Chapter 33

_Boccaccio._ After all, she is a good girl ... a trifle of the wilful. She must have it that many things are hurtful to me ... reading in particular ... it makes people so odd. Tina is a small matter of the madcap ... in her own particular way ... but exceedingly discreet, I do assure you, if they will only leave her alone.

I find I was mistaken, there was nobody.

_Petrarca._ A cat, perhaps.

_Boccaccio._ No such thing. I order him over to Certaldo while the birds are laying and sitting: and he knows by experience, favourite as he is, that it is of no use to come back before he is sent for. Since the first impetuosities of youth, he has rarely been refractory or disobliging. We have lived together now these five years, unless I miscalculate; and he seems to have learnt something of my manners, wherein violence and enterprise by no means predominate. I have watched him looking at a large green lizard; and, their eyes being opposite and near, he has doubted whether it might be pleasing to me if he began the attack; and their tails on a sudden have touched one another at the decision.

_Petrarca._ Seldom have adverse parties felt the same desire of peace at the same moment, and none ever carried it more simultaneously and promptly into execution.

_Boccaccio._ He enjoys his _otium cum dignitate_ at Certaldo: there he is my castellan, and his chase is unlimited in those domains. After the doom of relegation is expired, he comes hither at midsummer. And then if you could see his joy! His eyes are as deep as a well, and as clear as a fountain: he jerks his tail into the air like a royal sceptre, and waves it like the wand of a magician. You would fancy that, as Horace with his head, he was about to smite the stars with it. There is ne'er such another cat in the parish; and he knows it, a rogue! We have rare repasts together in the bean-and-bacon time, although in regard to the bean he sides with the philosopher of Samos; but after due examination. In cleanliness he is a very nun; albeit in that quality which lies between cleanliness and godliness, there is a smack of Fra Biagio about him. What is that book in your hand?

_Petrarca._ My breviary.

_Boccaccio._ Well, give me mine too ... there, on the little table in the corner, under the glass of primroses. We can do nothing better.

_Petrarca._ What prayer were you looking for? let me find it.

_Boccaccio._ I don't know how it is: I am scarcely at present in a frame of mind for it. We are of one faith: the prayers of the one will do for the other: and I am sure, if you omitted my name, you would say them all over afresh. I wish you could recollect in any book as dreamy a thing to entertain me as I have been just repeating. We have had enough of Dante: I believe few of his beauties have escaped us: and small faults, which we readily pass by, are fitter for small folks, as grubs are the proper bait for gudgeons.

_Petrarca._ I have had as many dreams as most men. We are all made up of them, as the webs of the spider are particles of her own vitality. But how infinitely less do we profit by them! I will relate to you, before we separate, one among the multitude of mine, as coming the nearest to the poetry of yours, and as having been not totally useless to me. Often have I reflected on it; sometimes with pensiveness, with sadness never.

_Boccaccio._ Then, Francesco, if you had with you as copious a choice of dreams as clustered on the elm-trees where the Sibyl led Aeneas, this, in preference to the whole swarm of them, is the queen dream for me.

_Petrarca._ When I was younger I was fond of wandering in solitary places, and never was afraid of slumbering in woods and grottoes. Among the chief pleasures of my life, and among the commonest of my occupations, was the bringing before me such heroes and heroines of antiquity, such poets and sages, such of the prosperous and the unfortunate, as most interested me by their courage, their wisdom, their eloquence, or their adventures. Engaging them in the conversation best suited to their characters, I knew perfectly their manners, their steps, their voices: and often did I moisten with my tears the models I had been forming of the less happy.

_Boccaccio._ Great is the privilege of entering into the studies of the intellectual; great is that of conversing with the guides of nations, the movers of the mass, the regulators of the unruly will, stiff, in its impurity and rust, against the finger of the Almighty Power that formed it: but give me, Francesco, give me rather the creature to sympathize with; apportion me the sufferings to assuage. Ah, gentle soul! thou wilt never send them over to another; they have better hopes from thee.

_Petrarca._ We both alike feel the sorrows of those around us. He who suppresses or allays them in another, breaks many thorns off his own; and future years will never harden fresh ones.

My occupation was not always in making the politician talk politics, the orator toss his torch among the populace, the philosopher run down from philosophy to cover the retreat or the advances of his sect; but sometimes in devising how such characters must act and discourse, on subjects far remote from the beaten track of their career. In like manner the philologist, and again the dialectician, were not indulged in the review and parade of their trained bands, but, at times, brought forward to show in what manner and in what degree external habits had influenced the conformation of the internal man. It was far from unprofitable to set passing events before past actors, and to record the decisions of those whose interests and passions are unconcerned in them.

_Boccaccio._ This is surely no easy matter. The thoughts are in fact your own, however you distribute them.

_Petrarca._ All cannot be my own; if you mean by _thoughts_ the opinions and principles I should be the most desirous to inculcate. Some favourite ones perhaps may obtrude too prominently, but otherwise no misbehaviour is permitted them: reprehension and rebuke are always ready, and the offence is punished on the spot.

_Boccaccio._ Certainly you thus throw open, to its full extent, the range of poetry and invention; which cannot but be very limited and sterile, unless where we find displayed much diversity of character as disseminated by nature, much peculiarity of sentiment as arising from position, marked with unerring skill through every shade and gradation; and finally and chiefly, much intertexture and intensity of passion. You thus convey to us more largely and expeditiously the stores of your understanding and imagination, than you ever could by sonnets or canzonets, or sinewless and sapless allegories.

But weightier works are less captivating. If you had published any such as you mention, you must have waited for their acceptance. Not only the fame of Marcellus, but every other,

Crescit occulto velut arbor aevo;

and that which makes the greatest vernal shoot is apt to make the least autumnal. Authors in general who have met celebrity at starting, have already had their reward; always their utmost due, and often much beyond it. We cannot hope for both celebrity and fame: supremely fortunate are the few who are allowed the liberty of choice between them. We two prefer the strength that springs from exercise and toil, acquiring it gradually and slowly: we leave to others the earlier blessing of that sleep which follows enjoyment. How many at first sight are enthusiastic in their favour! Of these how large a portion come away empty-handed and discontented! like idlers who visit the seacoast, fill their pockets with pebbles bright from the passing wave, and carry them off with rapture. After a short examination at home, every streak seems faint and dull, and the whole contexture coarse, uneven, and gritty: first one is thrown away, then another; and before the week's end the store is gone, of things so shining and wonderful.

_Petrarca._ Allegory, which you named with sonnets and canzonets, had few attractions for me, believing it to be the delight in general of idle, frivolous, inexcursive minds, in whose mansions there is neither hall nor portal to receive the loftier of the Passions. A stranger to the Affections, she holds a low station among the handmaidens of Poetry, being fit for little but an apparition in a mask. I had reflected for some time on this subject, when, wearied with the length of my walk over the mountains, and finding a soft old molehill, covered with grey grass, by the wayside, I laid my head upon it and slept. I cannot tell how long it was before a species of dream or vision came over me.

Two beautiful youths appeared beside me; each was winged; but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill adapted to flight. One of them, whose voice was the softest I ever heard, looking at me frequently, said to the other:

'He is under my guardianship for the present: do not awaken him with that feather.'

Methought, hearing the whisper, I saw something like the feather on an arrow; and then the arrow itself; the whole of it, even to the point; although he carried it in such a manner that it was difficult at first to discover more than a palm's length of it: the rest of the shaft, and the whole of the barb, was behind his ankles.

'This feather never awakens any one,' replied he, rather petulantly; 'but it brings more of confident security, and more of cherished dreams, than you without me are capable of imparting.'

'Be it so!' answered the gentler ... 'none is less inclined to quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom you have wounded grievously, call upon me for succour. But so little am I disposed to thwart you, it is seldom I venture to do more for them than to whisper a few words of comfort in passing. How many reproaches on these occasions have been cast upon me for indifference and infidelity! Nearly as many, and nearly in the same terms, as upon you!'

'Odd enough that we, O Sleep! should be thought so alike,' said Love, contemptuously. 'Yonder is he who bears a nearer resemblance to you: the dullest have observed it.' I fancied I turned my eyes to where he was pointing, and saw at a distance the figure he designated. Meanwhile the contention went on uninterruptedly. Sleep was slow in asserting his power or his benefits. Love recapitulated them; but only that he might assert his own above them. Suddenly he called on me to decide, and to choose my patron. Under the influence, first of the one, then of the other, I sprang from repose to rapture, I alighted from rapture on repose ... and knew not which was sweetest. Love was very angry with me, and declared he would cross me throughout the whole of my existence. Whatever I might on other occasions have thought of his veracity, I now felt too surely the conviction that he would keep his word. At last, before the close of the altercation, the third Genius had advanced, and stood near us. I cannot tell how I knew him, but I knew him to be the Genius of Death. Breathless as I was at beholding him, I soon became familiar with his features. First they seemed only calm; presently they grew contemplative; and lastly beautiful: those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less harmonious, less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily, with a countenance in which there was somewhat of anxiety, somewhat of disdain; and cried: 'Go away! go away! nothing that thou touchest, lives.'

'Say rather, child!' replied the advancing form, and advancing grew loftier and statelier, 'say rather that nothing of beautiful or of glorious lives its own true life until my wing hath passed over it.'

Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his forefinger the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head; but replied not. Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I dreaded him less and less, and scarcely looked toward him. The milder and calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as I took courage to contemplate him, regarded me with more and more complacency. He held neither flower nor arrow, as the others did; but, throwing back the clusters of dark curls that overshadowed his countenance, he presented to me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank on looking at him so near, and yet I sighed to love him. He smiled, not without an expression of pity, at perceiving my diffidence, my timidity: for I remembered how soft was the hand of Sleep, how warm and entrancing was Love's. By degrees, I became ashamed of my ingratitude; and turning my face away, I held out my arms, and felt my neck within his. Composure strewed and allayed all the throbbings of my bosom; the coolness of freshest morning breathed around: the heavens seemed to open above me; while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer rested on my head. I would now have looked for those others; but knowing my intention by my gesture, he said, consolatorily:

'Sleep is on his way to the Earth, where many are calling him; but it is not to these he hastens; for every call only makes him fly farther off. Sedately and gravely as he looks, he is nearly as capricious and volatile as the more arrogant and ferocious one.'

'And Love!' said I, 'whither is he departed? If not too late, I would propitiate and appease him.'

'He who cannot follow me, he who cannot overtake and pass me,' said the Genius, 'is unworthy of the name, the most glorious in earth or heaven. Look up! Love is yonder, and ready to receive thee.'

I looked: the earth was under me: I saw only the clear blue sky, and something brighter above it.

POEMS

I

She I love (alas in vain!) Floats before my slumbering eyes: When she comes she lulls my pain, When she goes what pangs arise! Thou whom love, whom memory flies, Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign! If even thus she soothe my sighs, Never let me wake again!

II

Pleasure! why thus desert the heart In its spring-tide? I could have seen her, I could part, And but have sigh'd!

O'er every youthful charm to stray, To gaze, to touch.... Pleasure! why take so much away, Or give so much?

III

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me.

IV

Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea! A path forbidden _me_! Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watcht him laying down His brow, and dropt our own Against each other's, and how faint and short And sliding the support! What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest, Ianthe! nor will rest But on the very thought that swells with pain. O bid me hope again! O give me back what Earth, what (without you) Not Heaven itself can do, One of the golden days that we have past; And let it be my last! Or else the gift would be, however sweet, Fragile and incomplete.

V

The gates of fame and of the grave Stand under the same architrave.

VI

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow If not quite dim, yet rather so, Still yours from others they shall know Twenty years hence. Twenty years hence tho' it may hap That I be call'd to take a nap In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard, There breathe but o'er my arch of grass A not too sadly sigh'd _Alas_, And I shall catch, ere you can pass, That winged word.

VII

Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see, I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walkt by me.

Yes; I forgot; a change there is; Was it of _that_ you bade me tell? I catch at times, at times I miss The sight, the tone, I know so well.

Only two months since you stood here! Two shortest months! then tell me why Voices are harsher than they were, And tears are longer ere they dry.

VIII

Tell me not things past all belief; One truth in you I prove; The flame of anger, bright and brief, Sharpens the barb of Love.

IX

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek Over my open volume you will say, 'This man loved _me_!' then rise and trip away.

X

FIESOLE IDYL

Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em, And softer sighs that know not what they want, Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Of sights in Fiesole right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden-steps And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, Such I believed it must be. How could I Let beast o'erpower them? When hath wind or rain Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, And I (however they might bluster round) Walkt off? 'Twere most ungrateful: for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; I saw the foot that, although half-erect From its grey slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted: I held down a branch And gather'd her some blossoms; since their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way thro' And scattering them in fragments under-foot. So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, For such appear the petals when detacht, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen thro', by eye or sun: Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, But so she praised them to reward my care. I said, 'You find the largest.' 'This indeed,' Cried she, 'is large and sweet.' She held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to stake She knew not, nor did I; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropt it, as loath to drop it, on the rest.

XI

Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

XII

With rosy hand a little girl prest down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a frown Show'd she disliked resistance to her will: But when they droopt their heads and shone much less, She shook them to and fro, and threw them by, And tript away. 'Ye loathe the heaviness Ye love to cause, my little girls!' thought I, 'And what had shone for you, by you must die.'

XIII

Ternissa! you are fled! I say not to the dead, But to the happy ones who rest below: For, surely, surely, where Your voice and graces are, Nothing of death can any feel or know. Girls who delight to dwell Where grows most asphodel, Gather to their calm breasts each word you speak: The mild Persephone Places you on her knee, And your cool palm smooths down stern Pluto's cheek.

XIV

Various the roads of life; in one All terminate, one lonely way We go; and 'Is he gone?' Is all our best friends say.

XV

Yes; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talkt of by young men As rather clever:

In the last quarter are my eyes, You see it by their form and size; Is it not time then to be wise? Or now or never.

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! While Time allows the short reprieve, Just look at me! would you believe 'Twas once a lover?

I cannot clear the five-bar gate, But, trying first its timber's state, Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait To trundle over.

Thro' gallopade I cannot swing The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring: I cannot say the tender thing, Be 't true or false,

And am beginning to opine Those girls are only half-divine Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine In giddy waltz.

I fear that arm above that shoulder, I wish them wiser, graver, older, Sedater, and no harm if colder And panting less.

Ah! people were not half so wild In former days, when, starchly mild, Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled The brave Queen Bess.

XVI

ON SEEING A HAIR OF LUCRETIA BORGIA

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust. All that remains of thee these plaits unfold, Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold.

XVII

Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left Impression on it stronger or more sweet. Cordial old man! what youth was in thy years, What wisdom in thy levity, what truth In every utterance of that purest soul! Few are the spirits of the glorified I'd spring to earlier at the gate of Heaven.

XVIII

TO WORDSWORTH

Those who have laid the harp aside And turn'd to idler things, From very restlessness have tried The loose and dusty strings. And, catching back some favourite strain, Run with it o'er the chords again.

But Memory is not a Muse, O Wordsworth! though 'tis said They all descend from her, and use To haunt her fountain-head: That other men should work for me In the rich mines of Poesie, Pleases me better than the toil Of smoothing under hardened hand, With Attic emery and oil, The shining point for Wisdom's wand, Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills Descending from thy native hills.