Полная версия
Купить и скачатьДобавить В библиотеку
The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
Автор:
Год написания книги: 2018
Тэги:
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
CANZONE III
Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persiWHETHER OR NOT HE SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE LAURAGreen robes and red, purple, or brown, or grayNo lady ever wore,Nor hair of gold in sunny tresses twined,So beautiful as she, who spoils my mindOf judgment, and from freedom's lofty pathSo draws me with her that I may not bearAny less heavy yoke.And if indeed at times—for wisdom failsWhere martyrdom breeds doubt—The soul should ever arm it to complainSuddenly from each reinless rude desireHer smile recalls, and razes from my heartEvery rash enterprise, while all disdainIs soften'd in her sight.For all that I have ever borne for love,And still am doom'd to bear,Till she who wounded it shall heal my heart,Rejecting homage e'en while she invites,Be vengeance done! but let not pride nor ire'Gainst my humility the lovely passBy which I enter'd bar.The hour and day wherein I oped my eyesOn the bright black and white,Which drive me thence where eager love impell'dWhere of that life which now my sorrow makesNew roots, and she in whom our age is proud,Whom to behold without a tender aweNeeds heart of lead or wood.The tear then from these eyes that frequent falls—HE thus my pale cheek bathesWho planted first within my fenceless flankLove's shaft—diverts me not from my desire;And in just part the proper sentence falls;For her my spirit sighs, and worthy sheTo staunch its secret wounds.Spring from within me these conflicting thoughts,To weary, wound myself,Each a sure sword against its master turn'd:Nor do I pray her to be therefore freed,For less direct to heaven all other paths,And to that glorious kingdom none can soarCertes in sounder bark.Benignant stars their bright companionshipGave to the fortunate sideWhen came that fair birth on our nether world,Its sole star since, who, as the laurel leaf,The worth of honour fresh and fragrant keeps,Where lightnings play not, nor ungrateful windsEver o'ersway its head.Well know I that the hope to paint in verseHer praises would but tireThe worthiest hand that e'er put forth its pen:Who, in all Memory's richest cells, e'er sawSuch angel virtue so rare beauty shrined,As in those eyes, twin symbols of all worth,Sweet keys of my gone heart?Lady, wherever shines the sun, than youLove has no dearer pledge.Macgregor.SESTINA II
Giovane donna sott' un verde lauroTHOUGH DESPAIRING OF PITY, HE VOWS TO LOVE HER UNTO DEATHA youthful lady 'neath a laurel greenWas seated, fairer, colder than the snowOn which no sun has shone for many years:Her sweet speech, her bright face, and flowing hairSo pleased, she yet is present to my eyes,And aye must be, whatever fate prevail.These my fond thoughts of her shall fade and failWhen foliage ceases on the laurel green;Nor calm can be my heart, nor check'd these eyesUntil the fire shall freeze, or burns the snow:Easier upon my head to count each hairThan, ere that day shall dawn, the parting years.But, since time flies, and roll the rapid years,And death may, in the midst, of life, assail,With full brown locks, or scant and silver hair,I still the shade of that sweet laurel greenFollow, through fiercest sun and deepest snow,Till the last day shall close my weary eyes.Oh! never sure were seen such brilliant eyes,In this our age or in the older years,Which mould and melt me, as the sun melts snow,Into a stream of tears adown the vale,Watering the hard roots of that laurel green,Whose boughs are diamonds and gold whose hair.I fear that Time my mien may change and hair,Ere, with true pity touch'd, shall greet my eyesMy idol imaged in that laurel green:For, unless memory err, through seven long yearsTill now, full many a shore has heard my wail,By night, at noon, in summer and in snow.Thus fire within, without the cold, cold snow,Alone, with these my thoughts and her bright hair,Alway and everywhere I bear my ail,Haply to find some mercy in the eyesOf unborn nations and far future years,If so long flourishes our laurel green.The gold and topaz of the sun on snowAre shamed by the bright hair above those eyes,Searing the short green of my life's vain years.Macgregor.SONNET XXIV
Quest' anima gentil che si diparteON LAURA DANGEROUSLY ILLThat graceful soul, in mercy call'd awayBefore her time to bid the world farewell,If welcomed as she ought in the realms of day,In heaven's most blessèd regions sure shall dwell.There between Mars and Venus if she stay,Her sight the brightness of the sun will quell,Because, her infinite beauty to survey,The spirits of the blest will round her swell.If she decide upon the fourth fair nestEach of the three to dwindle will begin,And she alone the fame of beauty win,Nor e'en in the fifth circle may she rest;Thence higher if she soar, I surely trustJove with all other stars in darkness will be thrust.Macgregor.SONNET XXV
Quanto più m' avvicino al giorno estremoHE CONSOLES HIMSELF THAT HIS LIFE IS ADVANCING TO ITS CLOSENear and more near as life's last period draws,Which oft is hurried on by human woe,I see the passing hours more swiftly flow,And all my hopes in disappointment close.And to my heart I say, amidst its throes,"Not long shall we discourse of love below;For this my earthly load, like new-fall'n snowFast melting, soon shall leave us to repose.With it will sink in dust each towering hope,Cherish'd so long within my faithful breast;No more shall we resent, fear, smile, complain:Then shall we clearly trace why some are blest,Through deepest misery raised to Fortune's top,And why so many sighs so oft are heaved in vain."Wrangham.The nearer I approach my life's last day,The certain day that limits human woe,I better mark, in Time's swift silent flow,How the fond hopes he brought all pass'd away.Of love no longer—to myself I say—We now may commune, for, as virgin snow,The hard and heavy load we drag belowDissolves and dies, ere rest in heaven repay.And prostrate with it must each fair hope lieWhich here beguiled us and betray'd so long,And joy, grief, fear and pride alike shall cease:And then too shall we see with clearer eyeHow oft we trod in weary ways and wrong,And why so long in vain we sigh'd for peace.Macgregor.
SONNET XXVI
Già fiammeggiava l' amorosa stellaLAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND ASSURES HIM THAT SHE STILL LIVESThroughout the orient now began to flameThe star of love; while o'er the northern skyThat, which has oft raised Juno's jealousy,Pour'd forth its beauteous scintillating beam:Beside her kindled hearth the housewife dame,Half-dress'd, and slipshod, 'gan her distaff ply:And now the wonted hour of woe drew nigh,That wakes to tears the lover from his dream:When my sweet hope unto my mind appear'd,Not in the custom'd way unto my sight;For grief had bathed my lids, and sleep had weigh'd;Ah me, how changed that form by love endear'd!"Why lose thy fortitude?" methought she said,"These eyes not yet from thee withdraw their light."Nott.Already in the east the amorous starIllumined heaven, while from her northern heightGreat Juno's rival through the dusky nightHer beamy radiance shot. Returning careHad roused th' industrious hag, with footstep bare,And loins ungirt, the sleeping fire to light;And lovers thrill'd that season of despight,Which wont renew their tears, and wake despair.When my soul's hope, now on the verge of fate,(Not by th' accustomed way; for that in sleepWas closed, and moist with griefs,) attain'd my heart.Alas, how changed! "Servant, no longer weep,"She seem'd to say; "resume thy wonted state:Not yet thine eyes from mine are doom'd to part."Charlemont.
Already, in the east, the star of loveWas flaming, and that other in the north,Which Juno's jealousy is wont to move,Its beautiful and lustrous rays shot forth;Barefooted and half clad, the housewife oldHad stirr'd her fire, and set herself to weave;Each tender heart the thoughtful time controll'dWhich evermore the lover wakes to grieve,When my fond hope, already at life's last,Came to my heart, not by the wonted way,Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast—Alas! how changed—and said, or seem'd to say,"Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse,Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?"Macgregor.
SONNET XXVII
Apollo, s' ancor vive il bel desioHE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFENDO Phœbus, if that fond desire remains,Which fired thy breast near the Thessalian wave;If those bright tresses, which such pleasure gave,Through lapse of years thy memory not disdains;From sluggish frosts, from rude inclement rains.Which last the while thy beams our region leave,That honour'd sacred tree from peril save,Whose name of dear accordance waked our pains!And, by that amorous hope which soothed thy care,What time expectant thou wert doom'd to sighDispel those vapours which disturb our sky!So shall we both behold our favorite fairWith wonder, seated on the grassy mead,And forming with her arms herself a shade.Nott.If live the fair desire, Apollo, yetWhich fired thy spirit once on Peneus' shore,And if the bright hair loved so well of yoreIn lapse of years thou dost not now forget,From the long frost, from seasons rude and keen,Which last while hides itself thy kindling brow,Defend this consecrate and honour'd bough,Which snared thee erst, whose slave I since have been.And, by the virtue of the love so dearWhich soothed, sustain'd thee in that early strife,Our air from raw and lowering vapours clear:So shall we see our lady, to new lifeRestored, her seat upon the greensward take,Where her own graceful arms a sweet shade o'er her make.Macgregor.
SONNET XXVIII
Solo e pensoso i più deserti campiHE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHEREAlone, and lost in thought, the desert gladeMeasuring I roam with ling'ring steps and slow;And still a watchful glance around me throw,Anxious to shun the print of human tread:No other means I find, no surer aidFrom the world's prying eye to hide my woe:So well my wild disorder'd gestures show,And love lorn looks, the fire within me bred,That well I deem each mountain, wood and plain,And river knows, what I from man conceal,What dreary hues my life's fond prospects dim.Yet whate'er wild or savage paths I've ta'en,Where'er I wander, love attends me still,Soft whisp'ring to my soul, and I to him.Anon., Ox., 1795.Alone, and pensive, near some desert shore,Far from the haunts of men I love to stray,And, cautiously, my distant path exploreWhere never human footsteps mark'd the way.Thus from the public gaze I strive to fly,And to the winds alone my griefs impart;While in my hollow cheek and haggard eyeAppears the fire that burns my inmost heart.But ah, in vain to distant scenes I go;No solitude my troubled thoughts allays.Methinks e'en things inanimate must knowThe flame that on my soul in secret preys;Whilst Love, unconquer'd, with resistless swayStill hovers round my path, still meets me on my way.J.B. Taylor.
Alone and pensive, the deserted plain,With tardy pace and sad, I wander by;And mine eyes o'er it rove, intent to flyWhere distant shores no trace of man retain;No help save this I find, some cave to gainWhere never may intrude man's curious eye,Lest on my brow, a stranger long to joy,He read the secret fire which makes my painFor here, methinks, the mountain and the flood,Valley and forest the strange temper knowOf my sad life conceal'd from others' sight—Yet where, where shall I find so wild a wood,A way so rough that there Love cannot goCommuning with me the long day and night?Macgregor.
SONNET XXIX
S' io credessi per morte essere scarcoHE PRAYS FOR DEATH, BUT IN VAINHad I believed that Death could set me freeFrom the anxious amorous thoughts my peace that mar,With these my own hands which yet stainless are,Life had I loosed, long hateful grown to me.Yet, for I fear 'twould but a passage beFrom grief to grief, from old to other war,Hither the dark shades my escape that bar,I still remain, nor hope relief to see.High time it surely is that he had spedThe fatal arrow from his pitiless bow,In others' blood so often bathed and red;And I of Love and Death have pray'd it so—He listens not, but leaves me here half dead.Nor cares to call me to himself below.Macgregor.Oh! had I deem'd that Death had freed my soulFrom Love's tormenting, overwhelming thought,To crush its aching burthen I had sought,My wearied life had hasten'd to its goal;My shivering bark yet fear'd another shoal,To find one tempest with another bought,Thus poised 'twixt earth and heaven I dwell as naught,Not daring to assume my life's control.But sure 'tis time that Death's relentless bowHad wing'd that fatal arrow to my heart,So often bathed in life's dark crimson tide:But though I crave he would this boon bestow,He to my cheek his impress doth impart,And yet o'erlooks me in his fearful stride.Wollaston.
CANZONE IV
Si è debile il filo a cui s' atteneHE GRIEVES IN ABSENCE FROM LAURAThe thread on which my weary life dependsSo fragile is and weak,If none kind succour lends,Soon 'neath the painful burden will it break;Since doom'd to take my sad farewell of her,In whom begins and endsMy bliss, one hope, to stirMy sinking spirit from its black despair,Whispers, "Though lost awhileThat form so dear and fair,Sad soul! the trial bear,For thee e'en yet the sun may brightly shine,And days more happy smile,Once more the lost loved treasure may be thine."This thought awhile sustains me, but againTo fail me and forsake in worse excess of pain.Time flies apace: the silent hours and swiftSo urge his journey on,Short span to me is leftEven to think how quick to death I run;Scarce, in the orient heaven, yon mountain crestSmiles in the sun's first ray,When, in the adverse west,His long round run, we see his light decaySo small of life the space,So frail and clogg'd with woe,To mortal man below,That, when I find me from that beauteous faceThus torn by fate's decree,Unable at a wish with her to be,So poor the profit that old comforts give,I know not how I brook in such a state to live.Each place offends, save where alone I seeThose eyes so sweet and bright,Which still shall bear the keyOf the soft thoughts I hide from other sight;And, though hard exile harder weighs on me,Whatever mood betide,I ask no theme beside,For all is hateful that I since have seen.What rivers and what heights,What shores and seas betweenMe rise and those twin lights,Which made the storm and blackness of my daysOne beautiful serene,To which tormented Memory still strays:Free as my life then pass'd from every care,So hard and heavy seems my present lot to bear.Alas! self-parleying thus, I but renewThe warm wish in my mind,Which first within it grewThe day I left my better half behind:If by long absence love is quench'd, then whoGuides me to the old bait,Whence all my sorrows date?Why rather not my lips in silence seal'd?By finest crystal ne'erWere hidden tints reveal'dSo faithfully and fair,As my sad spirit naked lays and bareIts every secret part,And the wild sweetness thrilling in my heart,Through eyes which, restlessly, o'erfraught with tears,Seek her whose sight alone with instant gladness cheers.Strange pleasure!—yet so often that withinThe human heart to reignIs found—to woo and winEach new brief toy that men most sigh to gain:And I am one from sadness who reliefSo draw, as if it stillMy study were to fillThese eyes with softness, and this heart with grief:As weighs with me in chiefNay rather with sole force,The language and the lightOf those dear eyes to urge me on that course,So where its fullest sourceLong sorrow finds, I fix my often sight,And thus my heart and eyes like sufferers be,Which in love's path have been twin pioneers to me.The golden tresses which should make, I ween,The sun with envy pine;And the sweet look serene,Where love's own rays so bright and burning shine,That, ere its time, they make my strength decline,Each wise and truthful word,Rare in the world, which lateShe smiling gave, no more are seen or heard.But this of all my fateIs hardest to endure,That here I am deniedThe gentle greeting, angel-like and pure,Which still to virtue's sideInclined my heart with modest magic lure;So that, in sooth, I nothing hope againOf comfort more than this, how best to bear my pain.And—with fit ecstacy my loss to mourn—The soft hand's snowy charm,The finely-rounded arm,The winning ways, by turns, that quiet scorn,Chaste anger, proud humility adorn,The fair young breast that shrinedIntellect pure and high,Are now all hid the rugged Alp behind.My trust were vain to tryAnd see her ere I die,For, though awhile he dareSuch dreams indulge, Hope ne'er can constant be,But falls back in despairHer, whom Heaven honours, there again to see,Where virtue, courtesy in her best mix,And where so oft I pray my future home to fix.My Song! if thou shalt see,Our common lady in that dear retreat,We both may hope that sheWill stretch to thee her fair and fav'ring hand,Whence I so far am bann'd;—Touch, touch it not, but, reverent at her feet,Tell her I will be there with earliest speed,A man of flesh and blood, or else a spirit freed.Macgregor.SONNET XXX
Orso, e' non furon mai fiumi nè stagniHE COMPLAINS OF THE VEIL AND HAND OF LAURA, THAT THEY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER EYESOrso, my friend, was never stream, nor lake,Nor sea in whose broad lap all rivers fall,Nor shadow of high hill, or wood, or wall,Nor heaven-obscuring clouds which torrents make,Nor other obstacles my grief so wake,Whatever most that lovely face may pall,As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall,That veil which bids my heart "Now burn or break,"And, whether by humility or pride,Their glance, extinguishing mine every joy,Conducts me prematurely to my tomb:Also my soul by one fair hand is tried,Cunning and careful ever to annoy,'Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.Macgregor.SONNET XXXI
Io temo sì de' begli occhi l' assaltoHE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO LONG DELAYED TO VISIT HERSo much I fear to encounter her bright eye.Alway in which my death and Love reside,That, as a child the rod, its glance I fly,Though long the time has been since first I tried;And ever since, so wearisome or high,No place has been where strong will has not hied,Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die,And, cold as marble, I am laid aside:Wherefore if I return to see you late,Sure 'tis no fault, unworthy of excuse,That from my death awhile I held aloof:At all to turn to what men shun, their fate,And from such fear my harass'd heart to loose,Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.Macgregor.SONNET XXXII
S' amore o morte non dà qualche stroppioHE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTINIf Love or Death no obstacle entwineWith the new web which here my fingers fold,And if I 'scape from beauty's tyrant holdWhile natural truth with truth reveal'd I join,Perchance a work so double will be mineBetween our modern style and language old,That (timidly I speak, with hope though bold)Even to Rome its growing fame may shine:But, since, our labour to perfèct at lastSome of the blessed threads are absent yetWhich our dear father plentifully met,Wherefore to me thy hands so close and fastAgainst their use? Be prompt of aid and free,And rich our harvest of fair things shall be.Macgregor.SONNET XXXIII
Quando dal proprio sito si rimoveWHEN LAURA DEPARTS, THE HEAVENS GROW DARK WITH STORMSWhen from its proper soil the tree is movedWhich Phœbus loved erewhile in human form,Grim Vulcan at his labour sighs and sweats,Renewing ever the dread bolts of Jove,Who thunders now, now speaks in snow and rain,Nor Julius honoureth than Janus more:Earth moans, and far from us the sun retiresSince his dear mistress here no more is seen.Then Mars and Saturn, cruel stars, resumeTheir hostile rage: Orion arm'd with cloudsThe helm and sails of storm-tost seamen breaks.To Neptune and to Juno and to usVext Æolus proves his power, and makes us feelHow parts the fair face angels long expect.Macgregor.SONNET XXXIV
Ma poi che 'l dolce riso umile e pianoHER RETURN GLADDENS THE EARTH AND CALMS THE SKYBut when her sweet smile, modest and benign,No longer hides from us its beauties rare,At the spent forge his stout and sinewy armsPlieth that old Sicilian smith in vain,For from the hands of Jove his bolts are takenTemper'd in Ætna to extremest proof;And his cold sister by degrees grows calmAnd genial in Apollo's kindling beams.Moves from the rosy west a summer breath,Which safe and easy wafts the seaward bark,And wakes the sweet flowers in each grassy mead.Malignant stars on every side depart,Dispersed before that bright enchanting face,For which already many tears are shed.Macgregor.SONNET XXXV
Il figliuol di Latona avea già noveTHE GRIEF OF PHŒBUS AT THE LOSS OF HIS LOVENine times already had Latona's sonLook'd from the highest balcony of heavenFor her, who whilom waked his sighs in vain,And sighs as vain now wakes in other breasts;Then seeking wearily, nor knowing whereShe dwelt, or far or near, and why delay'd,He show'd himself to us as one, insaneFor grief, who cannot find some loved lost thing:And thus, for clouds of sorrow held aloof,Saw not the fair face turn, which, if I live,In many a page shall praised and honour'd be,The misery of her loss so changed her mienThat her bright eyes were dimm'd, for once, with tears,Thereon its former gloom the air resumed.Macgregor.SONNET XXXVI
Quel che 'n Tessaglia ebbe le man sì pronteSOME HAVE WEPT FOR THEIR WORST ENEMIES, BUT LAURA DEIGNS HIM NOT A SINGLE TEARHe who for empire at Pharsalia threw,Reddening its beauteous plain with civil gore,As Pompey's corse his conquering soldiers bore,Wept when the well-known features met his view:The shepherd youth, who fierce Goliath slew,Had long rebellious children to deplore,And bent, in generous grief, the brave Saul o'erHis shame and fall when proud Gilboa knew:But you, whose cheek with pity never paled,Who still have shields at hand to guard you wellAgainst Love's bow, which shoots its darts in vain,Behold me by a thousand deaths assail'd,And yet no tears of thine compassion tell,But in those bright eyes anger and disdain.Macgregor.SONNET XXXVII
Il mio avversario, in cui veder soleteLAURA AT HER LOOKING-GLASSMy foe, in whom you see your own bright eyes,Adored by Love and Heaven with honour due,With beauties not its own enamours you,Sweeter and happier than in mortal guise.Me, by its counsel, lady, from your breast,My chosen cherish'd home, your scorn expell'dIn wretched banishment, perchance not heldWorthy to dwell where you alone should rest.But were I fasten'd there with strongest keys,That mirror should not make you, at my cost,Severe and proud yourself alone to please.Remember how Narcissus erst was lost!His course and thine to one conclusion lead,Of flower so fair though worthless here the mead.Macgregor.My mirror'd foe reflects, alas! so fairThose eyes which Heaven and Love have honour'd too!Yet not his charms thou dost enamour'd view,But all thine own, and they beyond compare:O lady! thou hast chased me at its prayerFrom thy heart's throne, where I so fondly grew;O wretched exile! though too well I knewA reign with thee I were unfit to share.But were I ever fix'd thy bosom's mate,A flattering mirror should not me supplant,And make thee scorn me in thy self-delight;Thou surely must recall Narcissus' fate,But if like him thy doom should thee enchant,What mead were worthy of a flower so bright?Wollaston.
SONNET XXXVIII
L' oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli e i bianchiHE INVEIGHS AGAINST LAURA'S MIRROR, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER FORGET HIMThose golden tresses, teeth of pearly white,Those cheeks' fair roses blooming to decay,Do in their beauty to my soul conveyThe poison'd arrows from my aching sight.Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight,For life with woe not long on earth will stay;But more I blame that mirror's flattering sway,Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight.Its power my bosom's sovereign too hath still'd,Who pray'd thee in my suit—now he is mute,Since thou art captured by thyself alone:Death's seeds it hath within my heart instill'd,For Lethe's stream its form doth constitute,And makes thee lose each image but thine own.Wollaston.The gold and pearls, the lily and the roseWhich weak and dry in winter wont to be,Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me,As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows:Thus all my days now sadly shortly close,For seldom with great grief long years agree;But in that fatal glass most blame I see,That weary with your oft self-liking grows.It on my lord placed silence, when my suitHe would have urged, but, seeing your desireEnd in yourself alone, he soon was mute.'Twas fashion'd in hell's wave and o'er its fire,And tinted in eternal Lethe: thenceThe spring and secret of my death commence.Macgregor.
