Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  Go lonely, like a man deprived of light,

  Ignorant where to go; whence to depart.

  Thus flee I from the stroke which lays me dead,

  Yet flee not with such speed but that desire

  Follows, companion of my flight alone.

  Silent I go: — but these my words, though dead,

  Others would cause to weep — this I desire,

  That I may weep and waste myself alone.

  CAPEL LOFFT.

  When all my mind I turn to the one part

  Where sheds my lady’s face its beauteous light,

  And lingers in my loving thought the light

  That burns and racks within me ev’ry part,

  I from my heart who fear that it may part,

  And see the near end of my single light,

  Go, as a blind man, groping without light,

  Who knows not where yet presses to depart.

  Thus from the blows which ever wish me dead

  I flee, but not so swiftly that desire

  Ceases to come, as is its wont, with me.

  Silent I move: for accents of the dead

  Would melt the general age: and I desire

  That sighs and tears should only fall from me.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XVII.

  Son animali al mondo di sì altera.

  HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A MOTH.

  Creatures there are in life of such keen sight

  That no defence they need from noonday sun,

  And others dazzled by excess of light

  Who issue not abroad till day is done,

  And, with weak fondness, some because ’tis bright,

  Who in the death-flame for enjoyment run,

  Thus proving theirs a different virtue quite —

  Alas! of this last kind myself am one;

  For, of this fair the splendour to regard,

  I am but weak and ill — against late hours

  And darkness gath’ring round — myself to ward.

  Wherefore, with tearful eyes of failing powers,

  My destiny condemns me still to turn

  Where following faster I but fiercer burn.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XVIII.

  Vergognando talor ch’ ancor si taccia.

  THE PRAISES OF LAURA TRANSCEND HIS POETIC POWERS.

  Ashamed sometimes thy beauties should remain

  As yet unsung, sweet lady, in my rhyme;

  When first I saw thee I recall the time,

  Pleasing as none shall ever please again.

  But no fit polish can my verse attain,

  Not mine is strength to try the task sublime:

  My genius, measuring its power to climb,

  From such attempt doth prudently refrain.

  Full oft I oped my lips to chant thy name;

  Then in mid utterance the lay was lost:

  But say what muse can dare so bold a flight?

  Full oft I strove in measure to indite;

  But ah, the pen, the hand, the vein I boast,

  At once were vanquish’d by the mighty theme!

  NOTT.

  Ashamed at times that I am silent, yet,

  Lady, though your rare beauties prompt my rhyme,

  When first I saw thee I recall the time

  Such as again no other can be met.

  But, with such burthen on my shoulders set.

  My mind, its frailty feeling, cannot climb,

  And shrinks alike from polish’d and sublime,

  While my vain utterance frozen terrors let.

  Often already have I sought to sing,

  But midway in my breast the voice was stay’d,

  For ah! so high what praise may ever spring?

  And oft have I the tender verse essay’d,

  But still in vain; pen, hand, and intellect

  In the first effort conquer’d are and check’d.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XIX.

  Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera.

  HIS HEART, REJECTED BY LAURA, WILL PERISH, UNLESS SHE RELENT.

  A thousand times, sweet warrior, have I tried,

  Proffering my heart to thee, some peace to gain

  From those bright eyes, but still, alas! in vain,

  To such low level stoops not thy chaste pride.

  If others seek the love thus thrown aside,

  Vain were their hopes and labours to obtain;

  The heart thou spurnest I alike disdain,

  To thee displeasing, ’tis by me denied.

  But if, discarded thus, it find not thee

  Its joyless exile willing to befriend,

  Alone, untaught at others’ will to wend,

  Soon from life’s weary burden will it flee.

  How heavy then the guilt to both, but more

  To thee, for thee it did the most adore.

  MACGREGOR.

  A thousand times, sweet warrior, to obtain

  Peace with those beauteous eyes I’ve vainly tried,

  Proffering my heart; but with that lofty pride

  To bend your looks so lowly you refrain:

  Expects a stranger fair that heart to gain,

  In frail, fallacious hopes will she confide:

  It never more to me can be allied;

  Since what you scorn, dear lady, I disdain.

  In its sad exile if no aid you lend

  Banish’d by me; and it can neither stay

  Alone, nor yet another’s call obey;

  Its vital course must hasten to its end:

  Ah me, how guilty then we both should prove,

  But guilty you the most, for you it most doth love.

  NOTT.

  SESTINA I.

  A qualunque animale alberga in terra.

  NIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIR.

  To every animal that dwells on earth,

  Except to those which have in hate the sun,

  Their time of labour is while lasts the day;

  But when high heaven relumes its thousand stars,

  This seeks his hut, and that its native wood,

  Each finds repose, at least until the dawn.

  But I, when fresh and fair begins the dawn

  To chase the lingering shades that cloak’d the earth,

  Wakening the animals in every wood,

  No truce to sorrow find while rolls the sun;

  And, when again I see the glistening stars,

  Still wander, weeping, wishing for the day.

  When sober evening chases the bright day,

  And this our darkness makes for others dawn,

  Pensive I look upon the cruel stars

  Which framed me of such pliant passionate earth,

  And curse the day that e’er I saw the sun,

  Which makes me native seem of wildest wood.

  And yet methinks was ne’er in any wood,

  So wild a denizen, by night or day,

  As she whom thus I blame in shade and sun:

  Me night’s first sleep o’ercomes not, nor the dawn,

  For though in mortal coil I tread the earth,

  My firm and fond desire is from the stars.

  Ere up to you I turn, O lustrous stars,

  Or downwards in love’s labyrinthine wood,

  Leaving my fleshly frame in mouldering earth,

  Could I but pity find in her, one day

  Would many years redeem, and to the dawn

  With bliss enrich me from the setting sun!

  Oh! might I be with her where sinks the sun,

  No other eyes upon us but the stars,

  Alone, one sweet night, ended by no dawn,

  Nor she again transfigured in green wood,

  To cheat my clasping arms, as on the day,

  When Phoebus vainly follow’d her on earth.

  I shall lie low in earth, in crumbling wood.

  And clustering stars shall gem the noon of day,

  Ere on so sweet a dawn shall ri
se that sun.

  MACGREGOR.

  Each creature on whose wakeful eyes

  The bright sun pours his golden fire,

  By day a destined toil pursues;

  And, when heaven’s lamps illume the skies,

  All to some haunt for rest retire,

  Till a fresh dawn that toil renews.

  But I, when a new morn doth rise,

  Chasing from earth its murky shades,

  While ring the forests with delight,

  Find no remission of my sighs;

  And, soon as night her mantle spreads,

  I weep, and wish returning light

  Again when eve bids day retreat,

  O’er other climes to dart its rays;

  Pensive those cruel stars I view,

  Which influence thus my amorous fate;

  And imprecate that beauty’s blaze,

  Which o’er my form such wildness threw.

  No forest surely in its glooms

  Nurtures a savage so unkind

  As she who bids these sorrows flow:

  Me, nor the dawn nor sleep o’ercomes;

  For, though of mortal mould, my mind

  Feels more than passion’s mortal glow.

  Ere up to you, bright orbs, I fly,

  Or to Love’s bower speed down my way,

  While here my mouldering limbs remain;

  Let me her pity once espy;

  Thus, rich in bliss, one little day

  Shall recompense whole years of pain.

  Be Laura mine at set of sun;

  Let heaven’s fires only mark our loves,

  And the day ne’er its light renew;

  My fond embrace may she not shun;

  Nor Phoebus-like, through laurel groves,

  May I a nymph transform’d pursue!

  But I shall cast this mortal veil on earth,

  And stars shall gild the noon, ere such bright scenes have birth.

  NOTT.

  CANZONE I.

  Nel dolce tempo della prima etade.

  HIS SUFFERINGS SINCE HE BECAME THE SLAVE OF LOVE.

  In the sweet season when my life was new,

  Which saw the birth, and still the being sees

  Of the fierce passion for my ill that grew,

  Fain would I sing — my sorrow to appease —

  How then I lived, in liberty, at ease,

  While o’er my heart held slighted Love no sway;

  And how, at length, by too high scorn, for aye,

  I sank his slave, and what befell me then,

  Whereby to all a warning I remain;

  Although my sharpest pain

  Be elsewhere written, so that many a pen

  Is tired already, and, in every vale,

  The echo of my heavy sighs is rife,

  Some credence forcing of my anguish’d life;

  And, as her wont, if here my memory fail,

  Be my long martyrdom its saving plea,

  And the one thought which so its torment made,

  As every feeling else to throw in shade,

  And make me of myself forgetful be —

  Ruling life’s inmost core, its bare rind left for me.

  Long years and many had pass’d o’er my head,

  Since, in Love’s first assault, was dealt my wound,

  And from my brow its youthful air had fled,

  While cold and cautious thoughts my heart around

  Had made it almost adamantine ground,

  To loosen which hard passion gave no rest:

  No sorrow yet with tears had bathed my breast,

  Nor broke my sleep: and what was not in mine

  A miracle to me in others seem’d.

  Life’s sure test death is deem’d,

  As cloudless eve best proves the past day fine;

  Ah me! the tyrant whom I sing, descried

  Ere long his error, that, till then, his dart

  Not yet beneath the gown had pierced my heart,

  And brought a puissant lady as his guide,

  ‘Gainst whom of small or no avail has been

  Genius, or force, to strive or supplicate.

  These two transform’d me to my present state,

  Making of breathing man a laurel green,

  Which loses not its leaves though wintry blasts be keen.

  What my amaze, when first I fully learn’d

  The wondrous change upon my person done,

  And saw my thin hairs to those green leaves turn’d

  (Whence yet for them a crown I might have won);

  My feet wherewith I stood, and moved, and run —

  Thus to the soul the subject members bow —

  Become two roots upon the shore, not now

  Of fabled Peneus, but a stream as proud,

  And stiffen’d to a branch my either arm!

  Nor less was my alarm,

  When next my frame white down was seen to shroud,

  While, ‘neath the deadly leven, shatter’d lay

  My first green hope that soar’d, too proud, in air,

  Because, in sooth, I knew not when nor where

  I left my latter state; but, night and day,

  Where it was struck, alone, in tears, I went,

  Still seeking it alwhere, and in the wave;

  And, for its fatal fall, while able, gave

  My tongue no respite from its one lament,

  For the sad snowy swan both form and language lent.

  Thus that loved wave — my mortal speech put by

  For birdlike song — I track’d with constant feet,

  Still asking mercy with a stranger cry;

  But ne’er in tones so tender, nor so sweet,

  Knew I my amorous sorrow to repeat,

  As might her hard and cruel bosom melt:

  Judge, still if memory sting, what then I felt!

  But ah! not now the past, it rather needs

  Of her my lovely and inveterate foe

  The present power to show,

  Though such she be all language as exceeds.

  She with a glance who rules us as her own,

  Opening my breast my heart in hand to take,

  Thus said to me: “Of this no mention make.”

  I saw her then, in alter’d air, alone,

  So that I recognised her not — O shame

  Be on my truant mind and faithless sight!

  And when the truth I told her in sore fright,

  She soon resumed her old accustom’d frame,

  While, desperate and half dead, a hard rock mine became.

  As spoke she, o’er her mien such feeling stirr’d,

  That from the solid rock, with lively fear,

  “Haply I am not what you deem,” I heard;

  And then methought, “If she but help me here,

  No life can ever weary be, or drear;

  To make me weep, return, my banish’d Lord!”

  I know not how, but thence, the power restored,

  Blaming no other than myself, I went,

  And, nor alive, nor dead, the long day past.

  But, because time flies fast,

  And the pen answers ill my good intent,

  Full many a thing long written in my mind

  I here omit; and only mention such

  Whereat who hears them now will marvel much.

  Death so his hand around my vitals twined,

  Not silence from its grasp my heart could save,

  Or succour to its outraged virtue bring:

  As speech to me was a forbidden thing,

  To paper and to ink my griefs I gave —

  Life, not my own, is lost through you who dig my grave.

  I fondly thought before her eyes, at length,

  Though low and lost, some mercy to obtain;

  And this the hope which lent my spirit strength.

  Sometimes humility o’ercomes disdain,

  Sometimes inflames it to worse spite again;

  This knew I, who so long was left
in night,

  That from such prayers had disappear’d my light;

  Till I, who sought her still, nor found, alas!

  Even her shade, nor of her feet a sign,

  Outwearied and supine,

  As one who midway sleeps, upon the grass

  Threw me, and there, accusing the brief ray,

  Of bitter tears I loosed the prison’d flood,

  To flow and fall, to them as seem’d it good.

  Ne’er vanish’d snow before the sun away,

  As then to melt apace it me befell,

  Till, ‘neath a spreading beech a fountain swell’d;

  Long in that change my humid course I held, —

  Who ever saw from Man a true fount well?

  And yet, though strange it sound, things known and sure I tell.

  The soul from God its nobler nature gains

  (For none save He such favour could bestow)

  And like our Maker its high state retains,

  To pardon who is never tired, nor slow,

  If but with humble heart and suppliant show,

  For mercy for past sins to Him we bend;

  And if, against his wont, He seem to lend,

  Awhile, a cold ear to our earnest prayers,

  ’Tis that right fear the sinner more may fill;

  For he repents but ill

  His old crime for another who prepares.

  Thus, when my lady, while her bosom yearn’d

  With pity, deign’d to look on me, and knew

  That equal with my fault its penance grew,

  To my old state and shape I soon return’d.

  But nought there is on earth in which the wise

  May trust, for, wearying braving her afresh,

  To rugged stone she changed my quivering flesh.

  So that, in their old strain, my broken cries

  In vain ask’d death, or told her one name to deaf skies.

  A sad and wandering shade, I next recall,

  Through many a distant and deserted glen,

  That long I mourn’d my indissoluble thrall.

  At length my malady seem’d ended, when

  I to my earthly frame return’d again,

  Haply but greater grief therein to feel;

  Still following my desire with such fond zeal

  That once (beneath the proud sun’s fiercest blaze,

  Returning from the chase, as was my wont)

  Naked, where gush’d a font,

  My fair and fatal tyrant met my gaze;

  I whom nought else could pleasure, paused to look,

  While, touch’d with shame as natural as intense,

  Herself to hide or punish my offence,

  She o’er my face the crystal waters shook