LUIGI PULCI. PULCI, LUIGI, an Italian poet; born at Florence, December 3, 1432; died 1487 (?). His greatest work is the romantic epic "Il Morgante Maggiore" (first printed 1481). He wrote also some stories. His life seems to have had no importance in the political history of his times; but in literature he prepared the way for Berni and for Ariosto, and established for himself a firm position as the author of "Il Morgante Maggiore " (Morgante the Giant), a burlesque epic in twenty-eight cantos. He was a warm friend of Lorenzo de' Medici, the Magnificent, whose mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni, he says, urged and inspired him in the composition of this work. The romances of Carlovingian chivalry had acquired at the time wonderful popularity in Italy; by which popularity Pulci was half maddened, half amused. With infinite delight he gave his mocking imagination free play; and in "Il Morgante Maggiore" he turns into good-natured ridicule the combats and exploits which form the scheme of the mediæval epic. THE CONVERSION OF THE GIANT MORGANTE. (From "Il Morgante Maggiore.") BUT watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the King "Orlando must we always then obey? "A thousand times I've been about to say, Orlando too presumptuously goes on. Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway; Each have to honor thee and to obey; But he has too much credit near the throne; ... 1 ""T is fit my grandeur should dispense relief, As by himself it chanced he sat apart: But much more still that Charles should give him credit. And with the sword he would have murdered Gan, Wanted but little to have slain him there; Then full of wrath departed from the place, And far as pagan countries roamed astray, ... 'Midst glens obscure and distant lands, he found, Which formed the Christian's and the pagan's bound. The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood Second and third, with certain slings, and throw The monks could pass the convent gate no more, Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, Said the abbot, "You are welcome; what is mine And that you may not, cavalier, conceive The reason why our gate was barred to you: "When hither to inhabit first we came, These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard "These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch; For late there have appeared three giants rough: What nation or what kingdom bore the batch I know not; but they are all of savage stuff. When force and malice with some genius match, You know they can do all we are not enough: And these so much our orisons derange, I know not what to do till matters change. "Our ancient fathers living the desert in, For just and holy works were duly fed; Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in Our bounds, or taste the stones showered down for bread, From oft yon mountain daily raining faster, And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. "The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far: he Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, While thus they parley in the cemetery, A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, "For God's sake, cavalier, come in with speed! The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. "This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied: "Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need; That stone seems with good will and aim applied." The holy father said, "I don't deceive: They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe." Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, And also made a breakfast of his own. "Abbot," he said, "I want to find that fellow Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone." I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, "That Passamont has in his hand three darts, - The abbot signed the great cross on his front: As the abbot had directed, kept the line Who, seeing him alone in this design, And promised him an office of great ease. But said Orlando, "Saracen insane! I come to kill you, if it shall so please God, not to serve as footboy in your train : You with his monks so oft have broke the peace Vile dog! 't is past his patience to sustain." The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, When he received an answer so injurious: VOL. XVII. - - 12 And being returned to where Orlando stood, Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, As to desert would almost be a wrong. And loud he shouted, "Giant, where dost go? Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid: To the right about!- without wings thou'rt too slow To fly my vengeance, currish renegade! "T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low." And turned about, and stopped his journey on, Orlando had Cortana bare in hand; To split the head in twain was what he schemed. Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, And pagan Passamont died unredeemed; Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he banned, And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed: But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, Orlando thanked the Father and the Word, Saying, "What grace to me thou'st given! And I to thee, O Lord, am ever bound. Our power without thine aid would naught be found. I pray thee take heed of me, till I can At least return once more to Carloman." |