THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE CONVITO
FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE
[Published by Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862; dated 1820.]
YE who intelligent the Third Heaven move,
Hear the discourse which is within my heart,
Which cannot be declared, it seems so new.
The Heaven whose course follows your power and art,
Oh, gentle creatures that ye are! me drew,
And therefore may I dare to speak to you,
Even of the life which now I live-and yet
I pray that ye will hear me when I cry,
And tell of mine own heart this novelty;
How the lamenting Spirit moans in it,
And how a voice there murmurs against her
Who came on the refulgence of your sphere.
A sweet Thought, which was once the life within
This heavy heart, many a time and oft
Went up before our Father's feet, and there
It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft;
And its sweet talk of her my soul did win,
So that I said, 'Thither I too will fare.'
That Thought is fled, and one doth now appear
Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress,
That my heart trembles ye may see it leap-
And on another Lady bids me keep
Mine eyes, and says-Who would have blessedness
Let him but look upon that Lady's eyes,
Let him not fear the agony of sighs.
This lowly Thought, which once would talk with me
Of a bright seraph sitting crowned on high,
Found such a cruel foe it died, and so
My Spirit wept, the grief is hot even now
And said, Alas for me! how swift could flee
That piteous Thought which did my life console!
And the afflicted one
Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they never,
And why they would . . .
I said: 'Beneath those eyes might stand for ever
To have known their power stood me in little stead,
Those eyes have looked on me, and I am dead.'
"Thou art not dead, but thou hast wandered, Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost fret,'
A Spirit of gentle Love beside me said;
For that fair Lady, whom thou dost regret,
Hath so transformed the life which thou hast led,
Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou made.
And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid,
Yet courteous, in her majesty she is.
And still call thou her Woman in thy thought;
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not,
Thou wilt behold decked with such loveliness,
That thou wilt cry [Love] only Lord, lo! here
Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt with her.
My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain.
Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring
Thee to base company, as chance may do,
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again,
My last delight; tell them that they are dull,
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.
MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS
FROM THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, CANTO XXVini, ll. 1-51 [Published in part (11. 1–8, 22–51) by Medwin, The Angler in Wales, 1834, Life of Shelley, 1847; reprinted in full by Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862.]
AND earnest to explore within-around
The divine wood, whose thick green living woof
Tempered the young day to the sight-I wound
Up the green slope, beneath the forest's roof,
With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain's steep,
And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof
Against the air, that in that stillness deep
And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare,
The slow, soft stroke of a continuous
In which the leaves tremblingly were
All bent towards that part where earliest
The sacred hill obscures the morning air.
1 Published with Epipsychidion, 1821.-ED.
4, 5 So 1862;
Up a green slope, beneath the starry roof,
With slow, slow steps- 1834.
6 inmost 1862; leafy 1834. 9 So 1862; The slow, soft stroke of a
continuous sleep cj. Rossetti, 1870.
Like the sweet breathing of a child asleep :
Already I had lost myself so far
Amid that tangled wilderness that I
Perceived not where I ventured, but no fear
Yet were they not so shaken from the rest,
But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,
Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,
With perfect joy received the early day,
Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound
Kept a low burden to their roundelay,
Such as from bough to bough gathers around
The pine forest on bleak Chiassi's shore,
When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound.
My slow steps had already borne me o'er
Such space within the antique wood, that I
Perceived not where I entered any more,—
When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by,
Bending towards the left through grass that grew
Upon its bank, impeded suddenly
My going on. Water of purest hue
On earth, would appear turbid and impure
Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,
Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure
Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms
The rays of moon or sunlight ne'er endure.
I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms
Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating
The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms
Which starred that night, when, even as a thing
That suddenly, for blank astonishment,
Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,
A solitary woman! and she went
Singing and gathering flower after flower,
With which her way was painted and besprent.
'Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power
To bear true witness of the heart within,
Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower
Of wandering from my way disturbed, when nigh
A little stream appeared; the grass that grew
Thick on its banks impeded suddenly
My going on. 1834.
13 the 1862; their cj. Rossetti, 1870.
26 through] the cj. Rosselli. 32 Eternal
hue 1862; dew 1834. shades 1862; Of the close boughs 1834. 33 So 1862; No ray of moon or sunshine would endure 1834. 34, 35 So 1862;
My feet were motionless, but mid the glooms
Darted my charmèd eyes- 1834.
37 Which 1834; That 1862. 39 So 1834; Dissolves all other thought...
1862.
40 So 1862; Appeared a solitary maid-she went 1834.
Towards this bank. I prithee let me win
This much of thee, to come, that I may hear
Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna's glen,
Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here
And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when
She lost the Spring, and Ceres her, more dear.'
ADAPTED FROM THE VITA NUOVA OF DANTE
[Published by Forman, P. W. of P. B. S., 1876.]
WHAT Mary is when she a little smiles
I cannot even tell or call to mind,
It is a miracle so new, so rare.
UGOLINO1
INFERNO XXXiii. 22-75
[Translated by Medwin and corrected by Shelley.]
Now had the loophole of that dungeon, still
Which bears the name of Famine's Tower from me,
And where 'tis fit that many another will
Be doomed to linger in captivity,
Shown through its narrow opening in my cell
Moon after moon slow waning, when a sleep,
That of the future burst_the_veil, in dream
Visited me. It was a slumber deep
And evil; for I saw, or I did seem
To see, that tyrant Lord his revels keep,
The leader of the cruel hunt to them,
Chasing the wolf and wolf-cubs up the steep
Ascent, that from the Pisan is the screen
Of Lucca; with him Gualandi came,
Sismondi, and Lanfranchi, bloodhounds lean,
Trained to the sport and eager for the game
Wide ranging in his front; but soon were seen
Though by so short a course, with spirits tame,
The father and his whelps to flag at once,
And then the sharp fangs gored their bosoms deep.
Ere morn I roused myself, and heard my sons,
For they were with me, moaning in their sleep,
And begging bread. Ah, for those darling ones!
Right cruel art thou, if thou dost not weep
46 Towards 1862; Unto 1834. 47 thee, to come 1862; thee O come 1834. Published by Medwin, Life of Shelley, 1847, with Shelley's corrections in italics.-ED.
In thinking of my soul's sad augury;
And if thou weepest not now, weep never more!
They were already waked, as wont drew nigh
The allotted hour for food, and in that hour
Each drew a presage from his dream.
Heard locked beneath me of that horrible tower
The outlet; then into their eyes alone
I looked to read myself, without a sign
Or word. I wept not-turned within to stone.
'What ails thee, father? Why look so at thine?'
They wept aloud, and little Anselm mine,
Said-'twas my youngest, dearest little one,-
In all that day, and all the following night,
I wept not, nor replied; but when to shine
Upon the world, not us, came forth the light
Of the new sun, and thwart my prison thrown
Gleamed through its narrow chink, a doleful sight,
Three faces, each the reflex of my own,
Were imaged by its faint and ghastly ray;
Then I, of either hand unto the bone,
Gnawed, in my agony; and thinking they
"Twas done from sudden pangs, in their excess,
All of a sudden raise themselves, and say,
'Father! our woes, so great, were yet the less
Would you but eat of us,-'twas you who clad
Our bodies in these weeds of wretchedness;
Despoil them.' Not to make their hearts more sad,
I hushed myself. That day is at its close,-
Another-still we were all mute. Oh, had
The obdurate earth opened to end our woes!
The fourth day dawned, and when the new sun shone, 55 Outstretched himself before me as it rose
My Gaddo, saying, 'Help, father! hast thou none
For thine own child-is there no help from thee?'
He died-there at my feet-and one by one,
I saw them fall, plainly as you see me.
Between the fifth and sixth day, ere 'twas dawn,
I found myself blind-groping o'er the three.
Three days I called them after they were gone.
Famine of grief can get the mastery.
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