In the following translation I have used the liberty of the original with the proper names, as Pulci uses Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlornano; Rondel, or Rondello, etc., as it suits his convenience; so has the translator. In other respects the version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in combining his interpretation of the one language with the not very easy task of reducing it to the same versification in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the original, is requested to remember that the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan proverbs; and he may therefore be more indulgent to the present attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, are questions which the public will decide. He was induced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. The Italian language is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favours to few, and sometimes least to those who have courted her longest. The translator wished also to present in an English dress a part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a northern language; at the same time that it has been the original of some of the most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, as well of those recent experiments in poetry in England which have been already mentioned. THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE.[335] CANTO THE FIRST. I. In the beginning was the Word next God; God was the Word, the Word no less was He: This was in the beginning, to my mode Of thinking, and without Him nought could be: Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, One only, to be my companion, who Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. II. And thou, oh Virgin! daughter, mother, bride, Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key Of Heaven, and Hell, and every thing beside, The day thy Gabriel said "All hail!" to thee, Since to thy servants Pity's ne'er denied, With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, Be to my verses then benignly kind, And to the end illuminate my mind. III. 'Twas in the season when sad Philomel[336] Weeps with her sister, who remembers and Deplores the ancient woes which both befel, And makes the nymphs enamoured, to the hand Of Phaëton, by Phoebus loved so well, His car (but tempered by his sire's command) Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now Appeared, so that Tithonus scratched his brow: IV.