Part 24

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.

But when my lap was full of flowers I spied Roses at last, roses of every hue; Therefore I ran to pluck their ruddy pride, Because their perfume was so sweet and true That all my soul went forth with pleasure new, With yearning and desire too soft to say.

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.

I gazed and gazed. Hard task it were to tell How lovely were the roses in that hour: One was but peeping from her verdant shell, And some were faded, some were scarce in flower: Then Love said: Go, pluck from the blooming bower Those that thou seest ripe upon the spray.

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.

For when the full rose quits her tender sheath, When she is sweetest and most fair to see, Then is the time to place her in thy wreath, Before her beauty and her freshness flee. Gather ye therefore roses with great glee, Sweet girls, or ere their perfume pass away.

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.

The next Ballata is less simple, but is composed with the same intention. It may here be parenthetically mentioned that the courtly poet, when he applied himself to this species of composition, invented a certain rusticity of incident, scarcely in keeping with the spirit of his art. It was in fact a conventional feature of this species of verse that the scene should be laid in the country, where the burgher, on a visit to his villa, is supposed to meet with a rustic beauty who captivates his eyes and heart. Guido Cavalcanti, in his celebrated Ballata, 'In un boschetto trovai pastorella,' struck the keynote of this music, which, it may be reasonably conjectured, was imported into Italy through Provençal literature from the pastorals of Northern France. The lady so quaintly imaged by a bird in the following Ballata of Poliziano is supposed to have been Monna Ippolita Leoncina of Prato, white-throated, golden-haired, and dressed in crimson silk.

I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

I do not think the world a field could show With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare; But when I passed beyond the green hedge-row, A thousand flowers around me flourished fair, White, pied and crimson, in the summer air; Among the which I heard a sweet bird's tone.

I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Her song it was so tender and so clear That all the world listened with love; then I With stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near, Her golden head and golden wings could spy, Her plumes that flashed like rubies 'neath the sky, Her crystal beak and throat and bosom's zone.

I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love; But arrow-like she soared, and through the air Fled to her nest upon the boughs above; Wherefore to follow her is all my care, For haply I might lure her by some snare Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown.

I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile; But since of singing she doth take such pleasure, Without or other art or other guile I seek to win her with a tuneful measure; Therefore in singing spend I all my leisure, To make by singing this sweet bird my own.

I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

The same lady is more directly celebrated in the next Ballata, where Poliziano calls her by her name, Ippolita. I have taken the liberty of substituting Myrrha for this somewhat unmanageable word.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire, An angel of our lord, a laughing boy, Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre, And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy, That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy; Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise!

He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move, So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight, That it is like the lightning of high Jove, Riving of iron and adamant the might; Nathless the wound doth carry such delight That he who suffers dwells in Paradise.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee, That all proud souls are bound to bend to her; So sweet her countenance, it turns the key Of hard hearts locked in cold security: Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

In Myrrha's eyes beauty doth make her throne, And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind: Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known As in the whole wide world he scarce may find: Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind, He lives again beneath her gazing eyes.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

The fourth Ballata sets forth the fifteenth-century Italian code of love, the code of the Novelle, very different in its avowed laxity from the high ideal of the trecentisti poets.