That I desire and dread, he reaps and sows;
Never, since mortal eye did first unclose,
Music breathed sweetly as the strain he made.
And that bright light whereby the sun is dim
10 Flashed round me, and the cord by hand was held
Whose snow doth snow and ivory reprove:
Thus the snare thralled me, captivate and quelled
By gracious gest, accent of Seraphim,
And pleasure and desire and hope of Love.
P185: Questa fenice de l’aurata piuma
This Phoenix, from her wealth of aureate plumes
Sheathing her snowy neck in splendid dyes,
Hath natural necklace fashioned in a wise
That softens other hearts, and mine consumes.
And all around this diadem illumes
The airy space, while Love his bellows plies,
And silent bids the subtle flame arise
That scorches me mid winter’s chills and glooms.
A purple scarf, with fringing roses sown
10 O’er bordering blue, her snowy shoulders veils;
Garb like her beauty to none other given;
In aromatic Araby alone
Fame plants this prodigy, with idle tales
Concealing that she soars in our own heaven.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS (1840–93)
Symonds, the famous scholar, aesthete and historian of the Italian Renaissance, included ‘Eight Sonnets of Petrarch’ at the end of his Sketches in Italy and Greece (1874), of which this is the first of three excoriating the absence of the papacy from Rome.
P138: Fontana di dolore, albergo d’ira
On the Papal Court at Avignon
FOUNTAIN of woe! Harbour of endless ire!
Thou school of errors, haunt of heresies!
Once Rome now Babylon, the world’s disease,
That maddenest man with fears and fell desire!
O forge of fraud! O prison dark and dire,
Where dies the good, where evil breeds increase!
Thou living Hell! Wonders will never cease
If Christ rise not to purge thy sins with fire.
Founded in chaste and humble poverty,
10 Against thy founders thou dost raise thy horn,
Thou shameless harlot! And whence flows this pride?
Even from foul and loathed adultery,
The wage of lewdness. Constantine, return!
Not so: the felon world its fate must bide.
Twentieth Century
AGNES TOBIN (1864–1939)
A wealthy San Franciscan, Tobin was the third of twelve children born to an itinerant Irish father who was secretary to the first Archbishop of California. She was a friend of Yeats, Synge, Shaw and the Meynells. Conrad dedicated Under Western Eyes to her. These two sonnets are taken from On the Death of Madonna Laura by Francesco Petrarca, Rendered into English (1906).
P280: Mai non fui in parte ove sí chiar vedessi
I do not think that I have ever seen
So many times in one short afternoon
The Lady they call dead: I did nigh swoon
When she came running towards me through the green,
Laughing and calling out, ‘Where have you been?
Did you not know it was the first of June?’
She faded on the sunny air too soon:
A long hour later and I saw her lean
Against a flowering hedge full drowsily.
10 And though this land is balmier than the nest
That Cypris made for Eros, and there be
Maids here most fair, how strange it seems to me
Here, here, where late the heart stirred in her breast,
That men should think of aught that is not she.
P353: Vago augelletto che cantando vai
O lovely little bird, so heavenly gay
You singing go, and then so mournful sweet!
Dawn in a rosy tide broke at our feet;
But, oh, the twilight fields are very grey!
If I but knew a literal, soft way
Like yours for telling of old wounds that beat,
And sobs that I remember and repeat,
Straight to my breast you would come and, piteous, say:
‘Doth not our plaining stir the stones?’ And still
10 We share unlike; may be she is but late:
A bruisèd wing, perhaps, mourn if you will,
But do not doubt she comes. O Twilight! – gate
Wide open for the things Time cannot kill –
The phantom Things that by the fences wait!
JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE (1871–1909)
Synge was an Irish poet and dramatist, who discovered Petrarch on his visit to Italy in 1896 after a conspicuously unsuccessful courtship of a Miss Cherry Matheson. Text from Poems and Translations (1909).
P300: Quanta invidia io ti porto, avara terra
He is jealous of the Heavens and the earth
What a grudge I am bearing the earth that
has its arms about her, and is holding that
face away from me, where I was finding peace
from great sadness.
What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens
that are after taking her, and shutting her in
with greediness, the Heavens that do push
their bolt against so many.
What a grudge I am bearing the blessed
10 saints that have got her sweet company, that
I am always seeking; and what a grudge I am
bearing against Death, that is standing in her
two eyes, and will not call me with a word.
HELEN LEE PEABODY (1879–?)
Peabody was an American artist and poet. Text from Madrigals and Odes from Petrarch (1940).
P366: Vergine bella, che di sol vestita
Fair Virgin,
Vestured with the sun!
Bright shining one,
Star-crowned;
Who such sweet ultimate favor found
From all eternity
With the great primal Sun
That from His height
He stooped in thee to hide the light
10 Of His Divinity:
Now shall my love upraise
New measures in thy praise,
Though to begin without thy aid were vain
And without His,
Who, joined with thee in love, shall ever reign.
When ardent faith called to thee without fear.
Virgin, if our poor misery,
Our trafficking with pain,
In thy deep heart stir pity,
20 Incline to me again;
Once more on thy sure succour now I lean,
Though of base clay am I
And thou be Heaven’s queen.
O Virgin wise,
Of prudent virgins blest,
Foremost and best
Beyond compare,
With shining lamp most clear,
Bright shield of the oppressed,
30 With thee we know
Not mere escape from evil fortune’s blow
Or bitter death;
But triumph o’er the foe –
Thou who dost cool this flame
Which, blazing among mortals, love we name.
Virgin, turn thou thine eyes,
Sad eyes that watched beside
The piteous body of thy Son that died,
Unto my dubious state;
40 Thy counsel now I seek,
Disconsolate.
Pure Virgin, without stain,
God’s daughter meet,
And by conception sweet
His mother too,
Thou, a keen brightness to our dark world sent,
Art high Heaven’s ornament.
Through thee alone,
O lofty window gleaming with heavenly light,
50 Came God’s Son and thine own,
To save us mortals from our desper
ate plight.
Among all dusty toilers of the earth,
Virgin most blessed,
Chosen wert thou, pure gold without alloy,
To turn Eve’s sorrow into joy.
O make me of God’s grace to worthy be,
Thou who art crowned in heaven eternally.
Virgin most holy, filled with every grace,
Who are the sure path of true humility did’st trace
60 To the bright heavens where my prayers ascend,
Thou did’st achieve the much-desired end
That springs from fairest root.
Of Justice and of Piety art thou
The ripened fruit.
Three sweetest names unite
In thee alone,
Mother and spouse and daughter, all in one.
O Virgin glorious,
Sweet spouse of our high King
70 Who gloriously reigns,
Who freed us from our chains,
By His most sacred wounds – His love’s unerring dart,
O soften thou my heart.
Virgin, in all this world unparalleled,
Heaven enamoured is
Of thy pure bliss.
O thou, the living temple of high God,
Who thy virginity did fruitful make,
Most joyful for thy sake,
80 In spite of inner strife,
Is all my life.
Virgin most pious, sweet,
In whom all graces meet,
My spirit flows to thee,
Praying that thou wilt bend
The twisted fragments of my broken life
Unto a perfect end.
O Virgin, bathed in ever-living light,
Bright star of our tempestuous dark sea,
90 Thou faithful guide
To mariners that trust in thee,
Behold in what dread tempest I am tossed,
Rudderless and alone,
Fearing myself for lost.
With sinful soul I still in thee confide.
Virgin, I pray
Let not our common enemy deride
My bitter woe.
Remember that for man’s sin
100 God took upon Himself our human flesh,
To thy sweet virgin cloister entering in.
Virgin, how many tears have I not shed,
What prayers have I not offered and in vain!
Sorrow and loss and fear of future pain,
All these have compassed me
Since my first breath I drew by Arno’s side;
My searchings far and wide,
My acts, my words and mortal beauty have undone
me quite.
110 Virgin, sacred of soul,
Do not delay,
For who can say
That I approach not to life’s end.
And the long swiftly flowing years,
Swift as an arrow’s dart,
Filled to the brim with bitter loss and tears,
Have left no other trace
Than a sure death which looks me in the face.
Virgin, she whom I mourn is now dry dust,
120 Who, living, caused me full a thousand woes,
But of my bitter throes
She knew not one,
Else had she honor lost, and I had been undone.
But thou, O heavenly Lady fair,
Our Goddess rare,
(If to speak thus of thee is meet)
Virgin of delicate high sentiment.
Thou see’st all.
Others have failed to end my misery;
130 But now through thy great power can be wrought
Health to my soul, and honor unto thee.
Virgin, with whom my hope is most secure,
In need my refuge sure,
Let not thy gaze
Rest on unworthy me.
But rather see
Him who in likeness to Himself did raise
My fallen nature base,
Enduing it with grace;
140 Else might my eyes of error take their fill.
Medusa-like,
My heart would turn to stone
And evil humors on the air distill.
O Virgin, thou of pious, saintly tears,
Rid then my soul of cowardly fears,
That my last hours devout may be,
Not mixed as heretofore with earthly mire,
But tinged with heavenly fire.
Virgin, with human heart devoid of pride,
150 Humanity thou too did’st take
By primal Love’s decree.
With contrite heart I pray you pity me.
I that so faithful proved
To mortal lady, greatly, vainly loved,
So gentle art thou, shall I not love thee?
If from my sad and miserable state
By thy sweet hands I rise,
Virgin, I consecrate to thee
All my most treasured enterprise.
160 My dear imaginings,
My language and my thoughts, my pen, my heart,
My tears and sighs;
Be thou my guide to Heaven, nor fail to weigh
Celestial desires when I pray.
The day approaches now, so swift time flies,
Virgin, uniquely one,
Of my last end.
Pierced is my heart with thought of death;
Now to thy Son, true Man, true God, commend
170 My parting soul, that He may give release,
Receiving my last breath in peace.
MORRIS BISHOP (1893–1973)
Poet and Professor of Romantic Languages at Cornell University, Bishop was a popularizer of Petrarch. Text from Petrarch and His World (1963).
P16: Movesi il vecchierel canuto e bianco
The ancient graybeard shoulders on his load
and quits the home of all his many days,
under the silent loving-fearful gaze
of eyes forfending what the hearts forebode.
Thence in life’s wane his old ambitious goad
his quaking shanks into long longed-for ways.
Only the burning of his will upstays
him, by years broken, spent by the long road.
But so at last his longing brings him nigh
10 to Rome, to look upon the painted face
of Him whom soon in heaven he hopes to view.
Ah, Donna, Donna, even so go I,
seeking forever in whatever place
some much-desirèd shadowy hint of you.
P54: Perch’al viso d’Amor portava insegna
Because she bore Love’s mark, a Wanderer
suddenly struck my heart, one youthful day,
and all my praise and honor turned to her.
And hunting her through the green wilderness,
I heard a voice cry, high and far away:
‘All your pursuit is vain and purposeless!’
And then I sank in the shade of a beechen tree,
and gazed about, perceiving none too soon
the forest menace that encompassed me.
10 And I turned back, about the hour of noon.
P365: I’ vo piangendo i miei passati tempi
Now I go grieving for the days on earth
I passed in worship of a mortal thing,
heedless to fledge the spiritual wing,
careless to try the measure of my worth.
Thou who dost know my every sin from birth,
invisible, immortal heavenly king,
help Thou my soul, so weak and wandering,
pour Thy abundant grace upon its dearth.
Out of the battle, out of the hurricane
10 I come to harbor; may my passing be
worthy, as all my dwelling here was vain.
And may Thy hand be quick to comfort me
in death, and in the scant hours that remain.
Thou knowest, I have no other hope but Thee.
JOSEPH AUSLANDER (1897–1965)
Po
et and anti-Nazi activist, Auslander was a consultant in English poetry at the Library of Congress. Text from The Sonnets of Petrarch (1931).
P344: Fu forse un tempo dolce cosa amore
Perhaps there was a time when love was sweet –
Though when, I scarce remember; now it grows
Bitter as gall. Who learns from living knows,
As I have learned, that grief is stubborn meat.
Ah, she, who was our era’s Paraclete,
Who now adorns the beatific Rose,
Has cheated weariness of the one repose
It knew alive – now fled on phantom feet!
Remorseless Death has stripped and left me stark;
10 Nor can her liberated spirit heal
With its large bliss the agony I feel.
I wept and sang, who now must mutely mark
By day and night despair with eyes of steel,
The tears, the tortured words, the torturing dark.
THOMAS G. BERGIN (1904–89)
Bergin was Professor of Italian Literature at Yale University. Two poems from Petrarch: Selected Sonnets, Odes, Letters (1966).
P1: Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
O ye who in these scattered rhymes may hear
The echoes of the sighs that fed my heart
In errant youth, for I was then, in part
Another man from what I now appear,
If you have learned by proof how Love can sear,
Then for these varied verses where I chart
Its vain and empty hope and vainer smart
Pardon I may beseech, nay, Pity’s tear.
For now I see how once my story’s spread
10 And I became a wonder to mankind
So in my heart I feel ashamed – alas,
That nought but shame my vanities have bred,
And penance, and the knowledge of clear mind
That earthly joys are dreams that swiftly pass.
P30: Giovene donna sotto un verde lauro
I saw beneath the shade of a green laurel
A lady fair and purer than the snow –
And colder too than snow which for long years
Has known no sun. And still that golden hair
And lovely face haunt my enraptured eyes
Where’er I wander, on whatever shore.
The ship of my desires will come to shore
Only alas when brown leaves spring from laurel,
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