Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay)

  Each charm of person, and each power of mind —

  But, slowly if thy lingering foot comply,

  Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay.

  WRANGHAM.

  SONNET CCXI.

  Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente.

  MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES.

  O Laura! when my tortured mind

  The sad remembrance bears

  Of that ill-omen’d day,

  When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,

  I left my soul behind,

  That soul that could not from its partner stray;

  In nightly visions to my longing eyes

  Thy form oft seems to rise,

  As ever thou wert seen,

  Fair like the rose, ‘midst paling flowers the queen,

  But loosely in the wind,

  Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,

  That late with studious care,

  I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:

  On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;

  Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;

  Placid in pain thou seem’st, serene in grief,

  As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!

  Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deign

  To hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain!

  WOODHOUSELEE.

  What dread I feel when I revolve the day

  I left my mistress, sad, without repose,

  My heart too with her: and my fond thought knows

  Nought on which gladlier, oft’ner it can stay.

  Again my fancy doth her form portray

  Meek among beauty’s train, like to some rose

  Midst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;

  Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.

  Then were thrown by her custom’d cheerfulness,

  Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,

  Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;

  Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:

  Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings dire

  Raise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!

  NOTT.

  SONNET CCXII.

  Solea lontana in sonno consolarme.

  SHE ANNOUNCES TO HIM, IN A VISION, THAT HE WILL NEVER SEE HER MORE.

  To soothe me distant far, in days gone by,

  With dreams of one whose glance all heaven combined,

  Was mine; now fears and sorrow haunt my mind,

  Nor can I from that grief, those terrors fly:

  For oft in sleep I mark within her eye

  Deep pity with o’erwhelming sadness join’d;

  And oft I seem to hear on every wind

  Accents, which from my breast chase peace and joy.

  “That last dark eve,” she cries, “remember’st thou,

  When to those doting eyes I bade farewell,

  Forced by the time’s relentless tyranny?

  I had not then the power, nor heart to tell,

  What thou shalt find, alas! too surely true —

  Hope not again on earth thy Laura’s face to see.”

  WRANGHAM.

  SONNET CCXIII.

  O misera ed orribil visione.

  HE CANNOT BELIEVE IN HER DEATH, BUT IF TRUE, HE PRAYS GOD TO TAKE HIM ALSO FROM LIFE.

  O misery! horror! can it, then, be true,

  That the sweet light before its time is spent,

  ‘Mid all its pains which could my life content,

  And ever with fresh hopes of good renew?

  If so, why sounds not other channels through,

  Nor only from herself, the great event?

  No! God and Nature could not thus consent,

  And my dark fears are groundless and undue.

  Still it delights my heart to hope once more

  The welcome sight of that enchanting face,

  The glory of our age, and life to me.

  But if, to her eternal home to soar,

  That heavenly spirit have left her earthly place,

  Oh! then not distant may my last day be!

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXIV.

  In dubbio di mio stato, or piango, or canto.

  TO HIS LONGING TO SEE HER AGAIN IS NOW ADDED THE FEAR OF SEEING HER NO MORE.

  Uncertain of my state, I weep and sing,

  I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighs

  I ease my load, while Love his utmost tries

  How worse my sore afflicted heart to sting.

  Will her sweet seraph face again e’er bring

  Their former light to these despairing eyes.

  (What to expect, alas! or how advise)

  Or must eternal grief my bosom wring?

  For heaven, which justly it deserves to win,

  It cares not what on earth may be their fate,

  Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze.

  Such terror, so perpetual warfare in,

  Changed from my former self, I live of late

  As one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXV.

  O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte.

  HE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIM.

  O angel looks! O accents of the skies!

  Shall I or see or hear you once again?

  O golden tresses, which my heart enchain,

  And lead it forth, Love’s willing sacrifice!

  O face of beauty given in anger’s guise,

  Which still I not enjoy, and still complain!

  O dear delusion! O bewitching pain!

  Transports, at once my punishment and prize!

  If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam

  (Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside)

  Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow;

  Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried,

  Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam;

  Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.

  WRANGHAM.

  O gentle looks! O words of heavenly sound!

  Shall I behold you, hear you once again?

  O waving locks, that Love has made the chain,

  In which this wretched ruin’d heart is bound!

  O face divine! whose magic spells surround

  My soul, distemper’d with unceasing pain:

  O dear deceit! O loving errors vain!

  To hug the dart and doat upon the wound!

  Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic light

  My life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find,

  Ever impart a pure unmixed delight?

  Or if they have one moment, then unkind

  Fortune steps in, and sends me from their sight,

  And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.

  MOREHEAD.

  SONNET CCXVI.

  I’ pur ascolto, e non odo novella.

  HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.

  Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait,

  Of that sweet enemy I love so well:

  What now to think or say I cannot tell,

  ‘Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:

  The beautiful are still the marks of fate;

  And sure her worth and beauty most excel:

  What if her God have call’d her hence, to dwell

  Where virtue finds a more congenial state?

  If so, she will illuminate that sphere

  Even as a sun: but I— ’tis done with me!

  I then am nothing, have no business here!

  O cruel absence! why not let me see

  The worst? my little tale is told, I fear,

  My scene is closed ere it accomplish’d be.

  MOREHEAD.

  No tidings yet — I listen, but in vain;

 
Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,

  What or to think or say I nothing know,

  So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,

  Danger to some has in their beauty lain;

  Fairer and chaster she than others show;

  God haply seeks to snatch from earth below

  Virtue’s best friend, that heaven a star may gain,

  Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh,

  My life, its trials long, its brief repose

  Are ended all. O cruel absence! why

  Didst thou remove me from the menaced woes?

  My short sad story is already done,

  And midway in its course my vain race run.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXVII.

  La sera desiar, odiar l’ aurora.

  CONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVE.

  Tranquil and happy loves in this agree,

  The evening to desire and morning hate:

  On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait —

  Morning is still the happier hour for me.

  For then my sun and Nature’s oft I see

  Opening at once the orient’s rosy gate,

  So match’d in beauty and in lustre great,

  Heaven seems enamour’d of our earth to be!

  As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burst

  Whose roots have since so centred in my core,

  Another than myself is cherish’d more.

  Thus the two hours contrast, day’s last and first:

  Reason it is who calms me to desire,

  And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXVIII.

  Far potess’ io vendetta di colei.

  HIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEP.

  Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrest

  With words and glances who my peace destroys,

  And then abash’d, for my worse sorrow, flies,

  Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest;

  Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress’d

  By sure degrees she sorely drains and dries,

  And in my heart, as savage lion, cries

  Even at night, when most I should have rest.

  My soul, which sleep expels from his abode,

  The body leaves, and, from its trammels free,

  Seeks her whose mien so often menace show’d.

  I marvel much, if heard its advent be,

  That while to her it spake, and o’er her wept,

  And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXIX.

  In quel bel viso, ch’ i’ sospiro e bramo.

  ON LAURA PUTTING HER HAND BEFORE HER EYES WHILE HE WAS GAZING ON HER.

  On the fair face for which I long and sigh

  Mine eyes were fasten’d with desire intense.

  When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply,

  Her honour’d hand uplifting, shut me thence.

  My heart there caught — as fish a fair hook by,

  Or as a young bird on a limèd fence —

  For good deeds follow from example high,

  To truth directed not its busied sense.

  But of its one desire my vision reft,

  As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way,

  Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left:

  My soul between those rival glories lay,

  Fill’d with a heavenly and new delight,

  Whose strange surpassing sweets engross’d it quite.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXX.

  Vive faville uscian de’ duo bei lumi.

  A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY.

  Live sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,

  So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam’d,

  And softly from a feeling heart and wise,

  Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream’d:

  Even the memory serves to wake my sighs

  When I recall that day so glad esteem’d,

  And in my heart its sinking spirit dies

  As some late grace her colder wont redeem’d.

  My soul in pain and grief that most has been

  (How great the power of constant habit is!)

  Seems weakly ‘neath its double joy to lean:

  For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,

  Trembling with fear, or thrill’d by idle hope,

  Oft on the point I’ve been life’s door to ope.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXXI.

  Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita.

  THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT.

  Still have I sought a life of solitude;

  The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;

  That I might ‘scape the sordid and the blind,

  Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:

  Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,

  These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,

  Sorga’s thick-wooded hills again to find;

  And sing and weep in concert with its flood.

  But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,

  Compels my steps, where I with sorrow see

  Cast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:

  Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,

  For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;

  Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.

  NOTT.

  Still have I sought a life of solitude —

  This know the rivers, and each wood and plain —

  That I might ‘scape the blind and sordid train

  Who from the path have flown of peace and good:

  Could I my wish obtain, how vainly would

  This cloudless climate woo me to remain;

  Sorga’s embowering woods I’d seek again,

  And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood.

  But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me,

  Compels me where I must, indignant, find

  Amid the mire my fairest treasure thrown:

  Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, she

  Now proves herself, at least for once, more kind,

  Since — but alone to Love and Laura be it known.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXXII.

  In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidi.

  THE BEAUTY OF LAURA IS PEERLESS.

  In one fair star I saw two brilliant eyes,

  With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o’er,

  That soon those graceful nests of Love before

  My worn heart learnt all others to despise:

  Equall’d not her whoever won the prize

  In ages gone on any foreign shore;

  Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty bore

  Unnumber’d ills, to Troy death’s anguish’d cries:

  Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless blade

  Piercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fled

  Dishonour worse than death, like charms display’d;

  Such excellence should brightest glory shed

  On Nature, as on me supreme delight,

  But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXXIII.

  Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama.

  THE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUE.

  Feels any fair the glorious wish to gain

  Of sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?

  On those bright eyes attentive let her gaze

  Of her miscall’d my love, but sure my foe.

  Honour to gain, with love of God to glow,

  Virtue more bright how native grace displays,

  May there be learn’d; and by what surest ways

  To heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.

  The converse sweet, beyond what poets write,

  Is there; the winning silen
ce, and the meek

  And saint-like manners man would paint in vain.

  The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight,

  Can ne’er be learn’d; for bootless ‘twere to seek

  By art, what by kind chance alone we gain.

  ANON., OX., 1795.

  SONNET CCXXIV.

  Cara la vita, e dopo lei mi pare.

  HONOUR TO BE PREFERRED TO LIFE.

  Methinks that life in lovely woman first,

  And after life true honour should be dear;

  Nay, wanting honour — of all wants the worst —

  Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here.

  And who, alas! has honour’s barrier burst,

  Unsex’d and dead, though fair she yet appear,

  Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst,

  A lingering death, where all is dark and drear.

  To me no marvel was Lucretia’s end,

  Save that she needed, when that last disgrace

  Alone sufficed to kill, a sword to die.

  Sophists in vain the contrary defend:

  Their arguments are feeble all and base,

  And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXXV.

  Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale.

  HE EXTOLS THE VIRTUE OF LAURA.

  Tree, victory’s bright guerdon, wont to crown

  Heroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf,

  How many days of mingled joy and grief

  Have I from thee through life’s short passage known.

  Lady, who, reckless of the world’s renown,

  Reapest in virtue’s field fair honour’s sheaf;

  Nor fear’st Love’s limed snares, “that subtle thief,”

  While calm discretion on his wiles looks down.

  The pride of birth, with all that here we deem

  Most precious, gems and gold’s resplendent grace.

  Abject alike in thy regard appear:

  Nay, even thine own unrivall’d beauties beam

  No charm to thee — save as their circling blaze

  Clasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold’st most dear.

  WRANGHAM.