"Listening I bent my visage down: and one
(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight
That urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and called;
Holding his eyes with difficulty fixed
Intent upon me, stooping as I went
Companion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,
'Art thou not Oderigi? art not thou
Agobbio's glory, glory of that art
Which they of Paris call the limner's skill?'
'Brother!' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile,
Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves.
His all the honor now; my light obscured.
In truth, I had not been thus courteous to him
The while I lived, through eagerness of zeal
For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.
Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.
Nor were I even here, if, able still
To sin, I had not turned me unto God.
O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipped
E'en in its height of verdure, if an age
Less bright succeed not. Cimabue thought
To lord it over painting's field; and now
The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.
Thus hath one Guido from the other snatched
The lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,
Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more
Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh
Part shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst died
Before the coral and the pap were left,
Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and that
Is, to eternity compared, a space
Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye
To the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treads
So leisurely before me, far and wide
Through Tuscany resounded once; and now
Is in Sienna scarce with whispers named:
There was he sovereign, when destruction caught
The maddening rage of Florence, in that day
Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth.'"—Cary.
For much the same reason as that already stated, we give the following beautiful passage, a touching story in itself, but how deeply touching in the energetic directness and simplicity of Dante's verse!
"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stava
Per avvisar da presso un'altra storia
Che diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.
Quivi era storiata l'alta gloria
Del roman prence lo cui gran valore
Mosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:
I' dico di Trajano imperadore;
Ed una vedovella gli era al freno
Di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
Di cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oro
Sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
Parea dicer: signor, fammi vendetta
Del mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;
Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspetta
Tanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio
(Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)
Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,
La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui bene
A te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?
Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che conviene
Ch'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:
Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.
Colui che mai non vide cosa nuova
Produsse esto visibile parlare,
Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova."
Purgatorio, X. 70-96.
"I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
Seemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'
And he to answer her: 'Now wait until
I shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like one
In whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou not
Return?' And he: 'Who shall be where I am
Will give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?
Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'
He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found."
Longfellow.
"To behold the tablet next,
Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,
I moved me. There was storied on the rock
The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attired
In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped
Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appeared amid all these to say:
'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:
'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thou
Dost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,
If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee,'
At length he answers. 'It beseemeth well
My duty be performed, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'
He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
The like not found on earth."—Cary.
How different is the character of the following description, which fills the ear with its grand and varied harmony, as it fills the mind with a rapid succession of pictures!
"Io m'era mosso e seguia volentieri
Del mio maestro i passi, ed amendue
Già mostravam com'eravam leggieri,
Quando mi disse: Volgi gli occhi in giue;
Buon ti sarà per alleggiar la via
Veder lo letto delle piante tue.
Come, perchè di lor memoria fia,
Sovr'a'sepolti le tombe terragne
Portan segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;
Onde li molte volte si ripiagne
Per la puntura della rimembranza
Che solo a'pii dà delle calcagne:
Si vid'io li, ma di miglior sembianza,
Secondo l'artificio, figurato
Quanto per via di fuor del monte avanza.
Vedea colui che fu nobil creato
Più d'altra creatura giù dal cielo
Folgoreggiando scendere da un lato.
Vedeva Briareo fitto dal teio
Celestial giacer dall'altra parte,
Grave alia terra per lo mortal gelo
Vedea Timbreo, vedea Pallade e Marte
Armati ancora intorno al padre loro
Mirar le membra de'giganti sparte.
Vedea Nembrotto appiè del gran lavoro
Quasi smarrito riguardar le genti
Che'n Sennaar con lui insieme foro.
O Niobe, con che occhi dolenti
Vedev'io te segnata in su la strada
Tra sette e sette tuoi figliuoli spenti!
O Saul, come'n su la propria spada
Quivi parevi morto in Gelboè
Che poi non sentì pioggia nè rugiada!
O folle Aragne, si vedea io te
Già mezza ragna, trista in su gli stracci
Dell opera che mal per te si fe'.
O Roboam, già non par che minnacci
Quivi il tuo segno, ma pien di spavento
Nel porta un carro prima ch' altri'l cacci.
Mostrava ancora il duro pavimento
Come Almeone a sua madre fe'caro
Parer lo sventurato adornamento.
Mostrava come i figli si gittaro
Sovra Sennacherib dentro dal tempio,
E come morto lui quivi lasciaro.
Mostrava la ruina e'l crudo scempio
Che fe'Tamiri quando disse a Ciro
Sangue sitisti, ed io di sangue t'empio.
Mostrava come in rotta si fuggiro
Gli Assiri poi che fu morto Oloferne,
Ed anche le reliquie del martiro.
Vedeva Troja in cenere e in caverne:
O Ilion, come te basso e vile
Mostrava il segno che lì si discerne!
Qual di pennel fu maestro o di stile,
Che ritraesse l'ombre e gli atti ch'ivi
Mirar farieno uno'ngegno sottile?
Morti li morti, e i vivi parean vivi.
Non vide me'di me chi vide'l vero,
Quant'io calcai fin che chinato givi."
Purgatorio, XII. 10-69