More than your wisdom can provide.’
And Dante: “Tis man’s ancient whim
That still his like seems good to him.’
Also a tale is told, how once, 295
At clearing tables after meat,
Piled for a jest at Dante’s feet
Were found the dinner’s well-picked bones;
So laid, to please the banquet’s lord,
By one who crouched beneath the board. 300
Then smiled Can Grande to the rest: -
Our Dante’s tuneful mouth indeed
Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!’
‘Fair host of mine,’ replied the guest,
‘So many bones you’d not descry 305
If so it chanced the dog were I.’
But wherefore should we turn the grout
In a drained cup, or be at strife
From the worn garment of a life
To rip the twisted ravel out? 310
Good needs expounding; but of ill
Each hath enough to guess his fill.
They named him Justicer-at-Law:
Each month to bear the tale in mind
Of hues a wench might wear unfin’d 315
And of the load an ox might draw;
To cavil in the weight of bread
And to see purse-thieves gibbeted.
And when his spirit wove the spell
(From under even to over-noon 320
In converse with itself alone,)
As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,-
He would be summoned and must go:
For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo?
Therefore the bread he had to eat 325
Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares;
And the rush-strown accustomed stairs
Each day were steeper to his feet;
And when the night-vigil was done,
His brows would ache to feel the sun. 330
Nevertheless, when from his kin
There came the tidings how at last
In Florence a decree was pass’d
Whereby all banished folk might win
Free pardon, so a fine were paid 335
And act of public penance made, -
This Dante writ in answer thus,
Words such as these: ‘That clearly they
In Florence must not have to say, -
The man abode aloof from us 340
Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk’d
Hither to candleshrift and mulct.
‘That he was one the Heavens forbid
To traffic in God’s justice sold
By market-weight of earthly gold, 345
Or to bow down over the lid
Of steaming censers, and so be
Made clean of manhood’s obloquy.
‘That since no gate led, by God’s will,
To Florence, but the one whereat 350
The priests and money-changers sat,
He still would wander; for that still,
Even through the body’s prison-bars,
His soul possessed the sun and stars.’
Such were his words. It is indeed 355
For ever well our singers should
Utter good words and know them good
Not through song only; with close heed
Lest, having spent for the work’s sake
Six days, the man be left to make. 360
Months o’er Verona, till the feast
Was come for Florence the Free Town:
And at the shrine of Baptist John
The exiles, girt with many a priest
And carrying candles as they went, 365
Were held to mercy of the saint.
On the high seats in sober state, -
Gold neck-chains range o’er range below
Gold screen-work where the lilies grow, -
The Heads of the Republic sate, 370
Marking the humbled face go by
Each one of his house-enemy.
And as each proscript rose and stood
From kneeling in the ashen dust
On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust 375
A beard into the velvet hood
Of his front colleague’s gown, to see
The cinders stuck in the bare knee.
Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed,
Rinucci passed, each in his place; 380
But not an Alighieri’s face
Went by that day from first to last
In the Republic’s triumph; nor
A foot came home to Dante’s door.
(RESPUBLICA - a public thing: 385
A shameful shameless prostitute,
Whose lust with one lord may not suit,
So takes by turns its revelling
A night with each, till each at morn
Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, 390
And leaves her, cursing her. If she,
Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid
In scent under a silver lid,
To drench his open throat with - he
Once hard asleep; and thrust him not 395
At dawn beneath the boards to rot.)
Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased
One in another; and alway
There were the whole twelve hours each day
And each night as the years increased; 400
And rising moon and setting sun
Beheld that Dante’s work was done.
What of his work for Florence? Well
It was, he knew, and well must be.
Yet evermore her hate’s decree 405
Dwelt in his thought intolerable: -
His body to be burned, - his soul
To beat its wings at hope’s vain goal.
What of his work for Beatrice?
Now well-nigh was the third song writ, - 410
The stars a third time sealing it
With sudden music of pure peace:
For echoing thrice the threefold song,
The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.
Each hour, as then the Vision pass’d, 415
He heard the utter harmony
Of the nine trembling spheres, till she
Bowed her eyes towards him in the last,
So that all ended with her eyes,
Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. 420
‘It is my trust, as the years fall,
To write more worthily of her
Who now, being made God’s minister,
Looks on His visage and knows all.’
Such was the hope that love did blend 425
With grief’s slow fires, to make an end
Of the ‘New Life’, his youth’s dear book:
Adding thereunto: ‘In such trust
I labour, and believe I must
Accomplish this which my soul took 430
In charge, if God, my Lord and hers,
Leave my life with me a few years.’
The trust which he had borne in youth
Was all at length accomplished. He
At length had written worthily- 435
Yea even of her; no rhymes uncouth
‘Twixt tongue and tongue; but by God’s aid
The first words Italy had said.
Ah! haply now the heavenly guide
Was not the last form seen by him: 440
But there that Beatrice stood slim
And bowed in passing at his side,
For whom in youth his heart made moan
Then when the city sat alone.
Clearly herself; the same whom he 445
Met, not past girlhood, in the street,
Low-bosomed and with hidden feet;
And then as woman perfectly,
In years that followed, many an once, -
And now at last among the suns 450
In that high vision. But indeed
It may be memory did recall
Last to him then the first of all, -
&n
bsp; The child his boyhood bore in heed
Nine years. At length the voice brought peace,- 455
‘Even I, even I am Beatrice.’
All this, being there, we had not seen.
Seen only was the shadow wrought
On the strong features bound in thought;
The vagueness gaining gait and mien; 460
The white streaks gathering clear to view
In the burnt beard the women knew.
For a tale tells that on his track,
As through Verona’s streets he went,
This saying certain women sent: - 465
‘Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back
At will! Behold him, how Hell’s reek
Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.’
‘Whereat’ (Boccaccio’s words) ‘he smil’d
For pride in fame.’ It might be so: 470
Nevertheless we cannot know
If haply he were not beguil’d
To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell
If he indeed were back from Hell.
So the day came, after a space, 475
When Dante felt assured that there
The sunshine must lie sicklier
Even than in any other place,
Save only Florence. When that day
Had come, he rose and went his way. 480
He went and turned not. From his shoes
It may be that he shook the dust,
As every righteous dealer must
Once and again ere life can close:
And unaccomplished destiny 485
Struck cold his forehead, it may be.
No book keeps record how the Prince
Sunned himself out of Dante’s reach,
Nor how the Jester stank in speech;
While courtiers, used to smile and wince, 490
Poets and harlots, all the throng,
Let loose their scandal and their song.
No book keeps record if the seat
Which Dante held at his host’s board
Were sat in next by clerk or lord, - 495
If leman lolled with dainty feet
At ease, or hostage brooded there,
Or priest lacked silence for his prayer.
Eat and wash hands, Can Grande; - scarce
We know their deeds now; hands which fed 500
Our Dante with that bitter bread;
And thou the watch-dog of those stairs
Which, of all paths his feet knew well,
Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell.
ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS
Not that the earth is changing, O my God!
Nor that the seasons totter in their walk, -
Not that the virulent ill of act and talk
Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod, -
Not therefore are we certain that the rod
Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world; though now
Beneath thine hand so many nations bow,
So many kings: - not therefore, O my God! -
But because Man is parcelled out in men
To-day; because, for any wrongful blow
No man not stricken asks, ‘I would be told
Why thou dost thus;’ but his heart whispers then,
‘He is he, I am I.’ By this we know
That our earth falls asunder, being old.
A YOUNG FIR-WOOD
These little firs to-day are things
To clasp into a giant’s cap,
Or fans to suit his lady’s lap.
From many winters many springs
Shall cherish them in strength and sap 5
Till they be’marked upon the map,
A wood for the wind’s wanderings.
All seed is in the sower’s hands:
And what at first was trained to spread
Its shelter for some single head, - 10
Yea, even such fellowship of wands, -
May hide the sunset, and the shade
Of its great multitude be laid
Upon the earth and elder sands.
FOR ‘OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS’ BY LEONARDO DA VINCI
Mother, is this the darkness of the end,
The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea
Infinite imminent Eternity?
And does the death-pang by man’s seed sustain’d
In Time’s each instant cause thy face to bend 5
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he
Blesses the dead with his hand so silently
To his long day which hours no more offend?
Mother of grace, the pass is difficult,
Keen as these rocks and the bewildered souls 10
Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through.
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit’s voice extols,
Whose peace abides in the dark avenue
Amid the bitterness of things occult.
‘VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS’ (LONDON) BY LEONARDO DA VINCI
ON THE ‘VITA NUOVA’ OF DANTE
As he that loves oft looks on the dear form
And guesses how it grew to womanhood,
And gladly would have watched the beauties bud
And the mild fire of precious life wax warm:
So I, long bound within the threefold charm
Of Dante’s love sublimed to heavenly mood,
Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude,
How grew such presence from man’s shameful swarm.
At length within this book I found pourtrayed
Newborn that Paradisal Love of his,
And simple like a child; with whose clear aid
I understood. To such a child as this,
Christ, charging well His chosen ones, forbade
Offence: ‘for lo! of such my kingdom is.’
MY SISTER’S SLEEP (1870 VERSION)
She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh’d
The pain nought else might yet relieve.
Our mother, who had leaned all day 5
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then raised herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.
Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare 10
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.
Without, there was a cold moon up,
Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in 15
Was like an icy crystal cup.
Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And reddened. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round. 20
I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.
Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years 25
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.
Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down, 30
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.
‘Glory unto the Newly Born!’
So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day, 35
Though it would still be long till morn.
Just then in the room over us
There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 40
With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o’erhead - should they
Have b
roken her long watched-for rest!
She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; 45
But suddenly turned back again;
And all her features seemed in pain
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.
For my part, I but hid my face,
And held my breath, and spoke no word: 50
There was none spoken; but I heard
The silence for a little space.
Our mother bowed herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
‘God knows I knew that she was dead.’ 55
And there, all white, my sister slept.
Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
A little after twelve o’clock
We said, ere the first quarter struck,
‘Christ’s blessing on the newly born!’ 60
PENUMBRA
I did not look upon her eyes,
(Though scarcely seen, with no surprise,
‘Mid many eyes a single look,)
Because they should not gaze rebuke,
At night, from stars in sky and brook.
I did not take her by the hand,
(Though little was to understand
From touch of hand all friends might take,)
Because it should not prove a flake
Burnt in my palm to boil and ache.
I did not listen to her voice,
(Though none had noted, where at choice
All might rejoice in listening,)
Because no such a thing should cling
In the wood’s moan at evening.
I did not cross her shadow once,
(Though from the hollow west the sun’s
Last shadow runs along so far,)
Because in June it should not bar
My ways, at noon when fevers are.
They told me she was sad that day,
(Though wherefore tell what love’s soothsay,
Sooner than they, did register?)
And my heart leapt and wept to her,
And yet I did not speak nor stir.
So shall the tongues of the sea’s foam
(Though many voices therewith come
From drowned hope’s home to cry to me,)
Bewail one hour the more, when sea
And wind are one with memory.
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL (1870 VERSION)
The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand, 5
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift
For service meetly worn; 10
Her hair that lay along her back
Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti Page 9