Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  And seem’d to dress the curls,

  Queenlike, with gold and pearls;

  Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp’d,

  Some on the earth, some on the water dropp’d;

  While others, fluttering from above,

  Seem’d wheeling round in pomp, and saying, “Here reigns Love.”

  How often then I said,

  Inward, and fill’d with dread,

  “Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!”

  For at her look the while,

  Her voice, and her sweet smile,

  And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;

  So that, with long-drawn sighs,

  I said, as far from men,

  “How came I here, and when?”

  I had forgotten; and alas!

  Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;

  And from that time till this, I bear

  Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.

  LEIGH HUNT.

  CANZONE XV.

  In quella parte dov’ Amor mi sprona.

  HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE.

  When Love, fond Love, commands the strain,

  The coyest muse must sure obey;

  Love bids my wounded breast complain,

  And whispers the melodious lay:

  Yet when such griefs restrain the muse’s wing,

  How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing?

  Oh! could my heart express its woe,

  How poor, how wretched should I seem!

  But as the plaintive accents flow,

  Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam;

  And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view,

  Bids Laura’s absent charms to memory bloom anew.

  Though Fate’s severe decrees remove

  Her gladsome beauties from my sight,

  Yet, urged by pity, friendly Love

  Bids fond reflection yield delight;

  If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead,

  Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed!

  When to this globe the solar beams

  Their full meridian blaze impart,

  It pictures Laura, that inflames

  With passion’s fires each human heart:

  And when the sun completes his daily race,

  I see her riper age complete each growing grace.

  When milder planets, warmer skies

  O’er winter’s frozen reign prevail;

  When groves are tinged with vernal dyes,

  And violets scent the wanton gale;

  Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day,

  In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away.

  The blush of health, that crimson’d o’er

  Her youthful cheek; her modest mien;

  The gay-green garment that she wore,

  Have ever dear to memory been;

  More dear they grow as time the more inflames

  This tender breast o’ercome by passion’s wild extremes!

  The sun, whose cheering lustre warms

  The bosom of yon snow-clad hill,

  Seems a just emblem of the charms,

  Whose power controls my vanquish’d will;

  When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart,

  Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene’er those charms depart.

  Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold,

  That play around her face so fair —

  Her face which, oft as I behold,

  Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care!

  While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that love

  Which from this faithful breast no time can e’er remove.

  If to the transient storm of night

  Succeeds a star-bespangled sky,

  And the clear rain-drops catch the light,

  Glittering on all the foliage nigh;

  Methinks her eyes I view, as on that day

  When through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.

  With brightness making heaven more bright,

  As then they did, I see them now;

  I see them, when the morning light

  Purples the misty mountain’s brow:

  When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole;

  Methinks ’tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.

  In stately jars of burnish’d gold

  Should lilies spread their silvery pride,

  With fresh-blown roses that unfold

  Their leaves, in heaven’s own crimson dyed;

  Then Laura’s bloom I see, and sunny hair

  Flowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.

  The flowerets brush’d by zephyr’s wing,

  Waving their heads in frolic play,

  Oft to my fond remembrance bring

  The happy spot, the happier day,

  In which, disporting with the gale, I view’d

  Those sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.

  Oh! could I count those orbs that shine

  Nightly o’er yon ethereal plain,

  Or in some scanty vase confine

  Each drop that ocean’s bounds contain,

  Then might I hope to fly from beauty’s rays,

  Laura o’er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty’s blaze.

  Should I all heaven, all earth explore,

  I still should lovely Laura find;

  Laura, whose beauties I adore,

  Is ever present to my mind:

  She’s seen in all that strikes these partial eyes,

  And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.

  But soft, my song, — not thine the power

  To paint that never-dying flame,

  Which gilds through life the gloomy hour,

  Which nurtures this love-wasted frame;

  For since with Laura dwells my wander’d heart,

  Cheer’d by that fostering flame, I brave Death’s ebon dart.

  ANON 1777.

  CANZONE XVI.

  Italia mia, benchè ‘l parlar sia indarno.

  TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.

  O my own Italy! though words are vain

  The mortal wounds to close,

  Unnumber’d, that thy beauteous bosom stain,

  Yet may it soothe my pain

  To sigh forth Tyber’s woes,

  And Arno’s wrongs, as on Po’s sadden’d shore

  Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.

  Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love

  That could thy Godhead move

  To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,

  Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:

  See, God of Charity!

  From what light cause this cruel war has birth;

  And the hard hearts by savage discord steel’d,

  Thou, Father! from on high,

  Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!

  Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide

  Of this fair land the reins, —

  (This land for which no pity wrings your breast) —

  Why does the stranger’s sword her plains invest?

  That her green fields be dyed,

  Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians’ veins?

  Beguiled by error weak,

  Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,

  Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek:

  When throng’d your standards most,

  Ye are encompass’d most by hostile bands.

  O hideous deluge gather’d in strange lands,

  That rushing down amain

  O’erwhelms our every native lovely plain!

  Alas! if our own hands

  Have thus our weal betray’d, who shall our cause sustain?

  Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,

  Rear her rude Alpine heights,

  A lofty rampart against German hate;

  But blin
d ambition, seeking his own ill,

  With ever restless will,

  To the pure gales contagion foul invites:

  Within the same strait fold

  The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,

  Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:

  And these, — oh, shame avow’d! —

  Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold:

  Fame tells how Marius’ sword

  Erewhile their bosoms gored, —

  Nor has Time’s hand aught blurr’d the record proud!

  When they who, thirsting, stoop’d to quaff the flood,

  With the cool waters mix’d, drank of a comrade’s blood!

  Great Cæsar’s name I pass, who o’er our plains

  Pour’d forth the ensanguin’d tide,

  Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;

  But now — nor know I what ill stars preside —

  Heaven holds this land in hate!

  To you the thanks! — whose hands control her helm! —

  You, whose rash feuds despoil

  Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!

  Are ye impell’d by judgment, crime, or fate,

  To oppress the desolate?

  From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,

  The hard-earn’d dole to wring,

  While from afar ye bring

  Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?

  In truth’s great cause I sing.

  Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.

  Nor mark ye yet, confirm’d by proof on proof,

  Bavaria’s perfidy,

  Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?

  (Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour’s eye!)

  While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour

  Your inmost bosom’s gore! —

  Yet give one hour to thought,

  And ye shall own, how little he can hold

  Another’s glory dear, who sets his own at nought

  O Latin blood of old!

  Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,

  Nor bow before a name

  Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!

  For if barbarians rude

  Have higher minds subdued,

  Ours! ours the crime! — not such wise Nature’s course.

  Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press’d?

  And here, in cradled rest,

  Was I not softly hush’d? — here fondly rear’d?

  Ah! is not this my country? — so endear’d

  By every filial tie!

  In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!

  Oh! by this tender thought,

  Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,

  Look on the people’s grief!

  Who, after God, of you expect relief;

  And if ye but relent,

  Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,

  Against blind fury bent,

  Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;

  For no, — the ancient flame

  Is not extinguish’d yet, that raised the Italian name!

  Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong,

  Swift hurries life along!

  E’en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.

  We sojourn here a day — the next, are gone!

  The soul disrobed — alone,

  Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.

  Oh! at the dreaded bourne,

  Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,

  (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)

  And ye, whose cruelty

  Has sought another’s harm, by fairer deed

  Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire

  To win the honest meed

  Of just renown — the noble mind’s desire!

  Thus sweet on earth the stay!

  Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr’d is Heaven’s way!

  My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,

  Thy daring reasons grace,

  For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,

  Must woo to gentle ruth,

  Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,

  Ever to truth averse!

  Thee better fortunes wait,

  Among the virtuous few — the truly great!

  Tell them — but who shall bid my terrors cease?

  Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!

  DACRE.

  * * * * *

  See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!

  See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,

  And on its weary shoulders death appears!

  Now all is life and all is spring:

  Think on the winter and the darker day

  When the soul, naked and alone,

  Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,

  Yet ever beaten way.

  And through this fatal vale

  Would you be wafted with some gentle gale?

  Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,

  Clouds that involve our life’s serene,

  And storms that ruffle all the scene;

  Your precious hours, misspent in others’ pain,

  On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;

  Whether with hand or wit you raise

  Some monument of peaceful praise,

  Some happy labour of fair love:

  ’Tis all of heaven that you can find below,

  And opens into all above.

  BASIL KENNET.

  CANZONE XVII.

  Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte.

  DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE.

  From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,

  With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,

  For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:

  If ‘mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,

  Or deep embosom’d a low valley lie,

  In its calm shade my trembling heart’s still;

  And there, if Love so will,

  I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.

  While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,

  The wild emotions roll,

  Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;

  That whosoe’er has proved the lover’s state

  Would say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.

  On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,

  I find repose, and from the throng’d resort

  Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside;

  At each lone step thoughts ever new arise

  Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport

  Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;

  Yet e’en these ills I prize,

  Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removed

  For my heart whispers me, Love yet has power

  To grant a happier hour:

  Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved:

  E’en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,

  Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?

  Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave

  I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone

  With thought intense her beauteous face engrave;

  Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find

  With tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus alone

  Hast thou far wander’d, and whom left behind?

  But as with fixed mind

  On this fair image I impassion’d rest,

  And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,

  Love my rapt fancy fills;

  In its own error sweet the soul is blest,

  While all around so bright the visions glide;

  Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.

  Her form portray’d within the lucid stream

  Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,

  Or glo
ssy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam

  So lovely fair, that Leda’s self might say,

  Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn

  A star when cover’d by the solar ray:

  And, as o’er wilds I stray

  Where the eye nought but savage nature meets,

  There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;

  But when rude truth destroys

  The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,

  I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,

  Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.

  Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,

  On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,

  Led by desire intense the steep I climb;

  And tracing in the boundless space each woe,

  Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings,

  Tears, that bespeak the heart o’erfraught, will flow:

  While, viewing all below,

  From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide

  The beauteous form, still absent and still near!

  Then, chiding soft the tear,

  I whisper low, haply she too has sigh’d

  That thou art far away: a thought so sweet

  Awhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.

  Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,

  Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene,

  There by a murmuring stream may I be found,

  Whose gentle airs around

  Waft grateful odours from the laurel green;

  Nought but my empty form roams here unblest,

  There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.

  DACRE.

  SONNET C.

  Poi che ‘l cammin m’ è chiuso di mercede.

  THOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIM.

  Since mercy’s door is closed, alas! to me,

  And hopeless paths my poor life separate

  From her in whom, I know not by what fate,

  The guerdon lay of all my constancy,

  My heart that lacks not other food, on sighs

  I feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears:

  Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appears

  My present grief than others can surmise.

  On thy dear portrait rests alone my view,

  Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew,

  But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.

  What shore can hide me, or what distance shield,

  If by my cruel exile yet untamed

  Insatiate Envy finds me here concealed?

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CI.

  Io canterei d’ Amor sì novamente.

  REPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINO.