The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
THE TRIUMPH OF ETERNITY
Da poi che sotto 'l ciel cosa non vidiWhen all beneath the ample cope of heavenI saw, like clouds before the tempest driven,In sad vicissitude's eternal round,Awhile I stood in holy horror bound;And thus at last with self-exploring mind,Musing, I ask'd, "What basis I could findTo fix my trust?" An inward voice replied,"Trust to the Almighty: He thy steps shall guide;He never fails to hear the faithful prayer,But worldly hope must end in dark despair."Now, what I am, and what I was, I know;I see the seasons in procession goWith still increasing speed; while things to come,Unknown, unthought, amid the growing gloomOf long futurity, perplex my soul,While life is posting to its final goal.Mine is the crime, who ought with clearer lightTo watch the winged years' incessant flight;And not to slumber on in dull delayTill circling seasons bring the doomful day.But grace is never slow in that, I trust,To wake the mind, before I sink to dust,With those strong energies that lift the soulTo scenes unhoped, unthought, above the pole.While thus I ponder'd, soon my working thoughtOnce more that ever-changing picture broughtOf sublunary things before my view,And thus I question'd with myself anew:—"What is the end of this incessant flightOf life and death, alternate day and night?When will the motion on these orbs impress'dSink on the bosom of eternal rest?"At once, as if obsequious to my will,Another prospect shone, unmoved and still;Eternal as the heavens that glow'd above,A wide resplendent scene of light and love.The wheels of Phœbus from the zodiac turn'd;No more the nightly constellations burn'd;Green earth and undulating ocean roll'dAway, by some resistless power controll'd;Immensity conceived, and brought to birthA grander firmament, and more luxuriant earth.What wonder seized my soul when first I view'dHow motionless the restless racer stood,Whose flying feet, with winged speed before,Still mark'd with sad mutation sea and shore.No more he sway'd the future and the past,But on the moveless present fix'd at last;As at a goal reposing from his toils,Like earth unclothed of all its vernal foils.Unvaried scene! where neither change nor fate,Nor care, nor sorrow, can our joys abate;Nor finds the light of thought resistance here,More than the sunbeams in a crystal sphere.But no material things can match their flight,In speed excelling far the race of light.Oh! what a glorious lot shall then be mineIf Heaven to me these nameless joys assign!For there the sovereign good for ever reigns,Nor evil yet to come, nor present pains;No baleful birth of time its inmates fear,That comes, the burthen of the passing year;No solar chariot circles through the signs,And now too near, and now too distant, shines;To wretched man and earth's devoted soilDispensing sad variety of toil.Oh! happy are the blessed souls that singLoud hallelujahs in eternal ring!Thrice happy he, who late, at last shall findA lot in the celestial climes assign'd!He, led by grace, the auspicious ford explores,Where, cross the plains, the wintry torrent roars;That troublous tide, where, with incessant strife,Weak mortals struggle through, and call it life.In love with Vanity, oh, doubly blindAre they that final consolation findIn things that fleet on dissolution's wing,Or dance away upon the transient ringOf seasons, as they roll. No sound they hearFrom that still voice that Wisdom's sons revere;No vestment they procure to keep them warmAgainst the menace of the wintry storm;But all exposed, in naked nature lie,A shivering crowd beneath the inclement sky,Of reason void, by every foe subdued,Self-ruin'd, self-deprived of sovereign good;Reckless of Him, whose universal sway,Matter, and all its various forms, obey;Whether they mix in elemental strife,Or meet in married calm, and foster life.His nature baffles all created mind,In earth or heaven, to fathom, or to find.One glimpse of glory on the saints bestow'd,With eager longings fills the courts of GodFor deeper views, in that abyss of light,While mortals slumber here, content with night:Though nought, we find, below the moon, can fillThe boundless cravings of the human will.And yet, what fierce desire the fancy wingsTo gain a grasp of perishable things;Although one fleeting hour may scatter farThe fruit of many a year's corroding care;Those spacious regions where our fancies roam,Pain'd by the past, expecting ills to come,In some dread moment, by the fates assign'd,Shall pass away, nor leave a rack behind;And Time's revolving wheels shall lose at lastThe speed that spins the future and the past;And, sovereign of an undisputed throne,Awful eternity shall reign alone.Then every darksome veil shall fleet awayThat hides the prospects of eternal day:Those cloud-born objects of our hopes and fears,Whose air-drawn forms deluded memory bearsAs of substantial things, away so fastShall fleet, that mortals, at their speed aghast,Watching the change of all beneath the moon,Shall ask, what once they were, and will be soon?The time will come when every change shall cease,This quick revolving wheel shall rest in peace:No summer then shall glow, nor winter freeze;Nothing shall be to come, and nothing past,But an eternal now shall ever last.Though time shall be no more, yet space shall giveA nobler theatre to love and liveThe wingèd courier then no more shall claimThe power to sink or raise the notes of Fame,Or give its glories to the noontide ray:True merit then, in everlasting day,Shall shine for ever, as at first it shoneAt once to God and man and angels known.Happy are they who in this changing sphereAlready have begun the bright careerThat reaches to the goal which, all in vain,The Muse would blazon in her feeble strain:But blest above all other blest is heWho from the trammels of mortality,Ere half the vital thread ran out, was free,Mature for Heaven; where now the matchless fairPreserves those features, that seraphic air,And all those mental charms that raised my mind,To judge of heaven while yet on earth confined.That soft attractive glance that won my heartWhen first my bosom felt unusual smart,Now beams, now glories, in the realms above,Fed by the eternal source of light and love.Then shall I see her as I first beheld,But lovelier far, and by herself excell'd;And I distinguish'd in the bands aboveShall hear this plaudit in the choirs of love:—"Lo! this is he who sung in mournful strainsFor many years a lover's doubts and pains;Yet in this soul-expanding, sweet employ,A sacred transport felt above all vulgar joy."She too shall wonder at herself to hearHer praises ring around the radiant sphere:But of that hour it is not mine to know;To her, perhaps, the period of my woeIs manifest; for she my fate may findIn the pure mirror of the eternal mind.To me it seems at hand a sure presage,Denotes my rise from this terrestrial stage;Then what I gain'd and lost below shall lieSuspended in the balance of the sky,And all our anxious sublunary caresShall seem one tissue of Arachne's snares;And all the lying vanities of life,The sordid source of envy, hate, and strife,Ignoble as they are, shall then appearBefore the searching beam of truth severe;Then souls, from sense refined, shall see the fraudThat led them from the living way of God.From the dark dungeon of the human breastAll direful secrets then shall rise confess'd,In honour multiplied—a dreadful showTo hierarchies above, and saints below.Eternal reason then shall give her doom;And, sever'd wide, the tenants of the tombShall seek their portions with instinctive haste,Quick as the savage speeds along the waste.Then shall the golden hoard its trust betray,And they, that, mindless of that dreadful day,Boasted their wealth, its vanity shall knowIn the dread avenue of endless woe:While they whom moderation's wholesome ruleKept still unstain'd in Virtue's heavenly school,Who the calm sunshine of the soul beneathEnjoy'd, will share the triumph of the Faith.These pageants five the world and I beheld,The sixth and last, I hope, in heaven reveal'd(If Heaven so will), when Time with speedy handThe scene despoils, and Death's funereal wandThe triumph leads. But soon they both shall fallUnder that mighty hand that governs all,While they who toil for true renown below,Whom envious Time and Death, a mightier foe,Relentless plunged in dark oblivion's womb,When virtue seem'd to seek the silent tomb,Spoil'd of her heavenly charms once more shall rise,Regain their beauty, and assert the skies;Leaving the dark sojourn of time beneath,And the wide desolated realms of Death.But she will early seek these glorious bounds,Whose long-lamented fall the world resoundsIn unison with me. And heaven will viewThat awful day her heavenly charms renew,When soul with body joins. Gebenna's strandSaw me enroll'd in Love's devoted band,And mark'd my toils through many hard campaignsAnd wounds, whose scars my memory yet retains.Blest is the pile that marks the hallow'd dust!—There, at the resurrection of the just,When the last trumpet with earth-shaking soundShall wake her sleepers from their couch profound;Then, when that spotless and immortal mindIn a material mould once more enshrined,With wonted charms shall wake seraphic love,How will the beatific sight improveHer heavenly beauties in the climes above!Boyd.[LINES 82-99.]Happy those souls who now are on their way,Or shall hereafter, to attain that end,Theme of my argument, come when it will;And, 'midst the other fair, and fraught with grace,Most happy she whom Death has snatch'd away,On this side far the natural bound of life.The angel manners then will clearly shine,The meet and pure discourse, the chasten'd thought,Which nature planted in her youthful breast.Unnumber'd beauties, worn by time and death,Shall then return to their best state of bloom;And how thou hast bound me, love, will then be seen,Whence I by every finger shall be shown!—Behold who ever wept, and in his tearsWas happier far than others in their smiles!And she, of whom I yet lamenting sing,Shall wonder at her own transcendant charms,Seeing herself far above all admired.Charlemont.SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB
Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossaHere peaceful sleeps the chaste, the happy shadeOf that pure spirit, which adorn'd this earth:Pure fame, true beauty, and transcendent worth,Rude stone! beneath thy rugged breast are laid.Death sudden snatch'd the dear lamented maid!Who first to all my tender woes gave birth,Woes! that estranged my sorrowing soul to mirth,While full four lustres time completely made.Sweet plant! that nursed on Avignon's sweet soil,There bloom'd, there died; when soon the weeping MuseThrew by the lute, forsook her wonted toil.Bright spark of beauty, that still fires my breast!What pitying mortal shall a prayer refuse,That Heaven may number thee amid the blest?Anon. 1777.Here rest the chaste, the dear, the blest remainsOf her most lovely; peerless while on earth:What late was beauty, spotless honour, worth,Stern marble, here thy chill embrace retains.The freshness of the laurel Death disdains;And hath its root thus wither'd.—Such the dearthO'ertakes me. Here I bury ease and mirth,And hope from twenty years of cares and pains.This happy plant Avignon lonely fedWith Life, and saw it die.—And with it liesMy pen, my verse, my reason;—useless, dead.O graceful form!—Fire, which consuming fliesThrough all my frame!—For blessings on thy headOh, may continual prayers to heaven rise!Capel Lofft.
Here now repose those chaste, those blest remainsOf that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!Harsh monumental stone, that here confinestTrue honour, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!Death has destroy'd that Laurel green, and tornIts tender roots; and all the noble meedOf my long warfare, passing (if arightMy melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.O happy plant! Avignon's favour'd soilHas seen thee spring and die;—and here with theeThy poet's pen, and muse, and genius lies.O lovely, beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,That even in death hast power to melt the soul!Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!Woodhouselee.
1
Before the publication of De Sade's "Mémoires pour la vie de Petrarque" the report was that Petrarch first saw Laura at Vaucluse. The truth of their first meeting in the church of St. Clara depends on the authenticity of the famous note on the M.S. Virgil of Petrarch, which is now in the Ambrosian Library at Milan.
2
Petrarch, in his dialogue with St. Augustine, states that he was older than Laura by a few years.
3
"The Floral games were instituted in France in 1324. They were founded by Clementina Isaure, Countess of Toulouse, and annually celebrated in the month of May. The Countess published an edict, which assembled all the poets of France, in artificial arbours, dressed with flowers; and he that produced the best poem was rewared with a violet of gold. There were, likewise, inferior prizes of flowers made in silver. In the meantime, the conquerors were crowned with natural chaplets of their own respective flowers. During the ceremony degrees were also conferred. He who had won a prize three times was pronounced a doctor 'en gaye science,' the name of the poetry of the Provençal Troubadours. This institution, however fantastic, soon became common, through the whole of France."—Warton's History of English Poetry, vol i. p 467.
4
I have transferred the following anecdote from Levati's Viaggi di Petrarea (vol. i. p. 119 et seq.). It behoves me to confess, however, that I recollect no allusion to it in any of Petrarch's letters, and I have found many things in Levati's book which make me distrust his authority.
5
Quest' anima gentil che si disparte.—Sonnet xxiii.
6
Dated 21st December. 1335.
7
Guido Sette of Luni, in the Genoese territory, studied law together with Petrarch; but took to it with better liking. He devoted himself to the business of the bar at Avignon with much reputation. But the legal and clerical professions were then often united; for Guido rose in the church to be an archbishop. He died in 1368, renowned as a church luminary.
8
Canzoni 8, 9, and 10.
9
Valery, in his "Travels in Italy" gives the following note respecting out poet. I quote from the edition of the work published at Brussels in 1835:—"Petrarque rapporte dans ses lettres latines que le laurier du Capitole lui avait attiré une multitude d'envieux; que le jour de son couronnement, au lieu d'eau odorante qu'il était d'usage de répandre dans ces solennités, il reçut sur la tête une eau corrosive, qui le rendit chauve le reste de sa vie. Son historien Dolce raconte même qu'une vieille lui jetta son pot de chambre rempli d'une acre urine, gardée, peut-être, pour cela depuis sept semaines."
10
Sonnet cxcvi.
11
Translation.—In the twenty-fifth year of his age, after a short though happy existence, our John departed this life in the year of Christ 1361, on the 10th of July, or rather on the 9th, at the midhour between Friday and Saturday. Sent into the world to my mortification and suffering, he was to me in life the cause of deep and unceasing solicitude, and in death of poignant grief. The news reached me on the evening of the 13th of the same month that he had fallen at Milan, in the general mortality caused by that unwonted scourge which at last discovered and visited so fearfully this hitherto exempted city. On the 8th of August, the same year, a servant of mine returning from Milan brought me a rumour (which on the 18th of the same fatal month was confirmed by a servant of Dominus Theatinus) of the death of my Socrates, my companion, my best of brothers, at Babylon (Avignon, I mean) in the month of May. I have lost my comrade and the solace of my life! Receive, Christ Jesus, these two, and the five that remain, into thy eternal habitations!
12
Petrarch's words are: "civi servare suo;" but he takes the liberty of considering Charles as—adoptively—Italian, though that Prince was born at Prague.
13
Most historians relate that the English, at Poitiers, amounted to no more than eight or ten thousand men; but, whether they consisted of eight thousand or thirty thousand, the result was sufficiently glorious for them, and for their brave leader, the Black Prince.
14
This is the story of the patient Grisel, which is familiar in almost every language.
15
Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita.—Sonnet 221, De Sade, vol. ii. p. 8.
16
Charlemagne.
17
Orsa. A play on the word Orsim.
18
This, the only known version, is included simply from a wish to represent the original completely, the poem being almost untranslateable into English verse. Italian critics are much divided as to its object. One of the most eminent (Bembo) considers it to be nothing more than an unconnected string of proverbs.
19
Harrington's Nugæ Antiquæ.
20
Harrington's Nugæ Antiquæ.
21
Harrington's Nugæ Antiquæ.
22
Deriving it from rodere, to gnaw.
23
Deriving it from rodere, to gnaw.
