Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XX. Ben mi credea passar mio tempo omai. HE CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT SEEING HER, BUT WOULD NOT DIE THAT HE MAY STILL LOVE HER. As pass'd the years which I have left behind,To pass my future years I fondly thought,Amid old studies, with desires the same;But, from my lady since I fail to findThe accustom'd aid, the work himself has wroughtLet Love regard my tempter who became;Yet scarce I feel the shameThat, at my age, he makes me thus a thiefOf that bewitching lightFor which my life is steep'd in cureless grief;In youth I better mightHave ta'en the part which now I needs must take,For less dishonour boyish errors make. [Pg 187]Those sweet eyes whence alone my life had healthWere ever of their high and heavenly charmsSo kind to me when first my thrall begun,That, as a man whom not his proper wealth,But some extern yet secret succour arms,I lived, with them at ease, offending none:Me now their glances shunAs one injurious and importunate,Who, poor and hungry, didMyself the very act, in better stateWhich I, in others, chid.From mercy thus if envy bar me, beMy amorous thirst and helplessness my plea. In divers ways how often have I triedIf, reft of these, aught mortal could retainE'en for a single day in life my frame:But, ah! my soul, which has no rest beside,Speeds back to those angelic lights again;And I, though but of wax, turn to their flame,Planting my mind's best aimWhere less the watch o'er what I love is sure:As birds i' th' wild wood green,Where less they fear, will sooner take the lure,So on her lovely mien,Now one and now another look I turn,Wherewith at once I nourish me and burn. Strange sustenance! upon my death I feed,And live in flames, a salamander rare!And yet no marvel, as from love it flows.A blithe lamb 'mid the harass'd fleecy breed.Whilom I lay, whom now to worst despairFortune and Love, as is their wont, expose.Winter with cold and snows,With violets and roses spring is rife,And thus if I obtainSome few poor aliments of else weak life,Who can of theft complain?So rich a fair should be content with this,Though others live on hers, if nought she miss. [Pg 188]Who knows not what I am and still have been,From the first day I saw those beauteous eyes,Which alter'd of my life the natural mood?Traverse all lands, explore each sea between,Who can acquire all human qualities?There some on odours live by Ind's vast flood;Here light and fire are foodMy frail and famish'd spirit to appease!Love! more or nought bestow;With lordly state low thrift but ill agrees;Thou hast thy darts and bow,Take with thy hands my not unwilling breath,Life were well closed with honourable death. Pent flames are strongest, and, if left to swell,Not long by any means can rest unknown,This own I, Love, and at your hands was taught.When I thus silent burn'd, you knew it well;Now e'en to me my cries are weary grown,Annoy to far and near so long that wrought.O false world! O vain thought!O my hard fate! where now to follow thee?Ah! from what meteor lightSprung in my heart the constant hope which she,Who, armour'd with your might,Drags me to death, binds o'er it as a chain?Yours is the fault, though mine the loss and pain. Thus bear I of true love the pains along,Asking forgiveness of another's debt,And for mine own; whose eyes should rather shunThat too great light, and to the siren's songMy ears be closed: though scarce can I regretThat so sweet poison should my heart o'errun.Yet would that all were done,That who the first wound gave my last would deal;For, if I right divine,It were best mercy soon my fate to seal;Since not a chance is mineThat he may treat me better than before,'Tis well to die if death shut sorrow's door. [Pg 189]My song! with fearless feetThe field I keep, for death in flight were shame.Myself I needs must blameFor these laments; tears, sighs, and death to meet,Such fate for her is sweet.Own, slave of Love, whose eyes these rhymes may catch,Earth has no good that with my grief can match.
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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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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
BALLATA VI. Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura. THOUGH SHE BE LESS SEVERE, HE IS STILL NOT CONTENTED AND TRANQUIL AT HEART. From time to time more clemency for meIn that sweet smile and angel form I trace;Seem too her lovely faceAnd lustrous eyes at length more kind to be.[Pg 146]Yet, if thus honour'd, wherefore do my sighsIn doubt and sorrow flow,Signs that too truly showMy anguish'd desperate life to common eyes?Haply if, where she is, my glance I bend,This harass'd heart to cheer,Methinks that Love I hearPleading my cause, and see him succour lend.Not therefore at an end the strife I deem,Nor in sure rest my heart at last esteem;For Love most burns withinWhen Hope most pricks us on the way to win. Macgregor. From time to time less cruelty I traceIn her sweet smile and form divinely fair;Less clouded doth appearThe heaven of her fine eyes and lovely face.What then at last avail to me those sighs,Which from my sorrows flow,And in my semblance showThe life of anguish and despair I lead?If towards her perchance I bend mine eyes,Some solace to bestowUpon my bosom's woe,Methinks Love takes my part, and lends me aid:Yet still I cannot find the conflict stay'd,Nor tranquil is my heart in every state:For, ah! my passion's heatMore strongly glows within as my fond hopes increase. Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CX. Come talora al caldo tempo suole. HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE'S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH. As when at times in summer's scorching heats.Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,Whence death the one and pain the other meets,Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness liesThat reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,And by strong will is better judgment beat.I clearly see they value me but ill,[Pg 140]And, for against their torture fails my strength.That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,My heart their pain and not my loss laments,And blind, to its own death my soul consents. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXLII. Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e 'l loco. RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LOVE. The time and scene where I a slave becameWhen I remember, and the knot so dearWhich Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here,Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game;My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flameOf those soft sighs familiar to mine ear,So lit within, its very sufferings cheer;On these I live, and other aid disclaim.That sun, alone which beameth for my sight,With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burnsNow in the eve of life as in its prime,And from afar so gives me warmth and light,Fresh and entire, at every hour, returnsOn memory the knot, the scene, the time.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XVI. Sì breve è 'l tempo e 'l pensier sì veloce. THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEART. So brief the time, so fugitive the thoughtWhich Laura yields to me, though dead, again,Small medicine give they to my giant pain;Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought.Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought,Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain,Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign,Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought.[Pg 248]As rules a mistress in her home of right,From my dark heavy heart her placid browDispels each anxious thought and omen drear.My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light,Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thouDidst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!" Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXV. O tempo, o ciel volubil che fuggendo. HE NO LONGER CONTEMPLATES THE MORTAL, BUT THE IMMORTAL BEAUTIES OF LAURA. O Time! O heavens! whose flying changes frameErrors and snares for mortals poor and blind;O days more swift than arrows or the wind,Experienced now, I know your treacherous aim.You I excuse, myself alone I blame,For Nature for your flight who wings design'dTo me gave eyes which still I have inclinedTo mine own ill, whence follow grief and shame.An hour will come, haply e'en now is pass'd,Their sight to turn on my diviner partAnd so this infinite anguish end at last.Rejects not your long yoke, O Love, my heart,But its own ill by study, sufferings vast:Virtue is not of chance, but painful art. Macgregor. O Time! O circling heavens! in your flightUs mortals ye deceive—so poor and blind;O days! more fleeting than the shaft or wind,Experience brings your treachery to my sight!But mine the error—ye yourselves are right;Your flight fulfils but that your wings design'd:My eyes were Nature's gift, yet ne'er could findBut one blest light—and hence their present blight.It now is time (perchance the hour is pass'd)That they a safer dwelling should select,[Pg 295]And thus repose might soothe my grief acute:Love's yoke the spirit may not from it cast,(With oh what pain!) it may its ill eject;But virtue is attain'd but by pursuit! Wollaston.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XLV. Passato è 'l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto. HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER. Fled—fled, alas! for ever—is the day,Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote:Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay!And fled that angel vision far away;But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, soughtHer, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's carShe reaps the meed of matchless holiness:So might I, of this flesh discumberèd,Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow farWith her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss! Wrangham. Ah! gone for ever are the happy yearsThat soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire,And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyreHas gone, alas!—But left my lyre, my tears:Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;—My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheresOf light she bore it captive, soaring high,In angel robe triumphant, and now standsCrown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity:Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bandsThat tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,—To join blest spirits in celestial lands! Morehead.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXLV. Amor mi sprona in un tempo ed affrena. HE HEARS THE VOICE OF REASON, BUT CANNOT OBEY. Love in one instant spurs me and restrains,Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns,Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns,In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains:Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls,Until fond passion loses quite the path,And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath—My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds!A friendly thought there points the proper track,Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks,To go where soon it hopes to be at ease,But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back,Despite itself, another way it takes,And to its own slow death and mine agrees. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXXV. Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi. HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY. Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me hereAlong these meads that nursed our kindred strains;And that old debt to clear which still remains,Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share:Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air,Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains:The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains,And all my various chance, my racking care:Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade;Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursueThat life its cool and grassy bottom lends:—My days were once so fair; now dark and dreadAs death that makes them so. Thus the world throughOn each as soon as born his fate attends. Anon., Ox., 1795. On these green banks in happier days I stray'dWith Love, who whisper'd many a tender tale;And the glad waters, winding through the dale,Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display'd.You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade;Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale;[Pg 263]Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled valeWhich oft have beard the tender plaints I made;Ye blue-hair'd nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep,In the cool bosom of the crystal deep;Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain's brow;Ye mark'd how joy once wing'd each hour so gay;Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away!So fate with human bliss blends human woe! Anon. 1777.
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