And on my mind and nature darkness lies,
With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skies
I pass a weary and a painful night:
To her who hears me not I then rehearse
My sad life’s fruitless toils, early and late;
And with the world and with my gloomy fate,
With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.
Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,
But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,
And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;
Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,
But not my soul; the sun which in it burns
Alone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.
NOTT.
When Phoebus lashes to the western main
His fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;
Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;
Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain.
Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vain
To heedless beings all those pangs I bear;
Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,
Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!
From eve’s last glance, till morning’s earliest ray,
Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;
And my rack’d breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.
Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,
But cheers not me — for to my sorrowing heart
One sun alone can cheering light impart!
ANON. 1777.
SONNET CLXXVIII.
S’ una fede amorosa, un cor non finto.
THE MISERY OF HIS LOVE.
If faith most true, a heart that cannot feign,
If Love’s sweet languishment and chasten’d thought,
And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught,
If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain,
If on the brow each pang pourtray’d to bear,
Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw,
Withheld by shame, or check’d by pious awe,
If on the faded cheek Love’s hue to wear,
If than myself to hold one far more dear,
If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow,
Wrung from the heart by all Love’s various woe,
In absence if consumed, and chill’d when near, —
If these be ills in which I waste my prime,
Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.
DACRE.
If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,
By melting languors the soft wish betray’d;
If chaste desires, with temper’d warmth display’d;
If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;
If every thought in every feature shown,
Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey’d,
As fear or shame my pallid cheek array’d
In violet hues, with Love’s thick blushes strown;
If more than self another to hold dear;
If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,
To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,
To glow when distant, and to freeze when near, —
If hence my bosom’s anguish takes its rise,
Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.
WRANGHAM.
SONNET CLXXXIX.
Dodici donne onestamente lasse.
HAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANG.
Twelve ladies, their rare toil who lightly bore,
Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun,
I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon,
Whose like the waters never cleaved before:
Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore,
Whose fatal gold has ev’ry heart now won,
Nor such the shepherd boy’s, by whom undone
Troy mourns, whose fame has pass’d the wide world o’er.
I saw them next on a triumphal car,
Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, aside
My Laura sate and to them sweetly sung.
Things not of earth to man such visions are!
Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guide
The bark, or car of band so bright and young.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXC
Passer mai solitario in alcun tetto.
FAR FROM HIS BELOVED, LIFE IS MISERABLE BY NIGHT AS BY DAY.
Never was bird, spoil’d of its young, more sad,
Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me,
Now that no more that lovely face I see,
The only sun my fond eyes ever had.
In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:
My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;
The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,
And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.
Sleep is indeed, as has been well express’d.
Akin to death, for it the heart removes
From the dear thought in which alone I live.
Land above all with plenty, beauty bless’d!
Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves!
Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCI.
Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe.
HE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS TOWARDS HER.
Ye laughing gales, that sporting with my fair,
The silky tangles of her locks unbraid;
And down her breast their golden treasures spread;
Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair,
You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bear
The flaming darts by which my heart has bled;
My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray’d
To seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear.
Methinks she’s found — but oh! ’tis fancy’s cheat!
Methinks she’s seen — but oh! ’tis love’s deceit!
Methinks she’s near — but truth cries “’tis not so!”
Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell!
Go happy stream, and to my Laura tell
What envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!
ANON. 1777.
Thou gale, that movest, and disportest round
Those bright crisp’d locks, by them moved sweetly too,
That all their fine gold scatter’st to the view,
Then coil’st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound;
About those eyes thou playest, where abound
The am’rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew!
And I my treasure tremblingly pursue,
Like some scared thing that stumbles o’er the ground.
Methinks I find her now, and now perceive
She’s distant; now I soar, and now descend;
Now what I wish, now what is true believe.
Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam;
And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream,
Why can’t I change my course, and thine attend?
NOTT.
SONNET CXCII.
Amor con la man destra il lato manco.
UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.
My poor heart op’ning with his puissant hand,
Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell
A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well
In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:
Plough’d by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann’d,
Cool’d by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,
It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,
Unparallel’d in any age or land.
Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,
The chastest beauty in celestial frame, —
These be the roots whence birth so noble came.
A happy burden and a holy thing,
To which on rev’rent knee with loving prayer I cling.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCIII.
Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza.
THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.
I sang, who now lament; nor less delight
Than in my song I found, in tears I find;
For on the cause and not effect inclined,
My senses still desire to scale that height:
Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite,
Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind,
All I endure, nor care what weights they bind,
E’en though her rage would break my armour quite.
Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join,
And still pursue their usual course for me,
I care not, if unblest, in life to be.
Let me or burn to death or living pine,
No gentler state than mine beneath the sun,
Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCIV.
I’ piansi, or canto; che ‘l celeste lume.
AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.
I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not from my view,
But virtuous love therein revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious might;
Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor even wings.
But so profound and of so full a vein
My suff’ring is, so far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e’en thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills me to survive.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCV.
I’ mi vivea di mia sorte contento.
HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.
I lived so tranquil, with my lot content,
No sorrow visited, nor envy pined,
To other loves if fortune were more kind
One pang of mine their thousand joys outwent;
But those bright eyes, whence never I repent
The pains I feel, nor wish them less to find,
So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind,
Seems as my sun of life in them were spent.
O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern,
Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds,
Such lovely things to make and mar in turn?
True, from one living fount all power proceeds:
But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven,
That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCVI.
Vincitore Alessandro l’ ira vinse.
THE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGER.
What though the ablest artists of old time
Left us the sculptured bust, the imaged form
Of conq’ring Alexander, wrath o’ercame
And made him for the while than Philip less?
Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus drove
That dying he devour’d his slaughter’d foe;
Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye,
But blind to all, and kill’d him in the end.
Well Valentinian knew that to such pain
Wrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought.
Strong against many, ‘gainst himself at last.
Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain’d,
Long madness, which its master often leads
To shame and crime, and haply e’en to death.
ANON.
SONNET CXCVII.
Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall’ uno.
HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.
Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one
Of the two brightest eyes which ever were,
Beholding it with pain dis urb’d and dim,
Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.
I had return’d, to break the weary fast
Of seeing her, my sole care in this world,
Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e’en
If all their other gifts together join’d,
When from the right eye — rather the right sun —
Of my dear Lady to my right eye came
The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;
As if it intellect possess’d and wings
It pass’d, as stars that shoot along the sky:
Nature and pity then pursued their course.
ANON.
SONNET CXCVIII.
O cameretta che già fosti un porto.
HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.
Thou little chamber’d haven to the woes
Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!
From shame, I in Heaven’s light my grief control;
Thou art its fountain, which each night o’erflows.
My couch! that oft hath woo’d me to repose,
‘Mid sorrows vast — Love’s iv’ried hand hath stole
Griefs turgid stream, which o’er thee it doth roll,
That hand which good on all but me bestows.
Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,
But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit
On pinion’d fancy doth my soul transport:
The multitude I did so long defy,
Now as my hope and refuge I salute,
So much I tremble solitude to court.
WOLLASTON.
Room! which to me hast been a port and shield
From life’s rude daily tempests for long years,
Now the full fountain of my nightly tears
Which in the day I bear for shame conceal’d:
Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield
Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears
Love o’er thee now from those fair hands uprears,
Cruel and cold to me alone reveal’d.
But e’en than solitude and rest, I flee
More from myself and melancholy thought,
In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.
The crowd long hateful, hostile e’en to me,
Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,
Such fear have I to find myself alone!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCIX.
Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov’ io non voglio.
HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCH.
Alas! Love bears me where I would not go,
And well I see how duty is transgress’d,
And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast,
More than my wont importunate I grow.
Never from rocks wise sailor guarded so
His ship of richest merchandise possess’d,
As evermore I shield my bark distress’d
From shocks of her hard pride that would o’erthrow
Torrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs
— For, in my sea, nights horrible and dark
And pitiless winter reign — have driven my bark,
Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter’d lies,
Or, drifting at the mercy of the main,
Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CC.
Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire.
HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIM.
O Love, I err, and I m
ine error own,
As one who burns, whose fire within him lies
And aggravates his grief, while reason dies,
With its own martyrdom almost o’erthrown.
I strove mine ardent longing to restrain,
Her fair calm face that I might ne’er disturb:
I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,
And my despairing soul is bold again;
Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,
The act is thine, who firest and spur’st her so,
No way too rough or steep for her to go:
But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blame
Shrined in herself: let her at least feel this,
Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.
MACGREGOR.
SESTINA VII.
Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l’ onde.
HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED.
Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves,
Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,
Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,
Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,
Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,
As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.
Each day I hope that this my latest eve
Shall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,
And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;
So many torments man beneath the moon
Ne’er bore as I have borne; this know the woods
Through which I wander lonely day and night.
For never have I had a tranquil night,
But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,
Since love first made me tenant of the woods:
The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,
The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,
And April flowers be blasted o’er each hill.
Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,
Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,
No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;
And when I see approaching the brown eve,
Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,
The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.
Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch Page 25