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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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SONNET XII
Mai non fu' in parte ove sì chiar' vedessiVAUCLUSENowhere before could I so well have seenHer whom my soul most craves since lost to view;Nowhere in so great freedom could have beenBreathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue;Never with depths of shade so calm and greenA valley found for lover's sigh more true;Methinks a spot so lovely and sereneLove not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew.All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that ILike them should love—the clear sky, the calm hour,Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower—But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high,By the sad memory of thine early fate,Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.Macgregor.Never till now so clearly have I seenHer whom my eyes desire, my soul still views;Never enjoy'd a freedom thus serene;Ne'er thus to heaven breathed my enamour'd muse,As in this vale sequester'd, darkly green;Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues,And nought intrusively may intervene,And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews.To Love and meditation, faithful shade,Receive the breathings of my grateful breast!Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nestAs this, by pine and arching laurel made!The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.Capel Lofft.
SONNET XIII
Quante fiate al mio dolce ricettoHER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDEHow oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreatFrom man and from myself I strive to fly,Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,And swelling every blossom with a sigh!How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,Along the dark and silent glens I lie,In thought again that dearest form to meetBy death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!How oft I see her rising from the tideOf Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;Or pensive wander by the river's side;Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;Bright as in life; while angel pity throwsO'er her fair face the impress of my woes.Merivale.SONNET XIV
Alma felice, che sovente torniHE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCEO blessed spirit! who dost oft return,Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scornO'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!Thus do I seem again to trace belowThy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.There now, thou seest, where long of thee had beenMy sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell—Of thee!—oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.One only solace cheers the wretched scene:By many a sign I know thy coming well—Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.Wrangham.When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:In all but frail mortality the same.Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;Now vocal only while I weep for thee.For thee!—ah, no! From human ills secure.Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day;'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:No balm relieves the anguish I endure;Save the fond feeble hope that thou art nearTo soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.Anne Bannerman.
SONNET XV
Discolorato hai, Morte, il più bel voltoHER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATIONDeath, thou of fairest face hast 'reft the hue,And quench'd in deep thick night the brightest eyes,And loosed from all its tenderest, closest tiesA spirit to faith and ardent virtue true.In one short hour to all my bliss adieu!Hush'd are those accents worthy of the skies,Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs;And all I hear is grief, and all I view.Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish'd heart,By pity led, she comes my couch to seek,Nor find I other solace here below:And if her thrilling tones my strain could speakAnd look divine, with Love's enkindling dartNot man's sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.Wrangham.Thou hast despoil'd the fairest face e'er seen—Thou hast extinguish'd, Death, the brightest eyes,And snapp'd the cord in sunder of the tiesWhich bound that spirit brilliantly serene:In one short moment all I love has beenTorn from me, and dark silence now suppliesThose gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs,Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen:Yet doth my lady, by compassion led,Return to solace my unfailing woe;Earth yields no other balm:—oh! could I tellHow bright she seems, and how her accents flow,Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread,But even bears and tigers share the spell.Wrottesley.
SONNET XVI
Sì breve è 'l tempo e 'l pensier sì veloceTHE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEARTSo brief the time, so fugitive the thoughtWhich Laura yields to me, though dead, again,Small medicine give they to my giant pain;Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought.Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought,Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain,Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign,Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought.As rules a mistress in her home of right,From my dark heavy heart her placid browDispels each anxious thought and omen drear.My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light,Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thouDidst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!"Macgregor.SONNET XVII
Nè mai pietosa madre al caro figlioHER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEFNe'er did fond mother to her darling son,Or zealous spouse to her belovèd mate,Sage counsel give, in perilous estate,With such kind caution, in such tender tone,As gives that fair one, who, oft looking downOn my hard exile from her heavenly seat,With wonted kindness bends upon my fateHer brow, as friend or parent would have done:Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear,Instructive speech, that points what several waysTo seek or shun, while journeying here below;Then all the ills of life she counts, and praysMy soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere:And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.Nott.Ne'er to the son, in whom her age is blest,The anxious mother—nor to her loved lordThe wedded dame, impending ill to ward,With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd,As she, who, from her high eternal rest,Bending—as though my exile she deplored—With all her wonted tenderness restored,And softer pity on her brow impress'd!Now with a mother's fears, and now as oneWho loves with chaste affection, in her speechShe points what to pursue and what to shun!Our years retracing of long, various grief,Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!Dacre.
SONNET XVIII
Se quell' aura soave de' sospiriSHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICEIf that soft breath of sighs, which, from above,I hear of her so long my lady here,Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere,To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love,I could but paint, my passionate verse should moveWarmest desires; so jealous, yet so dearO'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear,That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove.She points the path on high: and I who knowHer chaste anxiety and earnest prayer,In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low,Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there:And find such sweetness in her words aloneAs with their power should melt the hardest stone.Macgregor.SONNET XIX
Sennuccio mio, benchè doglioso e soloON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIOO friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here,By thee though left in solitude to roam,Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home,On angel pinions borne, in bright career?Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere,And stars that journey round the concave dome;Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come,How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear!That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd.O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band,Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest:And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand,Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd,While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.Morehead.Sennuccio mine! I yet myself console,Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone,For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown,Free from the flesh which did so late enrol;Thence, at one view, commands it either pole,The planets and their wondrous courses known,And human sight how brief and doubtful shown;Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control.One favour—in the third of those bright spheres.Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute,With Franceschin and all that tuneful train,And tell my lady how I live, in tears,(Savage and lonely as some forest brute)Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.Macgregor.
SONNET XX
I' ho pien di sospir quest' aer tuttoVAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAINTo every sound, save sighs, this air is mute,When from rude rocks, I view the smiling landWhere she was born, who held my life in handFrom its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit:To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destituteTo mourn her loss, and cast around in painThese wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vainWhere'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute;There's not a root or stone amongst these hills,Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades,Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,But knows how sharp my grief—how deep my woes.Wrottesley.SONNET XXI
L' alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bellaHE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIMMy noble flame—more fair than fairest areWhom kind Heaven here has e'er in favour shown—Before her time, alas for me! has flownTo her celestial home and parent star.I seem but now to wake; wherein a barShe placed on passion 'twas for good alone,As, with a gentle coldness all her own,She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war.My thanks on her for such wise care I press,That with her lovely face and sweet disdainShe check'd my love and taught me peace to gain.O graceful artifice! deserved success!I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she,Glory in her, she virtue got in me.Macgregor.SONNET XXII
Come va 'l mondo! or mi diletta e piaceHE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUEHow goes the world! now please me and delightWhat most displeased me: now I see and feelMy trials were vouchsafed me for my weal,That peace eternal should brief war requite.O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight,In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal!Worse had she yielded to my warm appealWhom Heaven has welcomed from the grave's dark night.But blind love and my dull mind so misled,I sought to trespass even by main forceWhere to have won my precious soul were dead.Blessèd be she who shaped mine erring courseTo better port, by turns who curb'd and luredMy bold and passionate will where safety was secured.Macgregor.Alas! this changing world! my present joyWas once my grief's dark source, and now I feelMy sufferings pass'd were but my soul to healIts fearful warfare—peace's soft decoy.Poor human wishes! Hope, thou fragile toyTo lovers oft! my woe had met its seal,Had she but hearken'd to my love's appeal,Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world's alloy.My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind,Resistless urged me to my bosom's shame,And where my soul's destruction I had met:But blessèd she who bade life's current findA holier course, who still'd my spirit's flameWith gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.Wollaston.
SONNET XXIII
Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l' AuroraMORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANTWhen from the heavens I see Aurora beam,With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair,Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear:"There Laura dwells!" I with a sigh exclaim.Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem,Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued fair;But not to her I love can I repair,Till death extinguishes this vital flame.Yet need'st thou not thy separation mourn;Certain at evening's close is the returnOf her, who doth not thy hoar locks despise;But my nights sad, my days are render'd drear,By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies,And only a remember'd name left here.Nott.When from the east appears the purple rayOf morn arising, and salutes the eyesThat wear the night in watching for the day,Thus speaks my heart: "In yonder opening skies,In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!"Thou sun, that know'st to wheel thy burning car,Each eve, to the still surface of the deep,And there within thy Thetis' bosom sleep;Oh! could I thus my Laura's presence share,How would my patient heart its sorrows bear!Adored in life, and honour'd in the dust,She that in this fond breast for ever reignsHas pass'd the gulph of death!—To deck that bust,No trace of her but the sad name remains.Woodhouselee.
SONNET XXIV
Gli occhi di ch' io parlai sì caldamenteHIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOEThe eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould,So long the theme of my impassion'd lay,Charms which so stole me from myself away,That strange to other men the course I hold;The crispèd locks of pure and lucid gold,The lightning of the angelic smile, whose rayTo earth could all of paradise convey,A little dust are now!—to feeling cold!And yet I live!—but that I live bewail,Sunk the loved light that through the tempest ledMy shatter'd bark, bereft of mast and sail:Hush'd be for aye the song that breathed love's fire!Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed,And turn'd to mourning my once tuneful lyre.Dacre.The eyes, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face,Which made my thoughts and words so warm and wild,That I was almost from myself exiled,And render'd strange to all the human race;The lucid locks that curl'd in golden grace,The lightening beam that, when my angel smiled,Diffused o'er earth an Eden heavenly mild;What are they now? Dust, lifeless dust, alas!And I live on, a melancholy slave,Toss'd by the tempest in a shatter'd bark,Reft of the lovely light that cheer'd the wave.The flame of genius, too, extinct and dark,Here let my lays of love conclusion have;Mute be the lyre: tears best my sorrows mark.Morehead.
Those eyes whose living lustre shed the heatOf bright meridian day; the heavenly mouldOf that angelic form; the hands, the feet,The taper arms, the crispèd locks of gold;Charms that the sweets of paradise enfold;The radiant lightning of her angel-smile,And every grace that could the sense beguileAre now a pile of ashes, deadly cold!And yet I bear to drag this cumbrous chain,That weighs my soul to earth—to bliss or painAlike insensible:—her anchor lost,The frail dismantled bark, all tempest-toss'd,Surveys no port of comfort—closed the sceneOf life's delusive joys;—and dry the Muse's vein.Woodhouselee.
Those eyes, sweet subject of my rapturous strain!The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face,By which I from myself divided was,And parted from the vulgar and the vain;Those crispèd locks, pure gold unknown to stain!Of that angelic smile the lightening grace,Which wont to make this earth a heavenly place!Dissolved to senseless ashes now remain!And yet I live, to endless grief a prey,'Reft of that star, my loved, my certain guide,Disarm'd my bark, while tempests round me blow!Stop, then, my verse—dry is the fountain's tide.That fed my genius! Cease, my amorous lay!Changed is my lyre, attuned to endless woe!Charlemont.
SONNET XXV
S' io avessi pensato che sì careHIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIREDHad I e'er thought that to the world so dearThe echo of my sighs would be in rhyme,I would have made them in my sorrow's primeRarer in style, in number more appear.Since she is dead my muse who prompted here,First in my thoughts and feelings at all time,All power is lost of tender or sublimeMy rough dark verse to render soft and clear.And certes, my sole study and desireWas but—I knew not how—in those long yearsTo unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire.I wept, but wish'd no honour in my tears.Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair,Silent and weary, calls me to her there.Macgregor.Oh! had I deem'd my sighs, in numbers rung,Could e'er have gain'd the world's approving smile,I had awoke my rhymes in choicer style,My sorrow's birth more tunefully had sung:But she is gone whose inspiration hungOn all my words, and did my thoughts beguile;My numbers harsh seem'd melody awhile,Now she is mute who o'er them music flung.Nor fame, nor other incense, then I sought,But how to quell my heart's o'erwhelming grief;I wept, but sought no honour in my tear:But could the world's fair suffrage now be bought,'Twere joy to gain, but that my hour is brief,Her lofty spirit waves me to her bier.Wollaston.
SONNET XXVI
Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e vivaSINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEFShe stood within my heart, warm, young, alone,As in a humble home a lady bright;By her last flight not merely am I grownMortal, but dead, and she an angel quite.A soul whence every bliss and hope is flown,Love shorn and naked of its own glad light,Might melt with pity e'en a heart of stone:But none there is to tell their grief or write;These plead within, where deaf is every earExcept mine own, whose power its griefs so marThat nought is left me save to suffer here.Verily we but dust and shadows are!Verily blind and evil is our will!Verily human hopes deceive us still!Macgregor.'Mid life's bright glow she dwelt within my soul,The sovereign tenant of a humble cell,But when for heaven she bade the world farewell,Death seem'd to grasp me in his fierce control:My wither'd love torn from its brightening goal—My soul without its treasure doom'd to dwell—Could I but trace their grief, their sorrow tell,A stone might wake, and fain with them condole.They inly mourn, where none can hear their woeSave I alone, who too with grief oppress'd,Can only soothe my anguish by my sighs:Life is indeed a shadowy dream below;Our blind desires by Reason's chain unbless'd,Whilst Hope in treacherous wither'd fragments lies.Wollaston.
SONNET XXVII
Soleano i miei pensier soavementeHE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIMMy thoughts in fair alliance and arrayHold converse on the theme which most endears:Pity approaches and repents delay:E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.Since the last day, the terrible hour when FateThis present life of her fair being reft,From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state:No other hope than this to me is left.O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd.Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,Who to the world so eminent and clearMade her great virtue and my passion here.Macgregor.My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweetTo meditate their object in my breast—Perhaps her sympathies my wishes meetWith gentlest pity, seeing me distress'd:Nor when removed to that her sacred restThe present life changed for that blest retreat,Vanish'd in air my former visions fleet,My hopes, my tears, in vain to her address'd.O lovely miracle! O favour'd mind!Beauty beyond example high and rare,So soon return'd from us to whence it came!There the immortal wreaths her temples bind;The sacred palm is hers: on earth so fairWho shone by her own virtues and my flame.Capel Lofft.
SONNET XXVIII
I' mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scusoHE GLORIES IN HIS LOVEI now excuse myself who wont to blame,Nay, more, I prize and even hold me dear,For this fair prison, this sweet-bitter shame,Which I have borne conceal'd so many a year.O envious Fates! that rare and golden frameRudely ye broke, where lightly twined and clear,Yarn of my bonds, the threads of world-wide fameWhich lovely 'gainst his wont made Death appear.For not a soul was ever in its daysOf joy, of liberty, of life so fond,That would not change for her its natural ways,Preferring thus to suffer and despond,Than, fed by hope, to sing in others' praise,Content to die, or live in such a bond.Macgregor.SONNET XXIX
Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunteTHE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATHTwo mortal foes in one fair breast combined,Beauty and Virtue, in such peace alliedThat ne'er rebellion ruffled that pure mind,But in rare union dwelt they side by side;By Death they now are shatter'd and disjoin'd;One is in heaven, its glory and its pride,One under earth, her brilliant eyes now blind,Whence stings of love once issued far and wide.That winning air, that rare discourse and meek,Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glanceWhich wounded my poor heart, and wins it still,Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek,I hope her fair and graceful name perchanceTo consecrate with this worn weary quill.Macgregor.Within one mortal shrine two foes had met—Beauty and Virtue—yet they dwelt so bright,That ne'er within the soul did they exciteRebellious thought, their union might beget:But, parted to fulfil great nature's debt,One blooms in heaven, exulting in its height;Its twin on earth doth rest, from whose veil'd nightNo more those eyes of love man's soul can fret.That speech by Heaven inspired, so humbly wise—That graceful air—her look so winning, meek,That woke and kindles still my bosom's pain—They all have fled; but if to gain her skiesI tardy seem, my weary pen would seekFor her blest name a consecrated reign!Wollaston.
SONNET XXX
Quand' io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anniTHE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERYWhen I look back upon the many yearsWhich in their flight my best thoughts have entomb'd,And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed,And finish'd the repose so full of tears,Broken the faith which Love's young dream endears,And the two parts of all my blessing doom'd,This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed,And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears,I wake, and feel me to the bitter windSo bare, I envy the worst lot I see;Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait.O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind!O day for ever dark and drear to me!How have ye sunk me in this abject state!Macgregor.When memory turns to gaze on time gone by(Which in its flight hath arm'd e'en thought with wings),And to my troubled rest a period brings,Quells, too, the flame which long could ice defy;And when I mark Love's promise wither'd lie,That treasure parted which my bosom wrings(For she in heaven, her shrine to nature clings),Whilst thus my toils' reward she doth deny;—I then awake and feel bereaved indeed!The darkest fate on earth seems bliss to mine—So much I fear myself, and dread its woe!O Fortune!—Death! O star! O fate decreed!O bitter day! that yet must sweetly shine,Alas! too surely thou hast laid me low!Wollaston.
SONNET XXXI
Ov' è la fronte che con picciol cennoHE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURAWhere is the brow whose gentlest beckonings ledMy raptured heart at will, now here, now there?Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere,Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed?Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?Where, group'd in one rich form, the beauties rare,Which long their magic influence o'er me shed?Where is the shade, within whose sweet recessMy wearied spirit still forgot its sighs,And all my thoughts their constant record found?Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?—Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes(Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drown'd.Wrangham.Where is that face, whose slightest air could moveMy trembling heart, and strike the springs of love?That heaven, where two fair stars, with genial ray,Shed their kind influence on life's dim way?Where are that science, sense, and worth confess'd?That speech by virtue, by the graces dress'd?Where are those beauties, where those charms combined,That caused this long captivity of mind?Where the dear shade of all that once was fair,The source, the solace, of each amorous care—My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast?—Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!Langhorne.
SONNET XXXII
Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terraHE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASUREO earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face,And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone,Whence all that gave delight on earth was known,How much I envy thee that harsh embrace!O heaven, that in thy airy courts confinedThat purest spirit, when from earth she fled,And sought the mansions of the righteous dead;How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind!O angels, that in your seraphic choirReceived her sister-soul, and now enjoyStill present, those delights without alloy,Which my fond heart must still in vain desire!In her I lived—in her my life decays;Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.Woodhouselee.What envy of the greedy earth I bear,That holds from me within its cold embraceThe light, the meaning, of that angel face,On which to gaze could soften e'en despair.What envy of the saints, in realms so fair,Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of graceThe spirit pure to summon to its place,Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;What envy of the blest in heaven above,With whom she dwells in sympathies divineDenied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove,That with her life has ta'en the light of mine,Yet calls me not,—though fixed and cold those eyes.Wrottesley.
