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Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

Page 6

by Francesco Petrarch


  The tear then from these eyes that frequent falls —

  HE thus my pale cheek bathes

  Who planted first within my fenceless flank

  Love’s shaft — diverts me not from my desire;

  And in just part the proper sentence falls;

  For her my spirit sighs, and worthy she

  To staunch its secret wounds.

  Spring from within me these conflicting thoughts,

  To weary, wound myself,

  Each a sure sword against its master turn’d:

  Nor do I pray her to be therefore freed,

  For less direct to heaven all other paths,

  And to that glorious kingdom none can soar

  Certes in sounder bark.

  Benignant stars their bright companionship

  Gave to the fortunate side

  When came that fair birth on our nether world,

  Its sole star since, who, as the laurel leaf,

  The worth of honour fresh and fragrant keeps,

  Where lightnings play not, nor ungrateful winds

  Ever o’ersway its head.

  Well know I that the hope to paint in verse

  Her praises would but tire

  The worthiest hand that e’er put forth its pen:

  Who, in all Memory’s richest cells, e’er saw

  Such angel virtue so rare beauty shrined,

  As in those eyes, twin symbols of all worth,

  Sweet keys of my gone heart?

  Lady, wherever shines the sun, than you

  Love has no dearer pledge.

  MACGREGOR.

  SESTINA II

  Giovane donna sott’ un verde lauro.

  THOUGH DESPAIRING OF PITY, HE VOWS TO LOVE HER UNTO DEATH.

  A youthful lady ‘neath a laurel green

  Was seated, fairer, colder than the snow

  On which no sun has shone for many years:

  Her sweet speech, her bright face, and flowing hair

  So pleased, she yet is present to my eyes,

  And aye must be, whatever fate prevail.

  These my fond thoughts of her shall fade and fail

  When foliage ceases on the laurel green;

  Nor calm can be my heart, nor check’d these eyes

  Until the fire shall freeze, or burns the snow:

  Easier upon my head to count each hair

  Than, ere that day shall dawn, the parting years.

  But, since time flies, and roll the rapid years,

  And death may, in the midst, of life, assail,

  With full brown locks, or scant and silver hair,

  I still the shade of that sweet laurel green

  Follow, through fiercest sun and deepest snow,

  Till the last day shall close my weary eyes.

  Oh! never sure were seen such brilliant eyes,

  In this our age or in the older years,

  Which mould and melt me, as the sun melts snow,

  Into a stream of tears adown the vale,

  Watering the hard roots of that laurel green,

  Whose boughs are diamonds and gold whose hair.

  I fear that Time my mien may change and hair,

  Ere, with true pity touch’d, shall greet my eyes

  My idol imaged in that laurel green:

  For, unless memory err, through seven long years

  Till now, full many a shore has heard my wail,

  By night, at noon, in summer and in snow.

  Thus fire within, without the cold, cold snow,

  Alone, with these my thoughts and her bright hair,

  Alway and everywhere I bear my ail,

  Haply to find some mercy in the eyes

  Of unborn nations and far future years,

  If so long flourishes our laurel green.

  The gold and topaz of the sun on snow

  Are shamed by the bright hair above those eyes,

  Searing the short green of my life’s vain years.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXIV.

  Quest’ anima gentil che si diparte.

  ON LAURA DANGEROUSLY ILL.

  That graceful soul, in mercy call’d away

  Before her time to bid the world farewell,

  If welcomed as she ought in the realms of day,

  In heaven’s most blessèd regions sure shall dwell.

  There between Mars and Venus if she stay,

  Her sight the brightness of the sun will quell,

  Because, her infinite beauty to survey,

  The spirits of the blest will round her swell.

  If she decide upon the fourth fair nest

  Each of the three to dwindle will begin,

  And she alone the fame of beauty win,

  Nor e’en in the fifth circle may she rest;

  Thence higher if she soar, I surely trust

  Jove with all other stars in darkness will be thrust.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXV.

  Quanto più m’ avvicino al giorno estremo.

  HE CONSOLES HIMSELF THAT HIS LIFE IS ADVANCING TO ITS CLOSE.

  Near and more near as life’s last period draws,

  Which oft is hurried on by human woe,

  I see the passing hours more swiftly flow,

  And all my hopes in disappointment close.

  And to my heart I say, amidst its throes,

  “Not long shall we discourse of love below;

  For this my earthly load, like new-fall’n snow

  Fast melting, soon shall leave us to repose.

  With it will sink in dust each towering hope,

  Cherish’d so long within my faithful breast;

  No more shall we resent, fear, smile, complain:

  Then shall we clearly trace why some are blest,

  Through deepest misery raised to Fortune’s top,

  And why so many sighs so oft are heaved in vain.”

  WRANGHAM.

  The nearer I approach my life’s last day,

  The certain day that limits human woe,

  I better mark, in Time’s swift silent flow,

  How the fond hopes he brought all pass’d away.

  Of love no longer — to myself I say —

  We now may commune, for, as virgin snow,

  The hard and heavy load we drag below

  Dissolves and dies, ere rest in heaven repay.

  And prostrate with it must each fair hope lie

  Which here beguiled us and betray’d so long,

  And joy, grief, fear and pride alike shall cease:

  And then too shall we see with clearer eye

  How oft we trod in weary ways and wrong,

  And why so long in vain we sigh’d for peace.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXVI.

  Già fiammeggiava l’ amorosa stella.

  LAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND ASSURES HIM THAT SHE STILL LIVES.

  Throughout the orient now began to flame

  The star of love; while o’er the northern sky

  That, which has oft raised Juno’s jealousy,

  Pour’d forth its beauteous scintillating beam:

  Beside her kindled hearth the housewife dame,

  Half-dress’d, and slipshod, ‘gan her distaff ply:

  And now the wonted hour of woe drew nigh,

  That wakes to tears the lover from his dream:

  When my sweet hope unto my mind appear’d,

  Not in the custom’d way unto my sight;

  For grief had bathed my lids, and sleep had weigh’d;

  Ah me, how changed that form by love endear’d!

  “Why lose thy fortitude?” methought she said,

  “These eyes not yet from thee withdraw their light.”

  NOTT.

  Already in the east the amorous star

  Illumined heaven, while from her northern height

  Great Juno’s rival through the dusky night

  Her beamy radiance shot. Returning care

  Had roused th’ i
ndustrious hag, with footstep bare,

  And loins ungirt, the sleeping fire to light;

  And lovers thrill’d that season of despight,

  Which wont renew their tears, and wake despair.

  When my soul’s hope, now on the verge of fate,

  (Not by th’ accustomed way; for that in sleep

  Was closed, and moist with griefs,) attain’d my heart.

  Alas, how changed! “Servant, no longer weep,”

  She seem’d to say; “resume thy wonted state:

  Not yet thine eyes from mine are doom’d to part.”

  CHARLEMONT.

  Already, in the east, the star of love

  Was flaming, and that other in the north,

  Which Juno’s jealousy is wont to move,

  Its beautiful and lustrous rays shot forth;

  Barefooted and half clad, the housewife old

  Had stirr’d her fire, and set herself to weave;

  Each tender heart the thoughtful time controll’d

  Which evermore the lover wakes to grieve,

  When my fond hope, already at life’s last,

  Came to my heart, not by the wonted way,

  Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast —

  Alas! how changed — and said, or seem’d to say,

  “Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse,

  Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?”

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXVII.

  Apollo, s’ ancor vive il bel desio.

  HE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFEND.

  O Phoebus, if that fond desire remains,

  Which fired thy breast near the Thessalian wave;

  If those bright tresses, which such pleasure gave,

  Through lapse of years thy memory not disdains;

  From sluggish frosts, from rude inclement rains.

  Which last the while thy beams our region leave,

  That honour’d sacred tree from peril save,

  Whose name of dear accordance waked our pains!

  And, by that amorous hope which soothed thy care,

  What time expectant thou wert doom’d to sigh

  Dispel those vapours which disturb our sky!

  So shall we both behold our favorite fair

  With wonder, seated on the grassy mead,

  And forming with her arms herself a shade.

  NOTT.

  If live the fair desire, Apollo, yet

  Which fired thy spirit once on Peneus’ shore,

  And if the bright hair loved so well of yore

  In lapse of years thou dost not now forget,

  From the long frost, from seasons rude and keen,

  Which last while hides itself thy kindling brow,

  Defend this consecrate and honour’d bough,

  Which snared thee erst, whose slave I since have been.

  And, by the virtue of the love so dear

  Which soothed, sustain’d thee in that early strife,

  Our air from raw and lowering vapours clear:

  So shall we see our lady, to new life

  Restored, her seat upon the greensward take,

  Where her own graceful arms a sweet shade o’er her make.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXVIII.

  Solo e pensoso i più deserti campi.

  HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE.

  Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade

  Measuring I roam with ling’ring steps and slow;

  And still a watchful glance around me throw,

  Anxious to shun the print of human tread:

  No other means I find, no surer aid

  From the world’s prying eye to hide my woe:

  So well my wild disorder’d gestures show,

  And love lorn looks, the fire within me bred,

  That well I deem each mountain, wood and plain,

  And river knows, what I from man conceal,

  What dreary hues my life’s fond prospects dim.

  Yet whate’er wild or savage paths I’ve ta’en,

  Where’er I wander, love attends me still,

  Soft whisp’ring to my soul, and I to him.

  ANON., OX., 1795.

  Alone, and pensive, near some desert shore,

  Far from the haunts of men I love to stray,

  And, cautiously, my distant path explore

  Where never human footsteps mark’d the way.

  Thus from the public gaze I strive to fly,

  And to the winds alone my griefs impart;

  While in my hollow cheek and haggard eye

  Appears the fire that burns my inmost heart.

  But ah, in vain to distant scenes I go;

  No solitude my troubled thoughts allays.

  Methinks e’en things inanimate must know

  The flame that on my soul in secret preys;

  Whilst Love, unconquer’d, with resistless sway

  Still hovers round my path, still meets me on my way.

  J.B. TAYLOR.

  Alone and pensive, the deserted plain,

  With tardy pace and sad, I wander by;

  And mine eyes o’er it rove, intent to fly

  Where distant shores no trace of man retain;

  No help save this I find, some cave to gain

  Where never may intrude man’s curious eye,

  Lest on my brow, a stranger long to joy,

  He read the secret fire which makes my pain

  For here, methinks, the mountain and the flood,

  Valley and forest the strange temper know

  Of my sad life conceal’d from others’ sight —

  Yet where, where shall I find so wild a wood,

  A way so rough that there Love cannot go

  Communing with me the long day and night?

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXIX.

  S’ io credessi per morte essere scarco.

  HE PRAYS FOR DEATH, BUT IN VAIN.

  Had I believed that Death could set me free

  From the anxious amorous thoughts my peace that mar,

  With these my own hands which yet stainless are,

  Life had I loosed, long hateful grown to me.

  Yet, for I fear ’twould but a passage be

  From grief to grief, from old to other war,

  Hither the dark shades my escape that bar,

  I still remain, nor hope relief to see.

  High time it surely is that he had sped

  The fatal arrow from his pitiless bow,

  In others’ blood so often bathed and red;

  And I of Love and Death have pray’d it so —

  He listens not, but leaves me here half dead.

  Nor cares to call me to himself below.

  MACGREGOR.

  Oh! had I deem’d that Death had freed my soul

  From Love’s tormenting, overwhelming thought,

  To crush its aching burthen I had sought,

  My wearied life had hasten’d to its goal;

  My shivering bark yet fear’d another shoal,

  To find one tempest with another bought,

  Thus poised ‘twixt earth and heaven I dwell as naught,

  Not daring to assume my life’s control.

  But sure ’tis time that Death’s relentless bow

  Had wing’d that fatal arrow to my heart,

  So often bathed in life’s dark crimson tide:

  But though I crave he would this boon bestow,

  He to my cheek his impress doth impart,

  And yet o’erlooks me in his fearful stride.

  WOLLASTON.

  CANZONE IV.

  Si è debile il filo a cui s’ attene.

  HE GRIEVES IN ABSENCE FROM LAURA.

  The thread on which my weary life depends

  So fragile is and weak,

  If none kind succour lends,

  Soon ‘neath the painful burden will it break;

  Since doom’d to
take my sad farewell of her,

  In whom begins and ends

  My bliss, one hope, to stir

  My sinking spirit from its black despair,

  Whispers, “Though lost awhile

  That form so dear and fair,

  Sad soul! the trial bear,

  For thee e’en yet the sun may brightly shine,

  And days more happy smile,

  Once more the lost loved treasure may be thine.”

  This thought awhile sustains me, but again

  To fail me and forsake in worse excess of pain.

  Time flies apace: the silent hours and swift

  So urge his journey on,

  Short span to me is left

  Even to think how quick to death I run;

  Scarce, in the orient heaven, yon mountain crest

  Smiles in the sun’s first ray,

  When, in the adverse west,

  His long round run, we see his light decay

  So small of life the space,

  So frail and clogg’d with woe,

  To mortal man below,

  That, when I find me from that beauteous face

  Thus torn by fate’s decree,

  Unable at a wish with her to be,

  So poor the profit that old comforts give,

  I know not how I brook in such a state to live.

  Each place offends, save where alone I see

  Those eyes so sweet and bright,

  Which still shall bear the key

  Of the soft thoughts I hide from other sight;

  And, though hard exile harder weighs on me,

  Whatever mood betide,

  I ask no theme beside,

  For all is hateful that I since have seen.

  What rivers and what heights,

  What shores and seas between

  Me rise and those twin lights,

  Which made the storm and blackness of my days

  One beautiful serene,

  To which tormented Memory still strays:

  Free as my life then pass’d from every care,

  So hard and heavy seems my present lot to bear.

  Alas! self-parleying thus, I but renew

  The warm wish in my mind,

  Which first within it grew

  The day I left my better half behind:

  If by long absence love is quench’d, then who

  Guides me to the old bait,

  Whence all my sorrows date?

  Why rather not my lips in silence seal’d?

  By finest crystal ne’er

  Were hidden tints reveal’d

  So faithfully and fair,

 

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