Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  Blest laurel! fadeless and triumphant tree!

  Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride!

  How much of joy and sorrow’s changing tide

  In my short breath hath been awaked by thee!

  Lady, the will’s sweet sovereign! thou canst see

  No bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside;

  Love’s chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride;

  From man’s deceit thy wisdom sets thee free.

  Birth’s native pride, and treasure’s precious store,

  (Whose bright possession we so fondly hail)

  To thee as burthens valueless appear:

  Thy beauty’s excellence — (none viewed before)

  Thy soul had wearied — but thou lov’st the veil,

  That shrine of purity adorneth here.

  WOLLASTON.

  CANZONE XXI.

  I’ vo pensando, e nel pensier m’ assale.

  SELF-CONFLICT.

  Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought

  So strong a pity for myself appears,

  That often it has brought

  My harass’d heart to new yet natural tears;

  Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,

  Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings

  With which the spirit springs,

  Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;

  But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,

  Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:

  And so indeed in justice should it be;

  Able to stay, who went and fell, that he

  Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain.

  But, lo! the tender arms

  In which I trust are open to me still,

  Though fears my bosom fill

  Of others’ fate, and my own heart alarms,

  Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.

  One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind —

  “What still do you desire, whence succour wait?

  Ah! wherefore to this great,

  This guilty loss of time so madly blind?

  Take up at length, wisely take up your part:

  Tear every root of pleasure from your heart,

  Which ne’er can make it blest,

  Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest.

  If long ago with tedium and disgust

  You view’d the false and fugitive delights

  With which its tools a treacherous world requites,

  Why longer then repose in it your trust,

  Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust?

  While life and vigour stay,

  The bridle of your thoughts is in your power:

  Grasp, guide it while you may:

  So clogg’d with doubt, so dangerous is delay,

  The best for wise reform is still the present hour.

  “Well known to you what rapture still has been

  Shed on your eyes by the dear sight of her

  Whom, for your peace it were

  Better if she the light had never seen;

  And you remember well (as well you ought)

  Her image, when, as with one conquering bound,

  Your heart in prey she caught,

  Where flame from other light no entrance found.

  She fired it, and if that fallacious heat

  Lasted long years, expecting still one day,

  Which for our safety came not, to repay,

  It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet,

  Uplooking to that heaven around your head

  Immortal, glorious spread;

  If but a glance, a brief word, an old song,

  Had here such power to charm

  Your eager passion, glad of its own harm,

  How far ‘twill then exceed if now the joy so strong.”

  Another thought the while, severe and sweet,

  Laborious, yet delectable in scope,

  Takes in my heart its seat,

  Filling with glory, feeding it with hope;

  Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame,

  It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame,

  When I am pale or ill,

  And if I crush it rises stronger still.

  This, from my helpless cradle, day by day,

  Has strengthen’d with my strength, grown with my growth,

  Till haply now one tomb must cover both:

  When from the flesh the soul has pass’d away,

  No more this passion comrades it as here;

  For fame — if, after death,

  Learning speak aught of me — is but a breath:

  Wherefore, because I fear

  Hopes to indulge which the next hour may chase,

  I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace.

  But the third wish which fills and fires my heart

  O’ershadows all the rest which near it spring:

  Time, too, dispels a part,

  While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing.

  And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes,

  Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt,

  As a fine curb is felt,

  To combat which avails not wit or force;

  What boots it, trammell’d by such adverse ties,

  If still between the rocks must lie her course,

  To trim my little bark to new emprize?

  Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keep

  Me safe and free from common chains, which bind,

  In different modes, mankind,

  Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep?

  For, as one sunk in sleep,

  Methinks death ever present to my sight,

  Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight.

  Full well I see my state, in nought deceived

  By truth ill known, but rather forced by Love,

  Who leaves not him to move

  In honour, who too much his grace believed:

  For o’er my heart from time to time I feel

  A subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal,

  Whence every hidden thought,

  Where all may see, upon my brow is writ.

  For with such faith on mortal things to dote,

  As unto God alone is just and fit,

  Disgraces worst the prize who covets most:

  Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost.

  This loudly calls her to the proper track:

  But, when she would obey

  And home return, ill habits keep her back,

  And to my view portray

  Her who was only born my death to be,

  Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me.

  I neither know, to me what term of life

  Heaven destined when on earth I came at first

  To suffer this sharp strife,

  ‘Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed,

  Nor can I, for the veil my body throws,

  Yet see the time when my sad life may close.

  I feel my frame begin

  To fail, and vary each desire within:

  And now that I believe my parting day

  Is near at hand, or else not distant lies,

  Like one whom losses wary make and wise,

  I travel back in thought, where first the way,

  The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led.

  While through me shame and grief,

  Recalling the vain past on this side spread,

  On that brings no relief,

  Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel,

  So great that it would dare with death itself to deal.

  Song! I am here, my heart the while more cold

  With fear than frozen snow,

  Feels in its certain core death’s coming blow;

  For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll’d

  Of my vain life the better portion by:

  Worse burden surely ne’er

>   Tried mortal man than that which now I bear;

  Though death be seated nigh,

  For future life still seeking councils new,

  I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXXVI.

  Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia.

  HOPE ALONE SUPPORTS HIM IN HIS MISERY.

  Hard heart and cold, a stern will past belief,

  In angel form of gentle sweet allure;

  If thus her practised rigour long endure,

  O’er me her triumph will be poor and brief.

  For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf.

  When day is brightest, night when most obscure,

  Alway I weep. Great cause from Fortune sure,

  From Love and Laura have I for my grief.

  I live in hope alone, remembering still

  How by long fall of small drops I have seen

  Marble and solid stone that worn have been.

  No heart there is so hard, so cold no will,

  By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful love

  That will not deign at length to melt and move.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET CCXXVII.

  Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira.

  HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM LAURA AND COLONNA, THE ONLY OBJECTS OF HIS AFFECTION.

  My lord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclined

  My heart to visit one so dear to me,

  But Fortune — can she ever worse decree? —

  Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind.

  Since then the dear desire Love taught my mind

  But leads me to a death I did not see,

  And while my twin lights, wheresoe’er I be,

  Are still denied, by day and night I’ve pined.

  Affection for my lord, my lady’s love,

  The bonds have been wherewith in torments long

  I have been bound, which round myself I wove.

  A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong,

  This for three lustres, that for three years more

  In my fond breast, nor wish’d it free, I bore.

  MACGREGOR.

  TO LAURA IN DEATH.

  SONNET I.

  Oimè il bel viso! oimè il soave sguardo!

  ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.

  Woe for the ‘witching look of that fair face!

  The port where ease with dignity combined!

  Woe for those accents, that each savage mind

  To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base!

  And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,

  Which now leaves death my only hope behind!

  Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to ‘ve shined,

  But that too late she came this earth to grace!

  For you I still must burn, and breathe in you;

  For I was ever yours; of you bereft,

  Full little now I reck all other care.

  With hope and with desire you thrill’d me through,

  When last my only joy on earth I left: —

  But caught by winds each word was lost in air.

  ANON., OX., 1795.

  Alas! that touching glance, that beauteous face!

  Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught!

  Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought!

  That roused the coward, glory to embrace!

  Alas! that smile which in me did encase

  That fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought —

  Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought,

  The world had then confess’d thy sovereign grace!

  In thee I breathed, life’s flame was nursed by thee,

  For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved,

  Each other woe hath lost its venom’d sting:

  My soul’s blest joy! when last thy voice on me

  In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived;

  Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs’ wings!

  WOLLASTON.

  CANZONE I.

  Che debb’ io far? che mi consigli, Amore?

  HE ASKS COUNSEL OF LOVE, WHETHER HE SHOULD FOLLOW LAURA, OR STILL ENDURE EXISTENCE.

  What should I do? what, Love, dost thou advise?

  Full time it is to die:

  And longer than I wish have I delay’d.

  My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart;

  To follow her, I must need

  Break short the course of my afflictive years:

  To view her here below

  I ne’er can hope; and irksome ’tis to wait.

  Since that my every joy

  By her departure unto tears is turn’d,

  Of all its sweets my life has been deprived.

  Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain,

  How grievous is my loss;

  I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down,

  E’en as our common cause: for on one rock

  We both have wreck’d our bark;

  And in one instant was its sun obscured.

  What genius can with words

  Rightly describe my lamentable state?

  Ah, blind, ungrateful world!

  Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn;

  That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled!

  Fall’n is thy glory, and thou seest it not;

  Unworthy thou with her,

  While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain.

  Or to be trodden by her saintly feet;

  For that, which is so fair,

  Should with its presence decorate the skies

  But I, a wretch who, reft

  Of her, prize nor myself nor mortal life,

  Recall her with my tears:

  This only of my hope’s vast sum remains;

  And this alone doth still support me here.

  Ah, me! her charming face is earth become,

  Which wont unto our thought

  To picture heaven and happiness above!

  Her viewless form inhabits paradise,

  Divested of that veil,

  Which shadow’d while below her bloom of life,

  Once more to put it on,

  And never then to cast it off again;

  When so much more divine,

  And glorious render’d, ‘twill by us be view’d,

  As mortal beauty to eternal yields.

  More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair,

  Before me she appears,

  Where most she’s conscious that her sight will please

  This is one pillar that sustains my life;

  The other her dear name,

  That to my heart sounds so delightfully.

  But tracing in my mind,

  That she who form’d my choicest hope is dead

  E’en in her blossom’d prime;

  Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become:

  She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth.

  Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms,

  Her life angelical,

  And her demeanour heavenly upon earth

  For me lament, and be by pity wrought

  No wise for her, who, risen

  To so much peace, me has in warfare left;

  Such, that should any shut

  The road to follow her, for some length of time,

  What Love declares to me

  Alone would check my cutting through the tie;

  But in this guise he reasons from within:

  “The mighty grief transporting thee restrain;

  For passions uncontroll’d

  Forfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires,

  Where she is living whom some fancy dead;

  While at her fair remains

  She smiles herself, sighing for thee alone;

  And that her fame, which lives

  In many a clime hymn’d by thy tongue, may ne’er

  Become extinct, she prays;


  But that her name should harmonize thy voice;

  If e’er her eyes were lovely held, and dear.”

  Fly the calm, green retreat;

  And ne’er approach where song and laughter dwell,

  O strain; but wail be thine!

  It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay,

  Thou sorrowing widow wrapp’d in garb of woe.

  NOTT.

  SONNET II.

  Rotta è l’ alta Colonna, e ‘l verde Lauro.

  HE BEWAILS HIS DOUBLE LOSS IN THE DEATHS OF LAURA, AND OF COLONNA.

  Fall’n that proud Column, fall’n that Laurel tree,

  Whose shelter once relieved my wearied mind;

  I’m reft of what I ne’er again shall find,

  Though ransack’d every shore and every sea:

  Double the treasure death has torn from me,

  In which life’s pride was with its pleasure join’d;

  Not eastern gems, nor the world’s wealth combined,

  Can give it back, nor land, nor royalty.

  But, if so fate decrees, what can I more,

  Than with unceasing tears these eyes bedew,

  Abase my visage, and my lot deplore?

  Ah, what is life, so lovely to the view!

  How quickly in one little morn is lost

  What years have won with labour and with cost!

  NOTT.

  My laurell’d hope! and thou, Colonna proud!

  Your broken strength can shelter me no more!

  Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus, Afric’s shore,

  Can give me that, whose loss my soul hath bow’d:

  My step exulting, and my joy avow’d,

  Death now hath quench’d with ye, my heart’s twin store;

  Nor earth’s high rule, nor gems, nor gold’s bright ore,

  Can e’er bring back what once my heart endow’d

  But if this grief my destiny hath will’d,

  What else can I oppose but tearful eyes,

  A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell’d?

  O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill’d,

  A sunny breath, and that exhaling, dies

  The hope, oft, many watchful years have swell’d.

  WOLLASTON.

  CANZONE II.

  Amor, se vuoi ch’ i’ torni al giogo antico.

  UNLESS LOVE CAN RESTORE HER TO LIFE, HE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE HIS SLAVE.

  If thou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again,

  One other proof, miraculous and new,

  Must yet be wrought by you,

  Ere, conquer’d, I resume my ancient chain —

  Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now,