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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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SONNET LIV
Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutteTO THE MEMORY OF GIACOMO COLONNA, WHO DIED BEFORE PETRARCH COULD REPLY TO A LETTER OF HISNe'er shall I see again with eyes unwet,Or with the sure powers of a tranquil mind,Those characters where Love so brightly shined,And his own hand affection seem'd to set;Spirit! amid earth's strifes unconquer'd yet,Breathing such sweets from heaven which now has shrined,As once more to my wandering verse has join'dThe style which Death had led me to forget.Another work, than my young leaves more bright,I thought to show: what envying evil starSnatch'd thee, my noble treasure, thus from me?So soon who hides thee from my fond heart's sight,And from thy praise my loving tongue would bar?My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.Macgregor.Oh! ne'er shall I behold with tearless eyeOr tranquil soul those characters of thine,In which affection doth so brightly shine,And charity's own hand I can descry!Blest soul! that could this earthly strife defy,Thy sweets instilling from thy home divine,Thou wakest in me the tone which once was mine,To sing my rhymes Death's power did long deny.With these, my brow's young leaves, I fondly dream'dAnother work than this had greeted thee:What iron planet envied thus our love?My treasure! veil'd ere age had darkly gleam'd;Thou—whom my song records—my heart doth see;Thou wakest my sigh, and sighing, rest I prove.Wollaston.
CANZONE III
Standomi un giorno solo alla finestraUNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE, BEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURAWhile at my window late I stood alone,So new and many things there cross'd my sight,To view them I had almost weary grown.A dappled hind appear'd upon the right,In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride,By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white,Who tore in the poor sideOf that fair creature wounds so deep and wide,That soon they forced her where ravine and rockThe onward passage block:Then triumph'd Death her matchless beauties o'er,And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.Upon the summer wave a gay ship danced,Her cordage was of silk, of gold her sails,Her sides with ivory and ebon glanced,The sea was tranquil, favouring were the gales,And heaven as when no cloud its azure veils.A rich and goodly merchandise is hers;But soon the tempest wakes,And wind and wave to such mad fury stirs,That, driven on the rocks, in twain she breaks;My heart with pity aches,That a short hour should whelm, a small space hide,Riches for which the world no equal had beside.In a fair grove a bright young laurel made—Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!—Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade,From whose green depths there issued so sweet songsOf various birds, and many a rare delightOf eye and ear, what marvel from the worldThey stole my senses quite!While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around,The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd,Uprooted to the ground,That blessed birth. Alas! for it laid low,And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.A crystal fountain in that very groveGush'd from a rock, whose waters fresh and clearShed coolness round and softly murmur'd love;Never that leafy screen and mossy seatDrew browsing flock or whistling rustic nearBut nymphs and muses danced to music sweet.There as I sat and drankWith infinite delight their carols gay,And mark'd their sport, the earth before me sankAnd bore with it awayThe fountain and the scene, to my great grief,Who now in memory find a sole and scant relief.A lovely and rare bird within the wood,Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd,Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd,Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd,Flitting now here, now there, until it stoodWhere buried fount and broken laurel lay,And sadly seeing thereThe fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare,The channel dried—for all things to decaySo tend—it turn'd awayAs if in angry scorn, and instant fled,While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.At length along the flowery sward I sawSo sweet and fair a lady pensive moveThat her mere thought inspires a tender awe;Meek in herself, but haughty against Love,Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fineSeem'd gold and snow together there to join:But, ah! each charm aboveWas veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud:Stung by a lurking snake, as flowers that pineHer head she gently bow'd,And joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure:Alas! that in the world grief only should endure.My song! in each sad change,These visions, as they rise, sweet, solemn, strange,But show how deeply in thy master's breastThe fond desire abides to die and be at rest.Macgregor.BALLATA I
Amor, quando fioriaHIS GRIEF AT SURVIVING HER IS MITIGATED BY THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT SHE NOW KNOWS HIS HEARTYes, Love, at that propitious timeWhen hope was in its bloomy prime,And when I vainly fancied nighThe meed of all my constancy;Then sudden she, of whom I soughtCompassion, from my sight was caught.O ruthless Death! O life severe!The one has sunk me deep in care,And darken'd cruelly my day,That shone with hope's enlivening ray:The other, adverse to my will,Doth here on earth detain me still;And interdicts me to pursueHer, who from all its scenes withdrew:Yet in my heart resides the fair,For ever, ever present there;Who well perceives the ills that waitUpon my wretched, mortal state.Nott.Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride,While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh,She, upon whom for mercy I relied,Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye.O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! thisPlunged me in deepest woe,And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss;Against my will that keeps me here below,Who else would yearn to go,And join the sainted fair who left us late;Yet present every hourIn my heart's core there wields she her old power,And knows, whate'er my life, its every state!Macgregor.
CANZONE IV
Tacer non posso, e temo non adopreHE RECALLS HER MANY GRACESFain would I speak—too long has silence seal'dLips that would gladly with my full heart moveWith one consent, and yieldHomage to her who listens from above;Yet how can I, without thy prompting, Love,With mortal words e'er equal things divine,And picture faithfullyThe high humility whose chosen shrineWas that fair prison whence she now is free?Which held, erewhile, her gentle spirit, whenSo in my conscious heart her power began.That, instantly, I ran,—Alike o' th' year and me 'twas April then—From these gay meadows round sweet flowers to bind,Hoping rich pleasure at her eyes to find.The walls were alabaster, the roof gold,Ivory the doors, the sapphire windows lentWhence on my heart of oldIts earliest sigh, as shall my last, was sent;In arrowy jets of fire thence came and wentArm'd messengers of love, whereof to thinkAs then they were, with awe—Though now for them with laurel crown'd—I shrinkOf one rare diamond, square, without a flaw,High in the midst a stately throne was placedWhere sat the lovely lady all alone:In front a column shoneOf crystal, and thereon each thought was tracedIn characters so clear, and quick, and true,By turns it gladden'd me and grieved to view.To weapons such as these, sharp, burning, bright,To the green glorious banner waved above,—'Gainst which would fail in fightMars, Polypheme, Apollo, mighty Jove—While still my sorrow fresh and verdant throve,I stood defenceless, doom'd; her easy preyShe led me as she choseWhence to escape I knew nor art nor way;But, as a friend, who, haply, grieves yet goes,Sees something still to lure his eyes and heart,Just so on her, for whom I am in thrall,Sole perfect work of allThat graced her age, unable to depart,With such desire my rapt regards I set,As soon myself and misery to forget.On earth myself, my heart in Eden dwelt,Lost in sweet Lethe every other care,As my live frame I feltTo marble turn, watching that wonder rare;When old in years, but youthful still in air,A lady briefly, quietly drew nigh,And thus beholding me,With reverent aspect and admiring eye,Kind offer made my counsellor to be:"My power," she said, "is more than mortals know—Lighter than air, I, in an instant, makeTheir hearts exult or ache,I loose and bind whate'er is seen below;Thine eyes, upon that sun, as eagles', bend,But to my words with willing ears attend."The day when she was born, the stars that winProsperity for man shone bright above;Their high glad homes withinEach on the other smiled with gratulant love;Fair Venus, and, with gentle aspect, JoveThe beautiful and lordly mansions held:Seem'd as each adverse lightThroughout all heaven was darken'd and dispell'd,The sun ne'er look'd upon a day so bright;The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had restBy lake and river, and o'er ocean green:'Mid the enchanting sceneOne distant cloud alone my thought distress'd,Lest sometime it might be of tears the sourceUnless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course."When first she enter'd on this life below,Which, to say sooth, not worthy was to hold,'Twas strange to see her soAngelical and dear in baby mould;A snowy pearl she seem'd in finest gold;Next as she crawl'd, or totter'd with short pace,Wood, water, earth, and stoneGrew green, and clear, and soft; with livelier graceThe sward beneath her feet and fingers shone;With flowers the champain to her bright eyes smiled;At her sweet voice, babbling through lips that yetFrom Love's own fount were wet,The hoarse wind silent grew, the tempest mild:Thus clearly showing to the dull blind worldHow much in her was heaven's own light unfurl'd."At length, her life's third flowery epoch won,She, year by year, so grew in charms and worth,That ne'er, methinks, the sunSuch gracefulness and beauty saw on earth;Her eyes so full of modesty and mirth,Music and welcome on her words so hung,That mute in her high praise,Which thine alone may sound, is every tongue:So bright her countenance with heavenly rays,Not long thy dazzled vision there may rest;From this her fair and fleshly tenementSuch fire through thine is sent(Though gentler never kindled human breast),That yet I fear her sudden flight may beToo soon the cause of bitter grief to thee."This said, she turn'd her to the rapid wheelWhereon she winds of mortal life the thread;Too true did she revealThe doom of woe which darken'd o'er my head!A few brief years flew by,When she, for whom I so desire to die,By black and pitiless Death, who could not slayA fairer form than hers, was snatch'd away!Macgregor.SONNET LV
Or hai fatto l' estremo di tua possaDEATH MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT OF THE MEMORY OF HER VIRTUESNow hast thou shown, fell Death! thine utmost might.Through Love's bright realm hast want and darkness spread,Hast now cropp'd beauty's flower, its heavenly lightQuench'd, and enclosed in the grave's narrow bed;Now hast thou life despoil'd of all delight,Its ornament and sovereign honour shed:But fame and worth it is not thine to blight;These mock thy power, and sleep not with the dead.Be thine the mortal part; heaven holds the best,And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows,While memory still records the great and good.O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest!Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes,E'en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.Dacre.Now hast thou shown the utmost of thy might,O cruel Death! Love's kingdom hast thou rent,And made it poor; in narrow grave hast pentThe blooming flower of beauty and its light!Our wretched life thou hast despoil'd outrightOf every honour, every ornament!But then her fame, her worth, by thee unblent,Shall still survive!—her dust is all thy right;The rest heaven holds, proud of her charms divineAs of a brighter sun. Nor dies she here—Her memory lasts, to good men ever dear!O angel new, in thy celestial sphereLet pity now thy sainted heart incline,As here below thy beauty vanquish'd mine!Charlemont.
SONNET LVI
L' aura e l' odore e 'l refrigerio e l' ombraHER OWN VIRTUES IMMORTALISE HER IN HEAVEN, AND HIS PRAISES ON EARTHThe air and scent, the comfort and the shadeOf my sweet laurel, and its flowery sight,That to my weary life gave rest and light,Death, spoiler of the world, has lowly laid.As when the moon our sun's eclipse has made,My lofty light has vanish'd so in night;For aid against himself I Death invite;With thoughts so dark does Love my breast invade.Thou didst but sleep, bright lady, a brief sleep,In bliss amid the chosen spirits to wake,Who gaze upon their God, distinct and near:And if my verse shall any value keep,Preserved and praised 'mid noble minds to makeThy name, its memory shall be deathless here.Macgregor.The fragrant gale, and the refreshing shadeOf my sweet laurel, and its verdant form,That were my shelter in life's weary storm,Have felt the power that makes all nature fade:Now has my light been lost in gloomy shade,E'en as the sun behind his sister's form:I call for Death to free me from Death's storm,But Love descends and brings me better aid!He tells me, lady, that one moment's sleepAlone was thine, and then thou didst awakeAmong the elect, and in thy Maker's arms:And if my verse oblivion's power can keepAloof, thy name its place on earth-will takeWhere Genius still will dote upon thy charms!Morehead.
SONNET LVII
L' ultimo, lasso! de' miei giorni allegriHE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETINGThe last, alas! of my bright days and glad—Few have been mine in this brief life below—Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow,Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad.As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad,Who of some frequent fever waits the blow,E'en so I felt—for how could I foreknowSuch near end of the half-joys I have had?Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'dWith the pure light whence health and life descends,(Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,)With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd:"Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends,Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd."Macgregor.Ah me! the last of all my happy days(Not many happy days my years can show)Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow,Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays!E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays,And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow;'Twas thus I felt!—but could I therefore knowHow soon would end the bliss that never stays?Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light,Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain,Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night,Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,—"Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain,Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!"Morehead.
SONNET LVIII
O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momentoHE MOURNS HIS WANT OF PERCEPTION AT THAT MEETINGO Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last,O stars conspired to make me poor indeed!O look too true, in which I seem'd to read.At parting, that my happiness was past;Now my full loss I know, I feel at last:Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!)'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead,Was there a hope that flew not with the blast?For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'dThat the sweet light of all my life should die:'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye!But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd;Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd,That I might sink in sudden misery!Morehead.Dark hour, last moment of that fatal day!Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined!O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to sayFarewell to me, farewell to peace of mind!Awaken'd now, my losses I survey:Alas! I fondly thought—thoughts weak and blind!—That absence would take part, not all, away;How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind.Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise,To quench for ever my life's genial light,And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so.Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes,That blinded me to all before my sight,And sank at once my life in deepest woe.Macgregor.
SONNET LIX
Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardoHE SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN HIS LOSS IN THE UNUSUAL LUSTRE OF HER EYESThat glance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet,Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh;For here no more thou'lt see me, till on highFrom earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet."O intellect than forest pard more fleet!Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry,How didst thou fail to see in her bright eyeWhat since befell, whence I my ruin meet.Silently shining with a fire sublime,They said, "O friendly lights, which long have beenMirrors to us where gladly we were seen,Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time;Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond,But wills in your despite that you shall live beyond."Macgregor.CANZONE V
Solea dalla fontana di mia vitaMEMORY IS HIS ONLY SOLACE AND SUPPORTI who was wont from life's best fountain farSo long to wander, searching land and sea,Pursuing not my pleasure, but my star,And alway, as Love knows who strengthen'd me,Ready in bitter exile to depart,For hope and memory both then fed my heart;Alas! now wring my hands, and to unkindAnd angry Fortune, which away has reftThat so sweet hope, my armour have resign'd;And, memory only left,I feed my great desire on that alone,Whence frail and famish'd is my spirit grown.As haply by the way, if want of foodCompel the traveller to relax his speed,Losing that strength which first his steps endued,So feeling, for my weary life, the needOf that dear nourishment Death rudely stole,Leaving the world all bare, and sad my soul,From time to time fair pleasures pall, my sweetTo bitter turns, fear rises, and hopes fail,My course, though brief, that I shall e'er complete:Cloudlike before the gale,To win some resting-place from rest I flee,—If such indeed my doom, so let it be.Never to mortal life could I incline,—Be witness, Love, with whom I parley oft—Except for her who was its light and mine.And since, below extinguish'd, shines aloftThe life in which I lived, if lawful 'twere,My chief desire would be to follow her:But mine is ample cause of grief, for ITo see my future fate was ill supplied;This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eyeElsewhere my hopes to guide:Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad,Whom death a little earlier had made glad.In those bright eyes, where wont my heart to dwell,Until by envy my hard fortune stirr'dRose from so rich a temple to expel,Love with his proper hand had character'dIn lines of pity what, ere long, I weenThe issue of my old desire had been.Dying alone, and not my life with me,Comely and sweet it then had been to die,Leaving my life's best part unscathed and free;But now my fond hopes lieDead in her silent dust: a secret chillShoots through me when I think that I live still.If my poor intellect had but the forceTo help my need, and if no other lureHad led it from the plain and proper course,Upon my lady's brow 'twere easy sureTo have read this truth, "Here all thy pleasure dies,And hence thy lifelong trial dates its rise."My spirit then had gently pass'd awayIn her dear presence from all mortal care;Freed from this troublesome and heavy clay,Mounting, before her, whereAngels and saints prepared on high her place,Whom I but follow now with slow sad pace.My song! if one there beWho in his love finds happiness and rest,Tell him this truth from me,"Die, while thou still art bless'd,For death betimes is comfort, not dismay,And who can rightly die needs no delay."Macgregor.SESTINA I
Mia benigna fortuna e 'l viver lietoIN HIS MISERY HE DESIRES DEATH THE MORE HE REMEMBERS HIS PAST CONTENTMENT AND COMFORTMy favouring fortune and my life of joy,My days so cloudless, and my tranquil nights,The tender sigh, the pleasing power of song,Which gently wont to sound in verse and rhyme,Suddenly darken'd into grief and tears,Make me hate life and inly pray for death!O cruel, grim, inexorable Death!How hast thou dried my every source of joy,And left me to drag on a life of tears,Through darkling days and melancholy nights.My heavy sighs no longer meet in rhyme,And my hard martyrdom exceeds all song!Where now is vanish'd my once amorous song?To talk of anger and to treat with death;Where the fond verses, where the happy rhymeWelcomed by gentle hearts with pensive joy?Where now Love's communings that cheer'd my nights?My sole theme, my one thought, is now but tears!Erewhile to my desire so sweet were tearsTheir tenderness refined my else rude song,And made me wake and watch the livelong nights;But sorrow now to me is worse than death,Since lost for aye that look of modest joy,The lofty subject of my lowly rhyme!Love in those bright eyes to my ready rhymeGave a fair theme, now changed, alas! to tears;With grief remembering that time of joy,My changed thoughts issue find in other song,Evermore thee beseeching, pallid Death,To snatch and save me from these painful nights!Sleep has departed from my anguish'd nights,Music is absent from my rugged rhyme,Which knows not now to sound of aught but death;Its notes, so thrilling once, all turn'd to tears,Love knows not in his reign such varied song,As full of sadness now as then of joy!Man lived not then so crown'd as I with joy,Man lives not now such wretched days and nights;And my full festering grief but swells the songWhich from my bosom draws the mournful rhyme;I lived in hope, who now live but in tears,Nor against death have other hope save death!Me Death in her has kill'd; and only DeathCan to my sight restore that face of joy,Which pleasant made to me e'en sighs and tears,Balmy the air, and dewy soft the nights,Wherein my choicest thoughts I gave to rhymeWhile Love inspirited my feeble song!Would that such power as erst graced Orpheus' songWere mine to win my Laura back from death,As he Eurydice without a rhyme;Then would I live in best excess of joy;Or, that denied me, soon may some sad nightClose for me ever these twin founts of tears!Love! I have told with late and early tears,My grievous injuries in doleful song;Not that I hope from thee less cruel nights;And therefore am I urged to pray for death,Which hence would take me but to crown with joy,Where lives she whom I sing in this sad rhyme!If so high may aspire my weary rhyme,To her now shelter'd safe from rage and tears,Whose beauties fill e'en heaven with livelier joy,Well would she recognise my alter'd song,Which haply pleased her once, ere yet by deathHer days were cloudless made and dark my nights!O ye, who fondly sigh for better nights,Who listen to love's will, or sing in rhyme,Pray that for me be no delay in death,The port of misery, the goal of tears,But let him change for me his ancient song,Since what makes others sad fills me with joy!Ay! for such joy, in one or in few nights,I pray in rude song and in anguish'd rhyme,That soon my tears may ended be in death!Macgregor.SONNET LX
Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sassoHE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHINGGo, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go,Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes;There call on her who answers from yon skies,Although the mortal part dwells dark and low.Of life how I am wearied make her know,Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise:But, copying all her virtues I so prize,Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow.I sing of her, living, or dead, alone;(Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!)That by the world she should be loved, and known.Oh! in my passage hence may she be near,To greet my coming that's not long delay'd;And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!Nott.Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bringTo that cold stone, which holds the dear remainsOf all that earth held precious;—uttering,If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains.Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no moreTo stem the troublous ocean,—here at lastHer votary treads the solitary shore;His only pleasure to recall the past.Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate,In death still holds her empire: all his care,So grant the Muse her aid,—to celebrateHer every word, and thought, and action fair.Be this my meed, that in the hour of deathHer kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath!Woodhouselee.
SONNET LXI
S' onesto amor può meritar mercedeHE PRAYS THAT, IN REWARD FOR HIS LONG AND VIRTUOUS ATTACHMENT, SHE WILL VISIT HIM IN DEATHIf Mercy e'er rewardeth virtuous love,If Pity still can do, as she has done,I shall have rest, for clearer than the sunMy lady and the world my faith approve.Who fear'd me once, now knows, yet scarce believesI am the same who wont her love to seek,Who seek it still; where she but heard me speak,Or saw my face, she now my soul perceives.Wherefore I hope that e'en in heaven she mournsMy heavy anguish, and on me the whileHer sweet face eloquent of pity turns,And that when shuffled off this mortal coil,Her way to me with that fair band she'll wend,True follower of Christ and virtue's friend.Macgregor.If virtuous love doth merit recompense—If pity still maintain its wonted sway—I that reward shall win, for bright as dayTo earth and Laura breathes my faith's incense.She fear'd me once—now heavenly confidenceReveals my heart's first hope's unchanging stay;A word, a look, could this alone convey,My heart she reads now, stripp'd of earth's defence.And thus I hope, she for my heavy sighsTo heaven complains, to me she pity showsBy sympathetic visits in my dream:And when this mortal temple breathless lies,Oh! may she greet my soul, enclosed by thoseWhom heaven and virtue love—our friends supreme.Wollaston.
