Taketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plains
His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pains.
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:
Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.
SURREY.
Love in my thought who ever lives and reigns,
And in my heart still holds the upper place,
At times come forward boldly in my face,
There plants his ensign and his post maintains:
She, who in love instructs us and its pains,
Would fain that reason, shame, respect should chase
Presumptuous hope and high desire abase,
And at our daring scarce herself restrains,
Love thereon to my heart retires dismay’d,
Abandons his attempt, and weeps and fears,
And hiding there, no more my friend appears.
What can the liege whose lord is thus afraid,
More than with him, till life’s last gasp, to dwell?
For who well loving dies at least dies well.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CX.
Come talora al caldo tempo suole.
HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE’S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH.
As when at times in summer’s scorching heats.
Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,
As a charm’d thing, into the passer’s eyes,
Whence death the one and pain the other meets,
Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,
Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness lies
That reason’s guiding hand fierce Love defies,
And by strong will is better judgment beat.
I clearly see they value me but ill,
And, for against their torture fails my strength.
That I am doom’d my life to lose at length:
But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,
My heart their pain and not my loss laments,
And blind, to its own death my soul consents.
MACGREGOR.
SESTINA V.
Alia dolce ombra de le belle frondi.
HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LOVE, RESOLVING HENCEFORTH TO DEVOTE HIMSELF TO GOD.
Beneath the pleasant shade of beauteous leaves
I ran for shelter from a cruel light,
E’en here below that burnt me from high heaven,
When the last snow had ceased upon the hills,
And amorous airs renew’d the sweet spring time,
And on the upland flourish’d herbs and boughs.
Ne’er did the world behold such graceful boughs,
Nor ever wind rustled so verdant leaves,
As were by me beheld in that young time:
So that, though fearful of the ardent light,
I sought not refuge from the shadowing hills,
But of the plant accepted most in heaven.
A laurel then protected from that heaven:
Whence, oft enamour’d with its lovely boughs,
A roamer I have been through woods, o’er hills,
But never found I other trunk, nor leaves
Like these, so honour’d with supernal light,
Which changed not qualities with changing time.
Wherefore each hour more firm, from time to time
Following where I heard my call from heaven,
And guided ever by a soft clear light,
I turn’d, devoted still, to those first boughs,
Or when on earth are scatter’d the sere leaves,
Or when the sun restored makes green the hills.
The woods, the rocks, the fields, the floods, and hills,
All that is made, are conquer’d, changed by time:
And therefore ask I pardon of those leaves,
If after many years, revolving heaven
Sway’d me to flee from those entangling boughs,
When I begun to see its better light.
So dear to me at first was the sweet light,
That willingly I pass’d o’er difficult hills,
But to be nearer those beloved boughs;
Now shortening life, the apt place and full time
Show me another path to mount to heaven,
And to make fruit not merely flowers and leaves.
Other love, other leaves, and other light,
Other ascent to heaven by other hills
I seek — in sooth ’tis time — and other boughs.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXI.
Quand’ io v’ odo parlar si dolcemente.
TO ONE WHO SPOKE TO HIM OF LAURA.
Whene’er you speak of her in that soft tone
Which Love himself his votaries surely taught,
My ardent passion to such fire is wrought,
That e’en the dead reviving warmth might own:
Where’er to me she, dear or kind, was known
There the bright lady is to mind now brought,
In the same bearing which, to waken thought,
Needed no sound but of my sighs alone.
Half-turn’d I see her looking, on the breeze
Her light hair flung; so true her memories roll
On my fond heart of which she keeps the keys;
But the surpassing bliss which floods my soul
So checks my tongue, to tell how, queen-like, there,
She sits as on her throne, I never dare.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXII.
Nè così bello il sol giammai levarsi.
THE CHARMS OF LAURA WHEN SHE FIRST MET HIS SIGHT.
Ne’er can the sun such radiance soft display,
Piercing some cloud that would its light impair;
Ne’er tinged some showery arch the humid air,
With variegated lustre half so gay,
As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away,
All-beauteous shone my captivating fair;
For charms what mortal can with her compare!
But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.
I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyes
With such bewitching, am’rous sweetness roll,
That every human glance I since despise.
Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;
Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;
Yet, ah! once more I’d view the dang’rous joy.
ANON. 1777.
Sun never rose so beautiful and bright
When skies above most clear and cloudless show’d,
Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e’er glow’d
With tints so varied, delicate, and light,
As in rare beauty flash’d upon my sight,
The day I first took up this am’rous load,
That face whose fellow ne’er on earth abode —
Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!
Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bend
So sweetly, every other face obscure
Has from that hour till now appear’d to me.
The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,
From whom life since has never been secure,
Whom still I madly yearn again to see.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXIII.
Pommi ove ‘l sol occide i fiori e l’ erba.
HIS INVINCIBLE CONSTANCY.
Place me where herb and flower the sun has dried,
Or where numb winter’s grasp holds sterner sway:
Place me where Phoebus sheds a temperate ray,
Where first he glows, where rests at eventide.
Place me in lowly state, in power and pride,
Where lour the skies, or where bland zephyrs play
Place me where blind night rules, or lengthened day,
In age mature, or in youth’s boiling tide:
Place me in heaven, or in the abyss profound,
; On lofty height, or in low vale obscure,
A spirit freed, or to the body bound;
Bank’d with the great, or all unknown to fame,
I still the same will be! the same endure!
And my trilustral sighs still breathe the same!
DACRE.
Place me where Phoebus burns each herb, each flower;
Or where cold snows, and frost o’ercome his rays:
Place me where rolls his car with temp’rate blaze;
In climes that feel not, or that feel his power.
Place me where fortune may look bright, or lour;
Mid murky airs, or where soft zephyr plays:
Place me in night, in long or short-lived days,
Where age makes sad, or youth gilds ev’ry hour:
Place me on mountains high, in vallies drear,
In heaven, on earth, in depths unknown to-day;
Whether life fosters still, or flies this clay:
Place me where fame is distant, where she’s near:
Still will I love; nor shall those sighs yet cease,
Which thrice five years have robb’d this breast of peace.
ANON. 1777.
Place me where angry Titan burns the Moor,
And thirsty Afric fiery monsters brings,
Or where the new-born phoenix spreads her wings,
And troops of wond’ring birds her flight adore:
Place me by Gange, or Ind’s empamper’d shore,
Where smiling heavens on earth cause double springs:
Place me where Neptune’s quire of Syrens sings,
Or where, made hoarse through cold, he leaves to roar:
Me place where Fortune doth her darlings crown,
A wonder or a spark in Envy’s eye,
Or late outrageous fates upon me frown,
And pity wailing, see disaster’d me.
Affection’s print my mind so deep doth prove,
I may forget myself, but not my love.
DRUMMOND.
SONNET CXIV.
O d’ ardente virtute ornata e calda.
HE CELEBRATES LAURA’S BEAUTY AND VIRTUE.
O mind, by ardent virtue graced and warm’d.
To whom my pen so oft pours forth my heart;
Mansion of noble probity, who art
A tower of strength ‘gainst all assault full arm’d.
O rose effulgent, in whose foldings, charm’d,
We view with fresh carnation snow take part!
O pleasure whence my wing’d ideas start
To that bless’d vision which no eye, unharm’d,
Created, may approach — thy name, if rhyme
Could bear to Bactra and to Thule’s coast,
Nile, Tanaïs, and Calpe should resound,
And dread Olympus. — But a narrower bound
Confines my flight: and thee, our native clime
Between the Alps and Apennine must boast.
CAPEL LOFFT.
With glowing virtue graced, of warm heart known,
Sweet Spirit! for whom so many a page I trace,
Tower in high worth which foundest well thy base!
Centre of honour, perfect, and alone!
O blushes! on fresh snow like roses thrown,
Wherein I read myself and mend apace;
O pleasures! lifting me to that fair face
Brightest of all on which the sun e’er shone.
Oh! if so far its sound may reach, your name
On my fond verse shall travel West and East,
From southern Nile to Thule’s utmost bound.
But such full audience since I may not claim,
It shall be heard in that fair land at least
Which Apennine divides, which Alps and seas surround.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXV.
Quando ‘l voler, che con duo sproni ardenti.
HER LOOKS BOTH COMFORT AND CHECK HIM.
When, with two ardent spurs and a hard rein,
Passion, my daily life who rules and leads,
From time to time the usual law exceeds
That calm, at least in part, my spirits may gain,
It findeth her who, on my forehead plain,
The dread and daring of my deep heart reads,
And seeth Love, to punish its misdeeds,
Lighten her piercing eyes with worse disdain.
Wherefore — as one who fears the impending blow
Of angry Jove — it back in haste retires,
For great fears ever master great desires;
But the cold fire and shrinking hopes which so
Lodge in my heart, transparent as a glass,
O’er her sweet face at times make gleams of grace to pass.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXVI.
Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro.
HE EXTOLS THE LAUREL AND ITS FAVOURITE STREAM.
Not all the streams that water the bright earth,
Not all the trees to which its breast gives birth,
Can cooling drop or healing balm impart
To slack the fire which scorches my sad heart,
As one fair brook which ever weeps with me,
Or, which I praise and sing, as one dear tree.
This only help I find amid Love’s strife;
Wherefore it me behoves to live my life
In arms, which else from me too rapid goes.
Thus on fresh shore the lovely laurel grows;
Who planted it, his high and graceful thought
‘Neath its sweet shade, to Sorga’s murmurs, wrote.
MACGREGOR.
[IMITATION.]
Nor Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber,
Sebethus, nor the flood into whose streams
He fell who burnt the world with borrow’d beams;
Gold-rolling Tagus, Munda, famous Iber,
Sorgue, Rhone, Loire, Garron, nor proud-bank’d Seine,
Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble Ladon,
Nor she whose nymphs excel her who loved Adon,
Fair Tamesis, nor Ister large, nor Rhine,
Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Hermus, Gange,
Pearly Hydaspes, serpent-like Meander, —
The gulf bereft sweet Hero her Leander —
Nile, that far, far his hidden head doth range,
Have ever had so rare a cause of praise
As Ora, where this northern Phoenix stays.
DRUMMOND.
BALLATA VI.
Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura.
THOUGH SHE BE LESS SEVERE, HE IS STILL NOT CONTENTED AND TRANQUIL AT HEART.
From time to time more clemency for me
In that sweet smile and angel form I trace;
Seem too her lovely face
And lustrous eyes at length more kind to be.
Yet, if thus honour’d, wherefore do my sighs
In doubt and sorrow flow,
Signs that too truly show
My anguish’d desperate life to common eyes?
Haply if, where she is, my glance I bend,
This harass’d heart to cheer,
Methinks that Love I hear
Pleading my cause, and see him succour lend.
Not therefore at an end the strife I deem,
Nor in sure rest my heart at last esteem;
For Love most burns within
When Hope most pricks us on the way to win.
MACGREGOR.
From time to time less cruelty I trace
In her sweet smile and form divinely fair;
Less clouded doth appear
The heaven of her fine eyes and lovely face.
What then at last avail to me those sighs,
Which from my sorrows flow,
And in my semblance show
The life of anguish and despair I lead?
If towards her perchance I bend mine eyes,
Some solace to bestow
Upon my bosom’s woe,
Methi
nks Love takes my part, and lends me aid:
Yet still I cannot find the conflict stay’d,
Nor tranquil is my heart in every state:
For, ah! my passion’s heat
More strongly glows within as my fond hopes increase.
NOTT.
SONNET CXVII.
Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?
DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.
P. What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?
Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?
H. Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,
Her bright eyes favour not our cherish’d ill.
P. What profit, with those eyes if she at will
Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?
H. From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.
P. What’s he to us, she sees it and is still.
H. Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
P. Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
MACGREGOR.
P. What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
H. Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
P. But that is vain, since by her eyes’ control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
H. Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
P. No balm to me, since she will not condole.
H. When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,
In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
P. Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives
Is not dispell’d, but stagnant seems to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CXVIII.
Nom d’ atra e tempestosa onda marina.
HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON.
No wearied mariner to port e’er fled
From the dark billow, when some tempest’s nigh,
As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly —
Thoughts by the force of goading passion bred:
Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch Page 18