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of common life, and however exquisitely beautiful their melodious expression of simple feeling, have not that range of power, that variety of resources, that flexure, and, as it were, muscularity of sound, which seem to belong exclusively to dialects more rich in consonants. At all events, a strong thoughted genius, who would communicate his thoughts in such a language as the Italian, must of necessity impose voluntary fetters on himself. He must supply by restraint of metre, the absence of those checks and boundaries which nature has fixed in the Teutonic languages, and which, resisting and overcoming the spirit of Teutonic poetry, has produced far more subtle combinations of harmonious sound than could have been attained without those apparent impediments. Dante could never have written in versi sciolti. It is not without judgment, therefore, that Mr. Cary considered the Miltonic blank verse as offering, on the whole, the best correspondence to the terza rima. Yet, so important an integral part of every great poem is its musical structure, that an admirer of Dante, however much he is compelled to admire Mr. Cary's excellent work, must feel the infinite difference produced by that single alteration. The change of Miltonic blank into versi sciolti is hardly less considerable, although less apparent: the character of the former is strength, of the latter, weakness. Even in dramatic poetry these are feeble, monotonous, and indocile: in the higher epic they are nearly intolerable. Signor Sorelli has, however, done his best, and often succeeded in imparting more vigour than we could have anticipated.

It is time, however, to leave our readers to judge for themselves, and we shall accordingly select three passages, which we consider favourable specimens, at the same time strongly recommending the whole book to the attention of those interested in the bywalks of literature. From the opening of the Third Book, “ Hail, holy light,” &c.

Salve, O luce divina! O primogènia
Figlia del cielo! ....Ò dell'eterno Dio
(Senza ch' offésa i' rèchiti) pomarti
Raggio poss' io coetèrno? po' ch' Ei stesso
E luce Iddio; né mai, ab éterno, altrove
Che in luce inaccessibile albergòssi.
Stettèsi dunque in te, lucido effluvio
Dell' increata sua fulgida essènza!
O s'ami più, che puro etèreo rivo
Te, santa luce! io chiami, oh chi ridìre,
Chi saprà mai 'l tuo fonte ? Ancor creato
Il sol non èra, e non creati i cieli
Erano ancor, ch'èri tu già. Tu il mondo
Fuòr sorgente da fósche acque profonde

Dal Vuoto svelto infórme ed infinito,
Alla voce del Verbo, ricignesti
Di té, come d'un manto. A visitarti,
Ecco! su vanni più sicuri io torno,
Fuor' di Stige scampato dal palude,
Benché gran spazio in quel soggiorno bujo
Fossi in quel tanto astretto a rimanére,
Ch' or per tenebre dènse trasportato,
Ora
per

fioco lume, i' del Caosse
Volai contando e dell' eterna notte
Ad altro suon ch' a quel d'Orfica lira!
Giù dall'infèrno a scénder negli orrori,
E a risalire a riveder le stelle
(Difficil cosa e rara !) ammaestròmmi
Del ciel la musa. A te ritorno illèso;
Del lampo tuo sovràn vivificante
Già sento in me l'influsso, ma quest'occhj
Tu non ritorni, o luce, a visitare,
Che del tuo raggio in cerca penetrante
Muovonsi indarno in giro, e neppur ponno
Trovarne albore ..... tanto condensata
N' ha spento l' orbe una senéna goccia,
Ovvér' gli, ha suffuzione atra velati , .
Pur, dell' amor de' sacri carmi accéso,
Dall' ir vagando i' non perciò m' astengo
Là dove, in coro, soglion praticare
Le
muse,

al
margo

ď un argênteo fonte,
In selva ombrosa, ó su collina aprica;
Ma prìa ch' altrove a té, Sion! mi traggo,
Mentr' è la notte, e al màrgine fiorito
De' rivi, che ti vanno il sacro piède
Soavemente garruli lavando:
Né que' duo che nel fato ebbi simili
(Sì foss' io, nella fama a loro uguale !)
Mando spesso in obbliò, Tamiri e Omero,
Ciccbi amendue, od i profeti antichi
Tirèsia e Fineo ; Di pensieri allora
I' mi pasco, che muovon volontarj
Armoniosi nùmeri, qual suole
Vigile augel, che, in mezzo alle tenebre
Del più fósco ricovero, celato,

Canta ed intuona le notturne note. From the close of the Fifth Book, "So spake the seraph Abdiel,” &c.

Si disse Abdiele! il Serafin trovato
Fido tra gl' infédeli, ..., il sol fedéle;
Fra stuol di falsi Spiriti infinito
L' Amore, il Zel, la Féde atténne ei saldo,

Non pervertito, intrèpido, inconcusso ;
Né valse esèmpio è numero a cangiare
L' impermutabil animo, ó a distòrlo
(Abbenché solo) dal cammin' del Vero.

Lungo Sentier per entro a scòrno ostile,
Cui, maestoso in atto, egli sosténne
Senza temér di violènza ei quindi
Dièssi a passar, chi lo schernia sprezzando,
E volse il tèrgo alle supèrbe Torri

Ch' èran dannate a ràpido Sterminio. The description of Eve's creation, “The rib he formed and fashioned with his hands,” &c., iir the Eighth Book.

Diè a quella costa poi di mano Sua
Foggia e figura Iddio, sì ch'ella crébbe,
Frà le maestre dita, creatura
Simile all' uom, ma d'altro sesso.

Er' esse
Si amabilmente bella, che quant' io
Nel mondo tutto avea visto sembrare
Cosa, testé, leggiadra, or paréa tale
Da non tenersi in cónto appètto a lei,
O in lei tutto raccolto, in lei rinchiuso
E ne' suo' raj.

L' ebb'io mirata appena,
Che da que' lumi suoi scéndermi infusa
Sentii dolcézza al cor, qual non avea
Provata innanzi : e nelle cose tutte
Del suo bel garbo io vidi all' apparire
Spirto d'amore infondersi, e d'amore
In ogni cosa infondersi le giòje.
Ma qui disparve !--e, sparsa, i' mi sentìi
Nelle tenebre avvolto del dolore.
Destàīmi, e tosto a ricercarla io mòssi,
Fermo, non la trovando, di per sempre
Pianger che pèrsa aveala, e ogni altra gioja
Di rinunciar per sempre. Ogni speranza
Già di trovarla aveami abbandonato:
Quand' ecco! Ecco, non lunge, i' la rividi,
Qual già nel Sogno avevala veduta,
Tutta de' doni bèlla, che potuto
Sparger, per farla amabile, su lei
Avean la Terra e 'l Cielo. A me dinanzi
Scorta venia dal suo Fattor Celeste
(Quantunque non visibile) e guidata
Dal suon della Sua voce; delle leggi
Sante nuziali, e già de' maritali
Riti istruìta. D'ogni grazia adorni
Moveva i passi : avea negli occhi il cielo
Dignitoso ogni gèsto, e tutta ainore !

Art. IX.-- Lafayette et la Revolution de 1830. Histoire des

Choses et des Hommes de Juillet. Par B. Sarrans, jeune, ancien rédacteur en chef du Courrier des Electeurs, aide-decamp de Lafayette, jusqu'au 26 Décembre, 1830, jour de la

démission de ce Général. 2 tom. 8vo. Paris, 1832. It would be difficult to describe a more perplexing situation than that of the Duke of Orleans during the Three Days of the last Revolution. On the one hand, the Bourbons of the elder branch were naturally regarding him with suspicion, and necessarily anxious to involve him in the same fate. On the other hand, his friends or followers, for their own sakes, or in furtherance of their opinions, were constructing for him a perilous throne-of the hazards of which he was not ambitious--which he might possess but for a very brief period, and which in its fall might bring down ruin on himself and his family. When the people got the

upper hand, and the crown was offered to him, the ease of his position was not increased. His nearest relatives, the rightful inheritors of the throne in a family sense, had full license to accuse him of following the baneful example of his father, of intriguing for their destitution: in the other direction—in the face of the events of July, Louis - Philip was bound to choose between a most uncertain and irregularly founded royalty, and certain banishment. Had any other arrangement been made for the administration of the realm, which excluded the Duke of Orleans, he must necessarily have been de trop in the country: he would have been compelled to desert his native land, give up his princely revenues, and once more seek in foreign climes the peaceful subsistence denied him in the country of his birth. Before him there were all the tremendous risks of a royalty based upon a turbulent foundation in a moment of national furor, and to the displacement of the men who had been set there by the aid and with the sanction of the principal powers of Europe. There were also before him the chance of benefiting bis country, of subduing its riotousness, relieving its grievances, and guiding it with a steady hand in the career of prosperity, wealth and happiness. All things considered, there was neither more nor less to be remarked on the case than the laconic phrase of Talleyrand—Il faut l'accepter.” A great many fine things were said on this occasion, for it is the genius of the French. But it is impossible to deny that, in accepting the crown, Louis-Philip, with his feelings and in his circumstances, was acting under a moral necessity. He could not be deceived by the enthusiasm of July: he must have known his countrymen too well to expect that the state of effervescence they were then

in was likely to be permanent, even for a month: he must have anticipated a speedy coolness, a loss of popularity, and the odious office of doing good to unwilling recipients. We do not deny to the French nation the possession of high qualities; but as little is it to be denied that the very activity and buoyancy of their genius, their enthusiastic love of the imposing, the grand, the glorious, when joined with their extraordinary national vanity and individual egotism, render them a nation above all difficult to keep in a steady course of quiet well-doing. It signifies not what form of government is imposed upon or may be adopted by them, there will always necessarily be a mass, not exactly of discontent, but of energetic disapproval; and this the authorities must either be strong enough to despise, or to put down. It seems to be imagined by many, that government is an affair of ornament, and that the fancy ought to be consulted in its fashion. Government is in fact what the bridle is to the horse, though we would not applaud the taste that on a late occasion put bit and bridle in the hands of a statue of Public Order. No country in the world spurns the bit more than France, and by its very mercurialism, perhaps none more essentially demands the application of a sharp curb. Of this fact none could be more fully aware than the new monarch. His own existence was a proof of it. Louis-Philip must not, therefore, be considered in the light of an ambitious grasper at royal honours, an artful intriguer for a throne. He is entitled to the consideration due to one, who only consented to take the crown in the hope of serving his country, and from a feeling that a course of trial at the head of a great nation was a more honourable position than that of again becoming a fugitive and an exile, and being probably in other lands a spectator of the agitation and troubles of that of his birth.

Not only, however, was the accession of Louis-Philip the best alternative for himself, but his existence at that moment, prepared as he was to accept a crown, must also be held in the light of a most fortunate turn in the national destinies. In the case of the refusal or the inaptitude of the Duke of Orleans to accede to the throne, it must be allowed that the result of the Three Days might have been as melancholy as they may yet be advantageous. At that epoch, we believe, the idea of recalling or retaining any one branch or member of the family of Charles X. would have been received with general execration. The loyalists even would have been dissatistied with any step short of the maintenance of the reigning monarch. Supposing, however, that party had arisen sufficiently strong to have retained the infant Duke of Bordeaux, and-adopting Beranger's subsequent notion

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