Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  And served in all his wars: this is the wife

  Of Brutus, Portia, constant in her life

  And death: this Julia is, who seems to moan,

  That Pompey lovèd best, when she was gone.

  Look here and see the Patriarch much abused

  Who twice seven years for his fair Rachel choosed

  To serve: O powerful love increased by woe!

  His father this: now see his grandsire go

  With Sarah from his home. This cruel Love

  O’ercame good David; so it had power to move

  His righteous heart to that abhorrèd crime,

  For which he sorrow’d all his following time;

  Just such like error soil’d his wise son’s fame,

  For whose idolatry God’s anger came:

  Here’s he who in one hour could love and hate:

  Here Tamar, full of anguish, wails her state;

  Her brother Absalom attempts t’ appease

  Her grievèd soul. Samson takes care to please

  His fancy; and appears more strong than wise,

  Who in a traitress’ bosom sleeping lies.

  Amongst those pikes and spears which guard the place,

  Love, wine, and sleep, a beauteous widow’s face

  And pleasing art hath Holophernes ta’en;

  She back again retires, who hath him slain,

  With her one maid, bearing the horrid head

  In haste, and thanks God that so well she sped.

  The next is Sichem, he who found his death

  In circumcision; his father hath

  Like mischief felt; the city all did prove

  The same effect of his rash violent love.

  You see Ahasuerus how well he bears

  His loss; a new love soon expels his cares;

  This cure in this disease doth seldom fail,

  One nail best driveth out another nail.

  If you would see love mingled oft with hate,

  Bitter with sweet, behold fierce Herod’s state,

  Beset with love and cruelty at once:

  Enraged at first, then late his fault bemoans,

  And Mariamne calls; those three fair dames

  (Who in the list of captives write their names)

  Procris, Deidamia, Artemisia were

  All good, the other three as wicked are —

  Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,

  Who of their crooked ways are now ashamed

  Here be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,

  Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar souls

  That wait on these; Guenever, and the fair

  Isond, with other lovers; and the pair

  Who, as they walk together, seem to plain,

  Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain.”

  Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fears

  Approaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,

  Starts at the blow ere touch’d, my frighted blood

  Retired: as one raised from his tomb I stood;

  When by my side I spied a lovely maid,

  (No turtle ever purer whiteness had!)

  And straight was caught (who lately swore I would

  Defend me from a man at arms), nor could

  Resist the wounds of words with motion graced:

  The image yet is in my fancy placed.

  My friend was willing to increase my woe,

  And smiling whisper’d,— “You alone may go

  Confer with whom you please, for now we are

  All stained with one crime.” My sullen care

  Was like to theirs, who are more grieved to know

  Another’s happiness than their own woe;

  For seeing her, who had enthrall’d my mind,

  Live free in peace, and no disturbance find:

  And seeing that I knew my hurt too late.

  And that her beauty was my dying fate:

  Love, jealousy, and envy held my sight

  So fix’d on that fair face, no other light

  I could behold; like one who in the rage

  Of sickness greedily his thirst would ‘suage

  With hurtful drink, which doth his palate please,

  Thus (blind and deaf t’ all other joys are ease)

  So many doubtful ways I follow’d her,

  The memory still shakes my soul with fear.

  Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground,

  My heart is heavy, and my steps have found

  A solitary dwelling ‘mongst the woods,

  I stray o’er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:

  Since when such store my scatter’d papers hold

  Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,

  Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scope

  Of Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;

  And how they live that in his cloister dwell,

  The skilful in their face may read it well.

  Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant she

  Cares not for me, nor for my misery,

  Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow:

  And on the other side (if aught I know),

  This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,

  She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,

  No strength nor courage left, nor can I be

  Revenged, as I expected once; for he,

  Who tortures me and others, is abused

  By her; she’ll not be caught, and long hath used

  (Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,

  And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.

  Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;

  Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;

  Her eyes inflaming with a light divine

  So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.

  Ah, who is able fully to express

  Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,

  No bold hyperboles I need to fear,

  My humble style cannot enough come near

  The truth; my words are like a little stream

  Compared with th’ ocean, so large a theme

  Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,

  Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;

  Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,

  Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:

  And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)

  She neither hears nor pities my estate:

  Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lot

  I plainly see in this, yet must I not

  Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,

  With like reward of old have felt like pain.

  Now know I how the mind itself doth part

  (Now making peace, now war, now truce) — what art

  Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:

  And how their blood now comes, and now doth go

  Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:

  How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;

  And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,

  Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:

  I trod the paths made happy by her feet,

  And search the foe I am afraid to meet.

  I know how lovers metamorphosed are

  To that they love: I know what tedious care

  I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change

  Design and countenance; and (which is strange)

  I live without a soul: I know the way

  To cheat myself a thousand times a day:

  I know to follow while I flee my fire

  I freeze when present; absent, my desire

  Is hot: I know what cruel rigour Love

  Practiseth on the mind, and doth remove

  All reason thence, and how he racks the heart:

  And how a soul hath neither strength nor art

  Without a helper to resist his blows:

  And how he flees, and how his da
rts he throws:

  And how his threats the fearful lover feels:

  And how he robs by force, and how he steals:

  How oft his wheels turn round (now high, now low)

  With how uncertain hope, how certain woe:

  How all his promises be void of faith,

  And how a fire hid in our bones he hath:

  How in our veins he makes a secret wound,

  Whence open flames and death do soon abound.

  In sum, I know how giddy and how vain

  Be lovers’ lives; what fear and boldness reign

  In all their ways; how every sweet is paid.

  And with a double weight of sour allay’d:

  I also know their customs, sighs, and songs;

  Their sudden muteness, and their stammering tongues:

  How short their joy, how long their pain doth last,

  How wormwood spoileth all their honey’s taste.

  ANNA HUME.

  PART IV.

  Poscia che mia fortuna in forza altrui.

  When once my will was captive by my fate,

  And I had lost the liberty, which late

  Made my life happy; I, who used before

  To flee from Love (as fearful deer abhor

  The following huntsman), suddenly became

  (Like all my fellow-servants) calm and tame;

  And view’d the travails, wrestlings, and the smart,

  The crooked by-paths, and the cozening art

  That guides the amorous flock: then whilst mine eye

  I cast in every corner, to espy

  Some ancient or modern who had proved

  Famous, I saw him, who had only loved

  Eurydice, and found out hell, to call

  Her dear ghost back; he named her in his fall

  For whom he died. Aleæus there was known,

  Skilful in love and verse: Anacreon,

  Whose muse sung nought but love: Pindarus, he

  Was also there: there I might Virgil see:

  Many brave wits I found, some looser rhymes,

  By others writ, hath pleased the ancient times:

  Ovid was one: after Catullus came:

  Propertius next, his elegies the name

  Of Cynthia bear: Tibullus, and the young

  Greek poetess, who is received among

  The noble troop for her rare Sapphic muse.

  Thus looking here and there (as oft I use),

  I spied much people on a flowery plain,

  Amongst themselves disputes of love maintain.

  Behold Beatrice with Dante; Selvaggia, she

  Brought her Pistoian Cino; Guitton may be

  Offended that he is the latter named:

  Behold both Guidos for their learning famed:

  Th’ honest Bolognian: the Sicilians first

  Wrote love in rhymes, but wrote their rhymes the worst.

  Franceschin and Sennuccio (whom all know)

  Were worthy and humane: after did go

  A squadron of another garb and phrase,

  Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise,

  Great master in Love’s art, his style, as new

  As sweet, honours his country: next, a few

  Whom Love did lightly wound: both Peters made

  Two: one, the less Arnaldo: some have had

  A harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th’ one

  Sung Beatrice, though her quality was known

  Too much above his reach in Montferrat.

  Alvernia’s old Piero, and Girault:

  Folchetto, who from Genoa was estranged

  And call’d Marsilian, he wisely changed

  His name, his state, his country, and did gain

  In all: Jeffray made haste to catch his bane

  With sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sung

  That pleasing art, was cause he died so young.

  Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and Anselm

  Were there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helm,

  Shield, sword, and spear, all their offensive arms,

  And their defensive to prevent their harms.

  From those I turn’d, comparing my own woe,

  To view my country-folks; and there might know

  The good Tomasso, who did once adorn

  Bologna, now Messina holds his urn.

  Ah, vanish’d joys! Ah, life too full of bane!

  How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly ta’en!

  Since without thee nothing is in my power

  To do, where art thou from me at this hour?

  What is our life? If aught it bring of ease,

  A sick man’s dream, a fable told to please.

  Some few there from the common road did stray;

  Lælius and Socrates, with whom I may

  A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair

  Of dear esteemèd friends to me they were!

  ’Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise;

  Neither of these can naked virtue raise

  Above her own true place: with them I have

  Reach’d many heights; one yoke of learning gave

  Laws to our steps, to them my fester’d wound

  I oft have show’d; no time or place I found

  To part from them; and hope, and wish we may

  Be undivided till my breath decay:

  With them I used (too early) to adorn

  My head with th’ honour’d branches, only worn

  For her dear sake I did so deeply love,

  Who fill’d my thoughts; but ah! I daily prove,

  No fruit nor leaves from thence can gather’d be:

  The root hath sharp and bitter been to me.

  For this I was accustomed much to vex,

  But I have seen that which my anger checks:

  (A theme for buskins, not a comic stage)

  She took the God, adored by the rage

  Of such dull fools as he had captive led:

  But first, I’ll tell you what of us he made;

  Then, from her hand what was his own sad fate,

  Which Orpheus or Homer might relate.

  His winged coursers o’er the ditches leapt,

  And we their way as desperately kept,

  Till he had reached where his mother reigns,

  Nor would he ever pull or turn the reins;

  But scour’d o’er woods and mountains; none did care

  Nor could discern in what strange world they were.

  Beyond the place, where old Ægeus mourns,

  An island lies, Phoebus none sweeter burns,

  Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore:

  About the midst a beauteous hill, with store

  Of shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a spring

  As drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bring

  Venus much joy; ‘t was given her deity,

  Ere blind man knew a truer god than she:

  Of which original it yet retains

  Too much, so little goodness there remains,

  That it the vicious doth only please,

  Is by the virtuous shunn’d as a disease.

  Here this fine Lord insulteth o’er us all

  Tied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges’ fall.

  Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms;

  Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms:

  Repentance swiftly following to annoy:

  (Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy)

  All that whole valley with the echoes rung

  Of running brooks, and birds that gently sung:

  The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green,

  Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen;

  And gliding streams amongst the tender grass,

  Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place.

  After when winter maketh sharp the air,

  Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheer

  Enthrall low minds. Now th’ equinox hath made
<
br />   The day t’ equal the night; and Progne had

  With her sweet sister, each their old task ta’en:

  (Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!)

  Just in the time, and place, and in the hour

  When humble tears should earthly joys devour,

  It pleased him, whom th’ vulgar honour so,

  To triumph over me; and now I know

  What miserable servitude they prove,

  What ruin, and what death, that fall in love.

  Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair,

  False fancies o’er the door, and on the stair

  Are slippery hopes, unprofitable gain,

  And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain,

  As who descend, may boast their fortune best;

  Who most ascend, most fall: a wearied rest,

  And resting trouble, glorious disgrace;

  A duskish and obscure illustriousness;

  Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith,

  That nimble fury, lazy reason hath:

  A prison, whose wide ways do all receive,

  Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave:

  A steep descent, by which we slide with ease,

  But find no hold our crawling steps to raise:

  Within confusion, turbulence, annoy

  Are mix’d; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy:

  Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell;

  Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel,

  Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke:

  He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke.

  Thus were we all throng’d in so strait a cage,

  I changed my looks and hair, before my age,

  Dreaming on liberty (by strong desire

  My soul made apt to hope), and did admire

  Those gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe

  (My heart within my breast dissolved like snow

  Before the sun), as one would side-ways cast

  His eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass’d.

  ANNA HUME.

  THE SAME.

  PART I.

  The fatal morning dawn’d that brought again

  The sad memorial of my ancient pain;

  That day, the source of long-protracted woe,

  When I began the plagues of Love to know,

  Hyperion’s throne, along the azure field,

  Between the splendid horns of Taurus wheel’d;

  And from her spouse the Queen of Morn withdrew

  Her sandals, gemm’d with frost-bespangled dew.

  Sad recollection, rising with the morn,

  Of my disastrous love, repaid with scorn,

  Oppressed my sense; till welcome soft repose

  Gave a short respite from my swelling woes.

  Then seem’d I in a vision borne away,

  Where a deep winding vale sequester’d lay;