Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLIX. Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostra. TO LOVE, ON LAURA WALKING ABROAD. Here stand we, Love, our glory to behold—How, passing Nature, lovely, high, and rare!Behold! what showers of sweetness falling there!What floods of light by heaven to earth unroll'd!How shine her robes, in purple, pearls, and gold,So richly wrought, with skill beyond compare!How glance her feet!—her beaming eyes how fairThrough the dark cloister which these hills enfold!The verdant turf, and flowers of thousand huesBeneath yon oak's old canopy of state,Spring round her feet to pay their amorous duty.The heavens, in joyful reverence, cannot chooseBut light up all their fires, to celebrateHer praise, whose presence charms their awful beauty. Merivale. Here tarry, Love, our glory to behold;Nought in creation so sublime we trace;Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face,Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold!See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold,That form transcendant, unexampled, grace:Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace,Her glance replete with elegance untold!The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue,Clustering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom,For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue;The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky,Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, assumeSuperior lustre and serenity.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET VII. La gola e 'l sonno e l' oziose piume. TO A FRIEND, ENCOURAGING HIM TO PURSUE POETRY. Torn is each virtue from its earthly throneBy sloth, intemperance, and voluptuous ease;E'en nature deviates from her wonted ways,Too much the slave of vicious custom grown.Far hence is every light celestial gone,That guides mankind through life's perplexing maze;And those, whom Helicon's sweet waters please,From mocking crowds receive contempt alone.Who now would laurel, myrtle-wreaths obtain?Let want, let shame, Philosophy attend!Cries the base world, intent on sordid gain.[Pg 7]What though thy favourite path be trod by few;Let it but urge thee more, dear gentle friend!Thy great design of glory to pursue. Anon. Intemperance, slumber, and the slothful downHave chased each virtue from this world away;Hence is our nature nearly led astrayFrom its due course, by habitude o'erthrown;Those kindly lights of heaven so dim are grown,Which shed o'er human life instruction's ray;That him with scornful wonder they survey,Who would draw forth the stream of Helicon."Whom doth the laurel please, or myrtle now?Naked and poor, Philosophy, art thou!"The worthless crowd, intent on lucre, cries.Few on thy chosen road will thee attend;Yet let it more incite thee, gentle friend,To prosecute thy high-conceived emprize. Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SESTINA I. A qualunque animale alberga in terra. NIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIR. To every animal that dwells on earth,Except to those which have in hate the sun,Their time of labour is while lasts the day;But when high heaven relumes its thousand stars,This seeks his hut, and that its native wood,Each finds repose, at least until the dawn. But I, when fresh and fair begins the dawnTo chase the lingering shades that cloak'd the earth,Wakening the animals in every wood,No truce to sorrow find while rolls the sun;And, when again I see the glistening stars,Still wander, weeping, wishing for the day. When sober evening chases the bright day,And this our darkness makes for others dawn,Pensive I look upon the cruel starsWhich framed me of such pliant passionate earth,And curse the day that e'er I saw the sun,Which makes me native seem of wildest wood. And yet methinks was ne'er in any wood,So wild a denizen, by night or day,As she whom thus I blame in shade and sun:Me night's first sleep o'ercomes not, nor the dawn,For though in mortal coil I tread the earth,My firm and fond desire is from the stars. Ere up to you I turn, O lustrous stars,Or downwards in love's labyrinthine wood,Leaving my fleshly frame in mouldering earth,Could I but pity find in her, one day[Pg 19]Would many years redeem, and to the dawnWith bliss enrich me from the setting sun! Oh! might I be with her where sinks the sun,No other eyes upon us but the stars,Alone, one sweet night, ended by no dawn,Nor she again transfigured in green wood,To cheat my clasping arms, as on the day,When Phœbus vainly follow'd her on earth. I shall lie low in earth, in crumbling wood.And clustering stars shall gem the noon of day,Ere on so sweet a dawn shall rise that sun. Macgregor. Each creature on whose wakeful eyesThe bright sun pours his golden fire,By day a destined toil pursues;And, when heaven's lamps illume the skies,All to some haunt for rest retire,Till a fresh dawn that toil renews.But I, when a new morn doth rise,Chasing from earth its murky shades,While ring the forests with delight,Find no remission of my sighs;And, soon as night her mantle spreads,I weep, and wish returning lightAgain when eve bids day retreat,O'er other climes to dart its rays;Pensive those cruel stars I view,Which influence thus my amorous fate;And imprecate that beauty's blaze,Which o'er my form such wildness threw.No forest surely in its gloomsNurtures a savage so unkindAs she who bids these sorrows flow:Me, nor the dawn nor sleep o'ercomes;For, though of mortal mould, my mindFeels more than passion's mortal glow.Ere up to you, bright orbs, I fly,Or to Love's bower speed down my way,While here my mouldering limbs remain;Let me her pity once espy;Thus, rich in bliss, one little dayShall recompense whole years of pain.[Pg 20]Be Laura mine at set of sun;Let heaven's fires only mark our loves,And the day ne'er its light renew;My fond embrace may she not shun;Nor Phœbus-like, through laurel groves,May I a nymph transform'd pursue!But I shall cast this mortal veil on earth,And stars shall gild the noon, ere such bright scenes have birth. Nott.
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Written by
Anne Kingsmill Finch |
When such a day, blesst the Arcadian plaine,
Warm without Sun, and shady without rain,
Fann'd by an air, that scarsly bent the flowers,
Or wav'd the woodbines, on the summer bowers,
The Nymphs disorder'd beauty cou'd not fear,
Nor ruffling winds uncurl'd the Shepheards hair,
On the fresh grasse, they trod their measures light,
And a long Evening made, from noon, to night.
Come then my Dafnis, from those cares descend
Which better may the winter season spend.
Come, and the pleasures of the feilds, survey,
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Reading the softest Poetry, refuse,
To veiw the subjects of each rural muse;
Nor lett the busy compasses go round,
When faery Cercles better mark the ground.
Rich Colours on the Vellum cease to lay,
When ev'ry lawne much nobler can display,
When on the daz'ling poppy may be seen
A glowing red, exceeding your carmine;
And for the blew that o're the Sea is borne,
A brighter rises in our standing corn.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the feilds survey,
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Come, and lett Sansons World, no more engage,
Altho' he gives a Kingdom in a page;
O're all the Vniverse his lines may goe,
And not a clime, like temp'rate brittan show,
Come then, my Dafnis, and her feilds survey,
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Nor plead that you're immur'd, and cannot yield,
That mighty Bastions keep you from the feild,
Think not tho' lodg'd in Mons, or in Namur,
You're from my dangerous attacks secure.
No, Louis shall his falling Conquests fear,
When by succeeding Courriers he shall hear
Appollo, and the Muses, are drawn down,
To storm each fort, and take in ev'ry Town.
Vauban, the Orphean Lyre, to mind shall call,
That drew the stones to the old Theban Wall,
And make no doubt, if itt against him play,
They, from his works, will fly as fast away,
Which to prevent, he shall to peace persuade,
Of strong, confederate Syllables, affraid.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the fields survey,
And throo' the Groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Come, and attend, how as we walk along,
Each chearfull bird, shall treat us with a song,
Nott such as Fopps compose, where witt, nor art,
Nor plainer Nature, ever bear a part;
The Cristall springs, shall murmure as we passe,
But not like Courtiers, sinking to disgrace;
Nor, shall the louder Rivers, in their fall,
Like unpaid Saylers, or hoarse Pleaders brawle;
But all shall form a concert to delight,
And all to peace, and all to love envite.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the feilds survey,
And throo' the Groves, with your Ardelia stray.
As Baucis and Philemon spent their lives,
Of husbands he, the happyest she, of wives,
When throo' the painted meads, their way they sought,
Harmlesse in act, and unperplext in thought,
Lett us my Dafnis, rural joys persue,
And Courts, or Camps, not ev'n in fancy view.
So, lett us throo' the Groves, my Dafnis stray,
And so, the pleasures of the feilds, survey.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXVI. O bella man, che mi distringi 'l core. THE STOLEN GLOVE. O beauteous hand! that dost my heart subdue,And in a little space my life confine;Hand where their skill and utmost efforts joinNature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show!Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue,To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine!Love, who towards me kindness doth design,For once permits ye naked to our view.Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white,Encasing ivory tinted with the rose;More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight.Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd!O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows!'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd. Nott. O beauteous hand! which robb'st me of my heart,And holdest all my life in little space;Hand! which their utmost effort and best artNature and Heaven alike have join'd to grace;O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fineAnd fairy fingers! to my wounds aloneCruel and cold, does Love awhile inclineIn my behalf, that naked ye are shown?O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear,Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set,[Pg 180]Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met,Unless her fair veil thus reward us here?Inconstancy of human things! the theftLate won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE I. Che debb' io far? che mi consigli, Amore? HE ASKS COUNSEL OF LOVE, WHETHER HE SHOULD FOLLOW LAURA, OR STILL ENDURE EXISTENCE. What should I do? what, Love, dost thou advise?Full time it is to die:And longer than I wish have I delay'd.My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart;To follow her, I must needBreak short the course of my afflictive years:To view her here belowI ne'er can hope; and irksome 'tis to wait.Since that my every joyBy her departure unto tears is turn'd,Of all its sweets my life has been deprived. Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain,How grievous is my loss;I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down,E'en as our common cause: for on one rockWe both have wreck'd our bark;And in one instant was its sun obscured.What genius can with wordsRightly describe my lamentable state?Ah, blind, ungrateful world!Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn;That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled! Fall'n is thy glory, and thou seest it not;Unworthy thou with her,While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain.Or to be trodden by her saintly feet;For that, which is so fair,Should with its presence decorate the skiesBut I, a wretch who, reftOf her, prize nor myself nor mortal life,[Pg 234]Recall her with my tears:This only of my hope's vast sum remains;And this alone doth still support me here. Ah, me! her charming face is earth become,Which wont unto our thoughtTo picture heaven and happiness above!Her viewless form inhabits paradise,Divested of that veil,Which shadow'd while below her bloom of life,Once more to put it on,And never then to cast it off again;When so much more divine,And glorious render'd, 'twill by us be view'd,As mortal beauty to eternal yields. More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair,Before me she appears,Where most she's conscious that her sight will pleaseThis is one pillar that sustains my life;The other her dear name,That to my heart sounds so delightfully.But tracing in my mind,That she who form'd my choicest hope is deadE'en in her blossom'd prime;Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become:She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth. Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms,Her life angelical,And her demeanour heavenly upon earthFor me lament, and be by pity wroughtNo wise for her, who, risenTo so much peace, me has in warfare left;Such, that should any shutThe road to follow her, for some length of time,What Love declares to meAlone would check my cutting through the tie;But in this guise he reasons from within: "The mighty grief transporting thee restrain;For passions uncontroll'dForfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires,Where she is living whom some fancy dead;[Pg 235]While at her fair remainsShe smiles herself, sighing for thee alone;And that her fame, which livesIn many a clime hymn'd by thy tongue, may ne'erBecome extinct, she prays;But that her name should harmonize thy voice;If e'er her eyes were lovely held, and dear."Fly the calm, green retreat;And ne'er approach where song and laughter dwell,O strain; but wail be thine!It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay,Thou sorrowing widow wrapp'd in garb of woe. Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXIII. I' vidi in terra angelici costumi. THE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEF. On earth reveal'd the beauties of the skies,Angelic features, it was mine to hail;[Pg 151]Features, which wake my mingled joy and wail,While all besides like dreams or shadows flies.And fill'd with tears I saw those two bright eyes,Which oft have turn'd the sun with envy pale;And from those lips I heard—oh! such a tale,As might awake brute Nature's sympathies!Wit, pity, excellence, and grief, and loveWith blended plaint so sweet a concert made,As ne'er was given to mortal ear to prove:And heaven itself such mute attention paid,That not a breath disturb'd the listening grove—Even æther's wildest gales the tuneful charm obey'd. Wrangham. Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace,And charms divine which mortals rarely see,Such as both glad and pain the memory;Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace:Tears I saw shower'd from those fine eyes apace,Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be;Accents I heard sigh'd forth so movingly,As to stay floods, or mountains to displace.Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join'dAnd wailful grief, a sweeter concert madeThan ever yet was pour'd on human ear:And heaven unto the music so inclined,That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade;Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere. Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XIII. Se 'l pensier che mi strugge. HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE. Oh! that my cheeks were taughtBy the fond, wasting thoughtTo wear such hues as could its influence speak;Then the dear, scornful fairMight all my ardour share;And where Love slumbers now he might awake!Less oft the hill and meadMy wearied feet should tread;[Pg 115]Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream;If she, who cold as snow,With equal fire would glow—She who dissolves me, and converts to flame. Since Love exerts his sway,And bears my sense away,I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs:Nor leaves, nor blossoms show,Nor rind, upon the bough,What is the nature that thereto belongs.Love, and those beauteous eyes,Beneath whose shade he lies,Discover all the heart can comprehend:When vented are my caresIn loud complaints, and tears;These harm myself, and others those offend. Sweet lays of sportive vein,Which help'd me to sustainLove's first assault, the only arms I bore;This flinty breast say whoShall once again subdue,That I with song may soothe me as before?Some power appears to traceWithin me Laura's face,Whispers her name; and straight in verse I striveTo picture her again,But the fond effort's vain:Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive. E'en as some babe untiesIts tongue in stammering guise,Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep:So fond words I essay;And listen'd be the layBy my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep!But if, of beauty vain,She treats me with disdain;Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs:Let them so freely flow,That all the world may know,My sorrow thou at least didst not despise! [Pg 116]And well art thou aware,That never foot so fairThe soil e'er press'd as that which trod thee late;My sunk soul and worn heartNow seek thee, to impartThe secret griefs that on my passion wait.If on thy margent green,Or 'midst thy flowers, were seenSome traces of her footsteps lingering there.My wearied life 'twould cheer,Bitter'd with many a tear:Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care? Where'er I bend mine eye,What sweet serenityI feel, to think here Laura shone of yore.Each plant and scented bloomI gather, seems to comeFrom where she wander'd on the custom'd shore:Ofttimes in this retreatA fresh and fragrant seatShe found; at least so fancy's vision shows:And never let truth seekTh' illusion dear to break—O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows! To thee, my simple song,No polish doth belong;Thyself art conscious of thy little worth!Solicit not renownThroughout the busy town,But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth. Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET I. Voi, ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono. HE CONFESSES THE VANITY OF HIS PASSION Ye who in rhymes dispersed the echoes hearOf those sad sighs with which my heart I fedWhen early youth my mazy wanderings led,Fondly diverse from what I now appear,Fluttering 'twixt frantic hope and frantic fear,From those by whom my various style is read,I hope, if e'er their hearts for love have bled,Not only pardon, but perhaps a tear.But now I clearly see that of mankindLong time I was the tale: whence bitter thoughtAnd self-reproach with frequent blushes teem;While of my frenzy, shame the fruit I find,And sad repentance, and the proof, dear-bought,That the world's joy is but a flitting dream. Charlemont. O ye, who list in scatter'd verse the soundOf all those sighs with which my heart I fed,When I, by youthful error first misled,Unlike my present self in heart was found;Who list the plaints, the reasonings that aboundThroughout my song, by hopes, and vain griefs bred;If e'er true love its influence o'er ye shed,Oh! let your pity be with pardon crown'd.[Pg 2]But now full well I see how to the crowdFor length of time I proved a public jest:E'en by myself my folly is allow'd:And of my vanity the fruit is shame,Repentance, and a knowledge strong imprest,That worldly pleasure is a passing dream. Nott. Ye, who may listen to each idle strainBearing those sighs, on which my heart was fedIn life's first morn, by youthful error led,(Far other then from what I now remain!)That thus in varying numbers I complain,Numbers of sorrow vain and vain hope bred,If any in love's lore be practisèd,His pardon,—e'en his pity I may obtain:But now aware that to mankind my nameToo long has been a bye-word and a scorn,I blush before my own severer thought;Of my past wanderings the sole fruit is shame,And deep repentance, of the knowledge bornThat all we value in this world is naught. Dacre.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XLII. Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimena. RETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEF. Zephyr returns; and in his jocund trainBrings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear;Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain,With every bloom that paints the vernal year;Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain;With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear;Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main;All beings join'd in fond accord appear.But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs,Forced from my inmost heart by her who boreThose keys which govern'd it unto the skies:The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air,Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more;Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear. Nott. [Pg 267] The spring returns, with all her smiling train;The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers,And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:All nature feels the kindling fire of love,The vital force of spring's returning reign.But not to me returns the cheerful spring!O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief,Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more! Woodhouselee. Returning Zephyr the sweet season brings,With flowers and herbs his breathing train among,And Progne twitters, Philomela sings,Leading the many-colour'd spring along;Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field,Jove views his daughter with complacent brow;Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield,And creatures all his magic power avow:But nought, alas! for me the season brings,Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawnBy her who can from heaven unlock its springs;And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn,And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild,A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild. Dacre. Zephyr returns and winter's rage restrains,With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny!Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains,And spring assumes her robe of various dye;The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdainsTo view his daughter with delighted eye;While Love through universal nature reigns,And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy!But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn,And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceedFor her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne.[Pg 268]The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead,And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn,A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey! Charlemont.
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