assure us that their rights are thine? 100 And how is it that they, the Sons of Fame, Whose inspiration seems to them to shine From high, they whom the nations oftest name, Must pass their days in penury or pain, Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain? Or if their Destiny be born aloof From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, In their own souls sustain a harder proof, The inner war of Passions deep and fierce? 110 Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, I loved thee; but the vengeance of my verse, The hate of injuries which every year Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear-- Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even _that_, The most infernal of all evils here, The sway of petty tyrants in a state; For such sway is not limited to Kings, And Demagogues yield to them but in date, 120 As swept off sooner; in all deadly things, Which make men hate themselves, and one another, In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother,[326] In rank oppression in its rudest shape, The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother, And the worst Despot's far less human ape. Florence! when this lone spirit, which so long Yearned, as the captive toiling at escape, To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 130 An exile, saddest of all prisoners,[327] Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, Seas, mountains, and the horizon's[328] verge for bars,[cn] Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth Where--whatsoe'er his fate--he still were hers, His Country's, and might die where he had birth-- Florence! when this lone Spirit shall return To kindred Spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, And seek to honour with an empty urn[329] The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain--Alas! 140 "What have I done to thee, my People?"[330] Stern Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass The limits of Man's common malice, for All that a citizen could be I was-- Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war-- And for this thou hast warred with me.--'Tis done: I may not overleap the eternal bar[331] Built up between us, and will die alone, Beholding with the dark eye of a Seer The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 150 Foretelling them to those who will not hear; As in the old time, till the hour be come When Truth shall strike their eyes through many a tear, And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.
Ravenna, 1819.
FOOTNOTES:
[276] {241}[Compare--
"He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime."
Milton, _Lycidas_, line 11.]
[277] [By "Runic" Byron means "Northern," "Anglo-Saxon."]
[278] [Compare "In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours--_Amor mio_--is comprised my existence here and hereafter."--Letter of Byron to the Countess Guiccioli, August 25, 1819, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 350. Compare, too, _Beppo_, stanza xliv.; _vide ante_, p. 173.]
[279] {243}[Compare--
"I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid: A little cupola more neat than solemn, Protects his dust."
_Don Juan_, Canto IV. stanza civ. lines 1-3.]
[280] [The _Cassandra_ or _Alexandra_ of Lycophron, one of the seven "Pleiades" who adorned the court of Ptolemy Philadelphus (third century B.C.), is "an iambic monologue of 1474 verses, in which Cassandra is made to prophesy the fall of Troy ... with numerous other historical events, ... ending with [the reign of] Alexandra the Great." Byron had probably read a translation of the _Cassandra_ by Philip Yorke, Viscount Royston (born 1784, wrecked in the _Agatha_ off Memel, April 7, 1808), which was issued at Cambridge in 1806. The _Alexandra_ forms part of the _Bibliotheca Teubneriana_ (ed. G. Kinkel, Lipsiæ, 1880). For the prophecy of Nereus, _vide_ Hor., _Odes_, lib. i. c. xv.]
[281] {244}[In the notes to his _Essay on Epic Poetry_, 1782 (Epistle iii. pp. 175-197), Hayley (see _English Bards, etc._, line 310, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 321, note 1) prints a translation of the three first cantos of the _Inferno_, which, he says (p. 172), was written "a few years ago to oblige a particular friend." "Of all Hayley's compositions," writes Southey (_Quart. Rev._, vol. xxxi. pp. 283, 284), "these specimens are the best ... in thus following his original Hayley was led into a sobriety and manliness of diction which ... approached ... to the manner of a better age."
In a note on the Hall of Eblis, S. Henley quotes with approbation Hayley's translation of lines 1-9 of this Third Canto of the _Inferno_. _Vathek_ ... by W. Beckford, 1868, p. 188.]
[282] [_L'Italia_: _Canto IV. del Pellegrinaggio di Childe Harold_ ... tradotto da Michele Leoni, Italia (London?), 1819, 8º. Leoni also translated the _Lament of Tasso_ (_Lamento di Tasso_ ... Recato in Italiano da M. Leoni, Pisa, 1818).]
[283] [Alfieri has a sonnet on the tomb of Dante, beginning--
"O gran padre Alighier, se dal ciel miri."
_Opere Scelle_, di Vittorio Alfieri, 1818, iii. 487.]
[284] [The Panther, the Lion, and the She-wolf, which Dante encountered on the "desert slope" (_Inferno_, Canto I. lines 31, _sq._), were no doubt suggested by Jer. v. 6: "Idcirco percussit eos leo de silva, lupus ad vesperam vastavit eos, pardus vigilans super civitates corum." Symbolically they have been from the earliest times understood as denoting--the panther, lust; the lion, pride; the wolf, avarice; the sins affecting youth, maturity, and old age. Later commentators have suggested that there may be an underlying political symbolism as well, and that the three beasts may stand for Florence with her "Black" and "White" parties, the power of France, and the Guelf party as typically representative of these vices (_The Hell of Dante_, by A. J. Butler, 1892, p. 5, note).
Count Giovanni Marchetti degli Angelini (1790-1852), in his _Discorso_ ... _della prima e principale Allegoria del Poema di Dante_, contributed to an edition of _La Divina Commedia_, published at Bologna, 1819-21, i. 17-44, and reissued in _La Biografia di Dante_ ... 1822, v. 397, _sq_., etc., argues in favour of a double symbolism. (According to a life of Marchetti, prefixed to his _Poesie_, 1878 [_Una notte di Dante, etc._], he met Byron at Bologna in 1819, and made his acquaintance.)]
[285] {245}[For Vincenzo Monti (1754-1828), see letter to Murray, October 15, 1816 (_Letters_, 1899, iii. 377, note 3); and for Ippolito Pindemonte (1753-1828), see letter to Murray, June 4, 1817, (_Letters_, 1900, iv. 127, note 4). In his _Essay on the Present Literature of Italy_, Hobhouse supplies critical notices of Pindemonte and Monti, _Historical Illustrations_, 1818, pp. 413-449. Cesare Arici, lawyer and poet, was born at Brescia, July 2, 1782. His works (Padua, 1858, 4 vols.) include his didactic poems, _La coltivazione degli Ulivi_ (1805), _Il Corallo_, 1810, _La Pastorizia_ (on sheep-farming), 1814, and a translation of the works of Virgil. He died in 1836. (See, for a long and sympathetic notice, Tipaldo's _Biografia degli Italiani Illustri_, iii. 491, _sq_.)]
[286] {247}The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronunciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables.
[287] [Compare--
"Within the deep and luminous subsistence Of the High Light appeared to me three circles, Of threefold colour and of one dimension, And by the second seemed the first reflected As Iris is by Iris, and the third Seemed fire that equally from both is breathed.... O Light Eterne, sole in thyself that dwellest."
_Paradiso,_ xxxiii. 115-120, 124 (_Longfellow's Translation_).]
[bw] {248}_Star over star_----.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[288]
"Ché sol per le belle opre Che sono in cielo, il sole e l'altre stelle, Dentro da lor _si crede il Paradiso:_ Così se guardi fiso Pensar ben dei, che ogni terren piacere. [Si trova in lei, ma tu nol puoi vedere."]
Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Beatrice, Strophe third.
[Byron was mistaken in attributing these lines, which form part of a Canzone beginning "Io miro i crespi e gli biondi capegli," to Dante. Neither external nor internal evidence supports such an ascription. The Canzone is attributed in the MSS. either to Fazio degli Uberti, or to Bindo Borrichi da Siena, but was not assigned to Dante before 1518 (_Canzoni di Dante, etc._ [Colophon]. Impresso in Milano per Augustino da Vimercato ... MCCCCCXVIII ...). See, too, _Il Canzoniere di Dante_ ... Fraticelli, Firenze, 1873, pp. 236-240 (from information kindly supplied by the Rev. Philip H. Wicksteed).]
[289] ["Nine times already since my birth had the heaven of light returned to the selfsame point almost, as concerns its own revolution, when first the glorious Lady of my mind was made manifest to mine eyes; even she who was called Beatrice by many who knew not wherefore."--_La Vita Nuova,_ § 2 (Translation by D. G. Rossetti, _Dante and his Circle,_ 1892, p. 30).
"In reference to the meaning of the name, '_she who confers blessing_,' we learn from Boccaccio that this first meeting took place at a May Feast, given in the year 1274, by Folco Portinari, father of Beatrice ... to which feast Dante accompanied his father, Alighiero Alighieri."--_Note_ by D. G. Rossetti, ibid., p. 30.]
[290] {249}
"L'Esilio che m' è dato onor mi tegno * * * * * Cader tra' buoni è pur di lode degno."
_Sonnet of Dante_ [Canzone xx. lines 76-80, _Opere_ di Dante, 1897, p. 171]
in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temperance as banished from among men, and seeking refuge from Love, who inhabits his bosom.
[291] [Compare--
"On the stone Called Dante's,--a plain flat stone scarce discerned From others in the pavement,--whereupon He used to bring his quiet chair out, turned To Brunelleschi's Church, and pour alone The lava of his spirit when it burned: It is not cold to-day. O passionate Poor Dante, who, a banished Florentine, Didst sit austere at banquets of the great And muse upon this far-off stone of thine, And think how oft some passer used to wait A moment, in the golden day's decline, With 'Good night, dearest Dante!' Well, good night!"
_Casa Guidi Windows_, by E. B. Browning, _Poetical Works_, 1866, iii. 259.]
[292] {250} "Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti communis pervenerit, _talis perveniens igne comburatur, sic quod moriatur_." Second sentence of Florence against Dante, and the fourteen accused with him. The Latin is worthy of the sentence. [The decree (March 11, 1302) that he and his associates in exile should be burned, if they fell into the hands of their enemies, was first discovered in 1772 by the Conte Ludovico Savioli. Dante had been previously, January 27, fined eight thousand lire, and condemned to two years' banishment.]
[bx] _The ashes she would scatter_----.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[293] {251}[At the end of the Social War (B.C. 88), when Sulla marched to Rome at the head of his army, and Marius was compelled to take flight, he "stripped himself, plunged into the bog (_Paludes Minturnenses_, near the mouth of the Liris), amidst thick water and mud.... They hauled him out naked and covered with dirt, and carried him to Minturnæ." Afterwards, when he sailed for Carthage, he had no sooner landed than he was ordered by the governor (Sextilius) to quit Africa. On his once more gaining the ascendancy and re-entering Rome (B.C. 87), he justified the massacre of Sulla's adherents in a blood-thirsty oration. Past ignominy and present triumph seem to have turned his head ("ut erat inter iram toleratæ fortunæ, et lætitiam emendatæ, parum compos animi").--Plut., "Marius," _apud_ Langhorne, 1838, p. 304; Livii _Epit_., lxxx. 28.]
[by] {252}----_their civic rage_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[294] {253} This lady, whose name was _Gemma_, sprung from one of the most powerful Guelph families, named Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellines. She is--described as being "_Admodum morosa, ut de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus,_" according to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scandalised with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry. "Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli esser contrarie agli studj; e non si ricorda che Socrate, il più nobile filosofo che mai fusse, ebbe moglie e figliuoli e ufici nella Repubblica nella sua Città; e Aristotile che, etc., etc., ebbe due moglie in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai.--E Marco Tullio--e Catone--e Varrone--e Seneca--ebbero moglie," etc., etc. [_Le Vite di Dante, etc._, Firenze, 1677, pp. 22, 23]. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of Seneca, and, for anything I know, of Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to their philosophy--Cato gave away his wife--of Varro's we know nothing--and of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to die with him, but recovered and lived several years afterwards. But says Leonardo, "L'uomo è _animale civile_, secondo piace a tutti i filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest proof of the _animal's civism_ is "la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Città."
[There is nothing in the _Divina Commedia_, or elsewhere in his writings, to justify the common belief that Dante was unhappily married, unless silence may be taken to imply dislike and alienation. It has been supposed that he alludes to his wife, Gemma Donati, in the _Vita Nuova_, § 36, "as a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window, with a gaze full of pity," "who remembered me many times of my own most noble lady," whom he consented to serve "more because of her gentle goodness than from any choice" of his own (_Convito_, ii. 2. 7), but there are difficulties in the way of accepting this theory. There is, however, not the slightest reason for believing that the words which he put into the mouth of Jacopo Rusticucci, "La fiera moglie più ch'altro, mi nuoce" ["and truly, my savage wife, more than aught else, doth harm me"] (_Inferno_, xvi. 45), were winged with any personal reminiscence or animosity. But with Byron (see his letter to Lady Byron, dated April 3, 1820, in which he quotes these lines "with intention" [_Letters_, 1901, v. 2]), as with Boccaccio, "the wish was father to the thought," and both were glad to quote Dante as a victim to matrimony.
Seven children were born to Dante and Gemma. Of these "his son Pietro, who wrote a commentary on the _Divina Commedia_, settled as judge in Verona. His daughter Beatrice lived as a nun in Ravenna" (_Dante_, by Oscar Browning, 1891, p. 47).]
[295] {256}[In his defence of the "mother-tongue" as a fitting vehicle for a commentary on his poetry, Dante argues "that natural love moves the lover principally to three things: the one is to exalt the loved object, the second is to be jealous thereof, the third is to defend it ... and these three things made me adopt it, that is, our mother-tongue, which naturally and accidentally I love and have loved." Again, having laid down the premiss that "the magnanimous man always praises himself in his heart; and so the pusillanimous man always deems himself less than he is," he concludes, "Wherefore many on account of this vileness of mind, depreciate their native tongue, and applaud that of others; and all such as these are the abominable wicked men of Italy, who hold this precious mother-tongue in vile contempt, which, if it be vile in any case, is so only inasmuch as it sounds in the evil mouth of these adulterers."--_Il Convito_, caps. x., xi., translated by Elizabeth Price Sayer, 1887, pp. 34-40.]
[bz] ----_when matched with thine_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[296] [With the whole of this apostrophe to Italy, compare _Purgatorio_, vi. 76-127.]
[ca] _From the world's harvest_----.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[cb] {257}
_Where earthly Glory first then Heavenly made._-- [MS. Alternative reading.] _Where Glory first, and then Religion made_.--[MS. erased.]
[297] [Compare--
"The Goth, the Christian--Time--War--Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hilled City's pride."
_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza lxxx. lines 1, 2, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 390, note 2.]
[298] {258}See "Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicciardini [Francesco (1482-1540)]. There is another written by a Jacopo _Buonaparte_.
[The original MS. of the latter work is preserved in the Royal Library at Paris. It is entitled, "Ragguaglio Storico di tutto I'occorso, giorno per giorno, nel Sacco di Roma dell' anno mdxxvii., scritto da Jacopo Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese, che vi si trovo' presente." An edition of it was printed at Cologne, in 1756, to which is prefixed a genealogy of the Buonaparte family.
The "traitor Prince" was Charles IV., Connétable de Bourbon, Comte de Montpensier, born 1490, who was killed at the capture of Rome, May 6, 1527. "His death, far from restraining the ardour of the assailants [the Imperial troops, consisting of Germans and Spanish foot], increased it; and with the loss of about 1000 men, they entered and sacked the city.... The disorders committed by the soldiers were dreadful, and the booty they made incredible. They added insults to cruelty, and scoffs to rapaciousness. Upon the news of Bourbon's death, His Holiness, imagining that his troops, no longer animated by his implacable spirit, might listen to an accommodation, demanded a parley; but ... neglected all means for defence.... Cardinals and bishops were ignominiously exposed upon asses with their legs and hands bound; and wealthy citizens ... suspected of having secreted their effects ... were tortured ... to oblige them to make discoveries, ... the booty ... is said to have amounted to about two millions and a half of ducats."--_Mod. Univ. History_, xxxvi. 512.]
[299] {259}[Cambyses, the second King of Persia, who reigned B.C. 529-532, sent an army against the Ammonians, which perished in the sands.]
[cc] ----_and his phalanx--why_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[300] [The _Prophecy of Dante_ was begun and finished before Byron took up the cause of Italian independence, or definitely threw in his lot with the Carbonari, but his intimacy with the Gambas, which dates from his migration to Ravenna in 1819, must from the first have brought him within the area of political upheaval and disturbance. A year after (April 16, 1820) he writes to Murray, "I have, besides, another reason for desiring you to be speedy, which is, that there is that brewing in Italy which will speedily cut off all security of communication.... I shall, if permitted by the natives, remain to see what will come of it, ... for I shall think it by far the most interesting spectacle and moment in existence, to see the Italians send the Barbarians of all nations back to their own dens. I have lived long enough among them to feel more for them as a nation than for any other people in existence: but they want Union [see line 145], and they want principle; and I doubt their success."--_Letters_, 1901, v. 8, note 1.]
[cd] {261} ----_of long-enduring ill._--[MS. erased.]
[ce]
----_the martyred country's gore_ _Will not in vain arise to whom belongs._--[MS. erased.]
[301] {262}Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Savoy, Montecuccoli.
[Alessandro Farnese, Duke of Parma (1546-1592), recovered the Southern Netherlands for Spain, 1578-79, made Henry IV. raise the siege of Paris, 1590, etc.
Ambrogio, Marchese di Spinola (1569-1630), a Maltese by birth, entered the Spanish service 1602, took Ostend 1604, invested Bergen-op-Zoom, etc.
Ferdinando Francesco dagli Avalos, Marquis of Pescara (1496-1525), took Milan November 19, 1521, fought at Lodi, etc., was wounded at the battle of Padua, February 24, 1525. He was the husband of Vittoria Colonna, and when he was in captivity at Ravenna wrote some verses in her honour.
François Eugene (1663-1736), Prince of Savoy-Carignan, defeated the French at Turin, 1706, and (with Marlborough) at Malplaquet, 1709; the Turks at Peterwardein, 1716, etc.
Raimondo Montecuccoli, a Modenese (1608-1680), defeated the Turks at St. Gothard in 1664, and in 1675-6 commanded on the Rhine, and out-generalled Turenne and the Prince de Condé]
[302] Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot.
[Christopher Columbus (circ. 1430-1506), a Genoese, discovered mainland of America, 1498; Amerigo Vespucci (1451-1512), a Florentine, explored coasts of America, 1497-1504; Sebastian Cabot (1477-1557), son of Giovanni Cabotto or Gavotto, a Venetian, discovered coasts of Labrador, etc., June, 1497.]
[303] {263}[Compare--
"Ah! servile Italy, griefs hostelry! A ship without a pilot in great tempest!"
_Purgatorio_, vi. 76, 77.]
[cf]
_Yet through this many-yeared eclipse of Woe_. --[MS. Alternative reading.] _Yet through this murky interreign of Woe_.--[MS. erased.]
[cg] _Which choirs the birds to song_---.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[ch] _And Pearls flung down to regal Swine evince_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[ci] _The whoredom of high Genius_----.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[304] {264}[Alfieri, in his _Autobiography_ ... (1845, _Period III_. chap. viii. p. 92) notes and deprecates the servile manner in which Metastasio went on his knees before Maria Theresa in the Imperial gardens of Schoenbrunnen.]
[cj] _And prides itself in prostituted duty_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[305] A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pompey took leave of Cornelia [daughter of Metellus Scipio, and widow of P. Crassus] on entering the boat in which he was slain. [The verse, or verses, are said to be by Sophocles, and are quoted by Plutarch, in his Life of Pompey, c. 78, _Vitæ_, 1814, vii. 159. They run thus--
Ὅστις γὰρ ὡς τύραννον ἐμπορεύεται, Κείνου ἐστὶ δοῦλος, κἂν ἐλεύθερος μῃ.
("Seek'st thou a tyrant's door? then farewell, freedom! Though _free_ as air before.")
_Vide Incert. Fab. Fragm_., No. 789, _Trag. Grec. Fragm_., A. Nauck, 1889, p. 316.]
[306] The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer.
[Ἥμισυ γάρ τ' ἀρετῆς ἀποαίνυται εὐρύοπα Ζεύς ᾿Ανέρος, εὗτ᾿ ἅν μιν κατὰ δούλιον ἦμαρἕλῃσιν.
_Odyssey_, xvii. 322, 323.]
[307] {265}Petrarch. [Dante died September 14, 1321, when Petrarch, born July 20, 1304, had entered his eighteenth year.]
[308] [Historical events may be thrown into the form of prophecy with some security, but not so the critical opinions of the _soi-disani_ prophet. If Byron had lived half a century later, he might have placed Ariosto and Tasso after and not before Petrarch.]
[ck]
_Was crimsoned with his veins who died to save,_ _Shall be his glorious argument,_----.--[MS, Alternative reading.]
[309] {266}[See the Introduction to the _Lament of Tasso_, _ante_, p. 139, and _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza xxxvi. line 2, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 355, note 1.]
[310] [Alfonso d'Este (II.), Duke of Ferrara, died 1597.]
[311] [Compare the opening lines of the _Orlando Furioso_--
"Le Donne, i Cavalier'! l'arme, gli amori, Le Cortesie, l'audaci imprese io canto."
See _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanzas xl., xli., _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 359, 360, note 1.]
[312] [The sense is, "Ariosto may be matched with, perhaps excelled by, Homer; but where is the Greek poet to set on the same pedestal with Tasso?"]
[313] [Compare _Churchill's Grave_, lines 15-19--
"And is this all? I thought,--and do we rip The veil of Immortality, and crave I know not what of honour and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? So soon, and so successless?"
_Vide ante_, p. 47.]
[cl] {267}
/ _winged_ \ _The_ < > _blood_----.--[MS. Alternative reading.] \ _lightning_ /
[314] [Compare--
"For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise."
_Kubla Khan,_ lines 52, 53, _Poetical Works_. of S. T. Coleridge, 1893, p. 94.]
[315] [Compare--
"By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness."
_Resolution and Independence_, vii. lines 5-7, Wordsworth's _Poetical Works_, 1889, p. 175.
Compare, too, Moore's fine apology for Byron's failure to submit to the yoke of matrimony, "and to live happily ever afterwards"--
"But it is the cultivation and exercise of the imaginative faculty that, more than anything, tend to wean the man of genius from actual life, and, by substituting the sensibilities of the imagination for those of the heart, to render, at last, the medium through which he feels no less unreal than that through which he thinks. Those images of ideal good and beauty that surround him in his musings soon accustom him to consider all that is beneath this high standard unworthy of his care; till, at length, the heart becoming chilled as the fancy warms, it too often happens that, in proportion as he has refined and elevated his theory of all the social affections, he has unfitted himself for the practice of them."--_Life_, p. 268.]
[316] {269}[So too Wordsworth, in his Preface to the _Lyrical Ballads_ (1800); "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings."]
[317] [Compare--
"Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness ... But baffled as thou wert from high ... Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals."
_Prometheus_, iii. lines 35, _seq_.; _vide ante_, p. 50.
Compare, too, the _Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte_, stanza xvi. _var_ ii.--
"He suffered for kind acts to men."
_Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 312.]
[318] {270}["Transfigurate," whence "transfiguration," is derived from the Latin _transfiguro,_ found in Suetonius and Quintilian. Byron may have thought to anglicize the Italian _trasfigurarsi._]
[319] The Cupola of St. Peter's. [Michel Angelo, then in his seventy-second year, received the appointment of architect of St. Peter's from Pope Paul III. He began the dome on a different plan from that of the first architect, Bramante, "declaring that he would raise the Pantheon in the air." The drum of the dome was constructed in his life-time, but for more than twenty-four years after his death (1563), the cupola remained untouched, and it was not till 1590, in the pontificate of Sixtus V., that the dome itself was completed. The ball and cross were placed on the summit in November, 1593.--_Handbook of Rome_, p. 239.
Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza cliii. line i, _Poetical Works_, 1892, ii. 440, 441, note 2.]
[320] {271}["Yet, however unequal I feel myself to that attempt, were I now to begin the world again, I would tread in the steps of that great master [Michel Angelo]. To kiss the hem of his garment, to catch the slightest of his perfections, would be glory and distinction enough for an ambitious man."--_Discourses_ of Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1884, p. 289.]
[321] The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. [Michel Angelo's Moses is near the end of the right aisle of the Church of S. Pietro-in-Vincoli.]
"SONETTO
"_Di Giovanni Battista Zappi_.
"Chi é costui, che in si gran pietra scolto, Siede gigante, e le più illustri, e conte Opre dell' arte avanza, e ha vive, e pronte Le labbra si, che le parole ascolto? Quest' è Mosè; ben me 'l diceva il folto Onor del mento, e 'l doppio raggio in fronte; Quest' è Mosè, quando scendea dal monte, E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. Tal' era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste Acque ei sospese, a se d' intorno; e tale Quando il Mar chiuse, e ne fè tomba altrui. E voi, sue turbe, un rio vitello alzaste? Alzata aveste immago a questa eguale! Ch' era men fallo i' adorar costui."
[_Scelta di Sonetti ... del Gobbi_, 1709, iii. 216.]
["And who is he that, shaped in sculptured stone Sits giant-like? stern monument of art Unparalleled, while language seems to start From his prompt lips, and we his precepts own? --'Tis Moses; by his beard's thick honours known, And the twin beams that from his temples dart; 'Tis Moses; seated on the mount apart, Whilst yet the Godhead o'er his features shone. Such once he looked, when Ocean's sounding wave Suspended hung, and such amidst the storm, When o'er his foes the refluent waters roared. An idol calf his followers did engrave: But had they raised this awe-commanding form, Then had they with less guilt their work adored."
Rogers.]
[cm] {272}
----_from whose word_ {_Israel took God, pronounce the law in stone._ {_Israel left Egypt, cleave the sea in stone_.--
[MS. Alternative readings.]
[322] The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel.
["It is obvious, throughout his [Michel Angelo's] works, that the poetical mind of the latter [Dante] influenced his feelings. The Demons in the Last Judgment ... may find a prototype in _La Divina Comedia_. The figures rising from the grave mark his study of _L'Inferno_, e _Il Purgatorio_; and the subject of the Brazen Serpent, in the Sistine Chapel, must remind every reader of Canto XXV. dell' _Inferno_."--_Life of Michael Angelo_ by R. Duppa, 1856, p. 120.]
[323] I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot recollect where,) that Dante was so great a favourite of Michael Angelo's, that he had designed the whole of the Divina Commedia: but that the volume containing these studies was lost by sea.
[Michel Angelo's copy of Dante, says Duppa (_ibid_., and note 1), "was a large folio, with Landino's commentary; and upon the broad margin of the leaves he designed with a pen and ink, all the interesting subjects. This book was possessed by Antonio Montanti, a sculptor and architect in Florence, who, being appointed architect to St. Peter's, removed to Rome, and shipped his ... effects at Leghorn for Cività Vecchia, among which was this edition of Dante. In the voyage the vessel foundered at sea, and it was unfortunately lost in the wreck."]
[324] {273} See the treatment of Michel Angelo by Julius II., and his neglect by Leo X. [Julius II. encouraged his attendance at the Vatican, but one morning he was stopped by the chamberlain in waiting, who said, "I have an order not to let you enter." Michel Angelo, indignant at the insult, left Rome that very evening. Though Julius despatched five couriers to bring him back, it was some months before he returned. Even a letter (July 8, 1506), in which the Pope promised his "dearly beloved Michel Angelo" that he should not be touched nor offended, but be "reinstated in the apostolic grace," met with no response. It was this quarrel with Julius II. which prevented the completion of the sepulchral monument. The "Moses" and the figures supposed to represent the Active and the Contemplative Life, and three Caryatides (since removed) represent the whole of the original design, "a parallelogram surmounted with forty statues, and covered with reliefs and other ornaments."--See Duppa's _Life, etc_., 1856, pp. 33, 34, and _Handbook of Rome_, p. 133.]
[325] [Compare _Merchant of Venice_, act iv. sc. 1, lines 191, 192.]
[326] {274}[Compare--
"I fled, and cried out Death ... I fled, but he pursued, (though more, it seems, Inflamed with lust than rage), and swifter far, Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed, And in embraces forcible and foul, Ingendering with me, of that rape begot These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless cry Surround me."
_Paradise Lost_, book ii. lines 787-796.]
[327] [In his _Convito_, Dante speaks of his banishment, and the poverty and distress which attended it, in very affecting terms. "Ah! would it had pleased the Dispenser of all things that this excuse had never been needed; that neither others had done me wrong, nor myself undergone penalty undeservedly,--the penalty, I say, of exile and of poverty. For it pleased the citizens of the fairest and most renowned daughter of Rome--Florence--to cast me out of her most sweet bosom, where I was born and bred, and passed half of the life of man, and in which, with her good leave, I still desire with all my heart to repose my weary spirit, and finish the days allotted me; and so I have wandered in almost every place to which our language extends, a stranger, almost a beggar, exposing against my will the wounds given me by fortune, too often unjustly imputed to the sufferer's fault. Truly I have been a vessel without sail and without rudder, driven about upon different ports and shores by the dry wind that springs out of dolorous poverty; and hence have I appeared vile in the eyes of many, who, perhaps, by some better report, had conceived of me a different impression, and in whose sight not only has my person become thus debased, but an unworthy opinion created of everything which I did, or which I had to do."--_Il Convito_, book i. chap. iii., translated by Leigh Hunt, _Stories from the Italian Poets_, 1846, i. 22, 23.]
[328] {275} What is Horizon's quantity? Horīzon, or Horĭzon? adopt accordingly.--[B.]
[cn]--_and the Horizon for bars_.--[MS. Alternative reading.]
[329] [Compare--
"Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar."
_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza lvii., _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 371, note 1.
"Between the second and third chapels [in the nave of Santa Croce at Florence] is the colossal monument to Dante, by Ricci ... raised by subscription in 1829. The inscription, '_A majoribus ter frustra decretum_,' refers to the successive efforts of the Florentines to recover his remains, and raise a monument to their great countryman."--_Handbook, Central Italy_, p. 32.]
[330] "E scrisse più volte non solamente a' particolari Cittadini del Reggimento, ma ancora al Popolo; e intra l' altre un' Epistola assai lunga che incomincia: '_Popule mee_ (sic), _quid feci tibi?_"--_Le vite di Dante, etc._, _scritte da Lionardo Aretino_, 1672, p. 47.
[331] {276}[About the year 1316 his friends obtained his restoration to his country and his possessions, on condition that he should pay a certain sum of money, and, entering a church, avow himself guilty, and ask pardon of the republic.
The following was his answer to a religious, who appears to have been one of his kinsmen: "From your letter, which I received with due respect and affection, I observe how much you have at heart my restoration to my country. I am bound to you the more gratefully inasmuch as an exile rarely finds a friend. But, after mature consideration, I must, by my answer, disappoint the writers of some little minds ... Your nephew and mine has written to me ... that ... I am allowed to return to Florence, provided I pay a certain sum of money, and submit to the humiliation of asking and receiving absolution.... Is such an invitation then to return to his country glorious to d. all. after suffering in exile almost fifteen years? Is it thus, then, they would recompense innocence which all the world knows, and the labour and fatigue of unremitting study? Far from the man who is familiar with philosophy, be the senseless baseness of a heart of earth, that could imitate the infamy of some others, by offering himself up as it were in chains. Far from the man who cries aloud for justice, this compromise, by his money, with his persecutors! No, my Father, this is not the way that shall lead me back to my country. I will return with hasty steps, if you or any other can open to me a way that shall not derogate from the fame and honour of d.; but if by no such way Florence can be entered, then Florence I shall never enter. What! shall I not every where enjoy the light of the sun and the stars? and may I not seek and contemplate, in every corner of the earth, under the canopy of heaven, consoling and delightful truth, without first rendering myself inglorious, nay infamous, to the people and republic of Florence? Bread, I hope, will not fail me."--_Epistola, IX. Amico Florentino: Opere di Dante_, 1897, p. 413.]
THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE
OF PULCI.
INTRODUCTION TO THE _MORGANTE MAGGIORE_.
It is possible that Byron began his translation of the First Canto of Pulci's _Morgante Maggiore_ (so called to distinguish the entire poem of twenty-eight cantos from the lesser _Morgante_ [or, to coin a title, "_Morganid_"] which was published separately) in the late autumn of 1819, before he had left Venice (see his letter to Bankes, February 19, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 403). It is certain that it was finished at Ravenna during the first week of his "domestication" in the Palazzo Guiccioli (Letters to Murray, February 7, February 21, 1820). He took a deal of pains with his self-imposed task, "servilely translating stanza from stanza, and line from line, two octaves every night;" and when the first canto was finished he was naturally and reasonably proud of his achievement. More than two years had elapsed since Frere's _Whistlecraft_ had begotten _Beppo_, and in the interval he had written four cantos of _Don Juan_, outstripping his "immediate model," and equalling if not surpassing his model's parents and precursors, the masters of "narrative romantic poetry among the Italians."
In attempting this translation--something, as he once said of his Armenian studies, "craggy for his mind to break upon" (Letter to Moore, December 5, 1816, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 10)--Byron believed that he was working upon virgin soil. He had read, as he admits in his "Advertisement," John Herman Merivale's poem, _Orlando in Roncesvalles_, which is founded upon the _Morgante Maggiore_; but he does not seem to have been aware that many years before (1806, 1807) the same writer (one of the "associate bards") had published in the _Monthly Magazine_ (May, July, 1806, etc., _vide ante_ Introduction to _Beppo_, p. 156) a series of translations of selected passages of the poem. There is no resemblance whatever between Byron's laboured and faithful rendering of the text, and Merivale's far more readable paraphrase, and it is evident that if these selections ever passed before his eyes, they had left no impression on his memory. He was drawn to the task partly on account of its difficulty, but chiefly because in Pulci he recognized a kindred spirit who suggested and compelled a fresh and final dedication of his genius to the humorous epopee. The translation was an act of devotion, the offering of a disciple to a master.
"The apparent contradictions of the _Morgante Maggiore_ ... the brusque transition from piety to ribaldry, from pathos to satire," the paradoxical union of persiflage with gravity, a confession of faith alternating with a profession of mockery and profanity, have puzzled and confounded more than one student and interpreter. An intimate knowledge of the history, the literature, the art, the manners and passions of the times has enabled one of his latest critics and translators, John Addington Symonds, to come as near as may be to explaining the contradictions; but the essential quality of Pulci's humour eludes analysis.
We know that the poem itself, as Pio Rajna has shown, "the _rifacimento_ of two earlier popular poems," was written to amuse Lucrezia Tornabuoni, the mother of Lorenzo de' Medici, and that it was recited, canto by canto, in the presence of such guests as Poliziano, Ficino, and Michelangelo Buonarotti; but how "it struck these contemporaries," and whether a subtler instinct permitted them to untwist the strands and to appraise the component parts at their precise ethical and spiritual value, are questions for the exercise of the critical imagination. That which attracted Byron to Pulci's writings was, no doubt, the co-presence of faith, a certain _simplicity_ of faith, with an audacious and even outrageous handling of the objects of faith, combined with a facile and wanton alternation of romantic passion with a cynical mockery of whatsoever things are sober and venerable. _Don Juan_ and the _Vision of Judgment_ owe their existence to the _Morgante Maggiore_.
The MS. of the translation of Canto I. was despatched to England, February 28, 1820. It is evident (see Letters, March 29, April 23, May 18, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 425, 1901, v. 17, 21) that Murray looked coldly on Byron's "masterpiece" from the first. It was certain that any new work by the author of _Don Juan_ would be subjected to the severest and most hostile scrutiny, and it was doubtful if a translation of part of an obscure and difficult poem, vaguely supposed to be coarse and irreligious, would meet with even a tolerable measure of success. At any rate, in spite of many inquiries and much vaunting of its excellence (see Letters, June 29, September 12, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 314, 362), the MS. remained for more than two years in Murray's hands, and it was not until other arrangements came into force that the translation of the First Canto of the _Morgante Maggiore_ appeared in the fourth and last number of _The Liberal_, which was issued (by John Hunt) July 30, 1823.
For critical estimates of Luigi Pulci and the _Morgante Maggiore_, see an article (_Quarterly Review_, April, 1819, vol. xxi. pp. 486-556), by Ugo Foscolo, entitled "Narrative and Romantic Poems of the Italians;" _Preface_ to the _Orlando Innamorato of Boiardo_, by A. Panizzi, 1830, i. 190-302; _Poems Original and Translated_, by J. H. Merivale, 1838, ii. 1-43; _Stories of the Italian Poets_, by J. H. Leigh Hunt, 1846, i. 283-314; _Renaissance in Italy_, by J. A. Symonds, 1881, iv. 431, 456, and for translations of the _Morgante Maggiore_, _vide ibid_., Appendix V. pp. 543-560; and _Italian Literature_, by R. Garnett, C.B., LL.D., 1898, pp. 128-131.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando Innamorato the honour of having formed and suggested the style and story of Ariosto.[332] The great defects of Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, has avoided the one; and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same language, and more particularly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the same source.[333] It has never yet been decided entirely whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the religion which is one of his favourite topics. It appears to me, that such an intention would have been no less hazardous to the poet than to the priest, particularly in that age and country; and the permission to publish the poem, and its reception among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play with the simple dulness of his converted giant, seems evident enough; but surely it were as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas,[334] Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild,--or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in the "Tales of my Landlord."
In the following translation I have used the liberty of the original with the proper names, as Pulci uses Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlornano; Rondel, or Rondello, etc., as it suits his convenience; so has the translator. In other respects the version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in combining his interpretation of the one language with the not very easy task of reducing it to the same versification in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the original, is requested to remember that the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan proverbs; and he may therefore be more indulgent to the present attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, are questions which the public will decide. He was induced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. The Italian language is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favours to few, and sometimes least to those who have courted her longest. The translator wished also to present in an English dress a part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a northern language; at the same time that it has been the original of some of the most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, as well of those recent experiments in poetry in England which have been already mentioned.
THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE.[335]
CANTO THE FIRST.
I.
In the beginning was the Word next God; God was the Word, the Word no less was He: This was in the beginning, to my mode Of thinking, and without Him nought could be: Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, One only, to be my companion, who Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through.
II.
And thou, oh Virgin! daughter, mother, bride, Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key Of Heaven, and Hell, and every thing beside, The day thy Gabriel said "All hail!" to thee, Since to thy servants Pity's ne'er denied, With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, Be to my verses then benignly kind, And to the end illuminate my mind.
III.
'Twas in the season when sad Philomel[336] Weeps with her sister, who remembers and Deplores the ancient woes which both befel, And makes the nymphs enamoured, to the hand Of Phaëton, by Phoebus loved so well, His car (but tempered by his sire's command) Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now Appeared, so that Tithonus scratched his brow:
IV.
When I prepared my bark first to obey, As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find By several pens already praised; but they Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, For all that I can see in prose or verse, Have understood Charles badly, and wrote worse.
V.
Leonardo Aretino said already,[337] That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer Of genius quick, and diligently steady, No hero would in history look brighter; He in the cabinet being always ready, And in the field a most victorious fighter, Who for the church and Christian faith had wrought, Certes, far more than yet is said or thought.
VI.
You still may see at Saint Liberatore,[338] The abbey, no great way from Manopell, Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, Because of the great battle in which fell A pagan king, according to the story, And felon people whom Charles sent to Hell: And there are bones so many, and so many, Near them Giusaffa's[339] would seem few, if any.
VII.
But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize His virtues as I wish to see them: thou, Florence, by his great bounty don't arise,[340] And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow, All proper customs and true courtesies: Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, Is sprung from out the noble blood of France.
VIII.
Twelve Paladins had Charles in court, of whom The wisest and most famous was Orlando; Him traitor Gan[341] conducted to the tomb In Roncesvalles, as the villain planned too, While the horn rang so loud, and knelled the doom Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do: And Dante in his comedy has given To him a happy seat with Charles in Heaven.[342]
IX.
'Twas Christmas-day; in Paris all his court Charles held; the Chief, I say, Orlando was, The Dane; Astolfo there too did resort, Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass In festival and in triumphal sport, The much-renowned St. Dennis being the cause; Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, And gentle Belinghieri too came there:
X.
Avolio, and Arino, and Othone Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, Walter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, Were there, exciting too much gladness in The son of Pepin:--when his knights came hither, He groaned with joy to see them altogether.
XI.
But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing; Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king One day he openly began to say, "Orlando must we always then obey?
XII.
"A thousand times I've been about to say, Orlando too presumptuously goes on; Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, Each have to honour thee and to obey; But he has too much credit near the throne, Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided By such a boy to be no longer guided.
XIII.
"And even at Aspramont thou didst begin To let him know he was a gallant knight, And by the fount did much the day to win; But I know _who_ that day had won the fight If it had not for good Gherardo been; The victory was Almonte's else; his sight He kept upon the standard--and the laurels, In fact and fairness, are his earning, Charles!
XIV.
"If thou rememberest being in Gascony, When there advanced the nations out of Spain The Christian cause had suffered shamefully, Had not his valour driven them back again. Best speak the truth when there's a reason why: Know then, oh Emperor! that all complain: As for myself, I shall repass the mounts O'er which I crossed with two and sixty counts.
XV.
"'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, So that each here may have his proper part, For the whole court is more or less in grief: Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart?" Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, As by himself it chanced he sate apart: Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, But much more still that Charles should give him credit.
XVI.
And with the sword he would have murdered Gan, But Oliver thrust in between the pair, And from his hand extracted Durlindan, And thus at length they separated were. Orlando angry too with Carloman, Wanted but little to have slain him there; Then forth alone from Paris went the Chief, And burst and maddened with disdain and grief.
XVII.
From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, And on towards Brara pricked him o'er the plain; And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle Stretched forth her arms to clasp her lord again: Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, As "Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, Raised up his sword to smite her on the head.
XVIII.
Like him a Fury counsels, his revenge On Gan in that rash act he seemed to take, Which Aldabella thought extremely strange; But soon Orlando found himself awake; And his spouse took his bridle on this change, And he dismounted from his horse, and spake Of every thing which passed without demur, And then reposed himself some days with her.
XIX.
Then full of wrath departed from the place, As far as pagan countries roamed astray, And while he rode, yet still at every pace The traitor Gan remembered by the way; And wandering on in error a long space, An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he found, Which formed the Christian's and the Pagan's bound.
XX.
The Abbot was called Clermont, and by blood Descended from Angrante: under cover Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, But certain savage giants looked him over; One Passamont was foremost of the brood, And Alabaster and Morgante hover Second and third, with certain slings, and throw In daily jeopardy the place below.
XXI.
The monks could pass the convent gate no more, Nor leave their cells for water or for wood; Orlando knocked, but none would ope, before Unto the Prior it at length seemed good; Entered, he said that he was taught to adore Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, And was baptized a Christian; and then showed How to the abbey he had found his road.
XXII.
Said the Abbot, "You are welcome; what is mine We give you freely, since that you believe With us in Mary Mother's Son divine; And that you may not, Cavalier, conceive The cause of our delay to let you in To be rusticity, you shall receive The reason why our gate was barred to you: Thus those who in suspicion live must do.
XXIII.
"When hither to inhabit first we came These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, As you perceive, yet without fear or blame They seemed to promise an asylum sure: From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure; But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard Against domestic beasts with watch and ward.
XXIV.
"These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch; For late there have appeared three giants rough, What nation or what kingdom bore the batch I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; When Force and Malice with some genius match, You know, they can do all--_we_ are not enough: And these so much our orisons derange, I know not what to do, till matters change.
XXV.
"Our ancient fathers, living the desert in, For just and holy works were duly fed; Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain That manna was rained down from heaven instead; But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in Our bounds, or taste the stones showered down for bread, From off yon mountain daily raining faster, And flung by Passamont and Alabaster.
XXVI.
"The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far; he Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, And flings them, our community to bury; And all that I can do but more provokes." While thus they parley in the cemetery, A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, Which nearly crushed Rondell, came tumbling over, So that he took a long leap under cover.
XXVII.
"For God-sake, Cavalier, come in with speed; The manna's falling now," the Abbot cried. "This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, Dear Abbot," Roland unto him replied, "Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need; That stone seems with good will and aim applied." The holy father said, "I don't deceive; They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe."
XXVIII.
Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, And also made a breakfast of his own; "Abbot," he said, "I want to find that fellow Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone." Said the abbot, "Let not my advice seem shallow; As to a brother dear I speak alone; I would dissuade you, Baron, from this strife, As knowing sure that you will lose your life.
XXIX.
"That Passamont has in his hand three darts-- Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must: You know that giants have much stouter hearts Than us, with reason, in proportion just: If go you will, guard well against their arts, For these are very barbarous and robust." Orlando answered," This I'll see, be sure, And walk the wild on foot to be secure."
XXX.
The Abbot signed the great cross on his front, "Then go you with God's benison and mine." Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, As the Abbot had directed, kept the line Right to the usual haunt of Passamont; Who, seeing him alone in this design, Surveyed him fore and aft with eyes observant, Then asked him, "If he wished to stay as servant?"
XXXI.
And promised him an office of great ease. But, said Orlando, "Saracen insane! I come to kill you, if it shall so please God, not to serve as footboy in your train; You with his monks so oft have broke the peace-- Vile dog! 'tis past his patience to sustain." The Giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, When he received an answer so injurious.
XXXII.
And being returned to where Orlando stood, Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging The cord, he hurled a stone with strength so rude, As showed a sample of his skill in slinging; It rolled on Count Orlando's helmet good And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, So that he swooned with pain as if he died, But more than dead, he seemed so stupified.
XXXIII.
Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, Said, "I will go, and while he lies along, Disarm me: why such craven did I fight?" But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, Especially Orlando, such a knight, As to desert would almost be a wrong. While the giant goes to put off his defences, Orlando has recalled his force and senses:
XXXIV.
And loud he shouted, "Giant, where dost go? Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid; To the right about--without wings thou'rt too slow To fly my vengeance--currish renegade! 'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low." The giant his astonishment betrayed, And turned about, and stopped his journey on, And then he stooped to pick up a great stone.
XXXV.
Orlando had Cortana bare in hand; To split the head in twain was what he schemed: Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, And pagan Passamont died unredeemed; Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he banned, And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed[343]; But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, Orlando thanked the Father and the Word,--
XXXVI.
Saying, "What grace to me thou'st this day given! And I to thee, O Lord! am ever bound; I know my life was saved by thee from Heaven, Since by the Giant I was fairly downed. All things by thee are measured just and even; Our power without thine aid would nought be found: I pray thee take heed of me, till I can At least return once more to Carloman."
XXXVII.
And having said thus much, he went his way; And Alabaster he found out below, Doing the very best that in him lay To root from out a bank a rock or two. Orlando, when he reached him, loud 'gan say, "How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw?" When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, He suddenly betook him to his sling,
XXXVIII.
And hurled a fragment of a size so large That if it had in fact fulfilled its mission, And Roland not availed him of his targe, There would have been no need of a physician[344]. Orlando set himself in turn to charge, And in his bulky bosom made incision With all his sword. The lout fell; but o'erthrown, he However by no means forgot Macone.
XXXIX.
Morgante had a palace in his mode, Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, And stretched himself at ease in this abode, And shut himself at night within his berth. Orlando knocked, and knocked again, to goad The giant from his sleep; and he came forth, The door to open, like a crazy thing, For a rough dream had shook him slumbering.
XL.
He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked him, And Mahomet he called; but Mahomet Is nothing worth, and, not an instant backed him; But praying blessed Jesu, he was set At liberty from all the fears which racked him; And to the gate he came with great regret-- "Who knocks here?" grumbling all the while, said he. "That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see:
XLI.
"I come to preach to you, as to your brothers,-- Sent by the miserable monks--repentance; For Providence divine, in you and others, Condemns the evil done, my new acquaintance! 'Tis writ on high--your wrong must pay another's: From Heaven itself is issued out this sentence. Know then, that colder now than a pilaster I left your Passamont and Alabaster."
XLII.
Morgante said, "Oh gentle Cavalier! Now by thy God say me no villany; The favour of your name I fain would hear, And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." Replied Orlando, "So much to your ear I by my faith disclose contentedly; Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, And, if you please, by you may be adored."
XLIII.
The Saracen rejoined in humble tone, "I have had an extraordinary vision; A savage serpent fell on me alone, And Macon would not pity my condition; Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone Upon the cross, preferred I my petition; His timely succour set me safe and free, And I a Christian am disposed to be."
XLIV.
Orlando answered, "Baron just and pious, If this good wish your heart can really move To the true God, who will not then deny us Eternal honour, you will go above, And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, And I will love you with a perfect love. Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud: The only true God is the Christian's God.
XLV.
"The Lord descended to the virgin breast Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine; If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test, Your renegado god, and worship mine, Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." To which Morgante answered, "I'm content."
XLVI.
And then Orlando to embrace him flew, And made much of his convert, as he cried, "To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." To whom Morgante, "Let us go," replied: "I to the friars have for peace to sue." Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, Saying, "My brother, so devout and good, Ask the Abbot pardon, as I wish you would:
XLVII.
"Since God has granted your illumination, Accepting you in mercy for his own, Humility should be your first oblation." Morgante said, "For goodness' sake, make known,-- Since that your God is to be mine--your station, And let your name in verity be shown; Then will I everything at your command do." On which the other said, he was Orlando.
XLVIII.
"Then," quoth the Giant, "blessed be Jesu A thousand times with gratitude and praise! Oft, perfect Baron! have I heard of you Through all the different periods of my days: And, as I said, to be your vassal too I wish, for your great gallantry always." Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, And onwards to the abbey went their way.
XLIX.
And by the way about the giants dead Orlando with Morgante reasoned: "Be, For their decease, I pray you, comforted, And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me; A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred; And our true Scripture soundeth openly, Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil:
L.
"Because His love of justice unto all Is such, He wills His judgment should devour All who have sin, however great or small; But good He well remembers to restore. Nor without justice holy could we call Him, whom I now require you to adore. All men must make His will their wishes sway, And quickly and spontaneously obey.
LI.
"And here our doctors are of one accord, Coming on this point to the same conclusion,-- That in their thoughts, who praise in Heaven the Lord, If Pity e'er was guilty of intrusion For their unfortunate relations stored In Hell below, and damned in great confusion, Their happiness would be reduced to nought,-- And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought.
LII.
"But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all Which seems to Him, to them too must appear Well done; nor could it otherwise befall; He never can in any purpose err. If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, They don't disturb themselves for him or her: What pleases God to them must joy inspire;-- Such is the observance of the eternal choir."
LIII.
"A word unto the wise," Morgante said, "Is wont to be enough, and you shall see How much I grieve about my brethren dead; And if the will of God seem good to me, Just, as you tell me, 'tis in Heaven obeyed-- Ashes to ashes,--merry let us be! I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, And carry them unto the holy monks.
LIV.
"So that all persons may be sure and certain That they are dead, and have no further fear To wander solitary this desert in, And that they may perceive my spirit clear By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain Of darkness, making His bright realm appear." He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, And left them to the savage beasts and birds.
LV.
Then to the abbey they went on together, Where waited them the Abbot in great doubt. The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran thither To their superior, all in breathless rout, Saying with tremor, "Please to tell us whether You wish to have this person in or out?" The Abbot, looking through upon the Giant, Too greatly feared, at first, to be compliant.
LVI.
Orlando seeing him thus agitated, Said quickly, "Abbot, be thou of good cheer; He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, And hath renounced his Macon false;" which here Morgante with the hands corroborated, A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear: Thence, with due thanks, the Abbot God adored, Saying, "Thou hast contented me, O Lord!"
LVII.
He gazed; Morgante's height he calculated, And more than once contemplated his size; And then he said, "O Giant celebrated! Know, that no more my wonder will arise, How you could tear and fling the trees you late did, When I behold your form with my own eyes. You now a true and perfect friend will show Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe.
LVIII.
"And one of our apostles, Saul once named, Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 'Why dost thou persecute me thus?' said Christ; And then from his offence he was reclaimed, And went for ever after preaching Christ, And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding.
LIX.
"So, my Morgante, you may do likewise: He who repents--thus writes the Evangelist-- Occasions more rejoicing in the skies Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. You may be sure, should each desire arise With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist Among the happy saints for evermore; But you were lost and damned to Hell before!"
LX.
And thus great honour to Morgante paid The Abbot: many days they did repose. One day, as with Orlando they both strayed, And sauntered here and there, where'er they chose, The Abbot showed a chamber, where arrayed Much armour was, and hung up certain bows; And one of these Morgante for a whim Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him.
LXI.
There being a want of water in the place, Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, "Morgante, I could wish you in this case To go for water." "You shall be obeyed In all commands," was the reply, "straight ways." Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, And went out on his way unto a fountain, Where he was wont to drink, below the mountain.
LXII.
Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, Which suddenly along the forest spread; Whereat from out his quiver he prepares An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head; And lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears, And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, And to the fountain's brink precisely pours; So that the Giant's joined by all the boars.
LXIII.
Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, And passed unto the other side quite through; So that the boar, defunct, lay tripped up near. Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, Against the Giant rushed in fierce career, And reached the passage with so swift a foot, Morgante was not now in time to shoot.
LXIV.
Perceiving that the pig was on him close, He gave him such a punch upon the head[345], As floored him so that he no more arose, Smashing the very bone; and he fell dead Next to the other. Having seen such blows, The other pigs along the valley fled; Morgante on his neck the bucket took, Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook.
LXV.
The tub was on one shoulder, and there were The hogs on t'other, and he brushed apace On to the abbey, though by no means near, Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. Orlando, seeing him so soon appear With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, Marvelled to see his strength so very great; So did the Abbot, and set wide the gate.
LXVI.
The monks, who saw the water fresh and good[346], Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork; All animals are glad at sight of food: They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, For all the fasts are now left in arrear.
LXVII.
As though they wished to burst at once, they ate; And gorged so that, as if the bones had been In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, Perceiving that they all were picked too clean. The Abbot, who to all did honour great, A few days after this convivial scene, Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well trained, Which he long time had for himself maintained.
LXVIII.
The horse Morgante to a meadow led, To gallop, and to put him to the proof, Thinking that he a back of iron had, Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough; But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. Morgante said, "Get up, thou sulky cur!" And still continued pricking with the spur.
LXIX.
But finally he thought fit to dismount, And said, "I am as light as any feather, And he has burst;--to this what say you, Count?" Orlando answered, "Like a ship's mast rather You seem to me, and with the truck for front: Let him go! Fortune wills that we together Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." To which the Giant answered," So I will.
LXX.
"When there shall be occasion, you will see How I approve my courage in the fight." Orlando said, "I really think you'll be, If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight; Nor will you napping there discover me. But never mind your horse, though out of sight 'Twere best to carry him into some wood, If but the means or way I understood."
LXXI.
The Giant said, "Then carry him I will, Since that to carry me he was so slack-- To render, as the gods do, good for ill; But lend a hand to place him on my back." Orlando answered, "If my counsel still May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake To lift or carry this dead courser, who, As you have done to him, will do to you.
LXXII.
"Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. I don't know if the fact you've heard or read; But he will make you burst, you may be sure." "But help him on my back," Morgante said, "And you shall see what weight I can endure. In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry."
LXXIII.
The Abbot said, "The steeple may do well, But for the bells, you've broken them, I wot." Morgante answered, "Let them pay in Hell The penalty who lie dead in yon grot;" And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, He said, "Now look if I the gout have got, Orlando, in the legs,--or if I have force;"-- And then he made two gambols with the horse.
LXXIV.
Morgante was like any mountain framed; So if he did this 'tis no prodigy; But secretly himself Orlando blamed, Because he was one of his family; And fearing that he might be hurt or maimed, Once more he bade him lay his burden by: "Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." Morgante said, "I'll carry him for certain."
LXXV.
He did; and stowed him in some nook away, And to the abbey then returned with speed. Orlando said, "Why longer do we stay? Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." The Abbot by the hand he took one day, And said, with great respect, he had agreed To leave his reverence; but for this decision He wished to have his pardon and permission.
LXXVI.
The honours they continued to receive Perhaps exceeded what his merits claimed: He said, "I mean, and quickly, to retrieve The lost days of time past, which may be blamed; Some days ago I should have asked your leave, Kind father, but I really was ashamed, And know not how to show my sentiment, So much I see you with our stay content.
LXXVII.
"But in my heart I bear through every clime The Abbot, abbey, and this solitude-- So much I love you in so short a time; For me, from Heaven reward you with all good The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime! Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing. And recommend us to your prayers with pressing."
LXXVIII.
Now when the Abbot Count Orlando heard, His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, Such fervour in his bosom bred each word; And, "Cavalier," he said, "if I have less Courteous and kind to your great worth appeared, Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, I know I have done too little in this case; But blame our ignorance, and this poor place.
LXXIX.
"We can indeed but honour you with masses, And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places In verity much rather than the cloisters); But such a love for you my heart embraces, For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, And, on the other part, you rest with me.
LXXX.
"This may involve a seeming contradiction; But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste, And understand my speech with full conviction. For your just pious deeds may you be graced With the Lord's great reward and benediction, By whom you were directed to this waste: To His high mercy is our freedom due, For which we render thanks to Him and you.
LXXXI.
"You saved at once our life and soul: such fear The Giants caused us, that the way was lost By which we could pursue a fit career In search of Jesus and the saintly Host; And your departure breeds such sorrow here, That comfortless we all are to our cost; But months and years you would not stay in sloth, Nor are you formed to wear our sober cloth,
LXXXII.
"But to bear arms, and wield the lance; indeed, With these as much is done as with this cowl; In proof of which the Scripture you may read, This Giant up to Heaven may bear his soul By your compassion: now in peace proceed. Your state and name I seek not to unroll; But, if I'm asked, this answer shall be given, That here an angel was sent down from Heaven.
LXXXIII.
"If you want armour or aught else, go in, Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose, And cover with it o'er this Giant's skin." Orlando answered, "If there should lie loose Some armour, ere our journey we begin, Which might be turned to my companion's use, The gift would be acceptable to me." The Abbot said to him, "Come in and see."
LXXXIV.
And in a certain closet, where the wall Was covered with old armour like a crust, The Abbot said to them, "I give you all." Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust The whole, which, save one cuirass[347], was too small, And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. They wondered how it fitted him exactly, Which ne'er had suited others so compactly.
LXXXV.
'Twas an immeasurable Giant's, who By the great Milo of Agrante fell Before the abbey many years ago. The story on the wall was figured well; In the last moment of the abbey's foe, Who long had waged a war implacable: Precisely as the war occurred they drew him, And there was Milo as he overthrew him.
LXXXVI.
Seeing this history, Count Orlando said In his own heart, "O God who in the sky Know'st all things! how was Milo hither led? Who caused the Giant in this place to die?" And certain letters, weeping, then he read, So that he could not keep his visage dry,-- As I will tell in the ensuing story: From evil keep you the high King of Glory!
[Note to Stanza v. Lines 1, 2.--In an Edition of the _Morgante Maggiore_ issued at Florence by G. Pulci, in 1900, line 2 of stanza v. runs thus--
"Com' egli ebbe un Ormanno e 'l suo Turpino."
The allusion to "Ormanno," who has been identified with a mythical chronicler, "Urmano from Paris" (see Rajna's _Ricerche sui Reali di Francia_, 1872, p. 51), and the appeal to the authority of Leonardo Aretino, must not be taken _au pied de la lettre_. At the same time, the opinion attributed to Leonardo is in accordance with contemporary sentiment and phraseology. Compare "Horum res gestas si qui auctores digni celebrassent, quam magnæ, quam admirabiles, quam veteribus illis similes viderentur."--B. Accolti Aretini (_ob._ 1466) _Dialogus de Præstantiâ Virorum sui Ævi_. P. Villani, _Liber de Florentiæ Famosis Civibus_, 1847, p. 112. From information kindly supplied by Professor V. Rossi, of the University of Pavia.]
FOOTNOTES:
[332] {283}[Matteo Maria Bojardo (1434-1494) published his _Orlando Innamorato_ in 1486; Lodovico Ariosto (1474-1533) published the _Orlando Furioso_ in 1516. A first edition of Cantos I.-XXV. of Luigi Pulci's (1431-1487) _Il Morgante Maggiore_ was printed surreptitiously by Luca Veneziano in 1481. Francesco Berni, who recast the _Orlando Innamorato_, was born circ. 1490, and died in 1536.]
[333] [John Hermann Merivale (1779-1844), the father of Charles Merivale, the historian (Dean of Ely, 1869), and of Herman, Under-Secretary for India, published his _Orlando in Roncesvalles_ in 1814.]
[334] {284}[Parson Adams and Barnabas are characters in _Joseph Andrews_; Thwackum and Supple, in _The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling_.]
[335] {285}[Byron insisted, in the first place with Murray (February 7, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 402), and afterwards, no doubt, with the Hunts, that his translation of the _Morgante Maggiore_ should be "put by the original, stanza for stanza, and verse for verse." In the present issue a few stanzas are inserted for purposes of comparison, but it has not been thought necessary to reprint the whole of the Canto.
"IL MORGANTE MAGGIORE.
ARGOMENTO.
"Vivendo Carlo Magno Imperadore Co' Paladini in festa e in allegria, Orlando contra Gano traditore S'adira, e parte verso Pagania: Giunge a un deserto, e del bestial furore Di tre giganti salva una badia, Che due n'uccide, e con Morgante elegge, Di buon sozio e d'amico usar la legge."
CANTO PRIMO.
I.
"In principio era il Verbo appresso a Dio; Ed era Iddio il Verbo, e 'l Verbo lui: Quest' era nel principio, al parer mio; E nulla si può far sanza costui: Però, giusto Signor benigno e pio, Mandami solo un de gli angeli tui, Che m'accompagni, e rechimi a memoria Una famosa antica e degna storia.
II.
"E tu, Vergine, figlia, e madre, e sposa, Di quel Signor, che ti dette le chiave Del cielo e dell' abisso, e d' ogni cosa, Quel di che Gabriel tuo ti disse Ave! Perchè tu se' de' tuo' servi pietosa, Con dolce rime, e stil grato e soave, Ajuta i versi miei benignamente, E'nsino al fine allumina la mente.
III.
"Era nel tempo, quando Filomena Colla sorella si lamenta e plora, Che si ricorda di sua antica pena, E pe' boschetti le ninfe innamora, E Febo il carro temperato mena, Che 'l suo Fetonte l'ammaestra ancora; Ed appariva appunto all' orizzonte, Tal che Titon si graffiava la fronte:
IV.
"Quand'io varai la mia barchetta, prima Per ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbe La mente, e faticarsi in prosa e in rima, E del mio Carlo Imperador m'increbbe; Che so quanti la penna ha posto in cima, Che tutti la sua gloria prevarrebbe: E stata quella istoria, a quel ch'i' veggio, Di Carlo male intesa, e scritta peggio."]
[336] {287}[Philomela and Procne were daughters of Pandion, King of Attica. Tereus, son of Ares, wedded Procne, and, after the birth of her son Itys, concealed his wife in the country, with a view to dishonouring Philomela, on the plea of her sister's death. Procne discovered the plot, killed her babe, and served up his flesh in a dish for her husband's dinner. The sisters fled, and when Tereus pursued them with an axe they besought the gods to change them into birds. Thereupon Procne became a swallow, and Philomela a nightingale. So Hyginus, _Fabulæ_, xlv.; but there are other versions of Philomela's woes.]
[337] [In the first edition of the _Morgante Maggiore_ (Firenze, 1482 [_B. M._ G. 10834]), which is said (_vide_ the _colophon_) to have been issued "under the correction of the author, line 2 of this stanza runs thus: "_comegliebbe u armano el suo turpino_;" and, apparently, it was not till 1518 (Milano, by Zarotti) that _Pipino_ was substituted for _Turpino_. Leonardo Bruni, surnamed Aretino (1369-1444), in his _Istoria Fiorentina_ (1861, pp. 43, 47), commemorates the imperial magnificence of _Carlo Magno_, and speaks of his benefactions to the Church, but does not--in that work, at any rate--mention his biographers. It is possible that if Pulci or Bruni had read Eginhard, they thought that his chronicle was derogatory to Charlemagne. (See Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_, 1825, iii. 376, note 1, and Hallam's _Europe during the Middle Ages_, 1868, p. 16, note 3; _et vide post_, p. 309.)]
[338] {288}[For an account of the Benedictine Monastery of San Liberatore alla Majella, which lies to the south of Manoppello (eight miles southwest of Chieto, in the Abruzzi), see _Monumenti Storici ed. Artistici degli Abruzzi_, by V. Bindi, Naples, 1889, Part I. (Testo), pp. 655, _sq_. The abbey is in a ruinous condition, but on the walls of "_un ampio porticato_," there is still to be seen a fresco of Charlemagne, holding in his hands the deed of gift of the Abbey lands.]
[339] [That is, the valley of Jehoshaphat, the "valley where Jehovah judges" (see Joel iii. 2-12); and, hence, a favourite burial-ground of Jews and Moslems.]
[340] [The text as it stands is meaningless. Probably Byron wrote "dost arise." The reference is no doubt to the supposed restoration of Florence by Charlemagne.]
[341] {289}["The _Morgante_ is in truth the epic of treason, and the character of Gano, as an accomplished but not utterly abandoned Judas, is admirably sustained throughout."--_Renaissance in Italy_, 1881, iv. 444.]
[342]
["Così per Carlo Magno e per Orlando, Due ne segui lo mio attento sguardo, Com' occhio segue suo falcon volando."
_Del Paradiso_, Canto XVIII. lines 43-45.]
[343] {296}["Macon" is another form of "Mahomet." Compare--
"O Macon! break in twain the steeléd lance."
Fairfax's Tasso, _Gerusalemme Liberata_, book ix. stanza xxx. line i.]
[344] [Pulci seems to have been the originator of the humorous understatement. Compare--
"And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more."
Bret Harte's Poems, _The Society upon the Stanislaus_, line 26.]
[345] {303} "Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is strange that Pulci should have literally anticipated the technical terms of my old friend and master, Jackson, and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. "_A punch on the head_" or "_a punch in the head_"--"un punzone in su la testa,"--is the exact and frequent phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they are talking the purest Tuscan.
[346] {304}["Half a dozen invectives against tyranny confiscate C^d.^ H^d.^ in a month; and eight and twenty cantos of quizzing Monks, Knights, and Church Government, are let loose for centuries."--Letter to Murray, May 8, 1820, _Letters_, 1901, v. 21.]
[347] {308}[Byron could not make up his mind with regard to the translation of the Italian _sbergo_, which he had, correctly, rendered "cuirass." He was under the impression that the word "meant _helmet_ also" (see his letters to Murray, March 1, 5, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 413-417). _Sbergo_ or _usbergo_, as Moore points out (_Life_, p. 438, note 2), "is obviously the same as hauberk, habergeon, etc., all from the German _halsberg_, or covering for the neck." An old dictionary which Byron might have consulted, _Vocabolario Italiano-Latino_, Venice, 1794, gives _thorax_, _lorica_, as the Latin equivalent of "Usbergo = armadura del busto, corazza." (See, too, for an authority quoted in the _Dizzionario Universale_ (1797-1805) of Alberti di Villanuova, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 417, note 2.)]
FRANCESCA OF RIMINI.
INTRODUCTION TO _FRANCESCA OF RIMINI_.
The MS. of "a _literal_ translation, word for word (versed like the original), of the episode of Francesca of Rimini" (Letter March 23, 1820, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 421), was sent to Murray from Ravenna, March 20, 1820 (_ibid_., p. 419), a week after Byron had forwarded the MS. of the _Prophecy of Dante_. Presumably the translation had been made in the interval by way of illustrating and justifying the unfamiliar metre of the "Dante Imitation." In the letter which accompanied the translation he writes, "Enclosed you will find, _line for line_, in _third rhyme_ (_terza rima_,) of which your British Blackguard reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You know that she was born here, and married, and slain, from Cary, Boyd, and such people already. I have done it into _cramp_ English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the possibility. You had best append it to the poems already sent by last three posts."
In the matter of the "British Blackguard," that is, the general reader, Byron spoke by the card. Hayley's excellent translation of the three first cantos of the _Inferno_ (_vide ante_, "Introduction to the _Prophecy of Dante_," p. 237), which must have been known to a previous generation, was forgotten, and with earlier experiments in _terza rima_, by Chaucer and the sixteenth and seventeenth century poets, neither Byron nor the British public had any familiar or definite acquaintance. But of late some interest had been awakened or revived in Dante and the _Divina Commedia_.
Cary's translation--begun in 1796, but not published as a whole till 1814--had met with a sudden and remarkable success. "The work, which had been published four years, but had remained in utter obscurity, was at once eagerly sought after. About a thousand copies of the first edition, that remained on hand, were immediately disposed of; in less than three months a new edition was called for." Moreover, the _Quarterly_ and _Edinburgh Reviews_ were loud in its praises (_Memoir of H. F. Cary_, 1847, ii. 28). Byron seems to have thought that a fragment of the _Inferno_, "versed like the original," would challenge comparison with Cary's rendering in blank verse, and would lend an additional interest to the "Pulci Translations, and the Dante Imitation." _Dîs aliter visum_, and Byron's translation of the episode of _Francesca of Rimini_, remained unpublished till it appeared in the pages of _The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron_, 1830, ii. 309-311. (For separate translations of the episode, see _Stories of the Italian Poets_, by Leigh Hunt, 1846, i. 393-395, and for a rendering in blank verse by Lord [John] Russell, see _Literary Souvenir_, 1830, pp. 285-287.)
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.
FRANCESCA OF RIMINI[348]
FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE.
CANTO THE FIFTH.
"The Land where I was born[349] sits by the Seas Upon that shore to which the Po descends, With all his followers, in search of peace. Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en From me[350], and me even yet the mode offends. Love, who to none beloved to love again Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong[351], That, as thou see'st, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along, 10 But Caina[352] waits for him our life who ended:" These were the accents uttered by her tongue.-- Since I first listened to these Souls offended, I bowed my visage, and so kept it till-- 'What think'st thou?' said the bard[353]; when I unbended, And recommenced: 'Alas! unto such ill How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstacies, Led these their evil fortune to fulfill!' And then I turned unto their side my eyes, And said, 'Francesca, thy sad destinies 20 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. But tell me, in the Season of sweet sighs, By what and how thy Love to Passion rose, So as his dim desires to recognize?' Then she to me: 'The greatest of all woes Is to remind us of our happy days[co][354] In misery, and that thy teacher knows. But if to learn our Passion's first root preys Upon thy spirit with such Sympathy, I will do even as he who weeps and says.[cp][355] 30 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, Of Lancilot, how Love enchained him too. We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met, and our Cheeks in hue All o'er discoloured by that reading were; But one point only wholly us o'erthrew;[cq] When we read the long-sighed-for smile of her,[cr] To be thus kissed by such devoted lover,[cs] He, who from me can be divided ne'er, Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over: 40 Accurséd was the book and he who wrote![356] That day no further leaf we did uncover.' While thus one Spirit told us of their lot, The other wept, so that with Pity's thralls I swooned, as if by Death I had been smote,[357] And fell down even as a dead body falls."[358]
_March_ 20, 1820.
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.
DANTE, L'INFERNO.
CANTO QUINTO.
'Siede la terra dove nata fui Sulla marina, dove il Po discende Per aver pace co' seguaci sui. Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s'apprende, Prese costui della bella persona Che mi fu tolta, e il modo ancor m' offende. Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona, Mi prese del costui piacer si forte, Che, come vedi, ancor non mi abbandona. Amor condusse noi ad una morte: 10 Caino attende chi vita ci spense.' Queste parole da lor ci fur porte. Da che io intesi quelle anime offense Chinai 'l viso, e tanto il tenni basso, Finchè il Poeta mi disse: 'Che pense?' Quando risposi, cominciai: 'O lasso! Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio Menò costoro al doloroso passo!' Poi mi rivolsi a loro, e parla' io, E cominciai: 'Francesca, i tuoi martiri 20 A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio. Ma dimmi: al tempo de' dolci sospiri A che e come concedette Amore, Che conoscesti i dubbiosi desiri?' Ed ella a me: 'Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria; e ciò sa il tuo dottore. Ma se a conoscer la prima radice Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto Farò come colui che piange e dice. 30 Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto Di Lancelotto, come Amor lo strinse: Soli eravamo, e senza alcun sospetto. Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse Quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso: Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse. Quando leggemmo il disiato riso Esser baciato da cotanto amante, Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante: 40 Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse-- Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante Mentre che l'uno spirto questo disse, L'altro piangeva sì che di pietade Io venni meno cos com' io morisse; E caddi, come corpo morto cade.
FOOTNOTES:
[348] {317}[Dante, in his _Inferno_ (Canto V. lines 97-142), places Francesca and her lover Paolo among the lustful in the second circle of Hell. Francesca, daughter of Guido Vecchio da Polenta, Lord of Ravenna, married (circ. 1275) Gianciotto, second son of Malatesta da Verrucchio, Lord of Rimini. According to Boccaccio (_Il Comento sopra la Commedia_, 1863, i. 476, _sq._), Gianciotto was "hideously deformed in countenance and figure," and determined to woo and marry Francesca by proxy. He accordingly "sent, as his representative, his younger brother Paolo, the handsomest and most accomplished man in all Italy. Francesca saw Paolo arrive, and imagined she beheld her future husband. That mistake was the commencement of her passion." A day came when the lovers were surprised together, and Gianciotto slew both his brother and his wife.]
[349] ["On arrive à Ravenne en longeant une forèt de pins qui a sept lieues de long, et qui me semblait un immense bois funèbre servant d'avenue au sépulcre commun de ces deux grandes puissances. A peine y a-t-il place pour d'autres souvenirs à côté de leur mémoire. Cependant d'autres noms poétiques sont attachés à la Pineta de Ravenne. Naguère lord Byron y évoquait les fantastiques récits empruntés par Dryden à Boccace, et lui-même est maintenant une figure du passé, errante dans ce lieu mélancolique. Je songeais, en le traversant, que le chantre du désespoir avait chevauché sur cette plage lugubre, foulée avant lui par le pas grave et lent du poëte de _l'Enfer_....
"Il suffit de jeter les yeux sur une carte pour reconnaitre l'exactitude topographique de cette dernière expression. En effet, dans toute la partie supérieure de son cours, le Po reçoit une foule d'affluents qui convergent vers son lit; ce sont le Tésin, l'Adda, l'Olio, le Mincio, la Trebbia, la Bormida, le Taro...."--_La Grèce, Rome, et Dante_ ("Voyage Dantesque"), par M. J. J. Ampère, 1850, pp. 311-313.]
[350] [The meaning is that she was despoiled of her beauty by death, and that the manner of her death excites her indignation still. "Among Lord Byron's unpublished letters we find the following varied readings of the translation from Dante:--
Seized him for the fair person, which in its Bloom was ta'en from me, yet the mode offends. _or_, Seized him for the fair form, of which in its Bloom I was reft, and yet the mode offends.
Love, which to none beloved to love remits, / with mutual wish to please \ Seized me < with wish of pleasing him > so strong, \ with the desire to please / That, as thou see'st, not yet that passion quits, etc.
You will find these readings vary from the MS. I sent you. They are closer, but rougher: take which is liked best; or, if you like, print them as variations. They are all close to the text."--_Works of Lord Byron_, 1832, xii. 5, note 2.]
[351] {319}["The man's desire is for the woman; but the woman's desire is rarely other than for the desire of the man."--S. T. Coleridge, _Table Talk_, July 23, 1827.]
[352] [Caïna is the first belt of Cocytus, that is, circle ix. of the Inferno, in which fratricides and betrayers of their kindred are immersed up to the neck.]
[353] [Virgil.]
[co] {319}
_Is to recall to mind our happy days_. _In misery, and this thy teacher knows_.--[MS.]
[354] [The sentiment is derived from Boethius: "_In omni adversitate fortunæ infelicissimum genus est infortunii, fuisse felicem_."--_De Consolat. Philos. Lib. II. Prosa_ 4. The earlier commentators (_e.g._ Venturi and Biagioli), relying on a passage in the _Convito_ (ii. 16), assume that the "teacher" (line 27) is the author of the sentence, but later authorities point out that "mio dottore" can only apply to Virgil (v. 70), who then and there in the world of shades was suffering the bitter experience of having "known better days." Compare--
"For of fortunes sharp adversitee The worst kinde of infortune is this, A man to have ben in prosperitee, And it remembren whan it passéd is."
_Troilus and Criseyde_, Bk. III. stanza ccxxxiii. lines 1-4.
"E perché rimembrare il ben perduto Fa più meschino lo stato presente."
Fortiguerra's _Ricciardetto_, Canto XI. stanza lxxxiii.
Compare, too--
"A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."
Tennyson's _Locksley Hall_.]
[cp] _I will relate as he who weeps and says_.--[MS.] (The sense is, _I will do even as one who relates while weeping_.)
[355] [Byron affixed the following note to line 126 of the Italian: "In some of the editions it is 'dirò,' in others 'faro;'--an essential difference between 'saying' and 'doing' which I know not how to decide--Ask Foscolo--the damned editions drive me mad." In _La Divina Commedia_, Firenze, 1892, and the _Opere de Dante_, Oxford, 1897, the reading is _faro_.]
[cq] {321} ----_wholly overthrew_.--[MS.]
[cr] _When we read the desired-for smile of her_. [MS, Alternative reading.]
[cs]--_by such a fervent lover_.--[MS.]
[356] ["A Gallehault was the book and he who wrote it" (A. J. Butler). "Writer and book were Gallehault to our will" (E. J. Plumptre). The book which the lovers were reading is entitled _L'Illustre et Famosa Historia di Lancilotto del Lago_. The "one point" of the original runs thus: "Et la reina ... lo piglia per il mento, et lo bacia davanti a Gallehault, assai lungamente."--Venice, 1558, _Lib. Prim_. cap. lxvi. vol. i. p. 229. The Gallehault of the _Lancilotto_, the shameless "purveyor," must not be confounded with the stainless Galahad of the _Morte d'Arthur_.']
[357] [Dante was in his twentieth, or twenty-first year when the tragedy of Francesca and Paolo was enacted, not at Rimini, but at Pesaro. Some acquaintance he may have had with her, through his friend Guido (not her father, but probably her nephew), enough to account for the peculiar emotion caused by her sanguinary doom.]
[358]
Alternative Versions Transcribed by Mrs. Shelley.
_March_ 20, 1820.
line 4: Love, which too soon the soft heart apprehends, Seized him for the fair form, the which was there Torn from me, and even yet the mode offends.
line 8: Remits, seized him for me with joy so strong--
line 12: These were the words then uttered-- Since I had first perceived these souls offended, I bowed my visage and so kept it till-- "What think'st thou?" said the bard, whom I (_sic_) And then commenced--"Alas unto such ill--
line 18: Led these? "and then I turned me to them still And spoke, "Francesca, thy sad destinies Have made me sad and tender even to tears, But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, By what and how Love overcame your fears, So ye might recognize his dim desires?" Then she to me, "No greater grief appears Than, when the time of happiness expires, To recollect, and this your teacher knows. But if to find the first root of our-- Thou seek'st with such a sympathy in woes, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks. We read one day for pleasure, sitting close, Of Launcelot, where forth his passion breaks. We were alone and we suspected nought, But oft our eyes exchanged, and changed our cheeks. When we read the desiring smile of her Who to be kissed by such true lover sought, He who from me can be divided ne'er All tremulously kissed my trembling mouth. Accursed the book and he who wrote it were-- That day no further did we read in sooth." While the one spirit in this manner spoke The other wept, so that, for very ruth, I felt as if my trembling heart had broke, To see the misery which both enthralls: So that I swooned as dying with the stroke,-- And fell down even as a dead body falls.
Another version of the same. line 21: Have made me sad even until the tears arise--
line 27: In wretchedness, and that your teacher knows.
line 31: We read one day for pleasure-- Of Launcelot, how passion shook his frame. We were alone all unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met and our cheeks the same, Pale and discoloured by that reading were; But one part only wholly overcame; When we read the desiring smile of her Who sought the kiss of such devoted lover; He who from me can be divided ne'er Kissed my mouth, trembling to that kiss all over! Accurséd was that book and he who wrote-- That day we did no further page uncover." While thus--etc.
line 45: I swooned to death with sympathetic thought--
[Another version.] line 33: We were alone, and we suspected nought. But oft our meeting eyes made pale our cheeks, Urged by that reading for our ruin wrought; But one point only wholly overcame: When we read the desiring smile which sought By such true lover to be kissed--the same Who from my side can be divided ne'er Kissed my mouth, trembling o'er all his frame! Accurst the book, etc., etc.
[Another version.] line 33: We were alone and--etc. But one point only 'twas our ruin wrought. When we read the desiring smile of her Who to be kissed of such true lover sought; He who for me, etc., etc.
MARINO FALIERO,
DOGE OF VENICE;
AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS.
"_Dux_ inquieti turbidus Adria." Horace, [_Od._ III. c. iii. line 5]
[_Marino Faliero_ was produced for the first time at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, April 25, 1821. Mr. Cooper played "The Doge;" Mrs. W. West, "Angiolina, wife of the Doge." The piece was repeated on April 30, May 1, 2, 3, 4, and 14, 1821.
A revival was attempted at Drury Lane, May 20, 21, 1842, when Macready appeared as "The Doge," and Helen Faucit as "Angiolina" (see _Life_ and _Remains_ of E. L. Blanchard, 1891, i. 346-348).
An adaptation of Byron's play, by W. Bayle Bernard, was produced at Drury Lane, November 2, 1867. It was played till December 17, 1867. Phelps took the part of "The Doge," and Mrs. Hermann of "Angiolina." In Germany an adaptation by Arthur Fitger was performed nineteen times by the "Meiningers," circ. 1887 (see _Englische Studien_, 1899, xxvii. 146).]
INTRODUCTION TO _MARINO FALIERO_.
Byron had no sooner finished the first draft of _Manfred_ than he began (February 25, 1817) to lay the foundation of another tragedy. Venice was new to him, and, on visiting the Doge's Palace, the veiled space intended for the portrait of Marin Falier, and the "Giants' Staircase," where, as he believed, "he was once crowned and afterwards decapitated," had laid hold of his imagination, while the legend of the _Congiura_, "an old man jealous and conspiring against the state of which he was ... Chief," promised a subject which the "devil himself" might have dramatized _con amore_.
But other interests and ideas claimed his attention, and for more than three years the project slept. At length he slips into the postscript of a letter to Murray, dated, "Ravenna, April 9, 1820" (_Letters_, 1901, v. 7), an intimation that he had begun "a tragedy on the subject of Marino Faliero, the Doge of Venice." The "Imitation of Dante, the Translation of Pulci, the Danticles," etc., were worked off, and, in prospecting for a new vein, a fresh lode of literary ore, he passed, by a natural transition, from Italian literature to Italian history, from the romantic and humorous _epopee_ of Pulci and Berni, to the pseudo-classic drama of Alfieri and Monti.
Jealousy, as "Monk" Lewis had advised him (August, 1817), was an "exhausted passion" in the drama, and to lay the scene in Venice was to provoke comparison with Shakespeare and Otway; but the man himself, the fiery Doge, passionate but not jealous, a noble turned democrat _pro hac vice_, an old man "greatly" finding "quarrel in a straw," afforded a theme historically time-honoured, and yet unappropriated by tragic art.
There was, too, a living interest in the story. For history was repeating itself, and "politics were savage and uncertain." "Mischief was afoot," and the tradition of a conspiracy which failed might find an historic parallel in a conspiracy which would succeed. There was "that brewing in Italy" which might, perhaps, inspire "a people to redress itself," "and with a cry of, 'Up with the Republic!' 'Down with the Nobility!' send the Barbarians of all nations back to their own dens!" (_Letters_, 1901, v. 10, 12, 19.)
In taking the field as a dramatist, Byron sought to win distinction for himself--in the first place by historical accuracy, and, secondly, by artistic regularity--by a stricter attention to the dramatic "unities." "History is closely followed," he tells Murray, in a letter dated July 17, 1820; and, again, in the Preface (_vide post_, pp. 332-337), which is an expansion of the letter, he gives a list of the authorities which he had consulted, and claims to have "transferred into our language an historical fact worthy of commemoration." More than once in his letters to Murray he reverts to this profession of accuracy, and encloses some additional note, in which he points out and rectifies an occasional deviation from the historical record. In this respect, at any rate, he could contend on more than equal terms "with established writers," that is, with Shakespeare and Otway, and could present to his countrymen an exacter and, so, more lifelike picture of the Venetian Republic. It is plain, too, that he was bitten with the love of study for its own sake, with a premature passion for erudition, and that he sought and found relief from physical and intellectual excitement in the intricacies of research. If his history is at fault, it was not from any lack of diligence on his part, but because the materials at his disposal or within his cognizance were inaccurate and misleading. He makes no mention of the huge collection of Venetian archives which had recently been deposited in the Convent of the Frari, or of Doria's transcript of Sanudo's Diaries, bequeathed in 1816 to the Library of St. Mark; but he quotes as his authorities the _Vitæ Ducum Venetorum_, of Marin Sanudo (1466-1535), the _Storia, etc._, of Andrea Navagero (1483-1529), and the _Principj di Storia, etc._, of Vettor Sandi, which belongs to the latter half of the eighteenth century. Byron's chroniclers were ancient, but not ancient enough; and, though they "handed down the story" (see Medwin, _Conversations_, p. 173), they depart in numerous particulars from the facts recorded in contemporary documents. Unquestionably the legend, as it appears in Sanudo's perplexing and uncritical narrative (see, for the translation of an original version of the Italian, _Appendix_, pp. 462-467), is more dramatic than the "low beginnings" of the myth, which may be traced to the annalists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; but, like other legends, it is insusceptible of proof. Byron's Doge is almost, if not quite, as unhistorical as his Bonivard or his Mazeppa. (See _Nuovo Archivio Veneto_, 1893, vol. v. pt. i. pp. 95-197; 1897, vol. xiii. pt. i. pp. 5-107; pt. ii. pp. 277-374; _Les Archives de Venise_, par Armand Baschet, 1870; _Storia della Repubblica di Venizia_, Giuseppe Cappelletti, 1849, iv. pp. 262-317.)
At the close of the Preface, by way of an afterthought, Byron announces his determination to escape "the reproach of the English theatrical compositions" "by preserving a nearer approach to unity," by substituting the regularity of French and Italian models for the barbarities of the Elizabethan dramatists and their successors. Goethe (_Conversations_, 1874, p. 114) is said to have "laughed to think that Byron, who, in practical life, could never adapt himself, and never even asked about a law, finally subjected himself to the stupidest of laws--that of the _three unities_." It was, perhaps, in part with this object in view, to make his readers smile, to provoke their astonishment, that he affected a severity foreign to his genius and at variance with his record. It was an agreeable thought that he could so easily pass from one extreme to another, from _Manfred_ to _Marino Faliero_, and, at the same time, indulge "in a little sally of gratuitous sauciness" (_Quarterly Review_, July, 1822, vol. xxvii, p. 480) at the expense of his own countrymen. But there were other influences at work. He had been powerfully impressed by the energy and directness of Alfieri's work, and he was eager to emulate the gravity and simplicity, if not the terseness and conciseness, of his style and language. The drama was a new world to conquer, and so far as "his own literature" was concerned it appeared that success might be attainable by "a severer approach to the rules" (Letter to Murray, February 16, 1821)--that by taking Alfieri as his model he might step into the first rank of English dramatists.
Goethe thought that Byron failed "to understand the purpose" of the "three unities," that he regarded the law as an end in itself, and did not perceive that if a play was comprehensible the unities might be neglected and disregarded. It is possible that his "blind obedience to the law" may have been dictated by the fervour of a convert; but it is equally possible that he looked beyond the law or its fulfilment to an ulterior object, the discomfiture of the romantic school, with its contempt for regularity, its passionate appeal from art to nature. If he was minded to raise a "Grecian temple of the purest architecture" (_Letters_, 1901, v. Appendix III. p. 559), it was not without some thought and hope of shaming, by force of contrast, the "mosque," the "grotesque edifice" of barbarian contemporaries and rivals. Byron was "ever a fighter," and his claim to regularity, to a closer preservation of the "unities," was of the nature of a challenge.
_Marino Faliero_ was dedicated to "Baron Goethe," but the letter which should have contained the dedication was delayed in transit. Goethe never saw the dedication till it was placed in his hands by John Murray the Third, in 1831, but he read the play, and after Byron's death bore testimony to its peculiar characteristics and essential worth. "Lord Byron, notwithstanding his predominant personality, has sometimes had the power of renouncing himself altogether, as may be seen in some of his dramatic pieces, particularly in his _Marino Faliero_. In this piece one quite forgets that Lord Byron, or even an Englishman, wrote it. We live entirely in Venice, and entirely in the time in which the action takes place. The personages speak quite from themselves and their own condition, without having any of the subjective feelings, thoughts, and opinions of the poet" (_Conversations_, 1874, p. 453).
Byron spent three months over the composition of _Marino Faliero_. The tragedy was completed July 17 (_Letters_, 1901, v. 52), and the copying (_vide post_, p. 461, note 2) a month later (August 16, 17, 1820). The final draft of "all the acts corrected" was despatched to England some days before October 6, 1820.
Early in January, 1821 (see Letters to Murray, January 11, 20, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 221-228), an announcement reached Byron that his play was to be brought out at Drury Lane Theatre, by Elliston. Against this he protested by every means in his power, and finally, on Wednesday, April 25, four days after the publication of the first edition (April 21, 1821), an injunction was obtained from Lord Chancellor Eldon, prohibiting a performance announced for that evening. Elliston pursued the Chancellor to the steps of his own house, and at the last moment persuaded him to allow the play to be acted on that night only. Legal proceeedings were taken, but, in the end, the injunction was withdrawn, with the consent of Byron's solicitors, and the play was represented again on April 30, and on five nights in the following May. As Byron had foreseen, _Marino Faliero_ was coldly received by the playgoing public, and proved a loss to the "speculating buffoons," who had not realized that it was "unfit for their Fair or their booth" (Letter to Murray, January 20, 1821, _Letters_, 1901, v. 228, and p. 226, note 2. See, too, _Memoirs of Robert W. Elliston_, 1845, pp. 268-271).
Byron was the first to perceive that the story of Marino Faliero was a drama "ready to hand;" but he has had many followers, if not imitators or rivals.
"_Marino Faliero_, tragédie en cinq actes," by Casimir Jean François Delavigne, was played for the first time at the Theatre of Porte Saint Martin, May 31, 1829.
In Germany tragedies based on the same theme have been published by Otto Ludwig, Leipzig, 1874; Martin Grief, Vienna, 1879; Murad Effendi (Franz von Werner), 1881, and others (_Englische Studien_, vol. xxvii. pp. 146, 147).
_Marino Faliero_, a Tragedy, by A. C. Swinburne, was published in 1885.
_Marino Faliero_ was reviewed by Jeffrey, in the _Edinburgh Review_, July 21, 1821, vol. 35, pp. 271-285; by Heber, in the _Quarterly Review_, July, 1822, vol. xxvii. pp. 476-492; and by John Wilson, in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, April, 1821, vol. 9, pp. 93-103. For other notices, _vide ante_ ("Introduction to _The Prophecy of Dante_"), p. 240.
PREFACE.
The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of the most remarkable events in the annals of the most singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary--her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the "Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded upon the subject.
Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara,[359] where he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time in check; an exploit to which I know none similar in history, except that of Cæsar at Alesia,[360] and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome,--at which last he received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his own succession at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host.[361] For this, honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square;[362] but he does not tell us whether he was punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of count, by Lorenzo, Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi,[363] Andrea Navagero,[364] and the account of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his _Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura_, printed in 1796,[365] all of which I have looked over in the original language. The moderns, Darù, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his _jealousy_; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says that "Altri scrissero che....dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," etc., etc.; but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto, or by Navagero; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that "per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il _solo_ desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alla congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui aneleva a farsi principe independente." The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre Capi."[366] The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed towards one of her damsels, and not to the "Dogaressa"[367] herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was actuated by jealousy of his wife; but rather by respect for her, and for his own honour, warranted by his past services and present dignity.
I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy[368]. His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an observer of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht--that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating wars, because his minister was nettled at his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him another occupation--that Helen lost Troy--that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from Rome--and that Cava brought the Moors to Spain--that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome--that a single verse of Frederick II.[369] of Prussia on the Abbé de Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach--that the elopement of Dearbhorgil[370] with Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland that a personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion of the Bourbons--and, not to multiply instances of the _teterrima causa,_ that Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, but to private vengeance--and that an order to make Cromwell disembark from the ship in which he would have sailed to America destroyed both King and Commonwealth. After these instances, on the least reflection it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man used to command, who had served and swayed in the most important offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little to the purpose, unless to favour it--
"The young man's wrath is like [light] straw on fire, _But like red hot steel is the old man's ire._"
[Davie Gellatley's song in _Waverley_, chap. xiv.]
"Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, Old age is slow at both."
Laugier's reflections are more philosophical:--"Tale fù il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascità, la sua età, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi _talenti_ per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacità sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suffragj per collocarlo alla testa della repubblica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamente la sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinuò nel suo cuore tal veleno che bastò a corrompere le antiche sue qualità, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati; serio esempio, che prova _non esservi età, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura, e che nell' uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso_."[371]
Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing of the kind: it is true that he avowed all. He was conducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention made of any application for mercy on his part; and the very circumstance of their having taken him to the rack seems to argue any thing but his having shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned by those minute historians, who by no means favour him: such, indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in which he lived, and _at_ which he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no justification, at any distance of time, for calumniating an historical character: surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate: and they who have died upon a scaffold have generally had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted them to their violent death renders, of all others, the most improbable. The black veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero amongst the Doges, and the Giants' Staircase[372], where he was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination; as did his fiery character and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search of his tomb more than once to the church San Giovanni e San Paolo; and, as I was standing before the monument of another family, a priest came up to me and said, "I can show you finer monuments than that." I told him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, "I will show it you;" and, conducting me to the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible inscription[373]. He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, but was removed after the French came, and placed in its present situation; that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal; there were still some bones remaining, but no positive vestige of the decapitation. The equestrian statue[374] of which I have made mention in the third act as before that church is not, however, of a Faliero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. There were two other Doges of this family prior to Marino; Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, in 1117 (where his descendant afterwards conquered the Huns), and Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth in the city of once the most wealthy and still the most ancient families in Europe. The length I have gone into on this subject will show the interest I have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at least transferred into our language an historical fact worthy of commemoration.
It is now four years that I have meditated this work; and before I had sufficiently examined the records, I was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faliero. But, perceiving no foundation for this in historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew Lewis[375] on that point, in talking with him of my intention at Venice in 1817. "If you make him jealous," said he, "recollect that you have to contend with established writers, to say nothing of Shakespeare, and an exhausted subject:--stick to the old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear you out, if properly drawn; and make your plot as regular as you can." Sir William Drummond[376] gave me nearly the same counsel. How far I have followed these instructions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me to decide. I have had no view to the stage; in its present state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambition; besides, I have been too much behind the scenes to have thought it so at any time.[ct] And I cannot conceive any man of irritable feeling[cu] putting himself at the mercies of an audience. The sneering reader, and the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and distant calamities; but the trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a mental labour to the writer, is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their competency to judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his judges. Were I capable of writing a play which could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the time of being one of the committee of one of the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will[377]. But I wish that others would, for surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and John Wilson exist. The _City of the Plague_[1816] and the _Fall of Jerusalem_ [1820] are full of the best "_matériel_" for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, except passages of _Ethwald_[1802] and _De Montfort_[1798]. It is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and secondly, because he was a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of his incomparable letters, and of the _Castle of Otranto_[1765], he is the "Ultimus Romanorum," the author of the _Mysterious Mother_[1768], a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who he may.[378]
In speaking of the drama of _Marino Faliero_, I forgot to mention that the desire of preserving, though still too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, which is the reproach of the English theatrical compositions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it; whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation and that of Israel Bertuccio. The other characters (except that of the Duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully short for such a design in real life, are strictly historical, except that all the consultations took place in the palace. Had I followed this, the unity would have been better preserved; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously placing him always in dialogue with the same individuals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix.[379]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
Marino Faliero, _Doge of Venice_. Bertuccio Faliero, _Nephew of the Doge_. Lioni, _a Patrician and Senator_. Benintende, _Chief of the Council of Ten_. Michel Steno, _One of the three Capi of the Forty_. Israel Bertuccio, _Chief of the Arsenal_, } Philip Calendaro, } _Conspirators_. Dagolino, } Bertram, }
_Signor of the Night_, "_Signore di Notte," one of the Officers belonging to the Republic_. _First Citizen_. _Second Citizen_. _Third Citizen_.
Vincenzo, } Pietro, } _Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace_. Battista, }
_Secretary of the Council of Ten_.
_Guards_, _Conspirators_, _Citizens_, _The Council of Ten_, _the Giunta_, etc., etc.
WOMEN.
Angiolina, _Wife to the Doge_. Marianna, _her Friend_. _Female Attendants, etc_.
Scene Venice--in the year 1355.
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE.
(AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.)