GANTO H. lently; when, with that ineffable courtesy, which has already obtained its unfading recompense in Paradise, she condescended to make me a curtsy, and to address me in a few words of so much virtue and kindness, that they transported me, as it were, to the extreme of rapture. Nothing can efface that moment from my memory: it was precisely nine o'clock. That, as I have said, being the first time I caught her dulcet accents, there came over me such a sensation of sweetness, that, inebriated with pleasure, I retired from the crowd into my little, lonely room; and shut myself up in order to muse at my leisure upon one so courteous and beautiful. Ere long, I experienced a slight slumber attended by a strange dream. Methought there entered the chamber a flame-tinged cloud, and, within it, stood a personage on whom, albeit his aspect was terrible, I could not avoid gazing steadfastly. It was a marvel how dazzling he seemed with joy: and several words did he utter in latin, of which I only comprehended these, Behold thy Lord! In his arms appeared a form sleeping, and naked, with the exception of a light crimson drapery, in which it was wrapt up: and looking on it with attention, I at length recog nised the lady of my soul, her who had deigned to salute me that evening. Then he who bore her seemed, in one hand, to hold something all on fire; and turning to me pronounced again in latin —see thy heart! After some pause he apparently CANTO H. awoke her who slept ; and endeavoured with much art to persuade her to eat of that which burned in his hand; so at last she began the eating of it, though as if doubtingly. But it was not long before the lordly figure, who had been so brillant and festive, dissolved in a flood of tears, and, weeping bitterly, folded up that lady again in his arms and appeared to fly away aloft with her to heaven; leaving me in such a fit of anguish that I awoke.'Upon this he composed a sonnet, which is really very pretty, and, considering it was the production of a mere child, astonishingly so its last lines are these Allegro mi sembrava Amor, tenendo Mio core in mano, e nelle braccia avea It was (as I have said) immediately published, though without a name; so that, it is certain, we have it in its original state free of any subsequent correction. The author's own account of the affair is: 'many replied to my anonymous verses in various ways, and, amongst them, he whom I always designate as my first friend. His reply was also a sonnet beginning Vedesti al mio parere ec. and it was indeed upon this occasion that the friendship between us originated; for he came and sought my acquaintance, as soon as he CANTO II. knew it was with me he corresponded.' The sonnet just referred to is printed as the twentieth in the works (1) of Guido Cavalcanti, a Florentine chieftain of prime rank, both as to birth and fortune and talents, and who then stood in fine almost without a rival, whether in poetry, philosophy, or politics. He was besides, at the least, thirty years of age; for he is known to have been married a few months after our author's birth; so that their romantic and steady attachment is nearly equally honorable to them both; to the boy who deserved it, and to the man who delighted to do homage to the genius of a boy: for perhaps genius itself is not rarer than such perfect candour and disinterestedness. I am aware, that there have been several who produced tolerable poetry very young: and that the old proverb -nascitur poeta, orator fit — has more truth in it than seems fashionable to be avowed. A life of study, and opportunities to traverse a wide field of observation are requisite to form a great poet certainly: but the faculty peculiarly poetic exists probably in the cradle, or never. The seed may be long latent, for numerous are the causes, moral as well as physical, that may choke it but where nature herself has not sown the seeds of poetry, no care and culture can produce it. Something better perhaps than poetry (1) Rime p. 11. GANTO 11. may be so produced, but yet not poetry. Richness of fancy, inexhaustible stores of knowledge, the utmost promptness of combination and entire dominion over his language did not make a poet of Mr. Burke; nor of a still greater man, Cicero. Where the tendency to become one exists, it is likely, that it developes itself early; or that, if it does not, there is some casual impediment preventing it. A poet born is, it may be supposed, inclined, like Ovid, 'to lisp in numbers' as fast as he acquires ideas and words. Words are of quicker growth than is often imagined; to prove which, it is enough to instance Tasso, who never possessed his language better than in his early boyhood and when he wrote his Aminta, or Mr. Pope, who was never more master of English or more melodious and correct as a versifier than in his Windsor-forest: besides, were it otherwise, yet that simple phraseology, (adapted even to the sublimest conceptions of the muse, as Homer and Shakespere show) which is attained by every child, suffices to clothe simple thoughts; and some of the prettiest verses extant contain nothing else. As to ideas, though they can be but few at a very juvenile period, yet a few do for a short poem; and may be even more vivid then, because novel. Some of the earliest may spring from keen relish for beauty: at least, objects that strike chiefly by their exterior may strike most forcibly on first sight; and how many such beautiful objects are CANTO 11. to be seen as soon as we open our eyes, the fields, birds, air etc.! Amongst them surely may be ranked' high a singularly gifted human form; and it may create love and veneration, long previous to the possibility of any sexual desire. A perception of moral beauties, which act not immediately upon the outward senses, is less easily gained, and can be but the result of frequent reflection or of information reaped from men or books: yet even this shows itself prematurely, as in the instance of Pope's ode to solitude, a solemn disclosure of feelings more recondite far than Dante's attachment to Beatrice. This is sufficiently accordant with the jocund buoyancy of childhood and the fervid imagination of a nascent minstrell: but that exhibits a melancholy unnatural at such an age, unless we attribute it, in some measure, to bad health and redundant timidity. Not that I mean to put the two writers on a parallel: our countryman was considerably less young; yet was he enough so to justify my believing, that his performance revealed greater powers than he afterwards exerted when, with almost a single exception, he was unfortunately induced to give up poetry for criticism and originality for translation. Yet in spite of every exemple that can be cited, as a deduction from our amazement, this sonnet and passion of Dante at nine years of age must be classed among curious natural phenomena : and Ginguené's mode of accounting for the matter is quite |