‘Mid two such foes, is safe and fancy free.
Thou art well arm’d, ‘mid flowers and verdure she,
In simplest robe and natural tresses found,
Against thee haughty still and harsh to me;
I am thy thrall: but, if thy bow be sound,
If yet one shaft be thine, in pity, take
Vengeance upon her for our common sake.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCVI.
Quelle pietose rime, in ch’ io m’ accorsi.
TO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH’S SUPPOSED DEATH.
Those pious lines wherein are finely met
Proofs of high genius and a spirit kind,
Had so much influence on my grateful mind
That instantly in hand my pen I set
To tell you that death’s final blow — which yet
Shall me and every mortal surely find —
I have not felt, though I, too, nearly join’d
The confines of his realm without regret;
But I turn’d back again because I read
Writ o’er the threshold that the time to me
Of life predestinate not all was fled,
Though its last day and hour I could not see.
Then once more let your sad heart comfort know,
And love the living worth which dead it honour’d so.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCVII.
Dicesett’ anni ha già rivolto il cielo.
E’EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRES.
The seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone,
And still with ardour unconsumed I glow;
Yet find, whene’er myself I seek to know,
Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on.
Truly ’tis said, ‘Ere Habit quits her throne,
Years bleach the hair.’ The senses feel life’s snow,
But not less hot the tides of passion flow:
Such is our earthly nature’s malison!
Oh! come the happy day, when doom’d to smart
No more, from flames and lingering sorrows free,
Calm I may note how fast youth’s minutes flew!
Ah! will it e’er be mine the hour to see,
When with delight, nor duty nor my heart
Can blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view?
WRANGHAM.
For seventeen summers heaven has o’er me roll’d
Since first I burn’d, nor e’er found respite thence,
But when to weigh our state my thoughts commence
I feel amidst the flames a frosty cold.
We change the form, not nature, is an old
And truthful proverb: thus, to dull the sense
Makes not the human feelings less intense;
The dark shades of our painful veil still hold.
Alas! alas! will e’er that day appear
When, my life’s flight beholding, I may find
Issue from endless fire and lingering pain, —
The day which, crowning all my wishes here,
Of that fair face the angel air and kind
Shall to my longing eyes restore again?
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCVIII.
Quel vago impallidir che ‘l dolce riso.
LEAVE-TAKING.
That witching paleness, which with cloud of love
Veil’d her sweet smile, majestically bright,
So thrill’d my heart, that from the bosom’s night
Midway to meet it on her face it strove.
Then learnt I how, ‘mid realms of joy above,
The blest behold the blest: in such pure light
I scann’d her tender thought, to others’ sight
Viewless! — but my fond glances would not rove.
Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy,
E’er traced in dame by Love’s soft power inspired,
Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay:
Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye,
And still methought, though silent, she inquired,
“What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away?”
WRANGHAM.
There was a touching paleness on her face,
Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made
Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace,
As if a passing cloud had veil’d her with its shade;
Then knew I how the blessed ones above
Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss,
For never yet was look of mortal love
So pure, so tender, so serene as this.
The softest glance fond woman ever sent
To him she loved, would cold and rayless be
Compared to this, which she divinely bent
Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me,
That seem’d with speechless tenderness to say,
“Who takes from me my faithful friend away?”
E. (New Monthly Magazine.)
SONNET XCIX.
Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva.
THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE.
Love, Fortune, and my melancholy mind,
Sick of the present, lingering on the past,
Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I cast
On those who life’s dark shore have left behind.
Love racks my bosom: Fortune’s wintry wind
Kills every comfort: my weak mind at last
Is chafed and pines, so many ills and vast
Expose its peace to constant strifes unkind.
Nor hope I better days shall turn again;
But what is left from bad to worse may pass:
For ah! already life is on the wane.
Not now of adamant, but frail as glass,
I see my best hopes fall from me or fade,
And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.
MACGREGOR.
Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind,
Which loathes the present in its memoried past,
So wound my spirit, that on all I cast
An envied thought who rest in darkness find.
My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkind
No comfort grants, until its sorrow vast
Impotent frets, then melts to tears at last:
Thus I to painful warfare am consign’d.
My halcyon days I hope not to return,
But paint my future by a darker tint;
My spring is gone — my summer well-nigh fled:
Ah! wretched me! too well do I discern
Each hope is now (unlike the diamond flint)
A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.
WOLLASTON.
CANZONE XIII.
Se ‘l pensier che mi strugge.
HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE.
Oh! that my cheeks were taught
By the fond, wasting thought
To wear such hues as could its influence speak;
Then the dear, scornful fair
Might all my ardour share;
And where Love slumbers now he might awake!
Less oft the hill and mead
My wearied feet should tread;
Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream;
If she, who cold as snow,
With equal fire would glow —
She who dissolves me, and converts to flame.
Since Love exerts his sway,
And bears my sense away,
I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs:
Nor leaves, nor blossoms show,
Nor rind, upon the bough,
What is the nature that thereto belongs.
Love, and those beauteous eyes,
Beneath whose shade he lies,
Discover all the heart can comprehend:
When vented are my cares
In loud complaints, and tears;
These harm myself, and others those offend.
Sweet lays of spor
tive vein,
Which help’d me to sustain
Love’s first assault, the only arms I bore;
This flinty breast say who
Shall once again subdue,
That I with song may soothe me as before?
Some power appears to trace
Within me Laura’s face,
Whispers her name; and straight in verse I strive
To picture her again,
But the fond effort’s vain:
Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive.
E’en as some babe unties
Its tongue in stammering guise,
Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep:
So fond words I essay;
And listen’d be the lay
By my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep!
But if, of beauty vain,
She treats me with disdain;
Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs:
Let them so freely flow,
That all the world may know,
My sorrow thou at least didst not despise!
And well art thou aware,
That never foot so fair
The soil e’er press’d as that which trod thee late;
My sunk soul and worn heart
Now seek thee, to impart
The secret griefs that on my passion wait.
If on thy margent green,
Or ‘midst thy flowers, were seen
Some traces of her footsteps lingering there.
My wearied life ’twould cheer,
Bitter’d with many a tear:
Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care?
Where’er I bend mine eye,
What sweet serenity
I feel, to think here Laura shone of yore.
Each plant and scented bloom
I gather, seems to come
From where she wander’d on the custom’d shore:
Ofttimes in this retreat
A fresh and fragrant seat
She found; at least so fancy’s vision shows:
And never let truth seek
Th’ illusion dear to break —
O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows!
To thee, my simple song,
No polish doth belong;
Thyself art conscious of thy little worth!
Solicit not renown
Throughout the busy town,
But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth.
NOTT.
CANZONE XIV.
Chiare, fresche e dolci acque.
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE — CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.
Ye limpid brooks, by whose clear streams
My goddess laid her tender limbs!
Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shade
Gave shelter to the lovely maid!
Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly press’d
By her soft rising snowy breast!
Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed around
The place where Love my heart did wound!
Now at my summons all appear,
And to my dying words give ear.
If then my destiny requires,
And Heaven with my fate conspires,
That Love these eyes should weeping close,
Here let me find a soft repose.
So Death will less my soul affright,
And, free from dread, my weary spright
Naked alone will dare t’ essay
The still unknown, though beaten way;
Pleased that her mortal part will have
So safe a port, so sweet a grave.
The cruel fair, for whom I burn,
May one day to these shades return,
And smiling with superior grace,
Her lover seek around this place,
And when instead of me she finds
Some crumbling dust toss’d by the winds,
She may feel pity in her breast,
And, sighing, wish me happy rest,
Drying her eyes with her soft veil,
Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.
Well I remember how the flowers
Descended from these boughs in showers,
Encircled in the fragrant cloud
She set, nor midst such glory proud.
These blossoms to her lap repair,
These fall upon her flowing hair,
(Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,)
These on the ground, these on the stream;
In giddy rounds these dancing say,
Here Love and Laura only sway.
In rapturous wonder oft I said,
Sure she in Paradise was made,
Thence sprang that bright angelic state,
Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait,
That beauteous smile, that voice divine,
Those graces that around her shine:
Transported I beheld the fair,
And sighing cried, How came I here?
In heaven, amongst th’ immortal blest,
Here let me fix and ever rest.
MOLESWORTH.
Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose blight wave
She all her beauties gave, —
Sole of her sex in my impassion’d mind!
Thou sacred branch so graced,
(With sighs e’en now retraced!)
On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form reclined!
Herbage and flowers that bent the robe beneath,
Whose graceful folds compress’d
Her pure angelic breast!
Ye airs serene, that breathe
Where Love first taught me in her eyes his lore!
Yet once more all attest,
The last sad plaintive lay my woe-worn heart may pour!
If so I must my destiny fulfil,
And Love to close these weeping eyes be doom’d
By Heaven’s mysterious will,
Oh! grant that in this loved retreat, entomb’d,
My poor remains may lie,
And my freed soul regain its native sky!
Less rude shall Death appear,
If yet a hope so dear
Smooth the dread passage to eternity!
No shade so calm — serene,
My weary spirit finds on earth below;
No grave so still — so green,
In which my o’ertoil’d frame may rest from mortal woe!
Yet one day, haply, she — so heavenly fair!
So kind in cruelty! —
With careless steps may to these haunts repair,
And where her beaming eye
Met mine in days so blest,
A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest,
And seeking me around,
May mark among the stones a lowly mound,
That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense!
Then may she breathe a sigh,
Of power to win me mercy from above!
Doing Heaven violence,
All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love!
Still dear to memory! when, in odorous showers,
Scattering their balmy flowers,
To summer airs th’ o’ershadowing branches bow’d,
The while, with humble state,
In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate,
Wrapt in the roseate cloud!
Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture’s hem,
Now her bright tresses gem, —
(In that all-blissful day,
Like burnish’d gold with orient pearls inwrought,)
Some strew the turf — some on the waters float!
Some, fluttering, seem to say
In wanton circlets toss’d, “Here Love holds sovereign sway!”
Oft I exclaim’d, in awful tremor rapt,
“Surely of heavenly birth
This gracious form that visits the low earth!”
So in oblivion lapp’d
Was reason’s power, by the celestial mien,
&n
bsp; The brow, — the accents mild —
The angelic smile serene!
That now all sense of sad reality
O’erborne by transport wild, —
“Alas! how came I here, and when?” I cry, —
Deeming my spirit pass’d into the sky!
E’en though the illusion cease,
In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart finds peace.
If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my song!
To match thy wish to please;
Leaving these rocks and trees,
Thou boldly might’st go forth, and dare th’ assembled throng.
DACRE.
Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,
Which the fair shape, who seems
To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide;
Fair bough, so gently fit,
(I sigh to think of it,)
Which lent a pillar to her lovely side;
And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,
O’er which her folded gown
Flow’d like an angel’s down;
And you, O holy air and hush’d,
Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush’d;
Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,
To my last words, my last and my lamenting.
If ’tis my fate below,
And Heaven will have it so,
That Love must close these dying eyes in tears,
May my poor dust be laid
In middle of your shade,
While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres.
The thought would calm my fears,
When taking, out of breath,
The doubtful step of death;
For never could my spirit find
A stiller port after the stormy wind;
Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne,
Slip from my travail’d flesh, and from my bones outworn.
Perhaps, some future hour,
To her accustom’d bower
Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she;
And where she saw me first,
Might turn with eyes athirst
And kinder joy to look again for me;
Then, oh! the charity!
Seeing amidst the stones
The earth that held my bones,
A sigh for very love at last
Might ask of Heaven to pardon me the past:
And Heaven itself could not say nay,
As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.
How well I call to mind,
When from those boughs the wind
Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;
And there she sat, meek-eyed,
In midst of all that pride,
Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower
Some to her hair paid dower,
Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch Page 15