Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch
Page 7
As my sad spirit naked lays and bare
Its every secret part,
And the wild sweetness thrilling in my heart,
Through eyes which, restlessly, o’erfraught with tears,
Seek her whose sight alone with instant gladness cheers.
Strange pleasure! — yet so often that within
The human heart to reign
Is found — to woo and win
Each new brief toy that men most sigh to gain:
And I am one from sadness who relief
So draw, as if it still
My study were to fill
These eyes with softness, and this heart with grief:
As weighs with me in chief
Nay rather with sole force,
The language and the light
Of those dear eyes to urge me on that course,
So where its fullest source
Long sorrow finds, I fix my often sight,
And thus my heart and eyes like sufferers be,
Which in love’s path have been twin pioneers to me.
The golden tresses which should make, I ween,
The sun with envy pine;
And the sweet look serene,
Where love’s own rays so bright and burning shine,
That, ere its time, they make my strength decline,
Each wise and truthful word,
Rare in the world, which late
She smiling gave, no more are seen or heard.
But this of all my fate
Is hardest to endure,
That here I am denied
The gentle greeting, angel-like and pure,
Which still to virtue’s side
Inclined my heart with modest magic lure;
So that, in sooth, I nothing hope again
Of comfort more than this, how best to bear my pain.
And — with fit ecstacy my loss to mourn —
The soft hand’s snowy charm,
The finely-rounded arm,
The winning ways, by turns, that quiet scorn,
Chaste anger, proud humility adorn,
The fair young breast that shrined
Intellect pure and high,
Are now all hid the rugged Alp behind.
My trust were vain to try
And see her ere I die,
For, though awhile he dare
Such dreams indulge, Hope ne’er can constant be,
But falls back in despair
Her, whom Heaven honours, there again to see,
Where virtue, courtesy in her best mix,
And where so oft I pray my future home to fix.
My Song! if thou shalt see,
Our common lady in that dear retreat,
We both may hope that she
Will stretch to thee her fair and fav’ring hand,
Whence I so far am bann’d;
— Touch, touch it not, but, reverent at her feet,
Tell her I will be there with earliest speed,
A man of flesh and blood, or else a spirit freed.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXX.
Orso, e’ non furon mai fiumi nè stagni.
HE COMPLAINS OF THE VEIL AND HAND OF LAURA, THAT THEY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER EYES.
Orso, my friend, was never stream, nor lake,
Nor sea in whose broad lap all rivers fall,
Nor shadow of high hill, or wood, or wall,
Nor heaven-obscuring clouds which torrents make,
Nor other obstacles my grief so wake,
Whatever most that lovely face may pall,
As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall,
That veil which bids my heart “Now burn or break,”
And, whether by humility or pride,
Their glance, extinguishing mine every joy,
Conducts me prematurely to my tomb:
Also my soul by one fair hand is tried,
Cunning and careful ever to annoy,
‘Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXI.
Io temo sì de’ begli occhi l’ assalto.
HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO LONG DELAYED TO VISIT HER.
So much I fear to encounter her bright eye.
Alway in which my death and Love reside,
That, as a child the rod, its glance I fly,
Though long the time has been since first I tried;
And ever since, so wearisome or high,
No place has been where strong will has not hied,
Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die,
And, cold as marble, I am laid aside:
Wherefore if I return to see you late,
Sure ’tis no fault, unworthy of excuse,
That from my death awhile I held aloof:
At all to turn to what men shun, their fate,
And from such fear my harass’d heart to loose,
Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXII.
S’ amore o morte non dà qualche stroppio.
HE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.
If Love or Death no obstacle entwine
With the new web which here my fingers fold,
And if I ‘scape from beauty’s tyrant hold
While natural truth with truth reveal’d I join,
Perchance a work so double will be mine
Between our modern style and language old,
That (timidly I speak, with hope though bold)
Even to Rome its growing fame may shine:
But, since, our labour to perfèct at last
Some of the blessed threads are absent yet
Which our dear father plentifully met,
Wherefore to me thy hands so close and fast
Against their use? Be prompt of aid and free,
And rich our harvest of fair things shall be.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXIII
Quando dal proprio sito si rimove.
WHEN LAURA DEPARTS, THE HEAVENS GROW DARK WITH STORMS.
When from its proper soil the tree is moved
Which Phoebus loved erewhile in human form,
Grim Vulcan at his labour sighs and sweats,
Renewing ever the dread bolts of Jove,
Who thunders now, now speaks in snow and rain,
Nor Julius honoureth than Janus more:
Earth moans, and far from us the sun retires
Since his dear mistress here no more is seen.
Then Mars and Saturn, cruel stars, resume
Their hostile rage: Orion arm’d with clouds
The helm and sails of storm-tost seamen breaks.
To Neptune and to Juno and to us
Vext Æolus proves his power, and makes us feel
How parts the fair face angels long expect.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXIV.
Ma poi che ‘l dolce riso umile e piano.
HER RETURN GLADDENS THE EARTH AND CALMS THE SKY.
But when her sweet smile, modest and benign,
No longer hides from us its beauties rare,
At the spent forge his stout and sinewy arms
Plieth that old Sicilian smith in vain,
For from the hands of Jove his bolts are taken
Temper’d in Ætna to extremest proof;
And his cold sister by degrees grows calm
And genial in Apollo’s kindling beams.
Moves from the rosy west a summer breath,
Which safe and easy wafts the seaward bark,
And wakes the sweet flowers in each grassy mead.
Malignant stars on every side depart,
Dispersed before that bright enchanting face,
For which already many tears are shed.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXV.
Il figliuol di Latona avea già nove.
THE GRIEF OF PHOEBUS AT THE LOSS OF HIS LOVE.
Nine times already had Latona’s son
Look’d from the highest balcony of heaven
For her, who whilom waked his sighs in vain,
And sighs as vain now wakes in other breasts;
Then seeking wearily, nor knowing where
She dwelt, or far or near, and why delay’d,
He show’d himself to us as one, insane
For grief, who cannot find some loved lost thing:
And thus, for clouds of sorrow held aloof,
Saw not the fair face turn, which, if I live,
In many a page shall praised and honour’d be,
The misery of her loss so changed her mien
That her bright eyes were dimm’d, for once, with tears,
Thereon its former gloom the air resumed.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXVI.
Quel che ‘n Tessaglia ebbe le man sì pronte.
SOME HAVE WEPT FOR THEIR WORST ENEMIES, BUT LAURA DEIGNS HIM NOT A SINGLE TEAR.
He who for empire at Pharsalia threw,
Reddening its beauteous plain with civil gore,
As Pompey’s corse his conquering soldiers bore,
Wept when the well-known features met his view:
The shepherd youth, who fierce Goliath slew,
Had long rebellious children to deplore,
And bent, in generous grief, the brave Saul o’er
His shame and fall when proud Gilboa knew:
But you, whose cheek with pity never paled,
Who still have shields at hand to guard you well
Against Love’s bow, which shoots its darts in vain,
Behold me by a thousand deaths assail’d,
And yet no tears of thine compassion tell,
But in those bright eyes anger and disdain.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXVII.
Il mio avversario, in cui veder solete.
LAURA AT HER LOOKING-GLASS.
My foe, in whom you see your own bright eyes,
Adored by Love and Heaven with honour due,
With beauties not its own enamours you,
Sweeter and happier than in mortal guise.
Me, by its counsel, lady, from your breast,
My chosen cherish’d home, your scorn expell’d
In wretched banishment, perchance not held
Worthy to dwell where you alone should rest.
But were I fasten’d there with strongest keys,
That mirror should not make you, at my cost,
Severe and proud yourself alone to please.
Remember how Narcissus erst was lost!
His course and thine to one conclusion lead,
Of flower so fair though worthless here the mead.
MACGREGOR.
My mirror’d foe reflects, alas! so fair
Those eyes which Heaven and Love have honour’d too!
Yet not his charms thou dost enamour’d view,
But all thine own, and they beyond compare:
O lady! thou hast chased me at its prayer
From thy heart’s throne, where I so fondly grew;
O wretched exile! though too well I knew
A reign with thee I were unfit to share.
But were I ever fix’d thy bosom’s mate,
A flattering mirror should not me supplant,
And make thee scorn me in thy self-delight;
Thou surely must recall Narcissus’ fate,
But if like him thy doom should thee enchant,
What mead were worthy of a flower so bright?
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XXXVIII.
L’ oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli e i bianchi.
HE INVEIGHS AGAINST LAURA’S MIRROR, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER FORGET HIM.
Those golden tresses, teeth of pearly white,
Those cheeks’ fair roses blooming to decay,
Do in their beauty to my soul convey
The poison’d arrows from my aching sight.
Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight,
For life with woe not long on earth will stay;
But more I blame that mirror’s flattering sway,
Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight.
Its power my bosom’s sovereign too hath still’d,
Who pray’d thee in my suit — now he is mute,
Since thou art captured by thyself alone:
Death’s seeds it hath within my heart instill’d,
For Lethe’s stream its form doth constitute,
And makes thee lose each image but thine own.
WOLLASTON.
The gold and pearls, the lily and the rose
Which weak and dry in winter wont to be,
Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me,
As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows:
Thus all my days now sadly shortly close,
For seldom with great grief long years agree;
But in that fatal glass most blame I see,
That weary with your oft self-liking grows.
It on my lord placed silence, when my suit
He would have urged, but, seeing your desire
End in yourself alone, he soon was mute.
’Twas fashion’d in hell’s wave and o’er its fire,
And tinted in eternal Lethe: thence
The spring and secret of my death commence.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XXXIX.
Io sentia dentr’ al cor già venir meno.
HE DESIRES AGAIN TO GAZE ON THE EYES Of LAURA.
I now perceived that from within me fled
Those spirits to which you their being lend;
And since by nature’s dictates to defend
Themselves from death all animals are made,
The reins I loosed, with which Desire I stay’d,
And sent him on his way without a friend;
There whither day and night my course he’d bend,
Though still from thence by me reluctant led.
And me ashamed and slow along he drew
To see your eyes their matchless influence shower,
Which much I shun, afraid to give you pain.
Yet for myself this once I’ll live; such power
Has o’er this wayward life one look from you: —
Then die, unless Desire prevails again.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Because the powers that take their life from you
Already had I felt within decay,
And because Nature, death to shield or slay,
Arms every animal with instinct true,
To my long-curb’d desire the rein I threw,
And turn’d it in the old forgotten way,
Where fondly it invites me night and day,
Though ‘gainst its will, another I pursue.
And thus it led me back, ashamed and slow,
To see those eyes with love’s own lustre rife
Which I am watchful never to offend:
Thus may I live perchance awhile below;
One glance of yours such power has o’er my life
Which sure, if I oppose desire, shall end.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XL.
Se mai foco per foco non si spense.
HIS HEART IS ALL IN FLAMES, BUT HIS TONGUE IS MUTE, IN HER PRESENCE.
If fire was never yet by fire subdued,
If never flood fell dry by frequent rain,
But, like to like, if each by other gain,
And contraries are often mutual food;
Love, who our thoughts controllest in each mood,
Through whom two bodies thus one soul sustain,
How, why in her, with such unusual strain
Make the want less by wishes long renewed?
Perchance, as falleth the broad Nile from high,
Deafening with his great voice all nature round,
And as the sun still dazzles the fix’d eye,
So with itself desire in dis
cord found
Loses in its impetuous object force,
As the too frequent spur oft checks the course.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XLI.
Perch’ io t’ abbia guardato di menzogna.
IN HER PRESENCE HE CAN NEITHER SPEAK, WEEP, NOR SIGH.
Although from falsehood I did thee restrain
With all my power, and paid thee honour due,
Ungrateful tongue; yet never did accrue
Honour from thee, but shame, and fierce disdain:
Most art thou cold, when most I want the strain
Thy aid should lend while I for pity sue;
And all thy utterance is imperfect too,
When thou dost speak, and as the dreamer’s vain.
Ye too, sad tears, throughout each lingering night
Upon me wait, when I alone would stay;
But, needed by my peace, you take your flight:
And, all so prompt anguish and grief t’ impart,
Ye sighs, then slow, and broken breathe your way:
My looks alone truly reveal my heart.
NOTT.
With all my power, lest falsehood should invade,
I guarded thee and still thy honour sought,
Ungrateful tongue! who honour ne’er hast brought,
But still my care with rage and shame repaid:
For, though to me most requisite, thine aid,
When mercy I would ask, availeth nought,
Still cold and mute, and e’en to words if wrought
They seem as sounds in sleep by dreamers made.
And ye, sad tears, o’ nights, when I would fain
Be left alone, my sure companions, flow,
But, summon’d for my peace, ye soon depart:
Ye too, mine anguish’d sighs, so prompt to pain,
Then breathe before her brokenly and slow,
And my face only speaks my suffering heart.
MACGREGOR.
CANZONE V.
Nella stagion che ‘l ciel rapido inchina.
NIGHT BRINGS REPOSE TO OTHERS, BUT NOT TO HIM.
In that still season, when the rapid sun
Drives down the west, and daylight flies to greet
Nations that haply wait his kindling flame;
In some strange land, alone, her weary feet