Read Ebook: Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece Complete Series I II and III by Symonds John Addington

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 2249 lines and 138590 words, and 45 pages

I too had heart's ease once, for so Love willed, When my lord loved me with love strong and great: But envious fortune my life's music stilled, And turned to sadness all my gleeful state. Ah me! Death surely were less desolate Than thus to live and love-neglected be!

How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?

One only comfort soothes my heart's despair, And mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer; Unto my lord I ever yielded fair Service of faith untainted pure and clear; If then I die thus guiltless, on my bier It may be she will shed one tear for me.

How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?

Upon that day when first I saw thy face, I vowed with loyal love to worship thee. Move, and I move; stay, and I keep my place: Whate'er thou dost, will I do equally.

Nay, be not over-proud of thy great grace, Lady! for brief time is thy thief and mine. White will he turn those golden curls, that lace Thy forehead and thy neck so marble-fine. Lo! while the flower still flourisheth apace, Pluck it: for beauty but awhile doth shine. Fair is the rose at dawn; but long ere night Her freshness fades, her pride hath vanished quite.

Fire, fire! Ho, water! for my heart's afire! Ho, neighbours! help me, or by God I die! See, with his standard, that great lord, Desire! He sets my heart aflame: in vain I cry. Too late, alas! The flames mount high and higher. Alack, good friends! I faint, I fail, I die. Ho! water, neighbours mine! no more delay I My heart's a cinder if you do but stay.

Lo, may I prove to Christ a renegade, And, dog-like, die in pagan Barbary; Nor may God's mercy on my soul be laid, If ere for aught I shall abandon thee: Before all-seeing God this prayer be made-- When I desert thee, may death feed on me: Now if thy hard heart scorn these vows, be sure That without faith none may abide secure.

I ask not, Love, for any other pain To make thy cruel foe and mine repent, Only that thou shouldst yield her to the strain Of these my arms, alone, for chastisement; Then would I clasp her so with might and main, That she should learn to pity and relent, And, in revenge for scorn and proud despite, A thousand times I'd kiss her forehead white.

O thou of fairest fairs the first and queen, Most courteous, kind, and honourable dame, Thine ear unto thy servant's singing lean, Who loves thee more than health, or wealth, or fame; For thou his shining planet still hast been, And day and night he calls on thy fair name: First wishing thee all good the world can give, Next praying in thy gentle thoughts to live.

He humbly prayeth that thou shouldst be kind To think upon his pure and perfect faith, And that such mercy in thy heart and mind Should reign, as so much beauty argueth: 315 A thousand, thousand hints, or he were blind, Of thy great courtesy he reckoneth: Wherefore thy loyal subject now doth sue Such guerdon only as shall prove them true.

He knows himself unmeet for love from thee, Unmeet for merely gazing on thine eyes; Seeing thy comely squires so plenteous be, That there is none but 'neath thy beauty sighs: Yet since thou seekest fame and bravery, Nor carest aught for gauds that others prize, And since he strives to honour thee alway, He still hath hope to gain thy heart one day.

Virtue that dwells untold, unknown, unseen, Still findeth none to love or value it; Wherefore his faith, that hath so perfect been, Not being known, can profit him no whit: He would find pity in thine eyes, I ween, If thou shouldst deign to make some proof of it; The rest may flatter, gape, and stand agaze; Him only faith above the crowd doth raise.

Suppose that he might meet thee once alone, Face unto face, without or jealousy, Or doubt or fear from false misgiving grown, And tell his tale of grievous pain to thee, Sure from thy breast he'd draw full many a moan. And make thy fair eyes weep right plenteously: Yea, if he had but skill his heart to show, He scarce could fail to win thee by its woe.

Now art thou in thy beauty's blooming hour; Thy youth is yet in pure perfection's prime: Make it thy pride to yield thy fragile flower, Or look to find it paled by envious time: For none to stay the flight of years hath power, And who culls roses caught by frosty rime? Give therefore to thy lover, give, for they Too late repent who act not while they may.

Too long 'twixt yea and nay he hath been wrung; Whether he sleep or wake he little knows, Or free or in the bands of bondage strung: Nay, lady, strike, and let thy lover loose! What joy hast thou to keep a captive hung? Kill him at once, or cut the cruel noose: No more, I prithee, stay; but take thy part: Either relax the bow, or speed the dart.

Thou feedest him on words and windiness, On smiles, and signs, and bladders light as air; Saying, thou fain wouldst comfort his distress, But dar'st not, canst not: nay, dear lady fair, All things are possible beneath the stress Of will, that flames above the soul's despair! Dally no longer: up, set to thy hand; Or see his love unclothed and naked stand.

For he hath sworn, and by this oath will bide, E'en though his life be lost in the endeavour, To leave no way, nor art, nor wile untried, Until he pluck the fruit he sighs for ever: And, though he still would spare thy honest pride, The knot that binds him he must loose or sever; Thou too, O lady, shouldst make sharp thy knife, If thou art fain to end this amorous strife.

Lo! if thou lingerest still in dubious dread, Lest thou shouldst lose fair fame of honesty, Here hast thou need of wile and warihead, To test thy lover's strength in screening thee; 317 Indulge him, if thou find him well bestead, Knowing that smothered love flames outwardly: Therefore, seek means, search out some privy way; Keep not the steed too long at idle play.

Or if thou heedest what those friars teach, I cannot fail, lady, to call thee fool: Well may they blame our private sins and preach; But ill their acts match with their spoken rule; The same pitch clings to all men, one and each. There, I have spoken: set the world to school With this true proverb, too, be well acquainted The devil's ne'er so black as he is painted.

Nor did our good Lord give such grace to thee That thou shouldst keep it buried in thy breast, But to reward thy servant's constancy, Whose love and loyal faith thou hast repressed: Think it no sin to be some trifle free, Because thou livest at a lord's behest; For if he take enough to feed his fill, To cast the rest away were surely ill.

Wherefore, O lady, break the ice at length; Make thou, too, trial of love's fruits and flowers: When in thine arms thou feel'st thy lover's strength, Thou wilt repent of all these wasted hours; Husbands, they know not love, its breadth and length, Seeing their hearts are not on fire like ours: Things longed for give most pleasure; this I tell thee: If still thou doubtest let the proof compel thee.

The levity of these love-declarations and the fluency of their vows show them to be 'false as dicers' oaths,' mere verses of the moment, made to please a facile mistress. One long poem, which cannot be styled a Rispetto, but is rather a Canzone of the legitimate type, stands out with distinctness from the rest of Poliziano's love-verses. It was written by him for Giuliano de' Medici, in praise of the fair Simonetta. The following version attempts to repeat its metrical effects in some measure:--

With much that is frigid, artificial, and tedious in this old-fashioned love-song, there is a curious monotony of sweetness which commends it to our ears; and he who reads it may remember the profile portrait of Simonetta from the hand of Piero della Francesca in the Pitti Palace at Florence.

Hills, valleys, caves and fells, With flowers and leaves and herbage spread; Green meadows; shadowy groves where light is low; Lawns watered with the rills That cruel Love hath made me shed, Cast from these cloudy eyes so dark with woe; Thou stream that still dost know What fell pangs pierce my heart, So dost thou murmur back my moan; Lone bird that chauntest tone for tone, While in our descant drear Love sings his part: Nymphs, woodland wanderers, wind and air; List to the sound out-poured from my despair! Seven times and once more seven The roseate dawn her beauteous brow Enwreathed with orient jewels hath displayed; Cynthia once more in heaven Hath orbed her horns with silver now; While in sea waves her brother's light was laid; Since this high mountain glade 323 Felt the white footsteps fall Of that proud lady, who to spring Converts whatever woodland thing She may o'ershadow, touch, or heed at all. Here bloom the flowers, the grasses spring From her bright eyes, and drink what mine must bring. Yea, nourished with my tears Is every little leaf I see, And the stream rolls therewith a prouder wave. Ah me! through what long years Will she withhold her face from me, Which stills the stormy skies howe'er they rave? Speak! or in grove or cave If one hath seen her stray, Plucking amid those grasses green Wreaths for her royal brows serene, Flowers white and blue and red and golden gay! Nay, prithee, speak, if pity dwell Among these woods, within this leafy dell! O Love! 'twas here we saw, Beneath the new-fledged leaves that spring From this old beech, her fair form lowly laid:-- The thought renews my awe! How sweetly did her tresses fling Waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed Fire, frost within me played, While I beheld the bloom Of laughing flowers--O day of bliss!-- Around those tresses meet and kiss, And roses in her lap of Love the home! Her grace, her port divinely fair, Describe it, Love! myself I do not dare. In mute intent surprise I gazed, as when a hind is seen To dote upon its image in a rill; Drinking those love-lit eyes, Those hands, that face, those words serene, That song which with delight the heaven did fill, That smile which thralls me still, Which melteth stones unkind, 324 Which in this woodland wilderness Tames every beast and stills the stress Of hurrying waters. Would that I could find Her footprints upon field or grove! I should not then be envious of Jove. Thou cool stream rippling by, Where oft it pleased her to dip Her naked foot, how blest art thou! Ye branching trees on high, That spread your gnarled roots on the lip Of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven's dew! She often leaned on you, She who is my life's bliss! Thou ancient beech with moss o'ergrown, How do I envy thee thy throne, Found worthy to receive such happiness! Ye winds, how blissful must ye be, Since ye have borne to heaven her harmony! The winds that music bore, And wafted it to God on high, That Paradise might have the joy thereof. Flowers here she plucked, and wore Wild roses from the thorn hard by: This air she lightened with her look of love: This running stream above, She bent her face!--Ah me! Where am I? What sweet makes me swoon? What calm is in the kiss of noon? Who brought me here? Who speaks? What melody? Whence came pure peace into my soul? What joy hath rapt me from my own control?

Welcome in the May And the woodland garland gay!

Welcome in the jocund spring Which bids all men lovers be! Maidens, up with carolling, With your sweethearts stout and free, With roses and with blossoms ye Who deck yourselves this first of May!

Up, and forth into the pure Meadows, mid the trees and flowers! Every beauty is secure With so many bachelors: Beasts and birds amid the bowers Burn with love this first of May.

Maidens, who are young and fair, Be not harsh, I counsel you; For your youth cannot repair Her prime of spring, as meadows do: None be proud, but all be true To men who love, this first of May.

Dance and carol every one Of our band so bright and gay! See your sweethearts how they run Through the jousts for you to-day! She who saith her lover nay, Will deflower the sweets of May,

Lads in love take sword and shield To make pretty girls their prize: Yield ye, merry maidens, yield To your lovers' vows and sighs: Give his heart back ere it dies: Wage not war this first of May.

Love comes smiling; round his head Lilies white and roses meet: 'Tis for you his flight is sped. Fair one, haste our king to greet: Who will fling him blossoms sweet Soonest on this first of May?

Welcome, stranger! welcome, king! Love, what hast thou to command? That each girl with wreaths should ring Her lover's hair with loving hand, That girls small and great should band In Love's ranks this first of May.

Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away.-- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.

These blithe Satyrs, wanton-eyed, Of the Nymphs are paramours: Through the caves and forests wide They have snared them mid the flowers; Warmed with Bacchus, in his bowers, Now they dance and leap alway.-- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.

These fair Nymphs, they are not loth To entice their lovers' wiles. None but thankless folk and rough Can resist when Love beguiles. Now enlaced, with wreath?d smiles, All together dance and play.-- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.

See this load behind them plodding On the ass! Silenus he, Old and drunken, merry, nodding, Full of years and jollity; Though he goes so swayingly, Yet he laughs and quaffs alway.-- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.

Midas treads a wearier measure: All he touches turns to gold: If there be no taste of pleasure, What's the use of wealth untold? 328 What's the joy his fingers hold, When he's forced to thirst for aye?-- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.

Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away.

Sorrow, tears, and penitence Are our doom of pain for aye; This dead concourse riding by Hath no cry but penitence!

E'en as you are, once were we: You shall be as now we are: We are dead men, as you see: We shall see you dead men, where Nought avails to take great care, After sins, of penitence.

We too in the Carnival Sang our love-songs through the town; Thus from sin to sin we all Headlong, heedless, tumbled down:-- Now we cry, the world around, Penitence! oh, Penitence!

Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools! Time steals all things as he rides: Honours, glories, states, and schools, Pass away, and nought abides; Till the tomb our carcase hides, And compels this penitence.

This sharp scythe you see us bear, Brings the world at length to woe: But from life to life we fare; And that life is joy or woe: All heaven's bliss on him doth flow Who on earth does penitence.

Living here, we all must die; Dying, every soul shall live: For the King of kings on high This fixed ordinance doth give: Lo, you all are fugitive! Penitence! Cry Penitence!

Torment great and grievous dole Hath the thankless heart mid you; But the man of piteous soul 330 Finds much honour in our crew: Love for loving is the due That prevents this penitence.

Sorrow, tears, and penitence Are our doom of pain for aye: This dead concourse riding by Hath no cry but Penitence!

One song for dancing, composed less upon the type of the Ballata than on that of the Carnival Song, may here be introduced, not only in illustration of the varied forms assumed by this style of poetry, but also because it is highly characteristic of Tuscan town-life. This poem in the vulgar style has been ascribed to Lorenzo de' Medici, but probably without due reason. It describes the manners and customs of female street gossips.

Since you beg with such a grace, How can I refuse a song, Wholesome, honest, void of wrong, On the follies of the place?

Courteously on you I call; Listen well to what I sing: For my roundelay to all May perchance instruction bring, And of life good lessoning.-- When in company you meet, Or sit spinning, all the street Clamours like a market-place.

Thirty of you there may be; Twenty-nine are sure to buzz, And the single silent she Racks her brains about her coz:-- Mrs. Buzz and Mrs. Huzz, Mind your work, my ditty saith; Do not gossip till your breath Fails and leaves you black of face!

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet