Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch
Page 31
Those eyes whose living lustre shed the heat
Of bright meridian day; the heavenly mould
Of that angelic form; the hands, the feet,
The taper arms, the crispèd locks of gold;
Charms that the sweets of paradise enfold;
The radiant lightning of her angel-smile,
And every grace that could the sense beguile
Are now a pile of ashes, deadly cold!
And yet I bear to drag this cumbrous chain,
That weighs my soul to earth — to bliss or pain
Alike insensible: — her anchor lost,
The frail dismantled bark, all tempest-toss’d,
Surveys no port of comfort — closed the scene
Of life’s delusive joys; — and dry the Muse’s vein.
WOODHOUSELEE.
Those eyes, sweet subject of my rapturous strain!
The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face,
By which I from myself divided was,
And parted from the vulgar and the vain;
Those crispèd locks, pure gold unknown to stain!
Of that angelic smile the lightening grace,
Which wont to make this earth a heavenly place!
Dissolved to senseless ashes now remain!
And yet I live, to endless grief a prey,
‘Reft of that star, my loved, my certain guide,
Disarm’d my bark, while tempests round me blow!
Stop, then, my verse — dry is the fountain’s tide.
That fed my genius! Cease, my amorous lay!
Changed is my lyre, attuned to endless woe!
CHARLEMONT.
SONNET XXV.
S’ io avessi pensato che sì care.
HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.
Had I e’er thought that to the world so dear
The echo of my sighs would be in rhyme,
I would have made them in my sorrow’s prime
Rarer in style, in number more appear.
Since she is dead my muse who prompted here,
First in my thoughts and feelings at all time,
All power is lost of tender or sublime
My rough dark verse to render soft and clear.
And certes, my sole study and desire
Was but — I knew not how — in those long years
To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire.
I wept, but wish’d no honour in my tears.
Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair,
Silent and weary, calls me to her there.
MACGREGOR.
Oh! had I deem’d my sighs, in numbers rung,
Could e’er have gain’d the world’s approving smile,
I had awoke my rhymes in choicer style,
My sorrow’s birth more tunefully had sung:
But she is gone whose inspiration hung
On all my words, and did my thoughts beguile;
My numbers harsh seem’d melody awhile,
Now she is mute who o’er them music flung.
Nor fame, nor other incense, then I sought,
But how to quell my heart’s o’erwhelming grief;
I wept, but sought no honour in my tear:
But could the world’s fair suffrage now be bought,
‘Twere joy to gain, but that my hour is brief,
Her lofty spirit waves me to her bier.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XXVI.
Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva.
SINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEF.
She stood within my heart, warm, young, alone,
As in a humble home a lady bright;
By her last flight not merely am I grown
Mortal, but dead, and she an angel quite.
A soul whence every bliss and hope is flown,
Love shorn and naked of its own glad light,
Might melt with pity e’en a heart of stone:
But none there is to tell their grief or write;
These plead within, where deaf is every ear
Except mine own, whose power its griefs so mar
That nought is left me save to suffer here.
Verily we but dust and shadows are!
Verily blind and evil is our will!
Verily human hopes deceive us still!
MACGREGOR.
‘Mid life’s bright glow she dwelt within my soul,
The sovereign tenant of a humble cell,
But when for heaven she bade the world farewell,
Death seem’d to grasp me in his fierce control:
My wither’d love torn from its brightening goal —
My soul without its treasure doom’d to dwell —
Could I but trace their grief, their sorrow tell,
A stone might wake, and fain with them condole.
They inly mourn, where none can hear their woe
Save I alone, who too with grief oppress’d,
Can only soothe my anguish by my sighs:
Life is indeed a shadowy dream below;
Our blind desires by Reason’s chain unbless’d,
Whilst Hope in treacherous wither’d fragments lies.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XXVII.
Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.
HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.
My thoughts in fair alliance and array
Hold converse on the theme which most endears:
Pity approaches and repents delay:
E’en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.
Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate
This present life of her fair being reft,
From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state:
No other hope than this to me is left.
O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!
O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!
Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin’d.
Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,
Who to the world so eminent and clear
Made her great virtue and my passion here.
MACGREGOR.
My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweet
To meditate their object in my breast —
Perhaps her sympathies my wishes meet
With gentlest pity, seeing me distress’d:
Nor when removed to that her sacred rest
The present life changed for that blest retreat,
Vanish’d in air my former visions fleet,
My hopes, my tears, in vain to her address’d.
O lovely miracle! O favour’d mind!
Beauty beyond example high and rare,
So soon return’d from us to whence it came!
There the immortal wreaths her temples bind;
The sacred palm is hers: on earth so fair
Who shone by her own virtues and my flame.
CAPEL LOFFT.
SONNET XXVIII.
I’ mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scuso.
HE GLORIES IN HIS LOVE.
I now excuse myself who wont to blame,
Nay, more, I prize and even hold me dear,
For this fair prison, this sweet-bitter shame,
Which I have borne conceal’d so many a year.
O envious Fates! that rare and golden frame
Rudely ye broke, where lightly twined and clear,
Yarn of my bonds, the threads of world-wide fame
Which lovely ‘gainst his wont made Death appear.
For not a soul was ever in its days
Of joy, of liberty, of life so fond,
That would not change for her its natural ways,
Preferring thus to suffer and despond,
Than, fed by hope, to sing in others’ praise,
Content to die, or live in such a bond.
MACGREGOR.
Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte.
THE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATH.
Two mortal foes in one fair breast combined,
Beauty and Virtue, in such peace allied
That ne’er rebellion ruffled that pure mind,
But in rare union dwelt they side by side;
By Death they now are shatter’d and disjoin’d;
One is in heaven, its glory and its pride,
One under earth, her brilliant eyes now blind,
Whence stings of love once issued far and wide.
That winning air, that rare discourse and meek,
Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance
Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still,
Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek,
I hope her fair and graceful name perchance
To consecrate with this worn weary quill.
MACGREGOR.
Within one mortal shrine two foes had met —
Beauty and Virtue — yet they dwelt so bright,
That ne’er within the soul did they excite
Rebellious thought, their union might beget:
But, parted to fulfil great nature’s debt,
One blooms in heaven, exulting in its height;
Its twin on earth doth rest, from whose veil’d night
No more those eyes of love man’s soul can fret.
That speech by Heaven inspired, so humbly wise —
That graceful air — her look so winning, meek,
That woke and kindles still my bosom’s pain —
They all have fled; but if to gain her skies
I tardy seem, my weary pen would seek
For her blest name a consecrated reign!
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XXX.
Quand’ io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.
When I look back upon the many years
Which in their flight my best thoughts have entomb’d,
And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed,
And finish’d the repose so full of tears,
Broken the faith which Love’s young dream endears,
And the two parts of all my blessing doom’d,
This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed,
And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears,
I wake, and feel me to the bitter wind
So bare, I envy the worst lot I see;
Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait.
O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind!
O day for ever dark and drear to me!
How have ye sunk me in this abject state!
MACGREGOR.
When memory turns to gaze on time gone by
(Which in its flight hath arm’d e’en thought with wings),
And to my troubled rest a period brings,
Quells, too, the flame which long could ice defy;
And when I mark Love’s promise wither’d lie,
That treasure parted which my bosom wrings
(For she in heaven, her shrine to nature clings),
Whilst thus my toils’ reward she doth deny; —
I then awake and feel bereaved indeed!
The darkest fate on earth seems bliss to mine —
So much I fear myself, and dread its woe!
O Fortune! — Death! O star! O fate decreed!
O bitter day! that yet must sweetly shine,
Alas! too surely thou hast laid me low!
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XXXI.
Ov’ è la fronte che con picciol cenno.
HE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURA.
Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led
My raptured heart at will, now here, now there?
Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere,
Which o’er my darkling path their radiance shed?
Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?
The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?
Where, group’d in one rich form, the beauties rare,
Which long their magic influence o’er me shed?
Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess
My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs,
And all my thoughts their constant record found?
Where, where is she, my life’s sole arbitress? —
Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes
(Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drown’d.
WRANGHAM.
Where is that face, whose slightest air could move
My trembling heart, and strike the springs of love?
That heaven, where two fair stars, with genial ray,
Shed their kind influence on life’s dim way?
Where are that science, sense, and worth confess’d?
That speech by virtue, by the graces dress’d?
Where are those beauties, where those charms combined,
That caused this long captivity of mind?
Where the dear shade of all that once was fair,
The source, the solace, of each amorous care —
My heart’s sole sovereign, Nature’s only boast?
— Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!
LANGHORNE.
SONNET XXXII.
Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra.
HE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASURE.
O earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face,
And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone,
Whence all that gave delight on earth was known,
How much I envy thee that harsh embrace!
O heaven, that in thy airy courts confined
That purest spirit, when from earth she fled,
And sought the mansions of the righteous dead;
How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind!
O angels, that in your seraphic choir
Received her sister-soul, and now enjoy
Still present, those delights without alloy,
Which my fond heart must still in vain desire!
In her I lived — in her my life decays;
Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.
WOODHOUSELEE.
What envy of the greedy earth I bear,
That holds from me within its cold embrace
The light, the meaning, of that angel face,
On which to gaze could soften e’en despair.
What envy of the saints, in realms so fair,
Who eager seem’d, from that bright form of grace
The spirit pure to summon to its place,
Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;
What envy of the blest in heaven above,
With whom she dwells in sympathies divine
Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;
And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove,
That with her life has ta’en the light of mine,
Yet calls me not, — though fixed and cold those eyes.
WROTTESLEY.
SONNET XXXIII.
Valle che d’ lamenti miei se’ piena.
ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA’S DEATH.
Valley, which long hast echoed with my cries;
Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed;
Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bed
Of Cabrieres’ wave display your speckled dyes;
Air, hush’d to rest and soften’d by my sighs;
Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread;
Hill of delight — though now delight is fled —
To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys;
Well I retain your old unchanging face!
Myself how changed! in whom, for joy’s light throng,
Infinite woes their constant mansi
on find!
Here bloom’d my bliss: and I your tracks retrace,
To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung,
Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!
WRANGHAM.
Ye vales, made vocal by my plaintive lay;
Ye streams, embitter’d with the tears of love;
Ye tenants of the sweet melodious grove;
Ye tribes that in the grass fringed streamlet play;
Ye tepid gales, to which my sighs convey
A softer warmth; ye flowery plains, that move
Reflection sad; ye hills, where yet I rove,
Since Laura there first taught my steps to stray; —
You, you are still the same! How changed, alas,
Am I! who, from a state of life so blest,
Am now the gloomy dwelling-place of woe!
’Twas here I saw my love: here still I trace
Her parting steps, when she her mortal vest
Cast to the earth, and left these scenes below.
ANON.
SONNET XXXIV.
Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov’ era.
SOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPY.
Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays
She, whom I seek but find on earth no more:
There, fairer still and humbler than before,
I saw her, in the third heaven’s blessèd maze.
She took me by the hand, and “Thou shalt trace,
If hope not errs,” she said, “this happy shore:
I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore,
And ere its evening closed my day’s brief space.
What human heart conceives, my joys exceed;
Thee only I expect, and (what remain
Below) the charms, once objects of thy love.”
Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?
Such of her soft and hallow’d tones the chain,
From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move.
WRANGHAM.
Thither my ecstatic thought had rapt me, where
She dwells, whom still on earth I seek in vain;
And there, with those whom the third heavens contain,
I saw her, much more kind, and much more fair.
My hand she took, and said: “Within this sphere,
If hope deceive me not, thou shalt again
With me reside: who caused thy mortal pain