"Heereupon, the Gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her Father and Mother, telling them plainly, that she was willing to be the Wife of Anastasio: which newes did so highly content them, that upon the Sunday next following, the marriage was very worthily solemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. Thus the divine bounty, out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can cause good effects to arise and succeede. For, from this conceite of fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired conversion, of a Maide so obstinately scornfull and proud; but likewise all the women of Ravenna (being admonished by her example) grew afterward more kind and tractable to mens honest motions, then ever they shewed themselves before. And let me make some use hereof (faire Ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your beauty and good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them) solicite you with their best and humblest services. Remember then this disdainfull Gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the death of so kinde a Lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall punishment, and he made the minister thereof, whom she had cast off with coy disdaine, from which I wish your minds to be as free, as mine is ready to do you any acceptable service."[1]
[Footnote 1: This translation is from the English version of The Decameron, first published in 1620, but in 1569 had appeared A Notable Historye of Nastagto and Traversan, or rhymed version of Boccaccio's tale, by C.T., usually supposed to be Christopher Tye the musician. Dryden used this story for his fable Theodore and Honoria. It is curious to note that Anita, Garibaldi's wife, was actually hunted to death here in the Pineta by the Austrians.]
To Dante and to Boccaccio belong of right morning and noon in the
Pineta; but the evening is ours for it belongs to Byron:
"Sweet hour of twilight' in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er,
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest I which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee;
"The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along,
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover—shadow'd my mind's eye
"Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart.
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay,
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns!"
That "sweet hour of twilight" in the Pineta is the most precious hour of the day, when far off across the marsh softly, softly comes the Ave Maria….
"_O tu rinnovellata itala gente da le molte vite rendi la voce
"de ta preghiera, la campana squilli ammonitrice, il campanil risorto canti di clivo in clivo a la campagna Ave Maria.
"Ave Maria! Quando su l'aure corre l'umil saluto, i piccioh mortali scovrono il capo, curvano la fronte Dante ed Aroldo_"