Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXII. Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci. HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY. Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.[Pg 183]Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?" Nott. Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CCXV. O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte. HE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIM. O angel looks! O accents of the skies!Shall I or see or hear you once again?O golden tresses, which my heart enchain,And lead it forth, Love's willing sacrifice!O face of beauty given in anger's guise,Which still I not enjoy, and still complain!O dear delusion! O bewitching pain!Transports, at once my punishment and prize!If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam(Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside)Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow;Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried,Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam;Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe. Wrangham. O gentle looks! O words of heavenly sound!Shall I behold you, hear you once again?O waving locks, that Love has made the chain,In which this wretched ruin'd heart is bound!O face divine! whose magic spells surroundMy soul, distemper'd with unceasing pain:O dear deceit! O loving errors vain!To hug the dart and doat upon the wound!Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic lightMy life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find,Ever impart a pure unmixed delight?Or if they have one moment, then unkindFortune steps in, and sends me from their sight,And gives my opening pleasures to the wind. Morehead.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 190] SONNET CLXXIV. I' dolci colli ov' io lasciai me stesso. HE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURA. The loved hills where I left myself behind,Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear,Before me rise; at each remove I bearThe dear load to my lot by Love consign'd.Often I wonder inly in my mind,That still the fair yoke holds me, which despairWould vainly break, that yet I breathe this air;Though long the chain, its links but closer bind.And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart,Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast,Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd,So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart,Endure at once my death and my delight,Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight. Macgregor. Those gentle hills which hold my spirit still(For though I fly, my heart there must remain),Are e'er before me, whilst my burthen's pain,By love bestow'd, I bear with patient will.I marvel oft that I can yet fulfilThat yoke's sweet duties, which my soul enchain,I seek release, but find the effort vain;The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill.So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart,Its poison'd iron rankling in his side,Flies swifter at each quickening anguish'd throb,—I feel the fatal arrow at my heart;Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide;My flight exhausts me—grief my life doth rob! Wollaston.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LII. Sente l' aura mia antica, e i dolci colli. HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE. I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spySo pleasant, whence my fair her being drew,Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shewWishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry.[Pg 275]O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity!Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue;And void and cheerless is that dwelling too,In which I live, in which I wish'd to die;Hoping its mistress might at length affordSome respite to my woes by plaintive sighs,And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes.I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord:While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired;And o'er its ashes now I weep expired. Nott. Once more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow;Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beamsGild your green summits; while your silver streamsThrough vales of fragrance undulating flow.But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer hereGive life and beauty to the glowing scene:For stern remembrance stands where you have been,And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee,Would I could find a refuge from despair!Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tearA heart thy coward malice dares not free;And bid it live, while every hope is fled,To weep, among the ashes of the dead? Anne Bannerman.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXXVII. Dolci durezze e placide repulse. HE OWES HIS OWN SALVATION TO THE VIRTUOUS CONDUCT OF LAURA. O sweet severity, repulses mild,With chasten'd love, and tender pity fraught;Graceful rebukes, that to mad passion taughtBecoming mastery o'er its wishes wild;Speech dignified, in which, united, smiledAll courtesy, with purity of thought;Virtue and beauty, that uprooted aughtOf baser temper had my heart defiled:[Pg 316]Eyes, in whose glance man is beatified—Awful, in pride of virtue, to restrainAspiring hopes that justly are denied,Then prompt the drooping spirit to sustain!These, beautiful in every change, suppliedHealth to my soul, that else were sought in vain.
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