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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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BALLATA VI
Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men duraTHOUGH SHE BE LESS SEVERE, HE IS STILL NOT CONTENTED AND TRANQUIL AT HEARTFrom time to time more clemency for meIn that sweet smile and angel form I trace;Seem too her lovely faceAnd lustrous eyes at length more kind to be.Yet, if thus honour'd, wherefore do my sighsIn doubt and sorrow flow,Signs that too truly showMy anguish'd desperate life to common eyes?Haply if, where she is, my glance I bend,This harass'd heart to cheer,Methinks that Love I hearPleading my cause, and see him succour lend.Not therefore at an end the strife I deem,Nor in sure rest my heart at last esteem;For Love most burns withinWhen Hope most pricks us on the way to win.Macgregor.From time to time less cruelty I traceIn her sweet smile and form divinely fair;Less clouded doth appearThe heaven of her fine eyes and lovely face.What then at last avail to me those sighs,Which from my sorrows flow,And in my semblance showThe life of anguish and despair I lead?If towards her perchance I bend mine eyes,Some solace to bestowUpon my bosom's woe,Methinks Love takes my part, and lends me aid:Yet still I cannot find the conflict stay'd,Nor tranquil is my heart in every state:For, ah! my passion's heatMore strongly glows within as my fond hopes increase.Nott.
SONNET CXVII
Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEARTP. What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?H. Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill.P. What profit, with those eyes if she at willMakes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?H. From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.P. What's he to us, she sees it and is still.H. Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart lamentsFondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.P. Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.Macgregor.P. What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?H. Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveilThe grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.P. But that is vain, since by her eyes' controlWith nature I no sympathy inhale.H. Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.P. No balm to me, since she will not condole.H. When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eyeBelies the inward tear, where none can gaze!P. Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceivesIs not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.Wollaston.
SONNET CXVIII
Nom d' atra e tempestosa onda marinaHE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASONNo wearied mariner to port e'er fledFrom the dark billow, when some tempest's nigh,As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly—Thoughts by the force of goading passion bred:Nor wrathful glance of heaven so surely spedDestruction to man's sight, as does that eyeWithin whose bright black orb Love's DeitySharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head.Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind,Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd,A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing;Thence unto me he lends instruction kind,And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd,Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing.Nott.Ne'er from the black and tempest-troubled brineThe weary mariner fair haven sought,As shelter I from the dark restless thoughtWhereto hot wishes spur me and incline:Nor mortal vision ever light divineDazzled, as mine, in their rare splendour caughtThose matchless orbs, with pride and passion fraught,Where Love aye haunts his darts to gild and fine.Him, blind no more, but quiver'd, there I view,Naked, except so far as shame conceals,A winged boy—no fable—quick and true.What few perceive he thence to me reveals;So read I clearly in her eyes' dear lightWhate'er of love I speak, whate'er I write.Macgregor.
SONNET CXIX
Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d' orsaHE PRAYS HER EITHER TO WELCOME OR DISMISS HIM AT ONCEFiercer than tiger, savager than bear,In human guise an angel form appears,Who between fear and hope, from smiles to tearsSo tortures me that doubt becomes despair.Ere long if she nor welcomes me, nor frees,But, as her wont, between the two retains,By the sweet poison circling through my veins,My life, O Love! will soon be on its lees.No longer can my virtue, worn and frailWith such severe vicissitudes, contend,At once which burn and freeze, make red and pale:By flight it hopes at length its grief to end,As one who, hourly failing, feels death nigh:Powerless he is indeed who cannot even die!Macgregor.SONNET CXX
Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo coreHE IMPLORES MERCY OR DEATHGo, my warm sighs, go to that frozen breast,Burst the firm ice, that charity denies;And, if a mortal prayer can reach the skies,Let death or pity give my sorrows rest!Go, softest thoughts! Be all you know express'dOf that unnoticed by her lovely eyes,Though fate and cruelty against me rise,Error at least and hope shall be repress'd.Tell her, though fully you can never tell,That, while her days calm and serenely flow,In darkness and anxiety I dwell;Love guides your flight, my thoughts securely go,Fortune may change, and all may yet be well;If my sun's aspect not deceives my woe.Charlemont.Go, burning sighs, to her cold bosom go,Its circling ice which hinders pity rend,And if to mortal prayer Heaven e'er attend,Let death or mercy finish soon my woe.Go forth, fond thoughts, and to our lady showThe love to which her bright looks never bend,If still her harshness, or my star offend,We shall at least our hopeless error know.Go, in some chosen moment, gently say,Our state disquieted and dark has been,Even as hers pacific and serene.Go, safe at last, for Love escorts your way:From my sun's face if right the skies I guessWell may my cruel fortune now be less.Macgregor.
SONNET CXXI
Le stelle e 'l cielo e gli elementi a provaLAURA'S UNPARALLELED BEAUTY AND VIRTUEThe stars, the elements, and Heaven have madeWith blended powers a work beyond compare;All their consenting influence, all their care,To frame one perfect creature lent their aid.Whence Nature views her loveliness display'dWith sun-like radiance sublimely fair:Nor mortal eye can the pure splendour bear:Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace array'd.The very air illumed by her sweet beamsBreathes purest excellence; and such delightThat all expression far beneath it gleams.No base desire lives in that heavenly light,Honour alone and virtue!—fancy's dreamsNever saw passion rise refined by rays so bright.Capel Lofft.The stars, the heaven, the elements, I ween,Put forth their every art and utmost careIn that bright light, as fairest Nature fair,Whose like on earth the sun has nowhere seen;So noble, elegant, unique her mien,Scarce mortal glance to rest on it may dare,Love so much softness and such graces rareShowers from those dazzling and resistless een.The atmosphere, pervaded and made pureBy their sweet rays, kindles with goodness so,Thought cannot equal it nor language show.Here no ill wish, no base desires endure,But honour, virtue. Here, if ever yet,Has lust his death from supreme beauty met.Macgregor.
SONNET CXXII
Non fur mai Giove e Cesare sì mossiLAURA IN TEARSHigh Jove to thunder ne'er was so intent,So resolute great Cæsar ne'er to strike,That pity had not quench'd the ire of both,And from their hands the accustom'd weapons shook.Madonna wept: my Lord decreed that IShould see her then, and there her sorrows hear;So joy, desire should fill me to the brim,Thrilling my very marrow and my bones.Love show'd to me, nay, sculptured on my heart,That sweet and sparkling tear, and those soft wordsWrote with a diamond on its inmost core,Where with his constant and ingenious keysHe still returneth often, to draw thenceTrue tears of mine and long and heavy sighs.Macgregor.SONNET CXXIII
I' vidi in terra angelici costumiTHE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEFOn earth reveal'd the beauties of the skies,Angelic features, it was mine to hail;Features, which wake my mingled joy and wail,While all besides like dreams or shadows flies.And fill'd with tears I saw those two bright eyes,Which oft have turn'd the sun with envy pale;And from those lips I heard—oh! such a tale,As might awake brute Nature's sympathies!Wit, pity, excellence, and grief, and loveWith blended plaint so sweet a concert made,As ne'er was given to mortal ear to prove:And heaven itself such mute attention paid,That not a breath disturb'd the listening grove—Even æther's wildest gales the tuneful charm obey'd.Wrangham.Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace,And charms divine which mortals rarely see,Such as both glad and pain the memory;Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace:Tears I saw shower'd from those fine eyes apace,Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be;Accents I heard sigh'd forth so movingly,As to stay floods, or mountains to displace.Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join'dAnd wailful grief, a sweeter concert madeThan ever yet was pour'd on human ear:And heaven unto the music so inclined,That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade;Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere.Nott.
SONNET CXXIV
Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giornoHE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARSThat ever-painful, ever-honour'd daySo left her living image on my heartBeyond or lover's wit or poet's art,That oft to it will doting memory stray.A gentle pity softening her bright mien,Her sorrow there so sweet and sad was heard,Doubt in the gazer's bosom almost stirr'dGoddess or mortal, which made heaven serene.Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow,Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyne,Whence the young archer oft took fatal aim;Each loving lip—whence, utterance sweet and lowHer pent grief found—a rose which rare pearls line,Her tears of crystal and her sighs of flame.Macgregor.That ever-honour'd, yet too bitter day,Her image hath so graven in my breast,That only memory can return it dress'dIn living charms, no genius could portray:Her air such graceful sadness did display,Her plaintive, soft laments my ear so bless'd,I ask'd if mortal, or a heavenly guest,Did thus the threatening clouds in smiles array.Her locks were gold, her cheeks were breathing snow,Her brows with ebon arch'd—bright stars her eyes,Wherein Love nestled, thence his dart to aim:Her teeth were pearls—the rose's softest glowDwelt on that mouth, whence woke to speech grief's sighsHer tears were crystal—and her breath was flame.Wollaston.
SONNET CXXV
Ove ch' i' posi gli occhi lassi o giriHER IMAGE IS EVER IN HIS HEARTWhere'er I rest or turn my weary eyes,To ease the longings which allure them still,Love pictures my bright lady at his will,That ever my desire may verdant rise.Deep pity she with graceful grief applies—Warm feelings ever gentle bosoms fill—While captived equally my fond ears thrillWith her sweet accents and seraphic sighs.Love and fair Truth were both allied to tellThe charms I saw were in the world alone,That 'neath the stars their like was never known.Nor ever words so dear and tender fellOn listening ear: nor tears so pure and brightFrom such fine eyes e'er sparkled in the light.Macgregor.SONNET CXXVI
In qual parte del cielo, in quale ideaHE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURASay from what part of heaven 'twas Nature drew,From what idea, that so perfect mouldTo form such features, bidding us behold,In charms below, what she above could do?What fountain-nymph, what dryad-maid e'er threwUpon the wind such tresses of pure gold?What heart such numerous virtues can unfold?Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew.He for celestial charms may look in vain,Who has not seen my fair one's radiant eyes,And felt their glances pleasingly beguile.How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again,He only knows, who knows how sweet her sighs,How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile.Nott.In what celestial sphere—what realm of thought,Dwelt the bright model from which Nature drewThat fair and beauteous face, in which we viewHer utmost power, on earth, divinely wrought?What sylvan queen—what nymph by fountain sought,Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw?When did such virtues one sole breast imbue?Though with my death her chief perfection's fraught.For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires,Who ne'er beheld her eyes' celestial stain,Where'er she turns around their brilliant fires:He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again,Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respiresThe sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain!Anon.
SONNET CXXVII
Amor ed io sì pien di maravigliaHER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINEAs one who sees a thing incredible,In mutual marvel Love and I combine,Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine,None but herself can be her parallel.Where the fine arches of that fair brow swellSo sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine,Than whom no safer brighter beacons shineHis course to guide who'd wisely love and well.What miracle is this, when, as a flower,She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast,Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'dAnd oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour,To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there,Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair.Macgregor.SONNET CXXVIII
O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e prontiEVERY CIRCUMSTANCE OF HIS PASSION IS A TORMENT TO HIMO scatter'd steps! O vague and busy thoughts!O firm-set memory! O fierce desire!O passion powerful! O failing heart!O eyes of mine, not eyes, but fountains now!O leaf, which honourest illustrious brows,Sole sign of double valour, and best crown!O painful life, O error oft and sweet!That make me search the lone plains and hard hills.O beauteous face! where Love together placedThe spurs and curb, to strive with which is vain,They prick and turn me so at his sole will.O gentle amorous souls, if such there be!And you, O naked spirits of mere dust,Tarry and see how great my suffering is!Macgregor.SONNET CXXIX
Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbeHE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTSGay, joyous blooms, and herbage glad with showers,O'er which my pensive fair is wont to stray!Thou plain, that listest her melodious lay,As her fair feet imprint thy waste of flowers!Ye shrubs so trim; ye green, unfolding bowers;Ye violets clad in amorous, pale array;Thou shadowy grove, gilded by beauty's ray,Whose top made proud majestically towers!O pleasant country! O translucent stream,Bathing her lovely face, her eyes so clear,And catching of their living light the beam!I envy ye her actions chaste and dear:No rock shall stud thy waters, but shall learnHenceforth with passion strong as mine to burn.Nott.O bright and happy flowers and herbage blest,On which my lady treads!—O favour'd plain,That hears her accents sweet, and can retainThe traces by her fairy steps impress'd!—Pure shrubs, with tender verdure newly dress'd,—Pale amorous violets,—leafy woods, whose reignThy sun's bright rays transpierce, and thus sustainYour lofty stature, and umbrageous crest;—O thou, fair country, and thou, crystal stream,Which bathes her countenance and sparkling eyes,Stealing fresh lustre from their living beam;How do I envy thee these precious ties!Thy rocky shores will soon be taught to gleamWith the same flame that burns in all my sighs.Wrottesley.
SONNET CXXX
Amor, che vedi ogni pensiero apertoHE CARES NOT FOR SUFFERINGS, SO THAT HE DISPLEASE NOT LAURALove, thou who seest each secret thought display'd,And the sad steps I take, with thee sole guide;This throbbing breast, to thee thrown open wide,To others' prying barr'd, thine eyes pervade.Thou know'st what efforts, following thee, I made,While still from height to height thy pinions glide;Nor deign'st one pitying look to turn asideOn him who, fainting, treads a trackless glade.I mark from far the mildly-beaming rayTo which thou goad'st me through the devious maze;Alas! I want thy wings, to speed my way—Henceforth, a distant homager, I'll gaze,Content by silent longings to decay,So that my sighs for her in her no anger raise.Wrangham.O Love, that seest my heart without disguise,And those hard toils from thee which I sustain,Look to my inmost thought; behold the painTo thee unveil'd, hid from all other eyes.Thou know'st for thee this breast what suffering tries;Me still from day to day o'er hill and plainThou chasest; heedless still, while I complainAs to my wearied steps new thorns arise.True, I discern far off the cheering lightTo which, through trackless wilds, thou urgest me:But wings like thine to bear me to delightI want:—Yet from these pangs I would not flee,Finding this only favour in her sight,That not displeased my love and death she see.Capel Lofft.
SONNET CXXXI
Or che 'l ciel e la terra e 'l vento taceNIGHT BRINGS PEACE TO ALL SAVE HIMO'er earth and sky her lone watch silence keeps,And bird and beast in stirless slumber lie,Her starry chariot Night conducts on high,And in its bed the waveless ocean sleeps.I wake, muse, burn, and weep; of all my painThe one sweet cause appears before me still;War is my lot, which grief and anger fill,And thinking but of her some rest I gain.Thus from one bright and living fountain flowsThe bitter and the sweet on which I feed;One hand alone can harm me or can heal:And thus my martyrdom no limit knows,A thousand deaths and lives each day I feel,So distant are the paths to peace which lead.Macgregor.'Tis now the hour when midnight silence reignsO'er earth and sea, and whispering Zephyr diesWithin his rocky cell; and Morpheus chainsEach beast that roams the wood, and bird that wings the skies.More blest those rangers of the earth and air,Whom night awhile relieves from toil and pain;Condemn'd to tears and sighs, and wasting care.To me the circling sun descends in vain!Ah me! that mingling miseries and joys,Too near allied, from one sad fountain flow!The magic hand that comforts and annoysCan hope, and fell despair, and life, and death bestow!Too great the bliss to find in death relief:Fate has not yet fill'd up the measure of my grief.Woodhouselee.
SONNET CXXXII
Come 'l candido piè per l' erba frescaHER WALK, LOOKS, WORDS, AND AIRAs o'er the fresh grass her fair form its sweetAnd graceful passage makes at evening hours,Seems as around the newly-wakening flowersFound virtue issue from her delicate feet.Love, which in true hearts only has his seat,Nor elsewhere deigns to prove his certain powers,So warm a pleasure from her bright eyes showers,No other bliss I ask, no better meat.And with her soft look and light step agreeHer mild and modest, never eager air,And sweetest words in constant union rare.From these four sparks—nor only these we see—Springs the great fire wherein I live and burn,Which makes me from the sun as night-birds turn.Macgregor.SONNET CXXXIII
S' io fossi stato fermo alla speluncaTO ONE WHO DESIRED LATIN VERSE OF HIMStill had I sojourn'd in that Delphic caveWhere young Apollo prophet first became,Verona, Mantua were not sole in fame,But Florence, too, her poet now might have:But since the waters of that spring no moreEnrich my land, needs must that I pursueSome other planet, and, with sickle new,Reap from my field of sticks and thorns its store.Dried is the olive: elsewhere turn'd the streamWhose source from famed Parnassus was derived.Whereby of yore it throve in best esteem.Me fortune thus, or fault perchance, deprivedOf all good fruit—unless eternal JoveShower on my head some favour from above.Macgregor.SONNET CXXXIV
Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchinaLAURA SINGSIf Love her beauteous eyes to earth incline,And all her soul concentring in a sigh,Then breathe it in her voice of melody,Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,—"Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,And the strong will, thus listening to possessHeaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.And thus I live; and thus drawn out and woundIs my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,By this sole syren from the realms of day.Dacre.Her bright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends—Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh—A brief pause—a fond hush—her voice on high,Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,Perforce I say,—"Thus be it mine to die,If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,The strong desire of more that in me yearns,Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turnsThe yarn of life which to my lot is given,Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.Macgregor.
SONNET CXXXV
Amor mi manda quel dolce penseroLIFE WILL FAIL HIM BEFORE HOPELove to my mind recalling that sweet thought,The ancient confidant our lives between,Well comforts me, and says I ne'er have beenSo near as now to what I hoped and sought.I, who at times with dangerous falsehood fraught,At times with partial truth, his words have seen,Live in suspense, still missing the just mean,'Twixt yea and nay a constant battle fought.Meanwhile the years pass on: and I beholdIn my true glass the adverse time draw nearHer promise and my hope which limits here.So let it be: alone I grow not old;Changes not e'en with age my loving troth;My fear is this—the short life left us both.Macgregor.SONNET CXXXVI
Pien d' un vago pensier, che me desviaHIS TONGUE IS TIED BY EXCESS OF PASSIONSuch vain thought as wonted to mislead meIn desert hope, by well-assurèd moan,Makes me from company to live alone,In following her whom reason bids me flee.She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;And after her my heart would fain be gone,But armèd sighs my way do stop anon,'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;Yet as I guess, under disdainful browOne beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:And therewithal bolded I seek the way howTo utter the smart I suffer within;But such it is, I not how to begin.Wyatt.Full of a tender thought, which severs meFrom all my kind, a lonely musing thing,From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring,Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee;And see her pass though soft, so adverse she,That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing:Of armèd sighs such legions does she bring,The fair antagonist of Love and me.Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow,Or much I err, one beam of pity flows,Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress:Again my bosom feels its wonted glow!But when my simple hope I would disclose,My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.Wrangham.
SONNET CXXXVII
Più volte già dal bel sembiante umanoLOVE UNMANS HIS RESOLUTIONOft as her angel face compassion wore,With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move,With bland and courteous speech, I boldly stroveTo soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore:But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more;For all my fortune, all my fate in love,My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove,To her are trusted by one sovereign power.Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break,Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent,By passion render'd spiritless and weak.Ah! now I find that fondness to excessFetters the tongue, and overpowers intent:Faint is the flame that language can express!Nott.Oft have I meant my passion to declare,When fancy read compliance in her eyes;And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs,Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair:But let that face one look of anger wear,The intention fades; for all that fate supplies,Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize,My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care.E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan,So much my voice by passion is confined;So faint, so timid are my accents grown!Ah! now the force of love I plainly see;What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind?He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me.Anon. 1777.
SONNET CXXXVIII
Giunto m' ha Amor fra belle e crude bracciaHE CANNOT END HER CRUELTY, NOR SHE HIS HOPEMe Love has left in fair cold arms to lie,Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain,My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain:Better in silence love, and loving die!For she the frozen Rhine with burning eyeCan melt at will, the hard rock break in twain,So equal to her beauty her disdainThat others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh.A breathing moving marble all the rest,Of very adamant is made her heart,So hard, to move it baffles all my art.Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast,One thing she cannot, my fond heart deterFrom tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.Macgregor.
