THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.
FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.”
[147] “About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional contributor to the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, then conducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the period of this literary intercourse. Several of her poems appeared in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign literature, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to the world; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordinate to the poetical translations, which it is used to introduce.”—Memoir, p. 41.
Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts—they are present, and clothed with life—before him, and a flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagination for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his manner and style of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass unobserved: but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in proportion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments.[148] In these political poems—the object and purport of which are so different—the invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The Basvigliana, or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself.
Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville’s death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have received their due chastisement, and doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revolution.
An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in terza rima, like the poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world; and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the spectator-hero of the poem, acts precisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary character—he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse—and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body:—
“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes,
Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose;
Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed,
Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.
“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower,
And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour;
Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.
“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre,
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire;
And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore
Where mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.”
Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried,
Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide;
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh,
A lingering step, and oft reverted eye—
As when a child’s reluctant feet obey
Its mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play.
Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast,
When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d,
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome,
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome,
Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d,
But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’d
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’d
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’d
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven,
Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions given
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire
Seem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire;
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood,
A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood.
He waved his sword—its red, terrific light
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night;
While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast,
Far o’er the Vatican beneath was cast
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom
O’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar;
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar,
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest,
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast,
They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high
Breaks not their calm and proud security.
In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI.
The air was heavy, and the brooding skies
Look’d fraught with omens, as to harmonise
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round
Not a leaf whisper’d—and the only sound
That broke the stillness was a streamlet’s moan
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone,
As if a storm within the woodland bowers
Were gathering. On they moved—and lo! the towers
Of a far city! Nearer now they drew;
And all reveal’d, expanding on their view,
The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes—
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose!
In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d,
Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shade
Enter’d that evil city. Onward pass’d
The heavenly being first, with brow o’ercast
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes
Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies.
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw
That alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe,
Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swell
Of life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell,
The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled
Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe,
Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low,
Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep
That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard
At intervals, in many a broken word—
Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d
Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast;
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries,
And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs,
On their own thresholds striving to detain
Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain
Affection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hour
Of fate and fury—Love hath lost his power!
For evil spirits are abroad, the air
Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there,
Fired by that thirst for victims which of old
Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d,
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey
The deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day.
Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair,
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare,
Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brands
And serpent scourges in their restless hands
Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high
The steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by,
With touch of fire contagious fury dart
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart.
Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more,
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour;
From every heart affrighted mercy flies,
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies.
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet,
The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze,
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas
Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone
Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d,
O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast;
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold
Death’s awful banner to the winds unfold!
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high—
The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye,
Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good,
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood
Dragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien,
Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene;
And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved!
Where have you borne your monarch?—He who loved—
Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale,
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil;
The misty air is silent, as in dread,
And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread;
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest,
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.
In that dread moment, to the fatal pile
The regal victim came; and raised the while
His patient glance, with such an aspect high,
So firm, so calm, in holy majesty,
That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shook
Before the grandeur of that kingly look;
And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d,
Ran through the bosoms of the multitude.
Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last,
Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past—
E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hour
When his soul yielded to affliction’s power,
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad—
“Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”—
E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose,
Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes—
“To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried;
“And my lost people, Father! be their guide!”
But the sharp steel descends—the blow is given,
And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven;
Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns,
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones!
[148] The observation of a French author (Le Censeur du Dictionnaire des Girouettes) on the general versatility of poets, seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.—“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse.”