Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXVII.
Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace? DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.
P.
What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?
Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?
H.
Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,
Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill.
P.
What profit, with those eyes if she at will
Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?
H.
From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.
[Pg 147]P.
What's he to us, she sees it and is still.
H.
Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
P.
Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
Macgregor.
P.
What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
H.
Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
P.
But that is vain, since by her eyes' control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
H.
Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
P.
No balm to me, since she will not condole.
H.
When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,
In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
P.
Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives
Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 175] SONNET CLX.
Pasco la mente d' un sì nobil cibo.
TO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISS.
I feed my fancy on such noble food,
That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;
I see her—joy invades me like a flood,
And lethe of all other bliss I feel;
I hear her—instantly that music rare
Bids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;
Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,
A double pleasure in one draught I know.
Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,
So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,
None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;
Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meet
All charms of eye and ear wherewith our race
Art, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.
Macgregor.
Such noble aliment sustains my soul,
That Jove I envy not his godlike food;
I gaze on her—and feel each other good
Engulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl:
Her every word I in my heart enrol,
That on its grief it still may constant brood;
Prostrate by Love—my doom not understood
From that one form, I feel a twin control.
My spirit drinks the music of her voice,
Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)
They only feel who in its tone partake:
Again within her face my eyes rejoice,
For in its gentle lineaments appear
What Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.
Wollaston.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XIX.
Sennuccio mio, benchè doglioso e solo.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.
O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here,
By thee though left in solitude to roam,
Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home,
On angel pinions borne, in bright career?
Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere,
And stars that journey round the concave dome;
Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come,
How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear!
That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd.
O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band,
Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest:
And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand,
Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd,
While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.
Morehead.
Sennuccio mine! I yet myself console,
Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone,
For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown,
[Pg 250]Free from the flesh which did so late enrol;
Thence, at one view, commands it either pole,
The planets and their wondrous courses known,
And human sight how brief and doubtful shown;
Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control.
One favour—in the third of those bright spheres.
Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute,
With Franceschin and all that tuneful train,
And tell my lady how I live, in tears,
(Savage and lonely as some forest brute)
Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.
Macgregor.
|