Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

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Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch Page 13

by Francesco Petrarch

HE SYMPATHISES WITH HIS FRIEND ORSO AT HIS INABILITY TO ATTEND A TOURNAMENT.

  Orso, a curb upon thy gallant horse

  Well may we place to turn him from his course,

  But who thy heart may bind against its will

  Which honour courts and shuns dishonour still?

  Sigh not! for nought its praise away can take,

  Though Fate this journey hinder you to make.

  For, as already voiced by general fame,

  Now is it there, and none before it came.

  Amid the camp, upon the day design’d,

  Enough itself beneath those arms to find

  Which youth, love, valour, and near blood concern,

  Crying aloud: With noble fire I burn,

  As my good lord unwillingly at home,

  Who pines and languishes in vain to come.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET LXXVIII.

  Poi che voi ed io più volte abbiam provato.

  TO A FRIEND, COUNSELLING HIM TO ABANDON EARTHLY PLEASURES.

  Still has it been our bitter lot to prove

  How hope, or e’er it reach fruition, flies!

  Up then to that high good, which never dies,

  Lift we the heart — to heaven’s pure bliss above.

  On earth, as in a tempting mead, we rove,

  Where coil’d ‘mid flowers the traitor serpent lies;

  And, if some casual glimpse delight our eyes,

  ’Tis but to grieve the soul enthrall’d by Love.

  Oh! then, as thou wouldst wish ere life’s last day

  To taste the sweets of calm unbroken rest,

  Tread firm the narrow, shun the beaten way —

  Ah! to thy friend too well may be address’d:

  “Thou show’st a path, thyself most apt to stray,

  Which late thy truant feet, fond youth, have never press’d.”

  WRANGHAM.

  Friend, as we both in confidence complain

  To see our ill-placed hopes return in vain,

  Let that chief good which must for ever please

  Exalt our thought and fix our happiness.

  This world as some gay flowery field is spread,

  Which hides a serpent in its painted bed,

  And most it wounds when most it charms our eyes,

  At once the tempter and the paradise.

  And would you, then, sweet peace of mind restore,

  And in fair calm expect your parting hour,

  Leave the mad train, and court the happy few.

  Well may it be replied, “O friend, you show

  Others the path, from which so often you

  Have stray’d, and now stray farther than before.”

  BASIL KENNET.

  SONNET LXXIX.

  Quella fenestra, ove l’ un sol si vede.

  RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

  That window where my sun is often seen

  Refulgent, and the world’s at morning’s hours;

  And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,

  And the short days reveal a clouded scene;

  That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,

  My Laura sits, forgetting beauty’s powers;

  Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,

  And her feet press the paths or herbage green:

  The place where Love assail’d me with success;

  And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,

  Revives the keen remembrance every year;

  With looks and words, that o’er me have preserved

  A power no length of time can render less,

  Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.

  PENN.

  That window where my sun is ever seen,

  Dazzling and bright, and Nature’s at the none;

  And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown

  In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:

  The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,

  Pensive and parleying with herself alone:

  Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,

  Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:

  The cruel spot where first Love spoil’d my rest,

  And the new season which, from year to year,

  Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:

  The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,

  Which in my suffering heart are deep impress’d,

  All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET LXXX.

  Lasso! ben so che dolorose prede.

  THOUGH FOR FOURTEEN YEARS HE HAS STRUGGLED UNSUCCESSFULLY, HE STILL HOPES TO CONQUER HIS PASSION.

  Alas! well know I what sad havoc makes

  Death of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares!

  How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes,

  How short the faith it to the friendless bears!

  Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes;

  For the last day though now my heart prepares,

  Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks,

  And still my cheek grief’s wonted tribute wears.

  I mark the days, the moments, and the hours

  Bear the full years along, nor find deceit,

  Bow’d ‘neath a greater force than magic spell.

  For fourteen years have fought with varying powers

  Desire and Reason: and the best shall beat;

  If mortal spirits here can good foretell.

  MACGREGOR.

  Alas! I know death makes us all his prey,

  Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man;

  How swift the world completes its circling span,

  And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way.

  My heart repeats the blast of earth’s last day,

  Yet for its grief no recompense can scan,

  Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban,

  And still my eyes their usual tribute pay.

  My watchful senses mark how on their wing

  The circling years transport their fleeter kin,

  And still I bow enslaved as by a spell:

  For fourteen years did reason proudly fling

  Defiance at my tameless will, to win

  A triumph blest, if Man can good foretell.

  WOLLASTON.

  SONNET LXXXI.

  Cesare, poi che ‘l traditor d’ Egitto.

  THE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEART.

  When Egypt’s traitor Pompey’s honour’d head

  To Cæsar sent; then, records so relate,

  To shroud a gladness manifestly great,

  Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed:

  And, when misfortune her dark mantle spread

  O’er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,

  He laugh’d ‘midst those who wept their adverse fate,

  That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.

  Thus doth the mind oft variously conceal

  Its several passions by a different veil;

  Now with a countenance that’s sad, now gay:

  So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,

  ’Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,

  ’Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.

  NOTT.

  Cæsar, when Egypt’s cringing traitor brought

  The gory gift of Pompey’s honour’d head,

  Check’d the full gladness of his instant thought,

  And specious tears of well-feign’d pity shed:

  And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wrought

  On his afflicted empire evils dread,

  ‘Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, sought

  To ease the anger at his heart that fed.

  Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides,

  Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien,

  Bright’ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen.

  Thus ever if I sing, or smile betide
s,

  The outward joy serves only to conceal

  The inner ail and anguish that I feel.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET LXXXII.

  Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi.

  TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI.

  Hannibal conquer’d oft, but never knew

  The fruits and gain of victory to get,

  Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yet

  A like misfortune happen not to you.

  Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q] who

  Rough pasturage and sour in May have met,

  With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,

  And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:

  While this new grief disheartens and appalls,

  Replace not in its sheath your honour’d sword,

  But, boldly following where your fortune calls,

  E’en to its goal be glory’s path explored,

  Which fame and honour to the world may give

  That e’en for centuries after death will live.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET LXXXIII.

  L’ aspettata virtù che ‘n voi fioriva.

  TO PAUDOLFO MALATESTA, LORD OF RIMINI.

  Sweet virtue’s blossom had its promise shed

  Within thy breast (when Love became thy foe);

  Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow,

  And not by visions hath my hope been fed.

  To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led,

  That by my pen thy name renown should know;

  No marble can the lasting fame bestow

  Like that by poets’ characters is spread.

  Dost think Marcellus’ or proud Cæsar’s name,

  Or Africanus, Paulus — still resound,

  That sculptors proud have effigied their deed?

  No, Pandolph, frail the statuary’s fame,

  For immortality alone is found

  Within the records of a poet’s meed.

  WOLLASTON.

  The flower, in youth which virtue’s promise bore,

  When Love in your pure heart first sought to dwell,

  Now beareth fruit that flower which matches well,

  And my long hopes are richly come ashore,

  Prompting my spirit some glad verse to pour

  Where to due honour your high name may swell,

  For what can finest marble truly tell

  Of living mortal than the form he wore?

  Think you great Cæsar’s or Marcellus’ name,

  That Paulus, Africanus to our days,

  By anvil or by hammer ever came?

  No! frail the sculptor’s power for lasting praise:

  Our study, my Pandolfo, only can

  Give immortality of fame to man.

  MACGREGOR.

  CANZONE XI.[R]

  Mai non vo’ più cantar, com’ io soleva.

  ENIGMAS.

  Never more shall I sing, as I have sung:

  For still she heeded not; and I was scorn’d:

  So e’en in loveliest spots is trouble found.

  Unceasingly to sigh is no relief.

  Already on the Alp snow gathers round:

  Already day is near; and I awake.

  An affable and modest air is sweet;

  And in a lovely lady that she be

  Noble and dignified, not proud and cold,

  Well pleases it to find.

  Love o’er his empire rules without a sword.

  He who has miss’d his way let him turn back:

  Who has no home the heath must be his bed:

  Who lost or has not gold,

  Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.

  I trusted in Saint Peter, not so now;

  Let him who can my meaning understand.

  A harsh rule is a heavy weight to bear.

  I melt but where I must, and stand alone.

  I think of him who falling died in Po;

  Already thence the thrush has pass’d the brook

  Come, see if I say sooth! No more for me.

  A rock amid the waters is no joke,

  Nor birdlime on the twig. Enough my grief

  When a superfluous pride

  In a fair lady many virtues hides.

  There is who answereth without a call;

  There is who, though entreated, fails and flies:

  There is who melts ‘neath ice:

  There is who day and night desires his death.

  Love who loves you, is an old proverb now.

  Well know I what I say. But let it pass;

  ’Tis meet, at their own cost, that men should learn.

  A modest lady wearies her best friend.

  Good figs are little known. To me it seems

  Wise to eschew things hazardous and high;

  In any country one may be at ease.

  Infinite hope below kills hope above;

  And I at times e’en thus have been the talk.

  My brief life that remains

  There is who’ll spurn not if to Him devote.

  I place my trust in Him who rules the world,

  And who his followers shelters in the wood,

  That with his pitying crook

  Me will He guide with his own flock to feed.

  Haply not every one who reads discerns;

  Some set the snare at times who take no spoil;

  Who strains too much may break the bow in twain.

  Let not the law be lame when suitors watch.

  To be at ease we many a mile descend.

  To-day’s great marvel is to-morrow’s scorn.

  A veil’d and virgin loveliness is best.

  Blessed the key which pass’d within my heart,

  And, quickening my dull spirit, set it free

  From its old heavy chain,

  And from my bosom banish’d many a sigh.

  Where most I suffer’d once she suffers now;

  Her equal sorrows mitigate my grief;

  Thanks, then, to Love that I

  Feel it no more, though he is still the same!

  In silence words that wary are and wise;

  The voice which drives from me all other care;

  And the dark prison which that fair light hides:

  As midnight on our hills the violets;

  And the wild beasts within the walls who dwell;

  The kind demeanour and the dear reserve;

  And from two founts one stream which flow’d in peace

  Where I desire, collected where I would.

  Love and sore jealousy have seized my heart,

  And the fair face whose guides

  Conduct me by a plainer, shorter way

  To my one hope, where all my torments end.

  O treasured bliss, and all from thee which flows

  Of peace, of war, or truce,

  Never abandon me while life is left!

  At my past loss I weep by turns and smile,

  Because my faith is fix’d in what I hear.

  The present I enjoy and better wait;

  Silent, I count the years, yet crave their end,

  And in a lovely bough I nestle so

  That e’en her stern repulse I thank and praise,

  Which has at length o’ercome my firm desire,

  And inly shown me, I had been the talk,

  And pointed at by hand: all this it quench’d.

  So much am I urged on,

  Needs must I own, thou wert not bold enough.

  Who pierced me in my side she heals the wound,

  For whom in heart more than in ink I write;

  Who quickens me or kills,

  And in one instant freezes me or fires.

  ANON.

  MADRIGALE III.

  Nova angeletta sovra l’ ale accorta.

  HE ALLEGORICALLY DESCRIBES THE ORIGIN OF HIS PASSION.

  From heaven an angel upon radiant wings,

  New lighted on
that shore so fresh and fair,

  To which, so doom’d, my faithful footstep clings:

  Alone and friendless, when she found me there,

  Of gold and silk a finely-woven net,

  Where lay my path, ‘mid seeming flowers she set:

  Thus was I caught, and, for such sweet light shone

  From out her eyes, I soon forgot to moan.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET LXXXIV.

  Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omai.

  AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS HER EYES ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN AT FIRST.

  No hope of respite, of escape no way,

  Her bright eyes wage such constant havoc here;

  Alas! excess of tyranny, I fear,

  My doting heart, which ne’er has truce, will slay:

  Fain would I flee, but ah! their amorous ray,

  Which day and night on memory rises clear,

  Shines with such power, in this the fifteenth year,

  They dazzle more than in love’s early day.

  So wide and far their images are spread

  That wheresoe’er I turn I alway see

  Her, or some sister-light on hers that fed.

  Springs such a wood from one fair laurel tree,

  That my old foe, with admirable skill,

  Amid its boughs misleads me at his will.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET LXXXV.

  Avventuroso più d’ altro terreno.

  HE APOSTROPHIZES THE SPOT WHERE LAURA FIRST SALUTED HIM.

  Ah, happiest spot of earth! in this sweet place

  Love first beheld my condescending fair

  Retard her steps, to smile with courteous grace

  On me, and smiling glad the ambient air.

  The deep-cut image, wrought with skilful care,

  Time shall from hardest adamant efface,

  Ere from my mind that smile it shall erase,

  Dear to my soul! which memory planted there.

  Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting soil!

  With amorous awe I’ll seek — delightful toil!

  Where yet some traces of her footsteps lie.

  And if fond Love still warms her generous breast,

  Whene’er you see her, gentle friend! request

  The tender tribute of a tear — a sigh.

  ANON. 1777.

  Most fortunate and fair of spots terrene!

  Where Love I saw her forward footstep stay,

  And turn on me her bright eyes’ heavenly ray,

 

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