The Orlando Innamorato. Matteo Maria Boiardo

the concluding address to the river, he apostrophizes the Adige, on whose banks he might be said to be writing, as he was then living in the town of Verona, which is watered by it, in the service of the Cardinal di Bibbiena.

      One more specimen of his poetical prefaces, and I have done. It is the introduction to his third book; and in this too the reader, who will recognize a passage of the ars poetica of Horace, may observe how well Berni translates and applies his classical recollections.

      1.

       As they, who their unhappy task fulfil

       In mines of England, Hungary, and Spain,

       The deeper that they dig the mountain, still

       Find richer treasure and securer gain;

       And as wayfaring man who climbs a hill.

       Surveys, as he ascends, a wider plain,

       And shores and oceans open on his eye,

       Exalted nearer to the starry sky:

      2.

       So in this book, indited for your pleasure,

       If you believe and listen to my lore.

       You, in advancing, shall discern new treasure,

       And catch new lights and landscapes evermore.

       Then by no former scale my promise measure,

       Nor judge this strain by that which went before:

       Since still my caves and rugged rocks unfold

       A richer vein of jewels, pearls, and gold.

      3.

       And he who winds about my mountain's side,

       Still spies new lands and seas, a glorious sight.

       If patient industry and courage guide

       Him from the valley to the frowning height.

       Like prospect was the poet's who supplied

       Flame out of smoke, instead of smoke from light;

       With wise Ulysses' acts to fill our ears.

       To the more wonderment of him who hears.

      So much for the poetry of Berni. His life was not such as reflected any lustre on his works. This, if we reject some foul imputations cast upon him, was, to say the least of it, disreputable. It is, however, certain, that being at last established in a canonry at Florence, he lived there in high and accomplished society. This fact, however, in a profligate age, like that in which he flourished, proves nothing in his favour; and, if we listened to the stories of his biographers, we might suppose him even to have been courted for some of his vicious propensities: for one of these writers tells us he was excited by the cardinal Ippolito de' Medici to poison the duke Alexander, against whom he had a private pique; another, would have us believe that he was tempted by the duke to poison the cardinal; and (to complicate the matter yet more) that the cardinal or the duke, or both, had poison administered to Berni himself, upon his refusal. The dates, however, of their respective deaths, are at variance with these strange assertions; and if such certain means of contradiction were wanting, the internal evidence of Berni's character, however vicious, might be almost sufficient to refute such improbable calumnies. It may be said, indeed, that perhaps no one was ever selected as a probable agent of guilt, who seems to have been so little capable of engaging in the sort of crimes which were expected of him.

      As a proof of this we might almost refer to the picture which he has given of himself, and which carries with it every warrant of resemblance. In one of the cantos of the last book of the Innamorato, he describes a number of persons as having become the victims of a fairy, of whom they afterwards remain the voluntary prisoners. Among these he has, in imitation of certain painters, introduced himself with another known character of the day: a circumstance which, together with the nature of the episode, might lead one to suspect that Thomson was indebted to this fiction for his Castle of Indolence. He has, however, given the tenants of his "bowers of ease," a character so much more intellectual than that of Berni's actors, that he may very fairly pretend to the praise of original composition, even if his work be an imitation instead of a mere accidental coincidence; which I am more tempted to believe.* But I draw the curtain of Berni's picture.

      * I do not recollect any authority for Thomson's having been conversant with Italian poetry; and I think that a view of his works would lead to a contrary supposition. Thus I should say that though no man could copy what he actually saw with a nicer hand or eye, no man had more need of study in the Italian school of ideal picture than this English poet. In his drawings from nature his colouring is as inimitable as his design; and his bird, who

      "Shivers every feather with desire,"

      is painted with the precision as well as the force of the Flemish pencil. Yet he has personified Autumn as

      "Crowned with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,"

      thus putting on his head what should have been in his hand, and presenting us a ludicrous figure surmounted by a "crumpled horn." No Italian poet would have painted from nature with Thomson's marvellous precision; and no Italian poet would have committed such gross offences against propriety as he has, in his imaginary pictures.

      BOOK III. CANTO VII.

      36.

       A boon companion to increase this crew

       By chance, a gentle Florentine, was led;

       A Florentine, altho' the father who

       Begot him, in the Casentine was bred;

       Who nigh become a burgher of his new

       Domicile, there was well content to wed;

       And so in Bibbiena wived, which ranks

       Among the pleasant towns on Arno's banks.

      37.

       At Lamporecchio, he of whom I write

       Was born, for dumb Masetto* fam'd of yore,

       Thence roam'd to Florence; and in piteous plight

       There sojourned till nineteen, like pilgrim poor;

       And shifted thence to Rome, with second flight

       Hoping some succour from a kinsman's store;

       A cardinal allied to him by blood.

       And one that neither did him harm nor good.

      * See Boccaccio.

      38.

       He to the nephew passed, this patron dead,

       Who the same measure as his uncle meted;

       And then again in search of better bread,

       With empty bowels from his house retreated;

       And hearing, for his name and fame were spread,

       The praise of one who serv'd the pope repeated,

       And in the Roman court Datario hight,

       He hired himself to him to read and write.

      39.

       This trade the unhappy man believed he knew;

       But this belief was, like the rest, a bubble,

       Since he could never please the patron, who

       Fed him, nor ever once was out of trouble.

       The worse he did, the more he had to do,

       And only made his pain and penance double:

       And thus, with sleeves and bosom stuffed with papers,

       Wasted his wits, and lived oppressed with vapours.

      40.

       Add for his mischief (whether 'twas his little

       Merit, misfortune, or his want of skill)

       Some cures he farmed produced him not a tittle,