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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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SONNET L
Lasso, che mal accorto fui da primaHE PRAYS LOVE TO KINDLE ALSO IN HER THE FLAME BY WHICH HE IS UNCEASINGLY TORMENTEDAlas! this heart by me was little knownIn those first days when Love its depths explored,Where by degrees he made himself the lordOf my whole life, and claim'd it as his own:I did not think that, through his power alone,A heart time-steel'd, and so with valour stored,Such proof of failing firmness could afford,And fell by wrong self-confidence o'erthrown.Henceforward all defence too late will come,Save this, to prove, enough or little, hereIf to these mortal prayers Love lend his ear.Not now my prayer—nor can such e'er have room—That with more mercy he consume my heart,But in the fire that she may bear her part.Macgregor.SESTINA III
L' aere gravato, e l' importuna nebbiaHE COMPARES LAURA TO WINTER, AND FORESEES THAT SHE WILL ALWAYS BE THE SAMEThe overcharged air, the impending cloud,Compress'd together by impetuous winds,Must presently discharge themselves in rain;Already as of crystal are the streams,And, for the fine grass late that clothed the vales,Is nothing now but the hoar frost and ice.And I, within my heart, more cold than ice,Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud,As sometimes rears itself in these our vales,Lowly, and landlock'd against amorous winds,Environ'd everywhere with stagnant streams,When falls from soft'ning heaven the smaller rain.Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain;And summer melts away the snows and ice,When proudly roll th' accumulated streams:Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud,Which, overtaken by the furious winds,Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales.But ah! what profit me the flowering vales?Alike I mourn in sunshine and in rain,Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds;For only then my lady shall want iceAt heart, and on her brow th' accustom'd cloud,When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams.While to the sea descend the mountain streams,As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales,O'er those bright eyes shall hang th' unfriendly cloudMy own that moistens with continual rain;And in that lovely breast be harden'd iceWhich forces still from mine so dolorous winds.Yet well ought I to pardon all the windsBut for the love of one, that 'mid two streamsShut me among bright verdure and pure ice;So that I pictured then in thousand valesThe shade wherein I was, which heat or rainEsteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud.But fled not ever cloud before the winds,As I that day: nor ever streams with rainNor ice, when April's sun opens the vales.Macgregor.SONNET LI
Del mar Tirreno alla sinistra rivaTHE FALLUpon the left shore of the Tyrrhene sea,Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain,Sudden I saw that honour'd green again,Written for whom so many a page must be:Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed,Drew me with memories of those tresses fair;Whence, in a rivulet, which silent thereThrough long grass stole, I fell, as one struck dead.Lone as I was, 'mid hills of oak and fir,I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mouldBlushes suffice: nor needs it other spur.'Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old,To change from eyes to feet: from these so wetBy those if milder April should be met.Macgregor.SONNET LII
L' aspetto sacro della terra vostraTHE VIEW OF ROME PROMPTS HIM TO TEAR HIMSELF FROM LAURA, BUT LOVE WILL NOT ALLOW HIMThe solemn aspect of this sacred shoreWakes for the misspent past my bitter sighs;'Pause, wretched man! and turn,' as conscience cries,Pointing the heavenward way where I should soar.But soon another thought gets mastery o'erThe first, that so to palter were unwise;E'en now the time, if memory err not, flies,When we should wait our lady-love before.I, for his aim then well I apprehend,Within me freeze, as one who, sudden, hearsNews unexpected which his soul offend.Returns my first thought then, that disappears;Nor know I which shall conquer, but till nowWithin me they contend, nor hope of rest allow!Macgregor.SONNET LIII
Ben sapev' io che natural consiglioFLEEING FROM LOVE, HE FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF HIS MINISTERSFull well I know that natural wisdom nought,Love, 'gainst thy power, in any age prevail'd,For snares oft set, fond oaths that ever fail'd,Sore proofs of thy sharp talons long had taught;But lately, and in me it wonder wrought—With care this new experience be detail'd—'Tween Tuscany and Elba as I sail'dOn the salt sea, it first my notice caught.I fled from thy broad hands, and, by the way,An unknown wanderer, 'neath the violenceOf winds, and waves, and skies, I helpless lay,When, lo! thy ministers, I knew not whence,Who quickly made me by fresh stings to feelIll who resists his fate, or would conceal.Macgregor.CANZONE VII
Lasso me, ch i' non so in qual parte pieghiHE WOULD CONSOLE HIMSELF WITH SONG, BUT IS CONSTRAINED TO WEEPMe wretched! for I know not whither tendThe hopes which have so long my heart betray'd:If none there be who will compassion lend,Wherefore to Heaven these often prayers for aid?But if, belike, not yet denied to meThat, ere my own life end,These sad notes mute shall be,Let not my Lord conceive the wish too free,Yet once, amid sweet flowers, to touch the string,"Reason and right it is that love I sing."Reason indeed there were at last that IShould sing, since I have sigh'd so long and late,But that for me 'tis vain such art to try,Brief pleasures balancing with sorrows great;Could I, by some sweet verse, but cause to shineGlad wonder and new joyWithin those eyes divine,Bliss o'er all other lovers then were mine!But more, if frankly fondly I could say,"My lady asks, I therefore wake the lay."Delicious, dangerous thoughts! that, to beginA theme so high, have gently led me thus,You know I ne'er can hope to pass withinOur lady's heart, so strongly steel'd from us;She will not deign to look on thing so low,Nor may our language winAught of her care: since Heaven ordains it so,And vainly to oppose must irksome grow,Even as I my heart to stone would turn,"So in my verse would I be rude and stern."What do I say? where am I?—My own heartAnd its misplaced desires alone deceive!Though my view travel utmost heaven athwartNo planet there condemns me thus to grieve:Why, if the body's veil obscure my sight,Blame to the stars impart.Or other things as bright?Within me reigns my tyrant, day and night,Since, for his triumph, me a captive took"Her lovely face, and lustrous eyes' dear look."While all things else in Nature's boundless reignCame good from the Eternal Master's mould,I look for such desert in me in vain:Me the light wounds that I around behold;To the true splendour if I turn at last,My eye would shrink in pain,Whose own fault o'er it castSuch film, and not the fatal day long past,When first her angel beauty met my view,"In the sweet season when my life was new."Macgregor.CANZONE VIII
Perchè la vita è breveIN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: THE DIFFICULTY OF HIS THEMESince human life is frail,And genius trembles at the lofty theme,I little confidence in either place;But let my tender wailThere, where it ought, deserved attention claim,That wail which e'en in silence we may trace.O beauteous eyes, where Love doth nestling stay!To you I turn my insufficient lay,Unapt to flow; but passion's goad I feel:And he of you who singsSuch courteous habit by the strain is taught,That, borne on amorous wings,He soars above the reach of vulgar thought:Exalted thus, I venture to revealWhat long my cautious heart has labour'd to conceal.Yes, well do I perceiveTo you how wrongful is my scanty praise;Yet the strong impulse cannot be withstood,That urges, since I view'dWhat fancy to the sight before ne'er gave,What ne'er before graced mine, or higher lays.Bright authors of my sadly-pleasing state,That you alone conceive me well I know,When to your fierce beams I become as snow!Your elegant disdainHaply then kindles at my worthless strain.Did not this dread createSome mitigation of my bosom's heat,Death would be bliss: for greater joy 'twould giveWith them to suffer death, without them than to live.If not consumèd quite,I the weak object of a flame so strong:'Tis not that safety springs from native might,But that some fear restrains,Which chills the current circling through my veins;Strengthening this heart, that it may suffer long.O hills, O vales, O forests, floods, and fields,Ye who have witness'd how my sad life flows,Oft have ye heard me call on death for aid.Ah, state surcharged with woes!To stay destroys, and flight no succour yields.But had not higher dreadWithheld, some sudden effort I had madeTo end my sorrows and protracted pains,Of which the beauteous cause insensible remains.Why lead me, grief, astrayFrom my first theme to chant a different lay?Let me proceed where pleasure may invite.'Tis not of you I 'plain,O eyes, beyond compare serenely bright;Nor yet of him who binds me in his chain.Ye clearly can behold the hues that LoveScatters ofttime on my dejected face;And fancy may his inward workings traceThere where, whole nights and days,He rules with power derived from your bright rays:What rapture would ye prove,If you, dear lights, upon yourselves could gaze!But, frequent as you bend your beams on me,What influence you possess you in another see.Oh! if to you were knownThat beauty which I sing, immense, divine.As unto him on whom its glories shine!The heart had then o'erflownWith joy unbounded, such as is deniedUnto that nature which its acts doth guide.How happy is the soul for you that sighs,Celestial lights! which lend a charm to life,And make me bless what else I should not prize!Ah! why, so seldom whyAfford what ne'er can cause satiety?More often to your sightWhy not bring Love, who holds me constant strife?And why so soon of joys despoil me quite,Which ever and anon my tranced soul delight?Yes, 'debted to your grace,Frequent I feel throughout my inmost soulUnwonted floods of sweetest rapture roll;Relieving so the mind,That all oppressive thoughts are left behind,And of a thousand only one has place;For which alone this life is dear to me.Oh! might the blessing of duration prove,Not equall'd then could my condition be!But this would, haply, moveIn others envy, in myself vain pride.That pain should be alliedTo pleasure is, alas! decreed above;Then, stifling all the ardour of desire,Homeward I turn my thoughts, and in myself retire.So sweetly shines reveal'dThe amorous thought within your soul which dwells,That other joys it from my heart expels:Hence I aspire to frameLays whereon Hope may build a deathless name,When in the tomb my dust shall lie conceal'd.At your approach anguish and sorrow fly;These, as your beams retire, again draw nigh;Yet outward acts their influence ne'er betray,For doting memoryDwells on the past, and chases them away.Whatever, then, of worthMy genius ripens owes to you its birth.To you all honour and all praise is due—Myself a barren soil, and cultured but by you.Thy strains, O song! appease me not, but fire,Chanting a theme that wings my wild desire:Trust me, thou shalt ere long a sister-song acquire.Nott.Since mortal life is frail,And my mind shrinks from lofty themes deterr'd,But small the trust which I in either feel:Yet hope I that my wail,Which vainly I in silence would conceal,Shall, where I wish, where most it ought, be heard.Beautiful eyes! wherein Love makes his nest,To you my song its feeble descant turns,Slow of itself, but now by passion spurr'd;Who sings of you is blest,And from his theme such courteous habit learnsThat, borne on wings of love,Proudly he soars each viler thought above;Encouraged thus, what long my harass'd heartHas kept conceal'd, I venture to impart.Yet do I know full wellHow much my praise must wrongful prove to you,But how the great desire can I oppose,Which ever in me grows,Since what surpasses thought 'twas mine to view,Though that nor others' wit nor mine can tell?Eyes! guilty authors of my cherish'd pain,That you alone can judge me, well I know,When from your burning beams I melt like snow,Haply your sweet disdainOffence in my unworthiness may see;Ah! were there not such fear,To calm the heat with which I kindle near,'Twere bliss to die: for better far to meWere death with them than life without could be.If yet not wasted quite—So frail a thing before so fierce a flame—'Tis not from my own strength that safety came,But that some fear gives might,Freezing the warm blood coursing through its veins,To my poor heart better to bear the strife.O valleys, hills, O forests, floods, and plains,Witnesses of my melancholy life!For death how often have ye heard me pray!Ah, miserable fate!Where flight avails not, though 'tis death to stay;But, if a dread more greatRestrain'd me not, despair would find a way,Speedy and short, my lingering pains to close,—Hers then the crime who still no mercy shows.Why thus astray, O grief,Lead me to speak what I would leave unsaid?Leave me, where pleasure me impels, to tread:Not now my song complainsOf you, sweet eyes, serene beyond belief,Nor yet of him who binds me in such chains:Right well may you observe the varying huesWhich o'er my visage oft the tyrant strews,And thence may guess what war within he makes,Where night and day he reigns,Strong in the power which from your light he takes:Blessèd ye were as bright,Save that from you is barr'd your own dear sight:Yet often as to me those orbs you turn,What they to others are you well may learn.If, as to us who gazeWere known to you the charms incredibleAnd heavenly, of which I sing the praise,No measured joy would swellYour heart, and haply, therefore, 'tis deniedUnto the power which doth their motions guide.Happy the soul for you which breathes the sigh,Best lights of heaven! for whom I grateful blessThis life, which has for me no other joy.Alas! so seldom whyGive me what I can ne'er too much possess?Why not more often seeThe ceaseless havoc which love makes of me?And why that bliss so quickly from me steal,From time to time which my rapt senses feel?Yes, thanks, great thanks to you!From time to time I feel through all my soulA sweetness so unusual and new,That every marring careAnd gloomy vision thence begins to roll,So that, from all, one only thought is there.That—that alone consoles me life to bear:And could but this my joy endure awhile,Nought earthly could, methinks, then match my state.Yet such great honour mightEnvy in others, pride in me excite:Thus still it seems the fateOf man, that tears should chase his transient smile:And, checking thus my burning wishes, IBack to myself return, to muse and sigh.The amorous anxious thought,Which reigns within you, flashes so on me,That from my heart it draws all other joy;Whence works and words so wroughtFind scope and issue, that I hope to beImmortal made, although all flesh must die.At your approach ennui and anguish fly;With your departure they return again:But memory, on the past which doting dwells,Denies them entrance then,So that no outward act their influence tells;Thus, if in me is nurstAny good fruit, from you the seed came first:To you, if such appear, the praise is due,Barren myself till fertilized by you.Thy strains appease me not, O song!But rather fire me still that theme to singWhere centre all my thoughts—therefore, ere long,A sister ode to join thee will I bring.Macgregor.
CANZONE IX
Gentil mia donna, i' veggioIN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: THEY LEAD HIM TO CONTEMPLATE THE PATH OF LIFELady, in your bright eyesSoft glancing round, I mark a holy light,Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;And to my practised sight,From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,And urges me to seek the glorious goal;This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,Nor can the human tongueTell how those orbs divine o'er all my soulExert their sweet control,Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,And when the year puts on his youth again,Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain.Oh! if in that high sphere,From whence the Eternal Ruler of the starsIn this excelling work declared his might,All be as fair and bright,Loose me from forth my darksome prison here,That to so glorious life the passage bars;Then, in the wonted tumult of my breast,I hail boon Nature, and the genial dayThat gave me being, and a fate so blest,And her who bade hope beamUpon my soul; for till then burthensomeWas life itself become:But now, elate with touch of self-esteem,High thoughts and sweet within that heart arise,Of which the warders are those beauteous eyes.No joy so exquisiteDid Love or fickle Fortune ere devise,In partial mood, for favour'd votaries,But I would barter itFor one dear glance of those angelic eyes,Whence springs my peace as from its living root.O vivid lustre! of power absoluteO'er all my being—source of that delight,By which consumed I sink, a willing prey.As fades each lesser rayBefore your splendour more intense and bright,So to my raptured heart,When your surpassing sweetness you impart,No other thought of feeling may remainWhere you, with Love himself, despotic reign.All sweet emotions e'erBy happy lovers felt in every clime,Together all, may not with mine compare,When, as from time to time,I catch from that dark radiance rich and deepA ray in which, disporting, Love is seen;And I believe that from my cradled sleep,By Heaven provided this resource hath been,'Gainst adverse fortune, and my nature frail.Wrong'd am I by that veil,And the fair hand which oft the light eclipse,That all my bliss hath wrought;And whence the passion struggling on my lips,Both day and night, to vent the breast o'erfraught,Still varying as I read her varying thought.For that (with pain I find)Not Nature's poor endowments may aloneRender me worthy of a look so kind,I strive to raise my mindTo match with the exalted hopes I own,And fires, though all engrossing, pure as mine.If prone to good, averse to all things base,Contemner of what worldlings covet most,I may become by long self-discipline.Haply this humble boastMay win me in her fair esteem a place;For sure the end and aimOf all my tears, my sorrowing heart's sole claim,Were the soft trembling of relenting eyes,The generous lover's last, best, dearest prize.My lay, thy sister-song is gone before.And now another in my teeming brainPrepares itself: whence I resume the strain.Dacre.CANZONE X
Poichè per mio destinoIN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: IN THEM HE FINDS EVERY GOOD, AND HE CAN NEVER CEASE TO PRAISE THEMSince then by destinyI am compell'd to sing the strong desire,Which here condemns me ceaselessly to sigh,May Love, whose quenchless fireExcites me, be my guide and point the way,And in the sweet task modulate my lay:But gently be it, lest th' o'erpowering themeInflame and sting me, lest my fond heart mayDissolve in too much softness, which I deem,From its sad state, may be:For in me—hence my terror and distress!Not now as erst I seeJudgment to keep my mind's great passion less:Nay, rather from mine own thoughts melt I so,As melts before the summer sun the snow.At first I fondly thoughtCommuning with mine ardent flame to winSome brief repose, some time of truce within:This was the hope which broughtMe courage what I suffer'd to explain,Now, now it leaves me martyr to my pain:But still, continuing mine amorous song,Must I the lofty enterprise maintain;So powerful is the wish that in me glows,That Reason, which so longRestrain'd it, now no longer can oppose.Then teach me, Love, to singIn such frank guise, that ever if the earOf my sweet foe should chance the notes to hear,Pity, I ask no more, may in her spring.If, as in other times,When kindled to true virtue was mankind,The genius, energy of man could findEntrance in divers climes,Mountains and seas o'erpassing, seeking thereHonour, and culling oft its garland fair,Mine were such wish, not mine such need would be.From shore to shore my weary course to trace,Since God, and Love, and Nature deign for meEach virtue and each graceIn those dear eyes where I rejoice to place.In life to them must ITurn as to founts whence peace and safety swell:And e'en were death, which else I fear not, nigh,Their sight alone would teach me to be well.As, vex'd by the fierce wind,The weary sailor lifts at night his gazeTo the twin lights which still our pole displays,So, in the storms unkindOf Love which I sustain, in those bright eyesMy guiding light and only solace lies:But e'en in this far more is due to theft,Which, taught by Love, from time to time, I makeOf secret glances than their gracious gift:Yet that, though rare and slight,Makes me from them perpetual model take;Since first they blest my sightNothing of good without them have I tried,Placing them over me to guard and guide,Because mine own worth held itself but light.Never the full effectCan I imagine, and describe it lessWhich o'er my heart those soft eyes still possess!As worthless I rejectAnd mean all other joys that life confers,E'en as all other beauties yield to hers.A tranquil peace, alloy'd by no distress,Such as in heaven eternally abides,Moves from their lovely and bewitching smile.So could I gaze, the whileLove, at his sweet will, governs them and guides,—E'en though the sun were nigh,Resting above us on his onward wheel—On her, intensely with undazzled eye,Nor of myself nor others think or feel.Ah! that I should desireThings that can never in this world be won,Living on wishes hopeless to acquire.Yet, were the knot undone,Wherewith my weak tongue Love is wont to bind,Checking its speech, when her sweet face puts onAll its great charms, then would I courage find,Words on that point so apt and new to use,As should make weep whoe'er might hear the tale.But the old wounds I bear,Stamp'd on my tortured heart, such power refuse;Then grow I weak and pale,And my blood hides itself I know not where;Nor as I was remain I: hence I knowLove dooms my death and this the fatal blow.Farewell, my song! already do I seeHeavily in my hand the tired pen moveFrom its long dear discourse with her I love;Not so my thoughts from communing with me.Macgregor.SONNET LIV
Io son già stanco di pensar siccomeHE WONDERS AT HIS LONG ENDURANCE OF SUCH TOIL AND SUFFERINGI weary me alway with questions keenHow, why my thoughts ne'er turn from you away,Wherefore in life they still prefer to stay,When they might flee this sad and painful scene,And how of the fine hair, the lovely mien,Of the bright eyes which all my feelings sway,Calling on your dear name by night and day,My tongue ne'er silent in their praise has been,And how my feet not tender are, nor tired,Pursuing still with many a useless paceOf your fair footsteps the elastic trace;And whence the ink, the paper whence acquired,Fill'd with your memories: if in this I err,Not art's defect but Love's own fault it were.Macgregor.SONNET LV
I begli occhi, ond' i' fui percosso in guisaHE IS NEVER WEARY OF PRAISING THE EYES OF LAURAThe bright eyes which so struck my fenceless sideThat they alone which harm'd can heal the smartBeyond or power of herbs or magic art,Or stone which oceans from our shores divide,The chance of other love have so deniedThat one sweet thought alone contents my heart,From following which if ne'er my tongue depart,Pity the guided though you blame the guide.These are the bright eyes which, in every landBut most in its own shrine, my heart, adored,Have spread the triumphs of my conquering lord;These are the same bright eyes which ever standBurning within me, e'en as vestal fires,In singing which my fancy never tires.Macgregor.Not all the spells of the magician's art,Not potent herbs, nor travel o'er the main,But those sweet eyes alone can soothe my pain,And they which struck the blow must heal the smart;Those eyes from meaner love have kept my heart,Content one single image to retain,And censure but the medium wild and vain,If ill my words their honey'd sense impart;These are those beauteous eyes which never failTo prove Love's conquest, wheresoe'er they shine,Although my breast hath oftenest felt their fire;These are those beauteous eyes which still assailAnd penetrate my soul with sparks divine,So that of singing them I cannot tire.Wrottesley.
SONNET LVI
Amor con sue promesse lusingandoLOVE CHAINS ARE STILL DEAR TO HIMBy promise fair and artful flatteryMe Love contrived in prison old to snare,And gave the keys to her my foe in care,Who in self-exile dooms me still to lie.Alas! his wiles I knew not until IWas in their power, so sharp yet sweet to bear,(Man scarce will credit it although I swear)That I regain my freedom with a sigh,And, as true suffering captives ever do,Carry of my sore chains the greater part,And on my brow and eyes so writ my heartThat when she witnesseth my cheek's wan hueA sigh shall own: if right I read his face,Between him and his tomb but small the space!Macgregor.
