Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch
Page 8
The time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone,
Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame;
Her solitude the same,
When night has closed around;
Yet has the wanderer found
A deep though short forgetfulness at last
Of every woe, and every labour past.
But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows,
As fast, and yet more fast,
Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.
When Phoebus rolls his everlasting wheels
To give night room; and from encircling wood,
Broader and broader yet descends the shade;
The labourer arms him for his evening trade,
And all the weight his burthen’d heart conceals
Lightens with glad discourse or descant rude;
Then spreads his board with food,
Such as the forest hoar
To our first fathers bore,
By us disdain’d, yet praised in hall and bower,
But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,
I never knew, I will not say of mirth,
But of repose, an hour,
When Phoebus leaves, and stars salute the earth.
Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of day
He sees descending to its western bed,
And the wide Orient all with shade embrown’d,
Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head,
Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way,
Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around;
Then far from human sound,
Some desert cave he strows
With leaves and verdant boughs,
And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep.
Ah, cruel Love! — then dost thou bid me keep
My idle chase, the airy steps pursuing
Of her I ever weep,
Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.
E’en the rude seaman, in some cave confined,
Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene,
On the hard deck, with vilest mat o’erspread;
And when the Sun in orient wave serene
Bathes his resplendent front, and leaves behind
Those antique pillars of his boundless bed;
Forgetfulness has shed
O’er man, and beast, and flower,
Her mild restoring power:
But my determined grief finds no repose;
And every day but aggravates the woes
Of that remorseless flood, that, ten long years,
Flowing, yet ever flows,
Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.
MERIVALE.
What time towards the western skies
The sun with parting radiance flies,
And other climes gilds with expected light,
Some aged pilgrim dame who strays
Alone, fatigued, through pathless ways,
Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of night
Then, the day’s journey o’er, she’ll steep
Her sense awhile in grateful sleep;
Forgetting all the pain, and peril past;
But I, alas! find no repose,
Each sun to me brings added woes,
While light’s eternal orb rolls from us fast.
When the sun’s wheels no longer glow,
And hills their lengthen’d shadows throw,
The hind collects his tools, and carols gay;
Then spreads his board with frugal fare,
Such as those homely acorns were,
Which all revere, yet casting them away,
Let those, who pleasure can enjoy,
In cheerfulness their hours employ;
While I, of all earth’s wretches most unblest,
Whether the sun fierce darts his beams,
Whether the moon more mildly gleams,
Taste no delight, no momentary rest!
When the swain views the star of day
Quench in the pillowing waves its ray,
And scatter darkness o’er the eastern skies
Rising, his custom’d crook he takes,
The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes,
As calmly homeward with his flock he hies
Remote from man, then on his bed
In cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread,
He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care,
While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursue
That voice, those footsteps which subdue
My soul; yet movest not th’ obdurate fair!
Lock’d in some bay, to taste repose
On the hard deck, the sailor throws
His coarse garb o’er him, when the car of light
Granada, with Marocco leaves,
The Pillars famed, Iberia’s waves,
And the world’s hush’d, and all its race, in night.
But never will my sorrows cease,
Successive days their sum increase,
Though just ten annual suns have mark’d my pain;
Say, to this bosom’s poignant grief
Who shall administer relief?
Say, who at length shall free me from my chain?
And, since there’s comfort in the strain,
I see at eve along each plain.
And furrow’d hill, the unyoked team return:
Why at that hour will no one stay
My sighs, or bear my yoke away?
Why bathed in tears must I unceasing mourn?
Wretch that I was, to fix my sight
First on that face with such delight,
Till on my thought its charms were strong imprest,
Which force shall not efface, nor art,
Ere from this frame my soul dispart!
Nor know I then if passion’s votaries rest.
O hasty strain, devoid of worth,
Sad as the bard who brought thee forth,
Show not thyself, be with the world at strife,
From nook to nook indulge thy grief;
While thy lorn parent seeks relief,
Nursing that amorous flame which feeds his life!
NOTT.
SONNET XLII.
Poco era ad appressarsi agli occhi miei.
SUCH ARE HIS SUFFERINGS THAT HE ENVIES THE INSENSIBILITY OF MARBLE.
Had but the light which dazzled them afar
Drawn but a little nearer to mine eyes,
Methinks I would have wholly changed my form,
Even as in Thessaly her form she changed:
But if I cannot lose myself in her
More than I have — small mercy though it won —
I would to-day in aspect thoughtful be,
Of harder stone than chisel ever wrought,
Of adamant, or marble cold and white,
Perchance through terror, or of jasper rare
And therefore prized by the blind greedy crowd.
Then were I free from this hard heavy yoke
Which makes me envy Atlas, old and worn,
Who with his shoulders brings Morocco night.
ANON.
MADRIGALE I.
Non al suo amante più Diana piacque.
ANYTHING THAT REMINDS HIM OF LAURA RENEWS HIS TORMENTS.
Not Dian to her lover was more dear,
When fortune ‘mid the waters cold and clear,
Gave him her naked beauties all to see,
Than seem’d the rustic ruddy nymph to me,
Who, in yon flashing stream, the light veil laved,
Whence Laura’s lovely tresses lately waved;
I saw, and through me felt an amorous chill,
Though summer burn, to tremble and to thrill.
MACGREGOR.
CANZONE VI.
Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi.
TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTY.
Spirit heroic! who with fire divine
Kindl
est those limbs, awhile which pilgrim hold
On earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;
Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thine
Rome and her wandering children to confine,
And yet reclaim her to the old good way:
To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a ray
Of virtue can I find, extinct below,
Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.
Why Italy still waits, and what her aim
I know not, callous to her proper woe,
Indolent, aged, slow,
Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?
Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.
So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,
Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e’er
She yet will waken from her heavy sleep:
But not, methinks, without some better end
Was this our Rome entrusted to thy care,
Who surest may revive and best defend.
Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,
‘Mid her dishevell’d locks, thy fingers spread,
And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;
I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,
For this, in thee, have fix’d my certain trust,
That, if her sons yet turn.
And their eyes ever to true honour raise.
The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!
Her ancient walls, which still with fear and love
The world admires, whene’er it calls to mind
The days of Eld, and turns to look behind;
Her hoar and cavern’d monuments above
The dust of men, whose fame, until the world
In dissolution sink, can never fail;
Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl’d,
Hopes to have heal’d by thee its every ail.
O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead!
To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,
If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:
And how his laurell’d crest,
Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,
That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!
And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,
The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,
And their mere mortal frames have left below,
Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,
Which kills all confidence, nips every good,
Which bars the way to many a roof, where men
Once holy, hospitable lived, the den
Of fearless rapine now and frequent blood,
Whose doors to virtue only are denied.
While beneath plunder’d Saints, in outraged fanes
Plots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;
And, contrast sad and wide,
The very bells which sweetly wont to fling
Summons to prayer and praise now Battle’s tocsin ring!
Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowd
Of tender years, infirm and desolate Age,
Which hates itself and its superfluous days,
With each blest order to religion vow’d,
Whom works of love through lives of want engage,
To thee for help their hands and voices raise;
While our poor panic-stricken land displays
The thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,
That e’en from foes compassion they command;
Or more if Christendom thy care may claim.
Lo! God’s own house on fire, while not a hand
Moves to subdue the flame:
— Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,
And on the holy work Heaven’s blessing shall descend!
Often against our marble Column high
Wolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base Snake
Even to their own injury insult shower;
Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,
The noble Dame who calls thee here to break
Away the evil weeds which will not flower.
A thousand years and more! and gallant men
There fix’d her seat in beauty and in power;
The breed of patriot hearts has fail’d since then!
And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,
A race, which ne’er to her in reverence bends,
Her husband, father thou!
Like care from thee and counsel she attends,
As o’er his other works the Sire of all extends.
’Tis seldom e’en that with our fairest scheme
Some adverse fortune will not mix, and mar
With instant ill ambition’s noblest dreams;
But thou, once ta’en thy path, so walk that I
May pardon her past faults, great as they are,
If now at least she give herself the lie.
For never, in all memory, as to thee,
To mortal man so sure and straight the way
Of everlasting honour open lay,
For thine the power and will, if right I see,
To lift our empire to its old proud state.
Let this thy glory be!
They succour’d her when young, and strong, and great,
He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.
Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the bold
Tarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,
Of others’ weal more thoughtful than his own,
The chief, by general Italy revered,
Tell him from me, to whom he is but known
As one to Virtue and by Fame endear’d,
Till stamp’d upon his heart the sad truth be,
That, day by day to thee,
With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,
For justice and relief our seven-hill’d city cries.
MACGREGOR.
MADRIGALE II.
Perchè al viso d’ Amor portava insegna.
A LOVE JOURNEY — DANGER IN THE PATH — HE TURNS BACK.
Bright in whose face Love’s conquering ensign stream’d,
A foreign fair so won me, young and vain,
That of her sex all others worthless seem’d:
Her as I follow’d o’er the verdant plain,
I heard a loud voice speaking from afar,
“How lost in these lone woods his footsteps are!”
Then paused I, and, beneath the tall beech shade,
All wrapt in thought, around me well survey’d,
Till, seeing how much danger block’d my way,
Homeward I turn’d me though at noon of day.
MACGREGOR.
BALLATA III.
Quel foco, ch’ io pensai che fosse spento.
HE THOUGHT HIMSELF FREE, BUT FINDS THAT HE IS MORE THAN EVER ENTHRALLED BY LOVE.
That fire for ever which I thought at rest,
Quench’d in the chill blood of my ripen’d years,
Awakes new flames and torment in my breast.
Its sparks were never all, from what I see,
Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder’d o’er;
Haply this second error worse may be,
For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour,
Grief, through these eyes, distill’d from my heart’s core,
Which holds within itself the spark and bait,
Remains not as it was, but grows more great.
What fire, save mine, had not been quench’d and kill’d
Beneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed?
Struggling ‘mid opposites — so Love has will’d —
Now here, now there, my vain life must be led,
For in so many ways his snares are spread,
When most I hope him from my heart expell’d
Then most of her fair face its slave I’m held.
MACGREGOR.
&n
bsp; SONNET XLIII.
Se col cieco desir che ‘l cor distrugge.
BLIGHTED HOPE.
Either that blind desire, which life destroys
Counting the hours, deceives my misery,
Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies,
Promised at once to pity and to me.
Alas! what baneful shade o’erhangs and dries
The seed so near its full maturity?
‘Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise?
From murderous wolves not even my fold is free.
Ah, woe is me! Too clearly now I find
That felon Love, to aggravate my pain,
Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;
And now the maxim sage I call to mind,
That mortal bliss must doubtful still remain
Till death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.
CHARLEMONT.
Counting the hours, lest I myself mislead
By blind desire wherewith my heart is torn,
E’en while I speak away the moments speed,
To me and pity which alike were sworn.
What shade so cruel as to blight the seed
Whence the wish’d fruitage should so soon be born?
What beast within my fold has leap’d to feed?
What wall is built between the hand and corn?
Alas! I know not, but, if right I guess,
Love to such joyful hope has only led
To plunge my weary life in worse distress;
And I remember now what once I read,
Until the moment of his full release
Man’s bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XLIV.
Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre.
FEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVE.
Ever my hap is slack and slow in coming,
Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertain
With doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;
For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.
Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,
The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,
The Thames shall back return into his fountain,
And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,
Ere I in this find peace or quietness;
Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,
Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.
And if I have, after such bitterness,
One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,
That all my trust and travail is but waste.
WYATT.
Late to arrive my fortunes are and slow —