It has been supposed that Pulci did not write this portion of the poem. Panizzi does not hesitate to give credit to the assertion of Tasso[89], who declares that it was written by Ficino. But Tasso affirms this merely upon hearsay, which is slender authority. There is nothing to which contemporaries are more prone than to discover that an author does not write his own works. There is nothing in the style of these stanzas unlike Pulci's best and more serious verses. Rinaldo's journey, thus accelerated, was however to no purpose in saving his cousin; he could only assist in his revenge—and the poem concludes with the hanging of Gano and Marsiglio, archbishop Turpin kindly undertaking to perform the last office for the king with his own hand, and ties him up to the famous carob tree.
The great beauty of the Morgante, besides scenes and passages of pathos and beauty, is derived from the simple, magnanimous, and tender character of Orlando. Charlemagne is a doting old man, Gano a traitor, Rinaldo a violent and headstrong warrior or robber, Astolfo vainglorious, but all are selfish and erring, except the singleminded and generous conte di Brava. He is the model of a true knight,—compassionate, sincere, and valiant: his death is courageous and pious: he thinks of the grief of the emperor, and the mourning of his wife Aldabella, and after recommending them to God, he embraces his famous sword Durlindana, and pressing it to his heart, and comforted by an angel from God, he fixes his eyes on heaven and expires.
CIECO DA FERRARA
The "Morgante Maggiore" is the first of a series of romantic narrative poems, which take Charlemagne and his Paladins for the heroes of their tales. The "Mambriano" of Cieco da Ferrara is one of these. The real name of the author was Francesco Bello. It has been said that he was called Cecco or Cieco from his blindness—but Cecco and Cecchino is the common Tuscan diminutive for Francesco. Little is known of this author, except the disaster that has already been mentioned, and that he was poor and lived at Ferrara, and recited the cantos of his poem, as they were written, at the table of the cardinal Ippolito da Este. [Sidenote: 1509.] Tiraboschi quotes from the dedication of Conosciuti, who published the "Mambriano" after the author's death; who therein begs the cardinal to take the poem under his care, and with his accustomed benevolence not to deny that favour to the memory of Francesco, which he so frequently and liberally bestowed during his life. Tiraboschi adds, that such expressions do not seem to him to accord with the idea that the poet lived and died poor. The bounty of a patron is, however, various and capricious, and, unless it takes the form of an annuity, seldom relieves the wants of a dependant; and we may take Francesco's word that he was poor when he says—"The howling of winds and roaring of waves which I hear now abroad upon our sea, has so shattered the planks of my skiff, that I lament that I undertook the voyage. On the other side, penury burthens me with such need, that it seems to me, that I can never acquire any praise if I do not overcome these winds and storms."[90] His poem is little read, and has never been translated. We have never met with it; but from the specimens given by Panizzi, it is evident that he possessed ease of versification, and a considerable spring of poetic imagery and invention.
BURCHIELLO
Very little is also known of this poet, whose real name was Domenico. He is supposed to have been born in Florence: he became free of the company of barbers in that city in 1432, and exercised his trade in the Contrada di Calemala. He died at Rome in 1448. His poems are a strange and capricious mixture of sayings, proverbs, and jokes, most of which are unintelligible to the Italians of the present day. From them and his name is derived the word burlesque, to signify a mock tragic style of expression.
"Cerchi chi vuol, le pompe, e gli alti honori.
Le piazze, e tempii, e gli edeficii magni,
Le delicie, il tesor, qual accompagni
Mille duri pensier, mille dolori:
Un verde praticel pien di bei fiori,
Un rivolo, che l'herba intorno bagni,
Un angeletto che d' amor si lagni,
Acqueta molto meglio i nostri ardori:
L' ombrare selve, i sassi, e gli alti monti
Gli antri oscuri, e le fere fuggitive,
Qualche leggiadra ninfa paurosa;
Quivi veggo io con pensier vaghi e pronti
Le belle luci, come fossin vivi.
Qui me le toglie or' una, or' altra cosa."
[79]Tiraboschi.
[80]Tiraboschi.