xplain the mysteries of God's being and will, the
nature and operation of love. "Love, which enamours us of excellence,
arises out of pure virtue of the soul, and equals us to God," he tells
us; and subtly developes his theme. This being the case, nothing can be
more mistaken than to suppose, as do those of little sense, that Love is
blind, and goes blindly about ("Da sentir poco, e da credenza vana--Si
move il dir di cotal grossa gente--Ch' amor fa cieco andar per lo suo
regno"). Love is omniscient, since love is born of the knowledge and
recognition of excellence. Such love as this is the only true source of
happiness, since it alone raises man to the level of the divinity.
Cavalcanti has in him not merely the subtlety but the scornfulness of a
great divine. His wrath against all those who worship or defend a
different god of Love knows no bounds. "I know not what to say of him
who adores the goddess born of Saturn and sea-foam. His love is fire: it
seems sweet, but its result is bitter and evil. He may indeed call
himself happy; but in such delights he mingles himself with much
baseness." Such is this god of Love, who, when he descended into Dante's
heart, caused the spirit of life to tremble terribly in his secret
chamber, and trembling to cry, "Lo, here is a god stronger than myself,
who coming will rule over me. Ecce Deus fortior me, qui veniens
dominabitur mihi!"

The god, this chaste and formidable archangel Amor, is the true subject
of these poets' adoration; the woman into whom he descends by a mystic
miracle of beauty and of virtue becomes henceforward invested with
somewhat of his awful radiance. She is a gentle, gracious lady; a
lovable and loving woman, in describing whose grey-green eyes and colour
as of snow tinted with pomegranate, the older Tuscans would fain linger,
comparing her to the new-budded rose, to the morning star, to the golden
summer air, to the purity of snowflakes falling silently in a serene
sky; but the sense of the divinity residing within her becomes too
strong. From her eyes dart spirits who strike awe into the heart; from
her lips come words which make men sigh; on her passage the poet casts
down his eyes; notions, all these, with which we are familiar from the
"Vita Nuova;" but which belong to Cavalcanti, Lapo Gianni, nay, even to
Guinicelli, quite as much as to Dante. The poet bids his verse go forth
to her, but softly; and stand before her with bended head, as before the
Mother o