Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

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Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch Page 5

by Francesco Petrarch


  — I still speak true, though truth may seem a lie —

  Instantly from my proper person torn,

  A solitary stag, I felt me borne

  In wingèd terrors the dark forest through,

  As still of my own dogs the rushing storm I flew

  My song! I never was that cloud of gold

  Which once descended in such precious rain,

  Easing awhile with bliss Jove’s amorous pain;

  I was a flame, kindled by one bright eye,

  I was the bird which gladly soar’d on high,

  Exalting her whose praise in song I wake;

  Nor, for new fancies, knew I to forsake

  My first fond laurel, ‘neath whose welcome shade

  Ever from my firm heart all meaner pleasures fade.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XX.

  Se l’ onorata fronde, che prescrive.

  TO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE POETRY.

  If the world-honour’d leaf, whose green defies

  The wrath of Heaven when thunders mighty Jove,

  Had not to me prohibited the crown

  Which wreathes of wont the gifted poet’s brow,

  I were a friend of these your idols too,

  Whom our vile age so shamelessly ignores:

  But that sore insult keeps me now aloof

  From the first patron of the olive bough:

  For Ethiop earth beneath its tropic sun

  Ne’er burn’d with such fierce heat, as I with rage

  At losing thing so comely and beloved.

  Resort then to some calmer fuller fount,

  For of all moisture mine is drain’d and dry,

  Save that which falleth from mine eyes in tears.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXI.

  Amor piangeva, ed io con lui talvolta.

  HE CONGRATULATES BOCCACCIO ON HIS RETURN TO THE RIGHT PATH.

  Love grieved, and I with him at times, to see

  By what strange practices and cunning art,

  You still continued from his fetters free,

  From whom my feet were never far apart.

  Since to the right way brought by God’s decree,

  Lifting my hands to heaven with pious heart,

  I thank Him for his love and grace, for He

  The soul-prayer of the just will never thwart:

  And if, returning to the amorous strife,

  Its fair desire to teach us to deny,

  Hollows and hillocks in thy path abound,

  ’Tis but to prove to us with thorns how rife

  The narrow way, the ascent how hard and high,

  Where with true virtue man at last is crown’d.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXII.

  Più di me lieta non si vede a terra.

  ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

  Than me more joyful never reach’d the shore

  A vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,

  Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,

  To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;

  Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,

  Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,

  More glad than me, that weapon laid aside

  Which to my lord hostility long bore.

  All ye who honour love in poet strain,

  To the good minstrel of the amorous lay

  Return due praise, though once he went astray;

  For greater glory is, in Heaven’s blest reign,

  Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,

  Than e’en for ninety-nine of perfect ways.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXIII.

  Il successor di Carlo, che la chioma.

  ON THE MOVEMENT OF THE EMPEROR AGAINST THE INFIDELS, AND THE RETURN OF THE POPE TO ROME.

  The high successor of our Charles,[P] whose hair

  The crown of his great ancestor adorns,

  Already has ta’en arms, to bruise the horns

  Of Babylon, and all her name who bear;

  Christ’s holy vicar with the honour’d load

  Of keys and cloak, returning to his home,

  Shall see Bologna and our noble Rome,

  If no ill fortune bar his further road.

  Best to your meek and high-born lamb belongs

  To beat the fierce wolf down: so may it be

  With all who loyalty and love deny.

  Console at length your waiting country’s wrongs,

  And Rome’s, who longs once more her spouse to see,

  And gird for Christ the good sword on thy thigh.

  MACGREGOR.

  CANZONE II.

  O aspettata in ciel, beata e bella.

  IN SUPPORT OF THE PROPOSED CRUSADE AGAINST THE INFIDELS.

  O spirit wish’d and waited for in heaven,

  That wearest gracefully our human clay,

  Not as with loading sin and earthly stain,

  Who lov’st our Lord’s high bidding to obey, —

  Henceforth to thee the way is plain and even

  By which from hence to bliss we may attain.

  To waft o’er yonder main

  Thy bark, that bids the world adieu for aye

  To seek a better strand,

  The western winds their ready wings expand;

  Which, through the dangers of that dusky way,

  Where all deplore the first infringed command,

  Will guide her safe, from primal bondage free,

  Reckless to stop or stay,

  To that true East, where she desires to be.

  Haply the faithful vows, and zealous prayers,

  And pious tears by holy mortals shed,

  Have come before the mercy-seat above:

  Yet vows of ours but little can bestead,

  Nor human orison such merit bears

  As heavenly justice from its course can move.

  But He, the King whom angels serve and love,

  His gracious eyes hath turn’d upon the land

  Where on the cross He died;

  And a new Charlemagne hath qualified

  To work the vengeance that on high was plann’d,

  For whose delay so long hath Europe sigh’d.

  Such mighty aid He brings his faithful spouse,

  That at its sound the pride

  Of Babylon with trembling terror bows.

  All dwellers ‘twixt the hills and wild Garonne,

  The Rhodanus, and Rhine, and briny wave,

  Are banded under red-cross banners brave;

  And all who honour’d guerdon fain would have

  From Pyrenees to the utmost west, are gone,

  Leaving Iberia lorn of warriors keen,

  And Britain, with the islands that are seen

  Between the columns and the starry wain,

  (Even to that land where shone

  The far-famed lore of sacred Helicon,)

  Diverse in language, weapon, garb and strain,

  Of valour true, with pious zeal rush on.

  What cause, what love, to this compared may be?

  What spouse, or infant train

  E’er kindled such a righteous enmity?

  There is a portion of the world that lies

  Far distant from the sun’s all-cheering ray,

  For ever wrapt in ice and gelid snows;

  There under cloudy skies, in stinted day,

  A people dwell, whose heart their clime outvies

  By nature framed stern foemen of repose.

  Now new devotion in their bosom glows,

  With Gothic fury now they grasp the sword.

  Turk, Arab, and Chaldee,

  With all between us and that sanguine sea,

  Who trust in idol-gods, and slight the Lord,

  Thou know’st how soon their feeble strength would yield;

  A naked race, fearful and indolent,

  Unused the brand to wield,

  Whose distant aim upon the wind is sent.r />
  Now is the time to shake the ancient yoke

  From off our necks, and rend the veil aside

  That long in darkness hath involved our eyes;

  Let all whom Heaven with genius hath supplied,

  And all who great Apollo’s name invoke,

  With fiery eloquence point out the prize,

  With tongue and pen call on the brave to rise;

  If Orpheus and Amphion, legends old,

  No marvel cause in thee,

  It were small wonder if Ausonia see

  Collecting at thy call her children bold,

  Lifting the spear of Jesus joyfully.

  Nor, if our ancient mother judge aright,

  Doth her rich page unfold

  Such noble cause in any former fight.

  Thou who hast scann’d, to heap a treasure fair,

  Story of ancient day and modern time,

  Soaring with earthly frame to heaven sublime,

  Thou know’st, from Mars’ bold son, her ruler prime,

  To great Augustus, he whose waving hair

  Was thrice in triumph wreathed with laurel green,

  How Rome hath of her blood still lavish been

  To right the woes of many an injured land;

  And shall she now be slow,

  Her gratitude, her piety to show?

  In Christian zeal to buckle on the brand,

  For Mary’s glorious Son to deal the blow?

  What ills the impious foeman must betide

  Who trust in mortal hand,

  If Christ himself lead on the adverse side!

  And turn thy thoughts to Xerxes’ rash emprize,

  Who dared, in haste to tread our Europe’s shore,

  Insult the sea with bridge, and strange caprice;

  And thou shalt see for husbands then no more

  The Persian matrons robed in mournful guise,

  And dyed with blood the seas of Salamis,

  Nor sole example this:

  (The ruin of that Eastern king’s design),

  That tells of victory nigh:

  See Marathon, and stern Thermopylæ,

  Closed by those few, and chieftain leonine,

  And thousand deeds that blaze in history.

  Then bow in thankfulness both heart and knee

  Before his holy shrine,

  Who such bright guerdon hath reserved for thee.

  Thou shalt see Italy and that honour’d shore,

  O song! a land debarr’d and hid from me

  By neither flood nor hill!

  But love alone, whose power hath virtue still

  To witch, though all his wiles be vanity,

  Nor Nature to avoid the snare hath skill.

  Go, bid thy sisters hush their jealous fears,

  For other loves there be

  Than that blind boy, who causeth smiles and tears.

  MISS * * * (FOSCOLO’S ESSAY).

  O thou, in heaven expected, bright and blest,

  Spirit! who, from the common frailty free

  Of human kind, in human form art drest,

  God’s handmaid, dutiful and dear to thee

  Henceforth the pathway easy lies and plain,

  By which, from earth, we bless eternal gain:

  Lo! at the wish, to waft thy venturous prore

  From the blind world it fain would leave behind

  And seek that better shore,

  Springs the sweet comfort of the western wind,

  Which safe amid this dark and dangerous vale,

  Where we our own, the primal sin deplore,

  Right on shall guide her, from her old chains freed,

  And, without let or fail,

  Where havens her best hope, to the true East shall lead.

  Haply the suppliant tears of pious men,

  Their earnest vows and loving prayers at last

  Unto the throne of heavenly grace have past;

  Yet, breathed by human helplessness, ah! when

  Had purest orison the skill and force

  To bend eternal justice from its course?

  But He, heaven’s bounteous ruler from on high,

  On the sad sacred spot, where erst He bled,

  Will turn his pitying eye,

  And through the spirit of our new Charles spread

  Thirst of that vengeance, whose too long delay

  From general Europe wakes the bitter sigh;

  To his loved spouse such aid will He convey,

  That, his dread voice to hear,

  Proud Babylon shall shrink assail’d with secret fear.

  All, by the gay Garonne, the kingly Rhine,

  Between the blue Rhone and salt sea who dwell,

  All in whose bosoms worth and honour swell,

  Eagerly haste the Christian cross to join;

  Spain of her warlike sons, from the far west

  Unto the Pyrenee, pours forth her best:

  Britannia and the Islands, which are found

  Northward from Calpe, studding Ocean’s breast,

  E’en to that land renown’d

  In the rich lore of sacred Helicon,

  Various in arms and language, garb and guise,

  With pious fury urge the bold emprize.

  What love was e’er so just, so worthy, known?

  Or when did holier flame

  Kindle the mind of man to a more noble aim?

  Far in the hardy north a land there lies,

  Buried in thick-ribb’d ice and constant snows,

  Where scant the days and clouded are the skies,

  And seldom the bright sun his glad warmth throws;

  There, enemy of peace by nature, springs

  A people to whom death no terror brings;

  If these, with new devotedness, we see

  In Gothic fury baring the keen glaive,

  Turk, Arab, and Chaldee!

  All, who, between us and the Red Sea wave,

  To heathen gods bow the idolatrous knee,

  Arm and advance! we heed not your blind rage;

  A naked race, timid in act, and slow,

  Unskill’d the war to wage,

  Whose far aim on the wind contrives a coward blow.

  Now is the hour to free from the old yoke

  Our gallèd necks, to rend the veil away

  Too long permitted our dull sight to cloak:

  Now too, should all whose breasts the heavenly ray

  Of genius lights, exert its powers sublime,

  And or in bold harangue, or burning rhyme,

  Point the proud prize and fan the generous flame.

  If Orpheus and Amphion credit claim,

  Legends of distant time,

  Less marvel ‘twere, if, at thy earnest call,

  Italia, with her children, should awake,

  And wield the willing lance for Christ’s dear sake.

  Our ancient mother, read she right, in all

  Her fortune’s history ne’er

  A cause of combat knew so glorious and so fair!

  Thou, whose keen mind has every theme explored,

  And truest ore from Time’s rich treasury won,

  On earthly pinion who hast heavenward soar’d,

  Well knowest, from her founder, Mars’ bold son,

  To great Augustus, he, whose brow around

  Thrice was the laurel green in triumph bound,

  How Rome was ever lavish of her blood,

  The right to vindicate, the weak redress;

  And now, when gratitude,

  When piety appeal, shall she do less

  To avenge the injury and end the scorn

  By blessed Mary’s glorious offspring borne?

  What fear we, while the heathen for success

  Confide in human powers,

  If, on the adverse side, be Christ, and his side ours?

  Turn, too, when Xerxes our free shores to tread

  Rush’d in hot haste, and dream’d the perilous main

  With scourge and fetter to chasti
se and chain,

  — What see’st? Wild wailing o’er their husbands dead,

  Persia’s pale matrons wrapt in weeds of woe,

  And red with gore the gulf of Salamis!

  To prove our triumph certain, to foreshow

  The utter ruin of our Eastern foe,

  No single instance this;

  Miltiades and Marathon recall,

  See, with his patriot few, Leonidas

  Closing, Thermopylæ, thy bloody pass!

  Like them to dare and do, to God let all

  With heart and knee bow down,

  Who for our arms and age has kept this great renown.

  Thou shalt see Italy, that honour’d land,

  Which from my eyes, O Song! nor seas, streams, heights,

  So long have barr’d and bann’d,

  But love alone, who with his haughty lights

  The more allures me as he worse excites,

  Till nature fails against his constant wiles.

  Go then, and join thy comrades; not alone

  Beneath fair female zone

  Dwells Love, who, at his will, moves us to tears or smiles.

  MACGREGOR.

  CANZONE III.

  Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi.

  WHETHER OR NOT HE SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE LAURA.

  Green robes and red, purple, or brown, or gray

  No lady ever wore,

  Nor hair of gold in sunny tresses twined,

  So beautiful as she, who spoils my mind

  Of judgment, and from freedom’s lofty path

  So draws me with her that I may not bear

  Any less heavy yoke.

  And if indeed at times — for wisdom fails

  Where martyrdom breeds doubt —

  The soul should ever arm it to complain

  Suddenly from each reinless rude desire

  Her smile recalls, and razes from my heart

  Every rash enterprise, while all disdain

  Is soften’d in her sight.

  For all that I have ever borne for love,

  And still am doom’d to bear,

  Till she who wounded it shall heal my heart,

  Rejecting homage e’en while she invites,

  Be vengeance done! but let not pride nor ire

  ‘Gainst my humility the lovely pass

  By which I enter’d bar.

  The hour and day wherein I oped my eyes

  On the bright black and white,

  Which drive me thence where eager love impell’d

  Where of that life which now my sorrow makes

  New roots, and she in whom our age is proud,

  Whom to behold without a tender awe

  Needs heart of lead or wood.

 

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