Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  For whose sad loss thus beggar’d I remain;

  Once more with warmth endow

  That wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell;

  And if as some divine, thy influence so,

  From highest heaven unto the depths of hell,

  Prevail in sooth — for what its scope below,

  ‘Mid us of common race,

  Methinks each gentle breast may answer well —

  Rob Death of his late triumph, and replace

  Thy conquering ensign in her lovely face!

  Relume on that fair brow the living light,

  Which was my honour’d guide, and the sweet flame.

  Though spent, which still the same

  Kindles me now as when it burn’d most bright;

  For thirsty hind with such desire did ne’er

  Long for green pastures or the crystal brook,

  As I for the dear look,

  Whence I have borne so much, and — if aright

  I read myself and passion — more must bear:

  This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind,

  An aimless wanderer where is pathway none,

  With weak and wearied mind

  Pursuing hopes which never can be won.

  Hence to thy summons answer I disdain,

  Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign.

  Give me again that gentle voice to hear,

  As in my heart are heard its echoes still,

  Which had in song the skill

  Hate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer,

  To tranquillize each tempest of the mind,

  And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear;

  Which sweetly then refined

  And raised my verse where now it may not soar.

  And, with desire that hope may equal vie,

  Since now my mind is waked in strength, restore

  Their proper business to my ear and eye,

  Awanting which life must

  All tasteless be and harder than to die.

  Vainly with me to your old power you trust,

  While my first love is shrouded still in dust.

  Give her dear glance again to bless my sight,

  Which, as the sun on snow, beam’d still for me;

  Open each window bright

  Where pass’d my heart whence no return can be;

  Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow,

  And let me once more drink with old delight

  Of that dear voice the sound,

  Whence what love is I first was taught to know.

  And, for the lures, which still I covet so,

  Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound,

  Waken to life her tongue, and on the breeze

  Let her light silken hair,

  Loosen’d by Love’s own fingers, float at ease;

  Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear,

  Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare.

  Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold,

  Artlessly negligent, or curl’d with grace,

  Nor her enchanting face,

  Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold;

  These, night and day, the amorous wish in me

  Kept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green,

  When, doff’d or donn’d, we see

  Of fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen.

  And since that Death so haughty stands and stern

  The bond now broken whence I fear’d to flee,

  Nor thine the art, howe’er the world may turn,

  To bind anew the chain,

  What boots it, Love, old arts to try again?

  Their day is pass’d: thy power, since lost the arms

  Which were my terror once, no longer harms.

  Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall’d, whence

  Live darts were freely shot of viewless flame;

  No help from reason came,

  For against Heaven avails not man’s defence;

  Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense,

  Modest demeanour, affable discourse,

  In words of sweetest force

  Whence every grosser nature gentle grew,

  That angel air, humble to all and kind,

  Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find;

  Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threw

  Doubt on the gazer’s mind

  To which the meed of highest praise was due —

  O’er hardest hearts thy victory was sure,

  With arms like these, which lost I am secure.

  The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign,

  Haply are bound in many times and ways,

  But mine one only chain,

  Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys;

  Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst.

  Rather I mournful ask, “Sweet pilgrim mine,

  Alas! what doom divine

  Me earliest bound to life yet frees thee first:

  God, who has snatch’d thee from the world so soon,

  Only to kindle our desires, the boon

  Of virtue, so complete and lofty, gave

  Now, Love, I may deride

  Thy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave;

  In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide,

  When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died.

  “Death from thy every law my heart has freed;

  She who my lady was is pass’d on high,

  Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by,

  To solitude and sorrow still decreed.”

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET III.

  L’ ardente nodo ov’ io fui, d’ ora in ora.

  ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER LADY.

  That burning toil, in which I once was caught,

  While twice ten years and one I counted o’er,

  Death has unloosed: like burden I ne’er bore;

  That grief ne’er fatal proves I now am taught.

  But Love, who to entangle me still sought,

  Spread in the treacherous grass his net once more,

  So fed the fire with fuel as before,

  That my escape I hardly could have wrought.

  And, but that my first woes experience gave,

  Snarèd long since and kindled I had been,

  And all the more, as I’m become less green:

  My freedom death again has come to save,

  And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails,

  ‘Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.

  NOTT.

  SONNET IV.

  La vita fugge, e non s’ arresta un’ ora.

  PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.

  Life passes quick, nor will a moment stay,

  And death with hasty journeys still draws near;

  And all the present joins my soul to tear,

  With every past and every future day:

  And to look back or forward, so does prey

  On this distracted breast, that sure I swear,

  Did I not to myself some pity bear,

  I were e’en now from all these thoughts away.

  Much do I muse on what of pleasures past

  This woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t’ oppose

  My passage, loud the winds around me roar.

  I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast

  And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those

  Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.

  ANON., OX., 1795.

  Life ever flies with course that nought may stay,

  Death follows after with gigantic stride;

  Ills past and present on my spirit prey,

  And future evils threat on every side:

  Whether I backward look or forward fare,

  A thousand ills my bosom’s peace molest;

  And were it not that pity bids me spare

  My nobler part, I from thes
e thoughts would rest.

  If ever aught of sweet my heart has known,

  Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost,

  I mark the clouds that o’er my course still frown;

  E’en in the port I see the storm afar;

  Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost,

  And set for ever my fair polar star.

  DACRE.

  SONNET V.

  Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi.

  HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH.

  What dost thou? think’st thou? wherefore bend thine eye

  Back on the time that never shall return?

  The raging fire, where once ’twas thine to burn,

  Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?

  Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky,

  Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn,

  Are fled; and — well thou knowest, poor forlorn! —

  To seek them here were bootless industry.

  Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew;

  To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease:

  Thou rather that unwavering good pursue,

  Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.

  Fatal for us that beauty’s torturing view,

  Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.

  WRANGHAM.

  SONNET VI.

  Datemi pace, o duri miei pensieri.

  HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BESIEGED CITY, AND ACCUSES HIS OWN HEART OF TREASON.

  O tyrant thoughts, vouchsafe me some repose!

  Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate,

  Make war all round me to my very gate,

  But I must in me armèd hosts enclose?

  And thou, my heart, to me alone that shows

  Disloyal still, what cruel guides of late

  In thee find shelter, now the chosen mate

  Of my most mischievous and bitter foes?

  Love his most secret embassies in thee,

  In thee her worst results hard Fate explains,

  And Death the memory of that blow, to me

  Which shatters all that yet of hope remains;

  In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm,

  And thee alone I blame for all my harm.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET VII.

  Occhi miei, oscurato è ‘l nostro sole.

  HE ENDEAVOURS TO FIND PEACE IN THE THOUGHT THAT SHE IS IN HEAVEN.

  Mine eyes! our glorious sun is veil’d in night,

  Or set to us, to rise ‘mid realms of love;

  There we may hail it still, and haply prove

  It mourn’d that we delay’d our heavenward flight.

  Mine ears! the music of her tones delight

  Those, who its harmony can best approve;

  My feet! who in her track so joy’d to move.

  Ye cannot penetrate her regions bright!

  But wherefore should your wrath on me descend?

  No spell of mine hath hush’d for ye the joy

  Of seeing, hearing, feeling, she was near:

  Go, war with Death — yet, rather let us bend

  To Him who can create — who can destroy —

  And bids the ready smile succeed the tear.

  WOLLASTON.

  O my sad eyes! our sun is overcast, —

  Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining,

  Waiting our coming, and perchance repining

  At our delay; there shall we meet at last:

  And there, mine ears, her angel words float past,

  Those who best understand their sweet divining;

  Howe’er, my feet, unto the search inclining,

  Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast.

  Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh!

  It is no fault of mine, that ye no more

  Behold, and hear, and welcome her below;

  Blame Death, — or rather praise Him and adore,

  Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go,

  And to the weeping one can joy restore.

  WROTTESLEY.

  SONNET VIII.

  Poichè la vista angelica serena.

  WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.

  Since her calm angel face, long beauty’s fane,

  My beggar’d soul by this brief parting throws

  In darkest horrors and in deepest woes,

  I seek by uttering to allay my pain.

  Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain:

  This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows;

  No other remedy my poor heart knows

  Against the troubles that in life obtain.

  Death! thou hast snatch’d her hence with hand unkind,

  And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly face

  Now hidest from me in thy close embrace;

  Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind,

  Since she who of mine eyes the light has been,

  Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET IX.

  S’ Amor novo consiglio non n’ apporta.

  HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.

  If Love to give new counsel still delay,

  My life must change to other scenes than these;

  My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze,

  Desire augments while all my hopes decay.

  Thus ever grows my life, by night and day,

  Despondent, and dismay’d, and ill at ease,

  Harass’d and helmless on tempestuous seas,

  With no sure escort on a doubtful way.

  Her path a sick imagination guides,

  Its true light underneath — ah, no! on high,

  Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye,

  Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hides

  Those lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life’s span

  Is measured half, an old and broken man.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET X.

  Nell’ età sua più bella e più fiorita.

  HE DESIRES TO DIE, THAT HIS SOUL MAY BE WITH HER, AS HIS THOUGHTS ALREADY ARE.

  E’en in youth’s fairest flower, when Love’s dear sway

  Is wont with strongest power our hearts to bind,

  Leaving on earth her fleshly veil behind,

  My life, my Laura, pass’d from me away;

  Living, and fair, and free from our vile clay,

  From heaven she rules supreme my willing mind:

  Alas! why left me in this mortal rind

  That first of peace, of sin that latest day?

  As my fond thoughts her heavenward path pursue,

  So may my soul glad, light, and ready be

  To follow her, and thus from troubles flee.

  Whate’er delays me as worst loss I rue:

  Time makes me to myself but heavier grow:

  Death had been sweet to-day three years ago!

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XI.

  Se lamentar augelli, o Verdi fronde.

  SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM.

  If the lorn bird complain, or rustling sweep

  Soft summer airs o’er foliage waving slow,

  Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,

  Where on the enamell’d bank I sit below

  With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow;

  ’Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!

  Her, form’d in heaven! I see, and hear, and know!

  Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:

  “Alas,” she pitying says, “ere yet the hour,

  Why hurry life away with swifter flight?

  Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?

  No longer mourn my fate! through death my days

  Become eternal! to eternal light

  These eyes, which seem’d in darkness closed, I raise!”
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  DACRE.

  Where the green leaves exclude the summer beam,

  And softly bend as balmy breezes blow,

  And where with liquid lapse the lucid stream

  Across the fretted rock is heard to flow,

  Pensive I lay: when she whom earth conceals

  As if still living to my eye appears;

  And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals

  To say, “Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears.

  Ah! why, sad lover, thus before your time

  In grief and sadness should your life decay,

  And, like a blighted flower, your manly prime

  In vain and hopeless sorrow fade away?

  Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair;

  But raise thine eyes to heaven and think I wait thee there!”

  CHARLOTTE SMITH.

  Moved by the summer wind when all is still,

  The light leaves quiver on the yielding spray;

  Sighs from its flowery bank the lucid rill,

  While the birds answer in their sweetest lay.

  Vain to this sickening heart these scenes appear:

  No form but hers can meet my tearful eyes;

  In every passing gale her voice I hear;

  It seems to tell me, “I have heard thy sighs.

  But why,” she cries, “in manhood’s towering prime,

  In grief’s dark mist thy days, inglorious, hide?

  Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of time

  Has join’d eternity’s unchanging tide?

  Yes, though I seem’d to shut mine eyes in night,

  They only closed to wake in everlasting light!”

  ANNE BANNERMAN.

  SONNET XII.

  Mai non fu’ in parte ove sì chiar’ vedessi.

  VAUCLUSE.

  Nowhere before could I so well have seen

  Her whom my soul most craves since lost to view;

  Nowhere in so great freedom could have been

  Breathing my amorous lays ‘neath skies so blue;

  Never with depths of shade so calm and green

  A valley found for lover’s sigh more true;

  Methinks a spot so lovely and serene

  Love not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew.

  All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that I

  Like them should love — the clear sky, the calm hour,

  Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower —