Written by
Andrew Marvell |
As one put drunk into the Packet-boat,
Tom May was hurry'd hence and did not know't.
But was amaz'd on the Elysian side,
And with an Eye uncertain, gazing wide,
Could not determine in what place he was,
For whence in Stevens ally Trees or Grass.
Nor where the Popes head, nor the Mitre lay,
Signs by which still he found and lost his way.
At last while doubtfully he all compares,
He saw near hand, as he imagin'd Ares.
Such did he seem for corpulence and port,
But 'twas a man much of another sort;
'Twas Ben that in the dusky Laurel shade
Amongst the Chorus of old Poets laid,
Sounding of ancient Heroes, such as were
The Subjects Safety, and the Rebel's Fear.
But how a double headed Vulture Eats,
Brutus and Cassius the Peoples cheats.
But seeing May he varied streight his song,
Gently to signifie that he was wrong.
Cups more then civil of Emilthian wine,
I sing (said he) and the Pharsalian Sign,
Where the Historian of the Common-wealth
In his own Bowels sheath'd the conquering health.
By this May to himself and them was come,
He found he was tranflated, and by whom.
Yet then with foot as stumbling as his tongue
Prest for his place among the Learned throng.
But Ben, who knew not neither foe nor friend,
Sworn Enemy to all that do pretend,
Rose more then ever he was seen severe,
Shook his gray locks, and his own Bayes did tear
At this intrusion. Then with Laurel wand,
The awful Sign of his supream command.
At whose dread Whisk Virgil himself does quake,
And Horace patiently its stroke does take,
As he crowds in he whipt him ore the pate
Like Pembroke at the Masque, and then did rate.
Far from these blessed shades tread back agen
Most servil' wit, and Mercenary Pen.
Polydore, Lucan, Allan, Vandale, Goth,
Malignant Poet and Historian both.
Go seek the novice Statesmen, and obtrude
On them some Romane cast similitude,
Tell them of Liberty, the Stories fine,
Until you all grow Consuls in your wine.
Or thou Dictator of the glass bestow
On him the Cato, this the Cicero.
Transferring old Rome hither in your talk,
As Bethlem's House did to Loretto walk.
Foul Architect that hadst not Eye to see
How ill the measures of these States agree.
And who by Romes example England lay,
Those but to Lucan do continue May.
But the nor Ignorance nor seeming good
Misled, but malice fixt and understood.
Because some one than thee more worthy weares
The sacred Laurel, hence are all these teares?
Must therefore all the World be set on flame,
Because a Gazet writer mist his aim?
And for a Tankard-bearing Muse must we
As for the Basket Guelphs and Gibellines be?
When the Sword glitters ore the Judges head,
And fear has Coward Churchmen silenced,
Then is the Poets time, 'tis then he drawes,
And single fights forsaken Vertues cause.
He, when the wheel of Empire, whirleth back,
And though the World disjointed Axel crack,
Sings still of ancient Rights and better Times,
Seeks wretched good, arraigns successful Crimes.
But thou base man first prostituted hast
Our spotless knowledge and the studies chast.
Apostatizing from our Arts and us,
To turn the Chronicler to Spartacus.
Yet wast thou taken hence with equal fate,
Before thou couldst great Charles his death relate.
But what will deeper wound thy little mind,
Hast left surviving Davenant still behind
Who laughs to see in this thy death renew'd,
Right Romane poverty and gratitude.
Poor Poet thou, and grateful Senate they,
Who thy last Reckoning did so largely pay.
And with the publick gravity would come,
When thou hadst drunk thy last to lead thee home.
If that can be thy home where Spencer lyes
And reverend Chaucer, but their dust does rise
Against thee, and expels thee from their side,
As th' Eagles Plumes from other birds divide.
Nor here thy shade must dwell, Return, Return,
Where Sulphrey Phlegeton does ever burn.
The Cerberus with all his Jawes shall gnash,
Megera thee with all her Serpents lash.
Thou rivited unto Ixion's wheel
Shalt break, and the perpetual Vulture feel.
'Tis just what Torments Poets ere did feign,
Thou first Historically shouldst sustain.
Thus by irrevocable Sentence cast,
May only Master of these Revels past.
And streight he vanisht in a Cloud of Pitch,
Such as unto the Sabboth bears the Witch.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SESTINA III. L' aere gravato, e l' importuna nebbia. HE COMPARES LAURA TO WINTER, AND FORESEES THAT SHE WILL ALWAYS BE THE SAME. The overcharged air, the impending cloud,Compress'd together by impetuous winds,Must presently discharge themselves in rain;Already as of crystal are the streams,And, for the fine grass late that clothed the vales,Is nothing now but the hoar frost and ice. And I, within my heart, more cold than ice,Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud,As sometimes rears itself in these our vales,Lowly, and landlock'd against amorous winds,Environ'd everywhere with stagnant streams,When falls from soft'ning heaven the smaller rain. Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain;And summer melts away the snows and ice,When proudly roll th' accumulated streams:[Pg 65]Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud,Which, overtaken by the furious winds,Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales. But ah! what profit me the flowering vales?Alike I mourn in sunshine and in rain,Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds;For only then my lady shall want iceAt heart, and on her brow th' accustom'd cloud,When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams. While to the sea descend the mountain streams,As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales,O'er those bright eyes shall hang th' unfriendly cloudMy own that moistens with continual rain;And in that lovely breast be harden'd iceWhich forces still from mine so dolorous winds. Yet well ought I to pardon all the windsBut for the love of one, that 'mid two streamsShut me among bright verdure and pure ice;So that I pictured then in thousand valesThe shade wherein I was, which heat or rainEsteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud. But fled not ever cloud before the winds,As I that day: nor ever streams with rainNor ice, when April's sun opens the vales. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XVIII. Qual più diversa e nova. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATION. Whate'er most wild and newWas ever found in any foreign land,If viewed and valued true,Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand.Whence the bright day breaks through,Alone and consortless, a bird there flies,Who voluntary dies,To live again regenerate and entire:So ever my desire,Alone, itself repairs, and on the crestOf its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun,There melts and is undone,And sinking to its first state of unrest,So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes,And, Phœnix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms. Where Indian billows sweep,A wondrous stone there is, before whose strengthStout navies, weak to keepTheir binding iron, sink engulf'd at length:So prove I, in this deepOf bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride,That fair rock knew to guideWhere now my life in wreck and ruin drives:Thus too the soul deprives,By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was,It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed:For mine, O fate accurst!A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws,Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet,Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet. Neath the far Ethiop skiesA beast is found, most mild and meek of air,Which seems, yet in her eyesDanger and dool and death she still does bear:[Pg 134]Much needs he to be wiseTo look on hers whoever turns his mien:Although her eyes unseen,All else securely may be viewed at willBut I to mine own illRun ever in rash grief, though well I knowMy sufferings past and future, still my mindIts eager, deaf and blindDesire o'ermasters and unhinges so,That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face,Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace. In the rich South there flowsA fountain from the sun its name that wins,This marvel still that shows,Boiling at night, but chill when day begins;Cold, yet more cold it growsAs the sun's mounting car we nearer see:So happens it with me(Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat),When the bright light and sweet,My only sun retires, and lone and drearMy eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign,I burn, but if againThe gold rays of the living sun appear,My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange;Within me and without I feel the frozen change! Another fount of fameSprings in Epirus, which, as bards have told,Kindles the lurking flame,And the live quenches, while itself is cold.My soul, that, uncontroll'd,And scathless from love's fire till now had pass'd,Carelessly left at lastNear the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,Was kindled instantly:Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night,A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.Which first her charms inflamedHer fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire,Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire. [Pg 135]Beyond our earth's known brinks,In the famed Islands of the Blest, there beTwo founts: of this who drinksDies smiling: who of that to live is free.A kindred fate Heaven linksTo my sad life, who, smilingly, could dieFor like o'erflowing joy,But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay.Love! still who guidest my way,Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites,Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour,Ever with larger powerO'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites;So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet,But in that season most when I my Lady met. Should any ask, my Song!Or how or where I am, to such reply:Where the tall mountain throwsIts shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows,He roams, where never eyeSave Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by,And one dear image who his peace destroys,Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
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?[Pg 241]And thou, my heart, to me alone that showsDisloyal still, what cruel guides of lateIn thee find shelter, now the chosen mateOf 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 meWhich 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.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XVII. Son animali al mondo di sì altera. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A MOTH. Creatures there are in life of such keen sightThat no defence they need from noonday sun,And others dazzled by excess of lightWho issue not abroad till day is done,And, with weak fondness, some because 'tis bright,Who in the death-flame for enjoyment run,Thus proving theirs a different virtue quite—Alas! of this last kind myself am one;For, of this fair the splendour to regard,I am but weak and ill—against late hoursAnd darkness gath'ring round—myself to ward.Wherefore, with tearful eyes of failing powers,My destiny condemns me still to turnWhere following faster I but fiercer burn.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXV. Gli angeli eletti e l' anime beate. HE DIRECTS ALL HIS THOUGHTS TO HEAVEN, WHERE LAURA AWAITS AND BECKONS HIM. The chosen angels, and the spirits blest,Celestial tenants, on that glorious dayMy Lady join'd them, throng'd in bright arrayAround her, with amaze and awe imprest."What splendour, what new beauty stands confestUnto our sight?"—among themselves they say;"No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clayTo our high realms has risen so fair a guest."Delighted to have changed her mortal state,She ranks amid the purest of her kind;And ever and anon she looks behind,To mark my progress and my coming wait;Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast;'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste. Nott. The chosen angels, and the blest above,Heaven's citizens!—the day when Laura ceasedTo adorn the world, about her thronging press'd,Replete with wonder and with holy love."What sight is this?—what will this beauty prove?"Said they; "for sure no form in charms so dress'd,From yonder globe to this high place of rest,In all the latter age, did e'er remove!"She, pleased and happy with her mansion new,Compares herself with the most perfect there;And now and then she casts a glance to viewIf yet I come, and seems to wish me near.Rise then, my thoughts, to heaven!—vain world, adieu!My Laura calls! her quickening voice I hear! Charlemont.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XIV. Movesi 'l vecchierel canuto e bianco. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIM. The palmer bent, with locks of silver gray,Quits the sweet spot where he has pass'd his years,Quits his poor family, whose anxious fearsPaint the loved father fainting on his way;And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne,In these last days that close his earthly course,He, in his soul's strong purpose, finds new force,Though weak with age, though by long travel worn:Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love,He seeks the image of that Saviour LordWhom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above:[Pg 14]So, oft in other forms I seek to traceSome charm, that to my heart may yet affordA faint resemblance of thy matchless grace. Dacre. As parts the aged pilgrim, worn and gray,From the dear spot his life where he had spent,From his poor family by sorrow rent,Whose love still fears him fainting in decay:Thence dragging heavily, in life's last day,His suffering frame, on pious journey bent,Pricking with earnest prayers his good intent,Though bow'd with years, and weary with the way,He reaches Rome, still following his desireThe likeness of his Lord on earth to see,Whom yet he hopes in heaven above to meet;So I, too, seek, nor in the fond quest tire,Lady, in other fair if aught there beThat faintly may recall thy beauties sweet. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXLVIII. Amor fra l' orbe una leggiadra rete. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NET. Love 'mid the grass beneath a laurel green—The plant divine which long my flame has fed,Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:[Pg 167]Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I weenBitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has beenSince first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:And the bright light which disenthrones the sunWas flashing round, and in her hand, more fairThan snow or ivory, was the master rope.So fell I in the snare; their slave so wonHer speech angelical and winning air,Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXVII. Apollo, s' ancor vive il bel desio. HE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFEND. O Phœbus, if that fond desire remains,Which fired thy breast near the Thessalian wave;If those bright tresses, which such pleasure gave,Through lapse of years thy memory not disdains;From sluggish frosts, from rude inclement rains.Which last the while thy beams our region leave,That honour'd sacred tree from peril save,Whose name of dear accordance waked our pains!And, by that amorous hope which soothed thy care,What time expectant thou wert doom'd to sighDispel those vapours which disturb our sky!So shall we both behold our favorite fairWith wonder, seated on the grassy mead,And forming with her arms herself a shade. Nott. [Pg 38] If live the fair desire, Apollo, yetWhich fired thy spirit once on Peneus' shore,And if the bright hair loved so well of yoreIn lapse of years thou dost not now forget,From the long frost, from seasons rude and keen,Which last while hides itself thy kindling brow,Defend this consecrate and honour'd bough,Which snared thee erst, whose slave I since have been.And, by the virtue of the love so dearWhich soothed, sustain'd thee in that early strife,Our air from raw and lowering vapours clear:So shall we see our lady, to new lifeRestored, her seat upon the greensward take,Where her own graceful arms a sweet shade o'er her make. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLII. Questa Fenice dell' aurata piuma. HE COMPARES HER TO THE PHŒNIX. This wondrous Phœnix with the golden plumesForms without art so rare a ring to deckThat beautiful and soft and snowy neck,That every heart it melts, and mine consumes:Forms, too, a natural diadem which lightsThe air around, whence Love with silent steelDraws liquid subtle fire, which still I feel[Pg 170]Fierce burning me though sharpest winter bites;Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest,Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair:Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone!Fame, in the opulent and odorous breastOf Arab mountains, buries her sole lair,Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown. Macgregor.
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