Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece, Vol III | Page 7

should be abandoned; and seeing that not
only prowess, humility, and discretion are the virtues of a knight, but
that he should also be blithe and debonair, Gladness comes to raise him
from his bed and equip him for the ceremony of institution.
Comes Blithesomeness with mirth and merriment, All decked in
flowers she seemeth a rose-tree; Of linen, silk, cloth, fur, now beareth
she To the new knight a rich habiliment; Head-gear and cap and
garland flower-besprent, So brave they were May-bloom he seemed to
be; With such a rout, so many and such glee, That the floor shook.
Then to her work she went; And stood him on his feet in hose and
shoon; And purse and gilded girdle 'neath the fur That drapes his
goodly limbs, she buckles on; Then bids the singers and sweet music
stir, And showeth him to ladies for a boon And all who in that
following went with her.
At this point the poem is abruptly broken. The manuscript from which
these sonnets are taken states they are a fragment. Had the remaining
twelve been preserved to us, we should probably have possessed a
series of pictures in which the procession to church would have been
portrayed, the investiture with the sword, the accolade, the buckling on
of the spurs, and the concluding sports and banquets. It is very much to
be regretted that so interesting, so beautiful, and so unique a monument
of Italian chivalry survives thus mutilated. But students of art have to
arm themselves continually with patience, repressing the sad thoughts

engendered in them by the spectacle of time's unconscious injuries.
It is certain that Folgore would have written at least one sonnet on the
quality of courtesy, which in that age, as we have learned from Matteo
Villani, identified itself in the Italian mind with liberality. This
identification marks a certain degradation of the chivalrous ideal, which
is characteristic of Italian manners. One of Folgore's miscellaneous
sonnets shows how sorely he felt the disappearance of this quality from
the midst of a society bent daily more and more upon material aims. It
reminds us of the lamentable outcries uttered by the later poets of the
fourteenth century, Sacchetti, Boccaccio, Uberti, and others of less
fame, over the decline of their age.
Courtesy! Courtesy! Courtesy! I call: But from no quarter comes there
a reply. They who should show her, hide her; wherefore I And whoso
needs her, ill must us befall. Greed with his hook hath ta'en men one
and all, And murdered every grace that dumb doth lie: Whence, if I
grieve, I know the reason why; From you, great men, to God I make
my call: For you my mother Courtesy have cast So low beneath your
feet she there must bleed; Your gold remains, but you're not made to
last: Of Eve and Adam we are all the seed: Able to give and spend, you
hold wealth fast: Ill is the nature that rears such a breed!
Folgore was not only a poet of occasion and compliment, but a political
writer, who fully entertained the bitter feeling of the Guelphs against
their Ghibelline opponents.
Two of his sonnets addressed to the Guelphs have been translated by
Mr. Rossetti. In order to complete the list I have made free versions of
two others in which he criticised the weakness of his own friends. The
first is addressed, in the insolent impiety of rage, to God:--
I praise thee not, O God, nor give thee glory, Nor yield thee any thanks,
nor bow the knee, Nor pay thee service; for this irketh me More than
the souls to stand in purgatory; Since thou hast made us Guelphs a jest
and story Unto the Ghibellines for all to see: And if Uguccion claimed
tax of thee, Thou'dst pay it without interrogatory. Ah, well I wot they
know thee! and have stolen St. Martin from thee, Altopascio, St.

Michael, and the treasure thou hast lost; And thou that rotten rabble so
hast swollen That pride now counts for tribute; even so Thou'st made
their heart stone-hard to thine own cost.
About the meaning of some lines in this sonnet I am not clear. But the
feeling and the general drift of it are manifest. The second is a satire on
the feebleness and effeminacy of the Pisans.
Ye are more silky-sleek than ermines are, Ye Pisan counts, knights,
damozels, and squires, Who think by combing out your hair like wires
To drive the men of Florence from their car. Ye make the Ghibellines
free near and far, Here, there, in cities, castles, huts, and byres, Seeing
how gallant in your brave attires, How bold you look, true paladins of
war. Stout-hearted are ye as a hare in chase, To meet the