LXII. Giunto a la fonte, sente un gran fracasso Morgante a la ventura a un saetta; Vedendosi venuto il porco adosso, Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone Ch'era pien d'acqua, e non si muove un crollo. Da l'una spalla il tinello avea posto, Da l'altra i porci, e spacciava il terreno ; LXVI. I monaci veggendo l'acqua fresca Si rallegrorno, ma più de' cinghiali; Ognun s'affanna, e non par che gl' incresca, E ferno a scoppia corpo per un tratto, Morgante in su'n un prato il caval mena, E vuol che corra, e che facci ogni pruova, E pensa che di ferro abbi la schiena, O forse non credeva schiacciar l'uova : Questo caval s'accoscia per la pena, E scoppia, e 'n su la terra si ritruova. Dicca Morgante: lieva su, rozzone; E va pur punzecchiando co lo sprone. ["Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is strange that Pulci should have literally anticipated the technical terms of my old friend and master, Jackson, and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. "A punch on the head," or LXII. Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head; And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, And to the fountain's brink precisely pours; So that the giant 's join'd by all the boars. LXIII. Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough; So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, Morgante was not now in time to shoot. LXIV. Perceiving that the pig was on him close, The tun was on one shoulder, and there were With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, LXVI. The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; The horse Morgante to a meadow led, To gallop, and to put him to the proof, Thinking that he a back of iron had, Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough; But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. Morgante said, "Get up, thou sulky cur!" And still continued pricking with the spur. "a punch in the head,”—“un punzone in su la testa,"is the exact and frequent phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they are talking the purest Tuscan. LXIX. Ma finalmente convien ch' egli smonte, LXX. Quando serà mestier, tu mi vedrai LXXI. Disse il gigante: io il porterò ben io, LXXII. Guarda che non facesse la vendetta, LXXIII. Disse l'abate: il campanil v'è bene ; LXXIV. Era Morgante come una montagna : E portollo, e gittollo in luogo strano, LXIX. But finally he thought fit to dismount, And said, "I am as light as any feather, And he has burst; -to this what say you, count?" Orlando answer'd, "Like a ship's mast rather You seem to me, and with the truck for front: Let him go; Fortune wills that we together Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." To which the giant answer'd, “So I will. LXX. "When there shall be occasion, you will see How I approve my courage in the fight." Orlando said, "I really think you'll be, If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight; Nor will you napping there discover me. But never mind your horse, though out of sight "T were best to carry him into some wood, If but the means or way I understood." LXXI. The giant said, "Then carry him I will, Since that to carry me he was so slackTo render, as the gods do, good for ill; But lend a hand to place him on my back." Orlando answer'd, "If my counsel still May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake LXXII. "Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. I don't know if the fact you've heard or read; But he will make you burst, you may be sure." "But help him on my back," Morgante said, "And you shall see what weight I can endure. In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." LXXIII. The abbot said, "The steeple may do well, The penalty who lie dead in yon grot; " LXXIV. Morgante was like any mountain framed; Once more he bade him lay his burden by: "Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." Morgante said, "I'll carry him for certain." LXXV. He did; and stow'd him in some nook away, And to the abbey then return'd with speed. Orlando said, "Why longer do we stay? Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." The abbot by the hand he took one day, And said, with great respect, he had agreed To leave his reverence; but for this decision He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. LXXVI. E de gli onor ricevuti da questi, Qualche volta potendo, arà buon merito; LXXVII. Io me ne porto per sempre nel core LXXVIII. Quando l'abate il conte Orlando intese, LXXIX. Noi ti potremo di messe onorare, LXXX. Tanto ch'a questo par contraddizione; Ma so che tu se' savio, e 'ntendi e gusti, E grazie a lui e a te noi ne rendiamo. LXXXI. Tu ci hai salvato l'anima e la vita: Ma da portar la lancia e l'armadura: LXXXIII. Se c'è armadura o cosa che tu voglia, Vattene in zambra e pigliane tu stessi, E cuopri a questo gigante le scoglia. Rispose Orlando: se armadura avessi Prima che noi uscissim de la soglia, Che questo mio compagno difendessi : Questo accetto io, e sarammi piacere. Disse l'abate: venite a vedere. LXXXIV. E in certa cameretta entrati sono, LXXXV. Questo fu d'un gigante smisurata, Ch 'a la badía fu morto per antico Come e' fu morto questo gran nimico, Veggendo questa istoria il conte Orlando, LXXXIII. "If you want armour or aught else, go in, Some armour, ere our journey we begin, And in a certain closet, where the wall Was cover'd with old armour like a crust, The abbot said to them, "I give you all." Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. The Prophecy of Dante.' "'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, DEDICATION. LADY! if for the cold and cloudy clime I dare to build the imitative rhyme, Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. CAMPBELL. Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, Are one; but only in the sunny South Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms dis play'd, So sweet a language from so fair a mouthAh! to what effort would it not persuade ? Ravenna, June 21, 1819. Ravenna. Dante's tomb; the classical pine wood, the relies of antiquity which are to be found in that place, afforded a sudficient pretext for me to invite him to come, and for him to accept my invitation. He came in the month of June, 1×18, arriving at Ravenna on the day of the festival of the CorIUS Domini. Being deprived at this time of his books, his horses, and all that occupied him at Venice, I begged him to grany me by writing something on the subject of Dante; and, with his usual facility and rapidity, he composed his Prophecy." [* "Twas in a grove of spreading pines he strayed," &c. DRYDEN'S Theodore and Honoria] "On this hint I spake," and the result has been the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos, to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopt ing this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek; so that-if I do not err-this poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same length of those of the poet, whose name I have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into Italian versi sciolti,—that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic, should chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in the imitation of his great "Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture may be considered as having decided the question. He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them [Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in May, 1265, of an ancient and honourable family. In the early part of his life he gained some credit in a military character, and distinguished himself by his bravery in an action where the Florentines obtained a signal victory over the citizens of Arezzo. He became still more eminent by the acquisition of court honours; and at the age of thirty-five he rose to be one of the chief magistrates of Florence, when that dignity was conferred by the suffrages of the people. From this exaltation the poet himself dated his principal misfortunes. Italy was at that time distracted by the contending factions of the Ghibelines and Guelphs, among the latter Dante took an active part. In one of the proscriptions he was banished, his possessions confiscated, and he died in exile in 1321. Boccaccio thus describes his person and manners:-"He was of the middle stature, of a mild disposition, and, from the time he arrived at manhood, grave in his manner and deportment. His clothes were plain, and his dress always conformable to his years: his face was long; his nose aquiline; his eyes rather large than otherwise. His complexion was dark, melancholy, and pensive. In his meals he was extremely moderate; in his as a nation- their literature; and in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, when my business is with the English one; and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. The Prophecy of Dante.' CANTO THE FIRST. ONCE more in man's frail world! which I had left My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! From star to star to reach the almighty throne. That nought on earth could more my bosom move, Relieved her wing till found: without thy light Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, Così se guardi fiso Pensar ben dèi ch' ogni terren' piacere." Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Beatrice, Strophe third. 4 [According to Boccaccio, Dante was a lover long before he was a soldier, and his passion for the Beatrice whom he has immortalised commenced while he was in his ninth year, and she in her eighth year. It is said that their first meeting was at a banquet in the house of Folco Portinaro, her father; and certain it is, that the impression then made on the susceptible and constant heart of Dante was not obliterated by her death, which happened after an interval of sixteen years. CARY.] K k |