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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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SONNET LXXIX
Quella fenestra, ove l' un sol si vedeRECOLLECTIONS OF LOVEThat window where my sun is often seenRefulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,And the short days reveal a clouded scene;That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,And her feet press the paths or herbage green:The place where Love assail'd me with success;And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,Revives the keen remembrance every year;With looks and words, that o'er me have preservedA power no length of time can render less,Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.Penn.That window where my sun is ever seen,Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;And that where still, when Boreas rude has blownIn the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,Pensive and parleying with herself alone:Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,And the new season which, from year to year,Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.Macgregor.
SONNET LXXX
Lasso! ben so che dolorose predeTHOUGH FOR FOURTEEN YEARS HE HAS STRUGGLED UNSUCCESSFULLY, HE STILL HOPES TO CONQUER HIS PASSIONAlas! well know I what sad havoc makesDeath of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares!How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes,How short the faith it to the friendless bears!Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes;For the last day though now my heart prepares,Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks,And still my cheek grief's wonted tribute wears.I mark the days, the moments, and the hoursBear the full years along, nor find deceit,Bow'd 'neath a greater force than magic spell.For fourteen years have fought with varying powersDesire and Reason: and the best shall beat;If mortal spirits here can good foretell.Macgregor.Alas! I know death makes us all his prey,Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man;How swift the world completes its circling span,And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way.My heart repeats the blast of earth's last day,Yet for its grief no recompense can scan,Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban,And still my eyes their usual tribute pay.My watchful senses mark how on their wingThe circling years transport their fleeter kin,And still I bow enslaved as by a spell:For fourteen years did reason proudly flingDefiance at my tameless will, to winA triumph blest, if Man can good foretell.Wollaston.
SONNET LXXXI
Cesare, poi che 'l traditor d' EgittoTHE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEARTWhen Egypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd headTo Cæsar sent; then, records so relate,To shroud a gladness manifestly great,Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed:And, when misfortune her dark mantle spreadO'er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,He laugh'd 'midst those who wept their adverse fate,That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.Thus doth the mind oft variously concealIts several passions by a different veil;Now with a countenance that's sad, now gay:So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,'Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,'Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.Nott.Cæsar, when Egypt's cringing traitor broughtThe gory gift of Pompey's honour'd head,Check'd the full gladness of his instant thought,And specious tears of well-feign'd pity shed:And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wroughtOn his afflicted empire evils dread,'Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, soughtTo ease the anger at his heart that fed.Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides,Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien,Bright'ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen.Thus ever if I sing, or smile betides,The outward joy serves only to concealThe inner ail and anguish that I feel.Macgregor.
SONNET LXXXII
Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poiTO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINIHannibal conquer'd oft, but never knewThe fruits and gain of victory to get,Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yetA like misfortune happen not to you.Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,17 whoRough pasturage and sour in May have met,With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:While this new grief disheartens and appalls,Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,But, boldly following where your fortune calls,E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,Which fame and honour to the world may giveThat e'en for centuries after death will live.Macgregor.SONNET LXXXIII
L' aspettata virtù che 'n voi fiorivaTO PAUDOLFO MALATESTA, LORD OF RIMINISweet virtue's blossom had its promise shedWithin thy breast (when Love became thy foe);Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow,And not by visions hath my hope been fed.To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led,That by my pen thy name renown should know;No marble can the lasting fame bestowLike that by poets' characters is spread.Dost think Marcellus' or proud Cæsar's name,Or Africanus, Paulus—still resound,That sculptors proud have effigied their deed?No, Pandolph, frail the statuary's fame,For immortality alone is foundWithin the records of a poet's meed.Wollaston.The flower, in youth which virtue's promise bore,When Love in your pure heart first sought to dwell,Now beareth fruit that flower which matches well,And my long hopes are richly come ashore,Prompting my spirit some glad verse to pourWhere to due honour your high name may swell,For what can finest marble truly tellOf living mortal than the form he wore?Think you great Cæsar's or Marcellus' name,That Paulus, Africanus to our days,By anvil or by hammer ever came?No! frail the sculptor's power for lasting praise:Our study, my Pandolfo, only canGive immortality of fame to man.Macgregor.
CANZONE XI. 18
Mai non vo' più cantar, com' io solevaENIGMASNever more shall I sing, as I have sung:For still she heeded not; and I was scorn'd:So e'en in loveliest spots is trouble found.Unceasingly to sigh is no relief.Already on the Alp snow gathers round:Already day is near; and I awake.An affable and modest air is sweet;And in a lovely lady that she beNoble and dignified, not proud and cold,Well pleases it to find.Love o'er his empire rules without a sword.He who has miss'd his way let him turn back:Who has no home the heath must be his bed:Who lost or has not gold,Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.I trusted in Saint Peter, not so now;Let him who can my meaning understand.A harsh rule is a heavy weight to bear.I melt but where I must, and stand alone.I think of him who falling died in Po;Already thence the thrush has pass'd the brookCome, see if I say sooth! No more for me.A rock amid the waters is no joke,Nor birdlime on the twig. Enough my griefWhen a superfluous prideIn a fair lady many virtues hides.There is who answereth without a call;There is who, though entreated, fails and flies:There is who melts 'neath ice:There is who day and night desires his death.Love who loves you, is an old proverb now.Well know I what I say. But let it pass;'Tis meet, at their own cost, that men should learn.A modest lady wearies her best friend.Good figs are little known. To me it seemsWise to eschew things hazardous and high;In any country one may be at ease.Infinite hope below kills hope above;And I at times e'en thus have been the talk.My brief life that remainsThere is who'll spurn not if to Him devote.I place my trust in Him who rules the world,And who his followers shelters in the wood,That with his pitying crookMe will He guide with his own flock to feed.Haply not every one who reads discerns;Some set the snare at times who take no spoil;Who strains too much may break the bow in twain.Let not the law be lame when suitors watch.To be at ease we many a mile descend.To-day's great marvel is to-morrow's scorn.A veil'd and virgin loveliness is best.Blessed the key which pass'd within my heart,And, quickening my dull spirit, set it freeFrom its old heavy chain,And from my bosom banish'd many a sigh.Where most I suffer'd once she suffers now;Her equal sorrows mitigate my grief;Thanks, then, to Love that IFeel it no more, though he is still the same!In silence words that wary are and wise;The voice which drives from me all other care;And the dark prison which that fair light hides:As midnight on our hills the violets;And the wild beasts within the walls who dwell;The kind demeanour and the dear reserve;And from two founts one stream which flow'd in peaceWhere I desire, collected where I would.Love and sore jealousy have seized my heart,And the fair face whose guidesConduct me by a plainer, shorter wayTo my one hope, where all my torments end.O treasured bliss, and all from thee which flowsOf peace, of war, or truce,Never abandon me while life is left!At my past loss I weep by turns and smile,Because my faith is fix'd in what I hear.The present I enjoy and better wait;Silent, I count the years, yet crave their end,And in a lovely bough I nestle soThat e'en her stern repulse I thank and praise,Which has at length o'ercome my firm desire,And inly shown me, I had been the talk,And pointed at by hand: all this it quench'd.So much am I urged on,Needs must I own, thou wert not bold enough.Who pierced me in my side she heals the wound,For whom in heart more than in ink I write;Who quickens me or kills,And in one instant freezes me or fires.Anon.MADRIGALE III
Nova angeletta sovra l' ale accortaHE ALLEGORICALLY DESCRIBES THE ORIGIN OF HIS PASSIONFrom heaven an angel upon radiant wings,New lighted on that shore so fresh and fair,To which, so doom'd, my faithful footstep clings:Alone and friendless, when she found me there,Of gold and silk a finely-woven net,Where lay my path, 'mid seeming flowers she set:Thus was I caught, and, for such sweet light shoneFrom out her eyes, I soon forgot to moan.Macgregor.SONNET LXXXIV
Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omaiAFTER FIFTEEN YEARS HER EYES ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN AT FIRSTNo hope of respite, of escape no way,Her bright eyes wage such constant havoc here;Alas! excess of tyranny, I fear,My doting heart, which ne'er has truce, will slay:Fain would I flee, but ah! their amorous ray,Which day and night on memory rises clear,Shines with such power, in this the fifteenth year,They dazzle more than in love's early day.So wide and far their images are spreadThat wheresoe'er I turn I alway seeHer, or some sister-light on hers that fed.Springs such a wood from one fair laurel tree,That my old foe, with admirable skill,Amid its boughs misleads me at his will.Macgregor.SONNET LXXXV
Avventuroso più d' altro terrenoHE APOSTROPHIZES THE SPOT WHERE LAURA FIRST SALUTED HIMAh, happiest spot of earth! in this sweet placeLove first beheld my condescending fairRetard her steps, to smile with courteous graceOn me, and smiling glad the ambient air.The deep-cut image, wrought with skilful care,Time shall from hardest adamant efface,Ere from my mind that smile it shall erase,Dear to my soul! which memory planted there.Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting soil!With amorous awe I'll seek—delightful toil!Where yet some traces of her footsteps lie.And if fond Love still warms her generous breast,Whene'er you see her, gentle friend! requestThe tender tribute of a tear—a sigh.Anon. 1777.Most fortunate and fair of spots terrene!Where Love I saw her forward footstep stay,And turn on me her bright eyes' heavenly ray,Which round them make the atmosphere serene.A solid form of adamant, I ween,Would sooner shrink in lapse of time away,Than from my mind that sweet salute decay,Dear to my heart, in memory ever green.And oft as I return to view this spot,In its fair scenes I'll fondly stoop to seekWhere yet the traces of her light foot lie.But if in valorous heart Love sleepeth not,Whene'er you meet her, friend, for me bespeakSome passing tears, perchance one pitying sigh.Macgregor.
SONNET LXXXVI
Lasso! quante fiate Amor m' assaleWHEN LOVE DISTURBS HIM, HE CALMS HIMSELF BY THINKING OF THE EYES AND WORDS OF LAURAAlas! how ceaselessly is urged Love's claim,By day, by night, a thousand times I turnWhere best I may behold the dear lights burnWhich have immortalized my bosom's flame.Thus grow I calm, and to such state am brought,At noon, at break of day, at vesper-bell,I find them in my mind so tranquil dwell,I neither think nor care beside for aught.The balmy air, which, from her angel mien,Moves ever with her winning words and wise,Makes wheresoe'er she breathes a sweet sereneAs 'twere a gentle spirit from the skies,Still in these scenes some comfort brings to me,Nor elsewhere breathes my harass'd heart so free.Macgregor.SONNET LXXXVII
Perseguendomi Amor al luogo usatoHE IS BEWILDERED AT THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF LAURAAs Love his arts in haunts familiar tried,Watchful as one expecting war is found,Who all foresees and guards the passes round,I in the armour of old thoughts relied:Turning, I saw a shadow at my sideCast by the sun, whose outline on the groundI knew for hers, who—be my judgment sound—Deserves in bliss immortal to abide.I whisper'd to my heart, Nay, wherefore fear?But scarcely did the thought arise withinThan the bright rays in which I burn were here.As thunders with the lightning-flash begin,So was I struck at once both blind and mute,By her dear dazzling eyes and sweet salute.Macgregor.SONNET LXXXVIII
La donna che 'l mio cor nel viso portaHER KIND AND GENTLE SALUTATION THRILLS HIS HEART WITH PLEASUREShe, in her face who doth my gone heart wear,As lone I sate 'mid love-thoughts dear and true,Appear'd before me: to show honour due,I rose, with pallid brow and reverent air.Soon as of such my state she was aware,She turn'd on me with look so soft and newAs, in Jove's greatest fury, might subdueHis rage, and from his hand the thunders tear.I started: on her further way she pass'dGraceful, and speaking words I could not brook,Nor of her lustrous eyes the loving look.When on that dear salute my thoughts are cast,So rich and varied do my pleasures flow,No pain I feel, nor evil fear below.Macgregor.SONNET LXXXIX
Sennuccio, i' vo' che sappi in qual manieraHE RELATES TO HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO HIS UNHAPPINESS, AND THE VARIED MOOD OF LAURATo thee, Sennuccio, fain would I declare,To sadden life, what wrongs, what woes I find:Still glow my wonted flames; and, though resign'dTo Laura's fickle will, no change I bear.All humble now, then haughty is my fair;Now meek, then proud; now pitying, then unkind:Softness and tenderness now sway her mind;Then do her looks disdain and anger wear.Here would she sweetly sing, there sit awhile,Here bend her step, and there her step retard;Here her bright eyes my easy heart ensnared;There would she speak fond words, here lovely smile;There frown contempt;—such wayward cares I proveBy night, by day; so wills our tyrant Love!Anon. 1777.Alas, Sennuccio! would thy mind could frameWhat now I suffer! what my life's drear reign;Consumed beneath my heart's continued pain,At will she guides me—yet am I the same.Now humble—then doth pride her soul inflame;Now harsh—then gentle; cruel—kind again;Now all reserve—then borne on frolic's vein;Disdain alternates with a milder claim.Here once she sat, and there so sweetly sang;Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood;There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole:And here she smiled, and there her accents rang,Her speaking face here told another mood.Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.Wollaston.
SONNET XC
Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mioTHE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEYFriend, on this spot, I life but half endure(Would I were wholly here and you content),Where from the storm and wind my course I bent,Which suddenly had left the skies obscure.Fain would I tell—for here I feel me sure—Why lightnings now no fear to me present;And why unmitigated, much less spent,E'en as before my fierce desires allure.Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and sawWhere, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came,Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays;Love in my soul, where she alone gives law,Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame;What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!Macgregor.SONNET XCI
Dell' empia Babilonia, ond' è fuggitaLEAVING ROME, HE DESIRES ONLY PEACE WITH LAURA AND PROSPERITY TO COLONNAYes, out of impious Babylon I'm flown,Whence flown all shame, whence banish'd is all good,That nurse of error, and of guilt th' abode,To lengthen out a life which else were gone:There as Love prompts, while wandering alone,I now a garland weave, and now an ode;With him I commune, and in pensive moodHope better times; this only checks my moan.Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care,Nor for myself, nor sublunary things,No ardour outwardly, or inly springs:I ask two persons only: let my fairFor me a kind and tender heart maintain;And be my friend secure in his high post again.Nott.From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead,And every good is banish'd to far climes,Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes,Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled:Alone, at last alone, and here, as ledAt Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes,Self-parleying, and still on better timesWrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed.Cares for the world or fortune I have none,Nor much for self, nor any common theme:Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat.Two friends alone I ask, and that the oneMore merciful and meek to me may seem,The other well as erst, and firm of feet.Macgregor.
SONNET XCII
In mezzo di duo amanti onesta alteraLAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD'Tween two fond lovers I a lady spied,Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord,By gods above and men below adored—The sun on this, myself upon that side—Soon as she found herself the sphere deniedOf her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'dA flood of life and joy, which hope restoredLess cold to me will be her future pride.Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirthThe jealous fear to which at his first sightSo high a rival in my heart gave birth;As suddenly his sad and rueful plightFrom further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd,So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.Macgregor.SONNET XCIII
Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezzaWHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURAO'erflowing with the sweets ineffable,Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew,What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew.On meaner beauty never more to dwell,Whom most I love I left: my mind so wellIts part, to muse on her, is train'd to do,None else it sees; what is not hers to view,As of old wont, with loathing I repel.In a low valley shut from all around,Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs,Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone:Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found,And of that day blest images arise,Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes.Macgregor.SONNET XCIV
Se 'l sasso ond' è più chiusa questa valleCOULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLYIf, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,From which its present name we closely trace,Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrownIts back to Babel and to Rome its face;Then had my sighs a better pathway knownTo where their hope is yet in life and grace:They now go singly, yet my voice all own;And, where I send, not one but finds its place.There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweetThey ever find, that none returns again,But still delightedly with her remain.My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet—Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see—Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.Macgregor.SONNET XCV
Rimansi addietro il sestodecim' annoTHOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGEDMy sixteenth year of sighs its course has run,I stand alone, already on the browWhere Age descends: and yet it seems as nowMy time of trial only were begun.'Tis sweet to love, and good to be undone;Though life be hard, more days may Heaven allowMisfortune to outlive: else Death may bowThe bright head low my loving praise that won.Here am I now who fain would be elsewhere;More would I wish and yet no more I would;I could no more and yet did all I could:And new tears born of old desires declareThat still I am as I was wont to be,And that a thousand changes change not me.Macgregor.CANZONE XII
Una donna più bella assai che 'l soleGLORY AND VIRTUEA lady, lovelier, brighter than the sun,Like him superior o'er all time and space,Of rare resistless grace,Me to her train in early life had won:She, from that hour, in act, and word and thought,—For still the world thus covets what is rare—In many ways though broughtBefore my search, was still the same coy fair:For her alone my plans, from what they were,Grew changed, since nearer subject to her eyes;Her love alone could spurMy young ambition to each hard emprize:So, if in long-wish'd port I e'er arrive,I hope, for aye through her,When others deem me dead, in honour to survive.Full of first hope, burning with youthful love,She, at her will, as plainly now appears,Has led me many years,But for one end, my nature best to prove:Oft showing me her shadow, veil, and dress,But never her sweet face, till I, who rightKnew not her power to bless,All my green youth for these, contented quite,So spent, that still the memory is delight:Since onward yet some glimpse of her is seen,I now may own, of late,Such as till then she ne'er for me had been,She shows herself, shooting through all my heartAn icy cold so greatThat save in her dear arms it ne'er can thence depart.Not that in this cold fear I all did shrink,For still my heart was to such boldness strungThat to her feet I clung,As if more rapture from her eyes to drink:And she—for now the veil was ta'en awayWhich barr'd my sight—thus spoke me, "Friend, you seeHow fair I am, and mayAsk, for your years, whatever fittest be.""Lady," I said, "so long my love on theeHas fix'd, that now I feel myself on fire,What, in this state, to shun, and what desire."She, thereon, with a voice so wond'rous sweetAnd earnest look replied,By turns with hope and fear it made my quick heart beat:—"Rarely has man, in this full crowd below,E'en partial knowledge of my worth possess'dWho felt not in his breastAt least awhile some spark of spirit glow:But soon my foe, each germ of good abhorr'd,Quenches that light, and every virtue dies,While reigns some other lordWho promises a calmer life shall rise:Love, of your mind, to him that naked lies,So shows the great desire with which you burn,That safely I divineIt yet shall win for you an honour'd urn;Already one of my few friends you are,And now shall see in signA lady who shall make your fond eyes happier far.""It may not, cannot be," I thus began;—When she, "Turn hither, and in yon calm nookUpon the lady lookSo seldom seen, so little sought of man!"I turn'd, and o'er my brow the mantling shame,Within me as I felt that new fire swell,Of conscious treason came.She softly smiled, "I understand you well;E'en as the sun's more powerful rays dispelAnd drive the meaner stars of heaven from sight,So I less fair appear,Dwindling and darken'd now in her more light;But not for this I bar you from my train,As one in jealous fear—One birth, the elder she, produced us, sisters twain."Meanwhile the cold and heavy chain was burstOf silence, which a sense of shame had flungAround my powerless tongue,When I was conscious of her notice first:And thus I spoke, "If what I hear be true,Bless'd be the sire, and bless'd the natal dayWhich graced our world with you!Blest the long years pass'd in your search away!From the right path if e'er I went astray,It grieves me more than, haply, I can show:But of your state, if IDeserve more knowledge, more I long to know."She paused, then, answering pensively, so bentOn me her eloquent eye,That to my inmost heart her looks and language went:—"As seem'd to our Eternal Father best,We two were made immortal at our birth:To man so small our worthBetter on us that death, like yours, should rest.Though once beloved and lovely, young and bright,So slighted are we now, my sister sweetAlready plumes for flightHer wings to bear her to her own old seat;Myself am but a shadow thin and fleet;Thus have I told you, in brief words, whate'erYou sought of us to find:And now farewell! before I mount in airThis favour take, nor fear that I forget."Whereat she took and twinedA wreath of laurel green, and round my temples set.My song! should any deem thy strain obscure,Say, that I care not, and, ere long to hear,In certain words and clear,Truth's welcome message, that my hope is sure;For this alone, unless I widely errOf him who set me on the task, I came,That others I might stirTo honourable acts of high and holy aim.Macgregor.
