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The great poet of the Middle Ages deserves this work at our hands far more than any of the Latin poets, not excluding even his own master and guide. The eleventh canto of the Paradiso is chiefly occupied with the noble narrative of the life of St. Francis.
"It's a long way from New York," pointed out Banneker. "Yes; but he has a long tongue. Besides, he'll see the Westerleys and my other friends in Paradiso, and babble to them." "Suppose he does?" "I won't have people chasing here after me or pestering me with letters," she said passionately. "Yet I don't want to go away. I want to get more rested, Ban, and forget a lot of things." He nodded.
McClellan made the sword; Grant used it. There is a pathetic passage in Dante's "Vita Nuova": "It is easier to sing a song than to create a harp." Dante meant that he had to create the Italian language before he could write the "Paradiso." Now McClellan's task was to create an army.
These letters are messages from the young correspondents to their friends in heaven, and are addressed to 'Il Santo Giovane Luigi Gonzaga, in Paradiso. At a given signal, the letters, in the midst of profound silence, are placed on the chafing-dish.
Parsons, in the passages cited from the "Inferno," or with those from the "Paradiso," in Mr. Longfellow's less free unrhymed version, the resources and flexibility of Mr. Dayman in handling the difficult measure will be again manifest.
Say to me one word, and I will love you till my eyes close in death, as the Marquis de Pescaire loved his wife, as Romeo loved Juliet, and faithfully. Our life will be, for me at least, that "felicity untroubled" which Dante made the very element of his Paradiso, a poem far superior to his Inferno.
You're going to have double that. You're no lily of the valley here, remember. Not with me. Not likely. Siamo nel paradiso, remember." "But why should we drink your whiskey? Tea would do for us just as well." "Not likely! Not likely! When I have the pleasure of your company, my boy, we drink a glass of something, unless I am utterly stripped. Say when, Aaron." "When," said Aaron.
His tears fell fast, and his prayer was scarcely more than a broken murmur of "Povero signorino povero signorino Dio ci mandi buon riposo in Paradiso." Hermione could not pray although she was in the attitude of supplication; but when she heard the words of Gaspare she murmured them too. "Buon riposo!" The sweet Sicilian good-night she said it now in the stillness of the lonely dawn.
There is probably no writer in any language who has presented so many strong pictures to the mind. Yet there is probably no writer equally concise. This perfection of style is the principal merit of the Paradiso, which, as I have already remarked, is by no means equal in other respects to the two preceding parts of the poem.
Dante, in the Paradiso, lifted the idea once more from Earth to Heaven, and clothed it in a wealth of gorgeous imagery. But it is Shakespeare who, with the magic of a few words, has given the thought immortality. There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings,
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