Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XLIV.
Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre.
FEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVE.
Ever my hap is slack and slow in coming,
Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertain
With doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;
For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.
Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,
The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,
The Thames shall back return into his fountain,
And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,
Ere I in this find peace or quietness;
Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,
Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.
[Pg 59]And if I have, after such bitterness,
One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,
That all my trust and travail is but waste.
Wyatt.
Late to arrive my fortunes are and slow—
Hopes are unsure, desires ascend and swell,
Suspense, expectancy in me rebel—
But swifter to depart than tigers go.
Tepid and dark shall be the cold pure snow,
The ocean dry, its fish on mountains dwell,
The sun set in the East, by that old well
Alike whence Tigris and Euphrates flow,
Ere in this strife I peace or truce shall find,
Ere Love or Laura practise kinder ways,
Sworn friends, against me wrongfully combined.
After such bitters, if some sweet allays,
Balk'd by long fasts my palate spurns the fare,
Sole grace from them that falleth to my share.
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Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
SISTER of the first-born light,
Type of sorrowing gentleness!
Quivering mists in silv'ry dress
Float around thy features bright;
When thy gentle foot is heard,
From the day-closed caverns then
Wake the mournful ghosts of men,
I, too, wake, and each night-bird.
O'er a field of boundless span
Looks thy gaze both far and wide.
Raise me upwards to thy side!
Grant this to a raving man!
And to heights of rapture raised,
Let the knight so crafty peep
At his maiden while asleep,
Through her lattice-window glazed.
Soon the bliss of this sweet view,
Pangs by distance caused allays;
And I gather all thy rays,
And my look I sharpen too.
Round her unveil'd limbs I see
Brighter still become the glow,
And she draws me down below,
As Endymion once drew thee.
1767-9.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXVIII.
Solo e pensoso i più deserti campi.
HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE.
Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade
Measuring I roam with ling'ring steps and slow;
And still a watchful glance around me throw,
Anxious to shun the print of human tread:
No other means I find, no surer aid
From the world's prying eye to hide my woe:
So well my wild disorder'd gestures show,
And love lorn looks, the fire within me bred,
That well I deem each mountain, wood and plain,
And river knows, what I from man conceal,
What dreary hues my life's fond prospects dim.
Yet whate'er wild or savage paths I've ta'en,
Where'er I wander, love attends me still,
Soft whisp'ring to my soul, and I to him.
Anon.
, Ox.
, 1795.
Alone, and pensive, near some desert shore,
Far from the haunts of men I love to stray,
And, cautiously, my distant path explore
Where never human footsteps mark'd the way.
Thus from the public gaze I strive to fly,
And to the winds alone my griefs impart;
While in my hollow cheek and haggard eye
Appears the fire that burns my inmost heart.
[Pg 39]But ah, in vain to distant scenes I go;
No solitude my troubled thoughts allays.
Methinks e'en things inanimate must know
The flame that on my soul in secret preys;
Whilst Love, unconquer'd, with resistless sway
Still hovers round my path, still meets me on my way.
J.
B.
Taylor.
Alone and pensive, the deserted plain,
With tardy pace and sad, I wander by;
And mine eyes o'er it rove, intent to fly
Where distant shores no trace of man retain;
No help save this I find, some cave to gain
Where never may intrude man's curious eye,
Lest on my brow, a stranger long to joy,
He read the secret fire which makes my pain
For here, methinks, the mountain and the flood,
Valley and forest the strange temper know
Of my sad life conceal'd from others' sight—
Yet where, where shall I find so wild a wood,
A way so rough that there Love cannot go
Communing with me the long day and night?
Macgregor.
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