NOTES

New Zealand Tablet, 13 February 1919, Page 26

NOTES

Dante A few weeks ago we found ourselves looking out; on the sunlit waters of Queen Charlotte Sound, listening to an old Italian gentleman reciting Dante. He had left his bella Italia, which the Italians love as we Irishmen love green Erin, more than half a century ago, and with him he carried in his memory a store of Italian poetry and song that must have been a joy and a consolation to him in many an' hour during the long years that passed since he saw the last of Genoa the Superb. That day it was borne in on us in a practical manner that a knowledge of even one great poet is an education in itself, and that this old traveller who had been in many lands and had "sailed on many seas was a cultured man in a sense that Mr. Hanan is incapable of appreciating. All poets help; but no poet gives such real, deep culture as Dante; and it is for this reason we have from time to time encouraged our readers not to forget him, and, if they" have any Italian at all, to read him in the original in which the verses move with the music of organs and with the stately tread of Plain Chant. Dante swept every chord of the human heart as only the Royal Psalmist did before him, and as no man has done since. He is the Catholic poet par excellence. The , poem which he put his life into for love of Beatrice made him lean, but it has made countless men happy by its incomparable loveliness since the proud exile died among' Ravenna's immemorial groves. The Voice of the Middle Ages Those who are ignorant 6peak of the Middle Ages as if they were the ages of ignorance, and the day is coming when to speak thus will be a mark of gross stupidity. The Middle Ages, as we will some day show, were the ages of light and learning, the ages of faith, of art, of architecture, of true progress. And no higher compliment can be paid to the great poet than to style him "the voice of the Middle Ages." A man who is ignorant of those ages cannot read Dante properly: such a one will miss his greatness and his worth. To understand him we must know not only the Church and the teachings of our religion, but also the history of Rome and of the Italian thinkers, scholars, statesmen, and poets; for it is against that background the Divina Corn-media is staged. Into the poem he has put too the spirit of St. Thomas, of St. Francis of Assisi, of St. Dominic, and only to a theologian will the profound beauty of his work become clear. Orcagna's frescoes, Michelangelo's, Rafaello's, are a commentary on the poem. The writings of the mystics of the time throw clearer light on it. It is drenched with classical lore; it is a compendium of the political history of Italy. Grandeur, pathos, melody, imagination succeed one another as the cantos roll on. On one page you will find the sublimest paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer; on another the grim majesty of the inscription on the gates of hell; on another a lovely line in which you can hear the sea breathing in the moonlight; on another an unforgettable, piercing verse like , ~j.-. •; ■•• Nessum maggior dolore fjh* ricordarsi del tcwno felice nelln, m.iseria % ►<———-) How to Read Dante From one who loved the Italian poet we take here the following helpful suggestions: 1. Take up some good translation if you cannot read Italian. —*; 2. Get help when you can from someone who knows Italian. ' •' :y..-[ ;i:ia

. 3. Keep iin view the meaning of each canto and the relation of .each to the whole. - . ' 'dt& 4. Have a good commentary at hand for consultation when you meet a difficulty. Remember that he wrote other books which will help you to understand the Divirikt Gommedia. Chief among these in our opinion is La Vita Nuova, which, if you are a poet, you will read again and again. We advise Rossetti's version. 5. Do not forget that the poem which made Dante lean entails serious study, and that it is worth it. Take Cary's or Longfellow's translation if you must read a translation. We have never read a translation until we had read the original and we may be therefore wrong in thinking that when you are familiar with the English you will become impatient to get at the Italian. If you do master the Italian the words of Dante will grow upon you until you will find delight in repeating them over and over again when you are alone, and you will have a treasure on earth of the sort that thieves cannot steal nor moths consume. Ethna Carbery One of the disadvantages of having too many books is that it prevents one from reading the favorite books as often as one ought. There are certain littlebooks on our shelves which we are constrained to neglect more than Ave like, and it seems as if they appeal to us to open them every time they catch our eye. One of these is The Four Winds of Erin-, a little volume of poems, well known to many of our readers we hope. Ethna Carbery was Anna MacManus when she moved among us on this earth, giving us from her full, pure young heart those songs which make you feel the wet soft wind of Ireland on your face and the spirit of her lonely shores laying hands on your heart. She did a grand work among the pioneers of the movement for an Irish Ireland, and never did a braver or more patriotic Irish girl wear the shamrock. She is in heaven now, and it is from there she looks down on the victory of the people who have flocked wholeheartedly to the banner which her white hands helped to work for an Irish Ireland ; and in this year when, for better or worse, an Irish Parliament is actually sitting in the Irish capital, it is meet that we remember Ethna Carbery. We will give you here a few of her verses, and with them the advice to order The Four Winds of Erin from your bookseller at once. You can tell him that it is published by Gills of Dublin and that it costs a couple of shillings. Slainte Na H'Eirean. O wind-drifted branch, lift your head to the sun, For the sap of new life in your veins hath begun, And a little new bud of the tenderest green Mine eyes through the snow and the sorrows have seen ! O little green bud, break and blow into flower, Break and blow through the welcome of sunshine and shower 'Twas a long night and dreary you hid there forlorn, But now the cold hills wear the radiance of morn ! And there will be joy in our hearts since you bring !A whisper of hope and a promise of Spring— A Spring that is fairer for long waiting years. And a Hope that is dearer because of our tears. Mo Chraoibhin Cno. A sword of Light hath pierced the dark, our eyes have seen. the star. O Mother, leave the ways of sleep now days of promise are :..•'..-..'■■ The rusty snear's unon vour walla gm af,iri*irtrv 4-<% c-nA j f -~ - r ~~ j~— .. -*~ -".-"), «t.^ fro, In dreams they front up-lifted shields Then wake, ; ' v K■ : - Mo Chraoibhin Cno! The little eaves creep whispering where sedges fold you in, . . And round you are the barrows of your buried kith Said kill j - ~

Oh! famine-wasted, .fever-burnt, they faded like the snow -<t .„ •-' n, * * * -; ,",.?■-/ Or set their hearts to meet the steel—for you," ' w ■ , - ■ Mo Chraoibhin Cno. •-.",' '...' '.■',*-.':, Their names are blest, their cao'mc sung, our bitter tears are dried; • '"..-''K'\ W~-^ We bury sorrow in their graves, patience we cast aside ; Amid the gloom we hear a voice that once was ours to know—■ ..,.'., ...-'. * '"■'.'.'.. ... I i 'Tis Freedom—FREEDOM calling loud, Arise! v -': ■ ■'; :<- Mo Chraoibhin Cno !'.■• >