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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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"Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost;
What shall become of us? None else can boast
Such high perfection; no more we shall
Hear her wise words, nor the angelical
Sweet music of her voice." While thus they cried,
The parting spirit doth itself divide
With every virtue from the noble breast,
As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:
The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air
Without a threatening cloud; no adversaire
'Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;
Death singly did herself conclude the fight;
After, when fear, and the extremest plaint
Were ceased, th' attentive eyes of all were bent
On that fair face, and by despair became
Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,
And undiscerned waste themselves away:
Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,
As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;
In sum, her countenance you still might know
The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,
Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes
Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes
Desir'ed rest, as if her lovely sight
Were closed with sweetest sleep, after the sprite
Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,
Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.
Anna Hume.
[LINES 103 TO END.]
And now closed in the last hour's narrow span
Of that so glorious and so brief career,
Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!
And a fair troop of ladies gather'd there,
Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown'd,
To mark if ever Death remorseful were.
This gentle company thus throng'd around,
In her contemplating the awful end
All once must make, by law of nature bound;
Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.
Then Death stretch'd forth his hand, in that dread hour,
From her bright head a golden hair to rend,
Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower;
Nor hate impell'd the deed, but pride, to dare
Assert o'er highest excellence his power.
What tearful lamentations fill the air
The while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,
Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!
And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,
She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,
Gathering already virtue's guerdon high.
"Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure!"
They said; and such she was: although it nought
'Gainst mightier Death avail'd, so stern—so sure!
Alas for others! if a few nights wrought
In her each change of suffering dust below!
Oh! Hope, how false! how blind all human thought!
Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woe
For the bright spirit that had pass'd away,
Think, ye who listen! they who witness'd know.
'Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,
That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:
How Fortune doth her fickleness display!
None ever grieved for loss of liberty
Or doom of death as I for freedom grieve,
And life prolong'd, who only ask to die.
Due to the world it had been her to leave,
And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,
Nor of its pride and boast the age bereave.
How great the grief it is not mine to show,
Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,
Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.
Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!
The sorrowing dames her honour'd couch around
"For what are we reserved?" in anguish cry;
"Where now in woman will all grace be found?
Who with her wise and gentle words be blest,
And drink of her sweet song th' angelic sound?"
The spirit parting from that beauteous breast,
In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,
Had with serenity the heavens imprest:
No power of darkness, with ill influence, dared
Within a space so holy to intrude,
Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.
Then hush'd was all lament, all fear subdued;
Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
And from despair was arm'd with fortitude.
As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
But faint and fainter softly dies away,
Pass'd gently forth in peace the soul content:
And as a light of clear and steady ray,
When fails the source from which its brightness flows,
She to the last held on her-wonted way.
Pale, was she? no, but white as shrouding snows,
That, when the winds are lull'd, fall silently,
She seem'd as one o'erwearied to repose.
E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
What shall become of us? None else can boast
Such high perfection; no more we shall
Hear her wise words, nor the angelical
Sweet music of her voice." While thus they cried,
The parting spirit doth itself divide
With every virtue from the noble breast,
As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:
The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air
Without a threatening cloud; no adversaire
'Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;
Death singly did herself conclude the fight;
After, when fear, and the extremest plaint
Were ceased, th' attentive eyes of all were bent
On that fair face, and by despair became
Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,
And undiscerned waste themselves away:
Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,
As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;
In sum, her countenance you still might know
The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,
Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes
Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes
Desir'ed rest, as if her lovely sight
Were closed with sweetest sleep, after the sprite
Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,
Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.
Anna Hume.
[LINES 103 TO END.]
And now closed in the last hour's narrow span
Of that so glorious and so brief career,
Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!
And a fair troop of ladies gather'd there,
Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown'd,
To mark if ever Death remorseful were.
This gentle company thus throng'd around,
In her contemplating the awful end
All once must make, by law of nature bound;
Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.
Then Death stretch'd forth his hand, in that dread hour,
From her bright head a golden hair to rend,
Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower;
Nor hate impell'd the deed, but pride, to dare
Assert o'er highest excellence his power.
What tearful lamentations fill the air
The while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,
Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!
And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,
She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,
Gathering already virtue's guerdon high.
"Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure!"
They said; and such she was: although it nought
'Gainst mightier Death avail'd, so stern—so sure!
Alas for others! if a few nights wrought
In her each change of suffering dust below!
Oh! Hope, how false! how blind all human thought!
Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woe
For the bright spirit that had pass'd away,
Think, ye who listen! they who witness'd know.
'Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,
That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:
How Fortune doth her fickleness display!
None ever grieved for loss of liberty
Or doom of death as I for freedom grieve,
And life prolong'd, who only ask to die.
Due to the world it had been her to leave,
And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,
Nor of its pride and boast the age bereave.
How great the grief it is not mine to show,
Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,
Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.
Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!
The sorrowing dames her honour'd couch around
"For what are we reserved?" in anguish cry;
"Where now in woman will all grace be found?
Who with her wise and gentle words be blest,
And drink of her sweet song th' angelic sound?"
The spirit parting from that beauteous breast,
In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,
Had with serenity the heavens imprest:
No power of darkness, with ill influence, dared
Within a space so holy to intrude,
Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.
Then hush'd was all lament, all fear subdued;
Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
And from despair was arm'd with fortitude.
As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
But faint and fainter softly dies away,
Pass'd gently forth in peace the soul content:
And as a light of clear and steady ray,
When fails the source from which its brightness flows,
She to the last held on her-wonted way.
Pale, was she? no, but white as shrouding snows,
That, when the winds are lull'd, fall silently,
She seem'd as one o'erwearied to repose.
E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
