The ‘Orfeo’ of Messer Angelo Poliziano ranks amongst the most important poems of the fifteenth century.  It was composed at Mantua in the short space of two days, on the occasion of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga’s visit to his native town in 1472.  But, though so hastily put together, the ‘Orfeo’ marks an epoch in the evolution of Italian poetry.  It is the earliest example of a secular drama, containing within the compass of its brief scenes the germ of the opera, the tragedy, and the pastoral play.  In form it does not greatly differ from the ‘Sacre Rappresentazioni’ of the fifteenth century, as those miracle plays were handled by popular poets of the earlier Renaissance.  But while the traditional octave stanza is used for the main movement of the piece, Poliziano has introduced episodes of terza rima, madrigals, a carnival song, a ballata, and, above all, choral passages which have in them the future melodrama of the musical Italian stage.  The lyrical treatment of the fable, its capacity for brilliant and varied scenic effects, its combination of singing with action, and the whole artistic keeping of the piece, which never passes into genuine tragedy, but stays within the limits of romantic pathos, distinguish the ‘Orfeo’ as a typical production of Italian genius.  Thus, though little better than an improvisation, it combines the many forms of verse developed by the Tuscans at the close of the Middle Ages, and fixes the limits beyond which their dramatic poets, with a few exceptions, were not destined to advance.  Nor was the choice of the fable without significance.  Quitting the Bible stories and the Legends of Saints, which supplied the mediaeval playwright with material, Poliziano selects a classic story:  and this story might pass for an allegory of Italy, whose intellectual development the scholar-poet ruled.  Orpheus is the power of poetry and art, softening stubborn nature, civilising men, and prevailing over Hades for a season.  He is the right hero of humanism, the genius of the Renaissance, the tutelary god of Italy, who thought she could resist the laws of fate by verse and elegant accomplishments.  To press this kind of allegory is unwise; for at a certain moment it breaks in our hands.  And yet in Eurydice the fancy might discover Freedom, the true spouse of poetry and art; Orfeo’s last resolve too vividly depicts the vice of the Renaissance; and the Maenads are those barbarous armies destined to lay waste the plains of Italy, inebriate with wine and blood, obeying a new lord of life on whom the poet’s harp exerts no charm.  But a truce to this spinning of pedantic cobwebs.  Let Mercury appear, and let the play begin.

THE FABLE OF ORPHEUS

  MERCURY announces the show.

  Ho, silence!  Listen!  There was once a hind,
    Son of Apollo, Aristaeus hight,
    Who loved with so untamed and fierce a mind
    Eurydice, the wife of Orpheus wight,
    That chasing her one day with will unkind
    He wrought her cruel death in love’s despite;
    For, as she fled toward the mere hard by,
    A serpent stung her, and she had to die.

  Now Orpheus, singing, brought her back from hell,
    But could not keep the law the fates ordain: 
    Poor wretch, he backward turned and broke the spell;
    So that once more from him his love was ta’en. 
    Therefore he would no more with women dwell,
    And in the end by women he was slain.

  Enter A SHEPHERD, who says -

  Nay, listen, friends!  Fair auspices are given,
  Since Mercury to earth hath come from heaven.

  SCENE I

  MOPSUS, an old shepherd.

  Say, hast thou seen a calf of mine, all white
    Save for a spot of black upon her front,
    Two feet, one flank, and one knee ruddy-bright?

ARISTAEUS, a young shepherd.

Friend Mopsus, to the margin of this fount
No herds have come to drink since break of day;
Yet may’st thou hear them low on yonder mount. 
Go, Thyrsis, search the upland lawn, I pray! 
Thou Mopsus shalt with me the while abide;
For I would have thee listen to my lay.

[Exit THYRSIS.

’Twas yester morn where trees yon cavern hide,
I saw a nymph more fair than Dian, who
Had a young lusty lover at her side: 
But when that more than woman met my view,
The heart within my bosom leapt outright,
And straight the madness of wild Love I knew. 
Since then, dear Mopsus, I have no delight;
But weep and weep:  of food and drink I tire,
And without slumber pass the weary night.

  MOPSUS.

  Friend Aristaeus, if this amorous fire
      Thou dost not seek to quench as best may be,
      Thy peace of soul will vanish in desire. 
  Thou know’st that love is no new thing to me: 
      I’ve proved how love grown old brings bitter pain: 
      Cure it at once, or hope no remedy;
  For if thou find thee in Love’s cruel chain,
      Thy bees, thy blossoms will be out of mind,
      Thy fields, thy vines, thy flocks, thy côtés, thy grain

  ARISTAEUS.

  Mopsus, thou speakest to the deaf and blind: 
      Waste not on me these winged words, I pray,
      Lest they be scattered to the inconstant wind,
  I love, and cannot wish to say love nay;
      Nor seek to cure so charming a disease: 
      They praise Love best who most against him say. 
  Yet if thou fain wouldst give my heart some ease,
      Forth from thy wallet take thy pipe, and we
      Will sing awhile beneath the leafy trees;
  For well my nymph is pleased with melody.

  THE SONG.

  Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay;
  Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.

  The lovely nymph is deaf to my lament,
      Nor heeds the music of this rustic reed;
  Wherefore my flocks and herds are ill content,
      Nor bathe their hoof where grows the water weed,
      Nor touch the tender herbage on the mead;
  So sad, because their shepherd grieves, are they.

  Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay;
  Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.

  The herds are sorry for their master’s moan;
      The nymph heeds not her lover though he die,
  The lovely nymph, whose heart is made of stone -
    Nay steel, nay adamant!  She still doth fly
    Far, far before me, when she sees me nigh,
  Even as a lamb flies fern the wolf away.

  Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay;
  Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.

  Nay, tell her, pipe of mine, how swift doth flee
    Beauty together with our years amain;
  Tell her how time destroys all rarity,
    Nor youth once lost can be renewed again;
    Tell her to use the gifts that yet remain: 
  Roses and violets blossom not alway.

  Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay;
  Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.

  Carry, ye winds, these sweet words to her ears,
    Unto the ears of my loved nymph, and tell
  How many tears I shed, what bitter tears! 
    Beg her to pity one who loves so well: 
    Say that my life is frail and mutable,
  And melts like rime before the rising day.

  Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay;
  Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.

  MOPSUS.

  Less sweet, methinks the voice of waters falling
    From cliffs that echo back their murmurous song;
    Less sweet the summer sound of breezes calling
    Through pine-tree tops sonorous all day long;
    Than are thy rhymes, the soul of grief enthralling,
    Thy rhymes o’er field and forest borne along: 
  If she but hear them, at thy feet she’ll fawn. -
  Lo, Thyrsis, hurrying homeward from the lawn!

  [Re-enters THYRSIS.

  ARISTAEUS.

  What of the calf?  Say, hast thou seen her now?

  THYRSIS, the cowherd.

  I have, and I’d as lief her throat were cut! 
  She almost ripped my bowels up, I vow,
  Running amuck with horns well set to butt: 
  Nathless I’ve locked her in the stall below: 
  She’s blown with grass, I tell you, saucy slut!

  ARISTAEUS.

  Now, prithee, let me hear what made you stay
  So long upon the upland lawns away?

  THYRSIS.

  Walking, I spied a gentle maiden there,
    Who plucked wild flowers upon the mountain side: 
    I scarcely think that Venus is more fair,
    Of sweeter grace, most modest in her pride: 
    She speaks, she sings, with voice so soft and rare,
    That listening streams would backward roll their tide: 
    Her face is snow and roses; gold her head;
    All, all alone she goes, white-raimented,

  ARISTAEUS.

  Stay, Mopsus!  I must follow:  for ’tis she
    Of whom I lately spoke.  So, friend, farewell!

  MOPSUS.

  Hold, Aristaeus, lest for her or thee
  Thy boldness be the cause of mischief fell!

  ARISTAEUS.

  Nay, death this day must be my destiny,
  Unless I try my fate and break the spell. 
  Stay therefore, Mopsus, by the fountain stay! 
  I’ll follow her, meanwhile, yon mountain way.

  [Exit ARISTAEUS.

  MOPSUS.

  Thyrsis, what thinkest thou of thy loved lord? 
    See’st thou that all his senses are distraught? 
    Couldst thou not speak some seasonable word,
    Tell him what shame this idle love hath wrought?

  THYRSIS.

  Free speech and servitude but ill accord,
  Friend Mopsus, and the hind is folly-fraught
  Who rates his lord!  He’s wiser far than I.
  To tend these kine is all my mastery.

  SCENE II

  ARISTAEUS, in pursuit of EURYDICE.

  Flee not from me, maiden! 
    Lo, I am thy friend! 
    Dearer far than life I hold thee. 
    List, thou beauty-laden,
    To these prayers attend: 
    Flee not, let my arms enfold thee! 
    Neither wolf nor bear will grasp thee: 
    That I am thy friend I’ve told thee: 
    Stay thy course then; let me clasp thee! -
    Since thou’rt deaf and wilt not heed me,
    Since thou’rt still before me flying,
    While I follow panting, dying,
    Lend me wings, Love, wings to speed me!

  [Exit ARISTAEUS, pursuing EURYDICE.

  SCENE III

  A DRYAD.

  Sad news of lamentation and of pain,
    Dear sisters, hath my voice to bear to you: 
    I scarcely dare to raise the dolorous strain. 
  Eurydice by yonder stream lies low;
    The flowers are fading round her stricken head,
    And the complaining waters weep their woe. 
  The stranger soul from that fair house hath fled;
    And she, like privet pale, or white May-bloom
    Untimely plucked, lies on the meadow, dead. 
  Hear then the cause of her disastrous doom! 
    A snake stole forth and stung her suddenly. 
    I am so burdened with this weight of gloom
  That, lo, I bid you all come weep with me!

  CHORUS OF DRYADS.

  Let the wide air with our complaint resound! 
    For all heaven’s light is spent. 
    Let rivers break their bound,
    Swollen with tears outpoured from our lament!

  Fell death hath ta’en their splendour from the skies: 
    The stars are sunk in gloom. 
    Stern death hath plucked the bloom
    Of nymphs: - Eurydice down-trodden lies. 
  Weep, Love!  The woodland cries. 
    Weep, groves and founts;
    Ye craggy mounts; you leafy dell,
    Beneath whose boughs she fell,
    Bend every branch in time with this sad sound.

  Let the wide air with our complaint resound!

  Ah, fortune pitiless!  Ah, cruel snake! 
    Ah, luckless doom of woes! 
    Like a cropped summer rose,
    Or lily cut, she withers on the brake. 
  Her face, which once did make
    Our age so bright
    With beauty’s light, is faint and pale;
    And the clear lamp doth fail,
    Which shed pure splendour all the world around

  Let the wide air with our complaint resound!

  Who e’er will sing so sweetly, now she’s gone? 
      Her gentle voice to hear,
      The wild winds dared not stir;
      And now they breathe but sorrow, moan for moan: 
  So many joys are flown,
      Such jocund days
      Doth Death erase with her sweet eyes! 
      Bid earth’s lament arise,
      And make our dirge through heaven and sea rebound!

  Let the wide air with our complaint resound!

  A DRYAD.

  ’Tis surely Orpheus, who hath reached the hill,
      With harp in hand, glad-eyed and light of heart! 
      He thinks that his dear love is living still. 
  My news will stab him with a sudden smart: 
      An unforeseen and unexpected blow
      Wounds worst and stings the bosom’s tenderest part. 
  Death hath disjoined the truest love, I know,
      That nature yet to this low world revealed,
      And quenched the flame in its most charming glow. 
  Go, sisters, hasten ye to yonder field,
      Where on the sward lies slain Eurydice;
      Strew her with flowers and grasses!  I must yield
  This man the measure of his misery.

  [Exeunt DRYADS. Enter ORPHEUS, singing.

  ORPHEUS.

  Musa, triumphales títulos et gesta canamus
      Herculis, et forti monstra subacta manu;
  Ut timidae malri pressos ostenderit angues,
      Intrepidusque fero riserit ore puer.

  A DRYAD.

  Orpheus, I bring thee bitter news.  Alas! 
      Thy nymph who was so beautiful, is slain!
      flying from Aristaeus o’er the grass,
      What time she reached yon stream that threads the plain,

    A snake which lurked mid flowers where she did pass,
    Pierced her fair foot with his envenomed bane: 
    So fierce, so potent was the sting, that she
    Died in mid course.  Ah, woe that this should be!

  [ORPHEUS turns to go in silence.

  MNESILLUS, the satyr.

  Mark ye how sunk in woe
    The poor wretch forth doth pass,
    And may not answer, for his grief, one word? 
    On some lone shore, unheard,
    Far, far away, he’ll go,
    And pour his heart forth to the winds, alas! 
    I’ll follow and observe if he
    Moves with his moan the hills to sympathy.

  [Follows ORPHEUS.

  ORPHEUS.

  Let us lament, O lyre disconsolate! 
    Our wonted music is in tune no more. 
    Lament we while the heavens revolve, and let
    The nightingale be conquered on Love’s shore! 
    O heaven, O earth, O sea, O cruel fate! 
    How shall I bear a pang so passing sore? 
    Eurydice, my love!  O life of mine! 
    On earth I will no more without thee pine! 
  I will go down unto the doors of Hell,
    And see if mercy may be found below: 
    Perchance we shall reverse fate’s spoken spell
    With tearful songs and words of honeyed woe: 
    Perchance will Death be pitiful; for well
    With singing have we turned the streams that flow;
    Moved stones, together hind and tiger drawn,
    And made trees dance upon the forest lawn.

  [Passes from sight on his way to Hades.

  MNESILLUS.

  The staff of Fate is strong
    And will not lightly bend,
    Nor yet the stubborn gates of steely Hell. 
    Nay, I can see full well
    His life will not be long: 
    Those downward feet no more will earthward wend. 
    What marvel if they lose the light,
    Who make blind Love their guide by day and night!

  SCENE IV

  ORPHEUS, at the gate of Hell.

  Pity, nay pity for a lover’s moan! 
    Ye Powers of Hell, let pity reign in you! 
    To your dark regions led me Love alone: 
    Downward upon his wings of light I flew. 
    Hush, Cerberus!  Howl not by Pluto’s throne! 
    For when you hear my tale of misery, you,
    Nor you alone, but all who here abide
    In this blind world, will weep by Lethe’s tide. 
  There is no need, ye Furies, thus to rage;
    To dart those snakes that in your tresses twine: 
    Knew ye the cause of this my pilgrimage,
    Ye would lie down and join your moans with mine. 
    Let this poor wretch but pass, who war doth wage
    With heaven, the elements, the powers divine! 
    I beg for pity or for death.  No more! 
    But open, ope Hell’s adamantine door!

  [ORPHEUS enters Hell.

  PLUTO.

  What man is he who with his golden lyre
    Hath moved the gates that never move,
    While the dead folk repeat his dirge of love? 
  The rolling stone no more doth tire
    Swart Sisyphus on yonder hill;
    And Tantalus with water slakes his fire;
  The groans of mangled Tityos are still;
    Ixion’s wheel forgets to fly;
    The Danaids their urns can fill: 
  I hear no more the tortured spirits cry;
  But all find rest in that sweet harmony.

  PROSERPINE.

  Dear consort, since, compelled by love of thee,
    I left the light of heaven serene,
    And came to reign in hell, a sombre queen;
  The charm of tenderest sympathy
    Hath never yet had power to turn
    My stubborn heart, or draw forth tears from me. 
  Now with desire for yon sweet voice I yearn;
    Nor is there aught so dear
    As that delight.  Nay, be not stern
  To this one prayer!  Relax thy brows severe,
  And rest awhile with me that song to hear!

  [ORPHEUS stands before the throne.

  ORPHEUS.

  Ye rulers of the people lost in gloom,
    Who see no more the jocund light of day! 
    Ye who inherit all things that the womb
    Of Nature and the elements display! 
    Hear ye the grief that draws me to the tomb! 
    Love, cruel Love, hath led me on this way: 
    Not to chain Cerberus I hither come,
    But to bring back my mistress to her home. 
  A serpent hidden among flowers and leaves
    Stole my fair mistress - nay, my heart - from me: 
    Wherefore my wounded life for ever grieves,
    Nor can I stand against this agony. 
    Still, if some fragrance lingers yet and cleaves
    Of your famed love unto your memory,
    If of that ancient rape you think at all,
    Give back Eurydice! - On you I call. 
  All things ere long unto this bourne descend: 
    All mortal lives to you return at last: 
    Whate’er the moon hath circled, in the end
    Must fade and perish in your empire vast: 
    Some sooner and some later hither wend;
    Yet all upon this pathway shall have passed: 
    This of our footsteps is the final goal;
    And then we dwell for aye in your control. 
  Therefore the nymph I love is left for you
    When nature leads her deathward in due time: 
    But now you’ve cropped the tendrils as they grew,
    The grapes unripe, while yet the sap did climb: 
    Who reaps the young blades wet with April dew,
    Nor waits till summer hath o’erpassed her prime? 
    Give back, give back my hope one little day! -
    Not for a gift, but for a loan I pray. 
  I pray not to you by the waves forlorn
    Of marshy Styx or dismal Acheron,
    By Chaos where the mighty world was born,
    Or by the sounding flames of Phlegethon;
    But by the fruit which charmed thee on that morn
    When thou didst leave our world for this dread throne! 
    O queen! if thou reject this pleading breath,
    I will no more return, but ask for death!

  PROSERPINE.

  Husband, I never guessed
    That in our realm oppressed
    Pity could find a home to dwell: 
    But now I know that mercy teems in Hell. 
    I see Death weep; her breast
    Is shaken by those tears that faultless fell. 
    Let then thy laws severe for him be swayed
    By love, by song, by the just prayers he prayed!

  PLUTO.

  She’s thine, but at this price: 
    Bend not on her thine eyes,
    Till mid the souls that live she stay. 
    See that thou turn not back upon the way! 
    Check all fond thoughts that rise! 
    Else will thy love be torn from thee away. 
    I am well pleased that song so rare as thine
    The might of my dread sceptre should incline.

  SCENE V

  ORPHEUS, sings.

  Ite tritumphales circum mea témpora lauri. 
    Vicimus Eurydicen:  reddita vita mihi est,
  Haec mea praecipue victoria digna corona. 
    Oredimus? an lateri juncta puella meo?

  EURYDICE.

  All me!  Thy love too great
    Hath lost not thee alone! 
    I am torn from thee by strong Fate. 
    No more I am thine own. 
    In vain I stretch these arms.  Back, back to Hell
    I’m drawn, I’m drawn.  My Orpheus, fare thee well!

  [EURYDICE disappears.

  ORPHEUS.

  Who hath laid laws on Love? 
    Will pity not be given
    For one short look so full thereof? 
    Since I am robbed of heaven,
    Since all my joy so great is turned to pain,
    I will go back and plead with Death again!

  [TISIPHONE blocks his way.

  TISIPHONE.

  Nay, seek not back to turn! 
    Vain is thy weeping, all thy words are vain. 
    Eurydice may not complain
    Of aught but thee - albeit her grief is great. 
    Vain are thy verses ’gainst the voice of Fate! 
    How vain thy song!  For Death is stern! 
    Try not the backward path:  thy feet refrain! 
    The laws of the abyss are fixed and firm remain.

  SCENE VI

  ORPHEUS.

  What sorrow-laden song shall e’er be found
    To match the burden of my matchless woe? 
    How shall I make the fount of tears abound,
    To weep apace with grief’s unmeasured flow? 
    Salt tears I’ll waste upon the barren ground,
    So long as life delays me here below;
    And since my fate hath wrought me wrong so sore,
    I swear I’ll never love a woman more! 
  Henceforth I’ll pluck the buds of opening spring,
    The bloom of youth when life is loveliest,
    Ere years have spoiled the beauty which they bring: 
    This love, I swear, is sweetest, softest, best! 
    Of female charms let no one speak or sing;
    Since she is slain who ruled within my breast. 
    He who would seek my converse, let him see
    That ne’er he talk of woman’s love to me! 
  How pitiful is he who changes mind
    For woman! for her love laments or grieves! 
    Who suffers her in chains his will to bind,
    Or trusts her words lighter than withered leaves,
    Her loving looks more treacherous than the wind! 
    A thousand times she veers; to nothing cleaves: 
    Follows who flies; from him who follows, flees;
    And comes and goes like waves on stormy seas! 
  High Jove confirms the truth of what I said,
    Who, caught and bound in love’s delightful snare,
    Enjoys in heaven his own bright Ganymed: 
    Phoebus on earth had Hyacinth the fair: 
    Hercules, conqueror of the world, was led
    Captive to Hylas by this love so rare. -
    Advice for husbands!  Seek divorce, and fly
    Far, far away from female company!

  [Enter a MAENAD leading a train of BACCHANTES.

  A MAENAD.

  Ho!  Sisters!  Up!  Alive! 
    See him who doth our sex deride! 
    Hunt him to death, the slave! 
  Thou snatch the thyrsus!  Thou this oak-tree rive! 
    Cast down this doeskin and that hide! 
    We’ll wreak our fury on the knave! 
  Yea, he shall feel our wrath, the knave! 
    He shall yield up his hide
    Riven as woodmen fir-trees rive! 
    No power his life can save;
    Since women he hath dared deride! 
    Ho!  To him, sisters!  Ho!  Alive!

  [ORPHEUS is chased off the scene and slain:  the MAENADS
  then return.

  A MAENAD.

  Ho!  Bacchus!  Ho!  I yield thee thanks for this! 
    Through all the woodland we the wretch have borne: 
    So that each root is slaked with blood of his: 
    Yea, limb from limb his body have we torn
    Through the wild forest with a fearful bliss: 
    His gore hath bathed the earth by ash and thorn! -
    Go then! thy blame on lawful wedlock fling! 
    Ho!  Bacchus! take the victim that we bring!

  CHORUS OF MAENADS.

    Bacchus! we all must follow thee! 
    Bacchus!  Bacchus!  Ohé!  Ohé!

  With ivy coronals, bunch and berry,
    Crown we our heads to worship thee! 
  Thou hast bidden us to make merry
    Day and night with jollity! 
  Drink then!  Bacchus is here!  Drink free,
  And hand ye the drinking-cup to me! 
    Bacchus! we all must follow thee! 
    Bacchus!  Bacchus!  Ohé!  Ohé!

  See, I have emptied my horn already: 
    Stretch hither your beaker to me, I pray: 
  Are the hills and the lawns where we roam unsteady? 
    Or is it my brain that reels away? 
  Let every one run to and fro through the hay,
  As ye see me run!  Ho! after me! 
    Bacchus! we all must follow thee! 
    Bacchus!  Bacchus!  Ohé!  Ohé!

  Methinks I am dropping in swoon or slumber: 
    Am I drunken or sober, yes or no? 
  What are these weights my feet encumber? 
    You too are tipsy, well I know! 
  Let every one do as ye see me do,
  Let every one drink and quaff like me! 
    Bacchus! we all must follow thee! 
    Bacchus!  Bacchus!  Ohé!  Ohé!

  Cry Bacchus!  Cry Bacchus!  Be blithe and merry,
    Tossing wine down your throats away! 
  Let sleep then come and our gladness bury: 
    Drink you, and you, and you, while ye may! 
  Dancing is over for me to-day. 
  Let every one cry aloud Évohé! 
    Bacchus! we all must follow thee! 
    Bacchus!  Bacchus!  Ohé!  Ohé!

Though an English translation can do little toward rendering the facile graces of Poliziano’s style, that ‘roseate fluency’ for which it has been praised by his Italian admirers, the main qualities of the ‘Orfeo’ as a composition may be traced in this rough copy.  Of dramatic power, of that mastery over the deeper springs of human nature which distinguished the first effort of the English muse in Marlowe’s plays, there is but little.  A certain adaptation of the language to the characters, as in the rudeness of Thyrsis when contrasted with the rustic elegance of Aristaeus, a touch of simple feeling in Eurydice’s lyrical outcry of farewell, a discrimination between the tender sympathy of Proserpine and Pluto’s stern relenting, a spirited presentation of the Bacchanalian furore in the Maenads, an attempt to model the Satyr Mnesillus as apart from human nature and yet sympathetic to its anguish, these points constitute the chief dramatic features of the melodrama.  Orpheus himself is a purely lyrical personage.  Of character, he can scarcely be said to have anything marked; and his part rises to its height precisely in that passage where the lyrist has to be displayed.  Before the gates of Hades and the throne of Proserpine he sings, and his singing is the right outpouring of a poet’s soul; each octave resumes the theme of the last stanza with a swell of utterance, a crescendo of intonation that recalls the passionate and unpremeditated descant of a bird upon the boughs alone.  To this true quality of music is added the persuasiveness of pleading.  That the violin melody of his incomparable song is lost, must be reckoned a great misfortune.  We have good reason to believe that the part of Orpheus was taken by Messer Baccio Ugolini, singing to the viol.  Here too it may be mentioned that a tondo in monochrome, painted by Signorelli among the arabesques at Orvieto, shows Orpheus at the throne of Plato, habited as a poet with the laurel crown and playing on a violin of antique form.  It would be interesting to know whether a rumour of the Mantuan pageant had reached the ears of the Cortonese painter.

If the whole of the ‘Orfeo’ had been conceived and executed with the same artistic feeling as the chief act, it would have been a really fine poem independently of its historical interest.  But we have only to turn the page and read the lament uttered for the loss of Eurydice, in order to perceive Poliziano’s incapacity for dealing with his hero in a situation of greater difficulty.  The pathos which might have made us sympathise with Orpheus in his misery, the passion, approaching to madness, which might have justified his misogyny, are absent.  It is difficult not to feel that in this climax of his anguish he was a poor creature, and that the Maenads served him right.  Nothing illustrates the defect of real dramatic imagination better than this failure to dignify the catastrophe.  Gifted with a fine lyrical inspiration, Poliziano seems to have already felt the Bacchic chorus which forms so brilliant a termination to his play, and to have forgotten his duty to the unfortunate Orpheus, whose sorrow for Eurydice is stultified and made unmeaning by the prosaic expression of a base resolve.  It may indeed be said in general that the ‘Orfeo’ is a good poem only where the situation is not so much dramatic as lyrical, and that its finest passage - the scene in Hades - was fortunately for its author one in which the dramatic motive had to be lyrically expressed.  In this respect, as in many others, the ‘Orfeo’ combines the faults and merits of the Italian attempts at mélo-tragedy.  To break a butterfly upon the wheel is, however, no fit function of criticism:  and probably no one would have smiled more than the author of this improvisation, at the thought of its being gravely dissected just four hundred years after the occasion it was meant to serve had long been given over to oblivion.