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
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz |
Males perverse, schooled to condemn
Women by your witless laws,
Though forsooth you are prime cause
Of that which you blame in them:
If with unexampled care
You solicit their disdain,
Will your fair words ease their pain,
When you ruthless set the snare?
Their resistance you impugn,
Then maintain with gravity
That it was mere levity
Made you dare to importune.
What more elevating sight
Than of man with logic crass,
Who with hot breath fogs the glass,
Then laments it is not bright!
Scorn and favor, favor, scorn,
What you will, result the same,
Treat you ill, and earn your blame,
Love you well, be left forlorn.
Scant regard will she possess
Who with caution wends her way,—
Is held thankless for her “nay,”
And as wanton for her “yes.”
What must be the rare caprice
Of the quarry you engage:
If she flees, she wakes your rage,
If she yields, her charms surcease.
Who shall bear the heavier blame,
When remorse the twain enthralls,
She, who for the asking, falls,
He who, asking, brings to shame?
Whose the guilt, where to begin,
Though both yield to passion's sway,
She who weakly sins for pay,
He who, strong, yet pays for Sin?
Then why stare ye, if we prove
That the guilt lies at your gate?
Either love those you create,
Or create those you can love.
To solicitation truce,—
Then, sire, with some show of right
You may mock the hapless plight
Or the creatures of your use!
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Written by
Walt Whitman |
1
O STAR of France!
The brightness of thy hope and strength and fame,
Like some proud ship that led the fleet so long,
Beseems to-day a wreck, driven by the gale—a mastless hulk;
And ’mid its teeming, madden’d, half-drown’d crowds,
Nor helm nor helmsman.
2
Dim, smitten star!
Orb not of France alone—pale symbol of my soul, its dearest hopes,
The struggle and the daring—rage divine for liberty,
Of aspirations toward the far ideal—enthusiast’s dreams of brotherhood,
Of terror to the tyrant and the priest.
3
Star crucified! by traitors sold!
Star panting o’er a land of death—heroic land!
Strange, passionate, mocking, frivolous land.
Miserable! yet for thy errors, vanities, sins, I will not now rebuke thee;
Thy unexampled woes and pangs have quell’d them all,
And left thee sacred.
In that amid thy many faults, thou ever aimedest highly,
In that thou wouldst not really sell thyself, however great the price,
In that thou surely wakedst weeping from thy drugg’d sleep,
In that alone, among thy sisters, thou, Giantess, didst rend the ones that shamed thee,
In that thou couldst not, wouldst not, wear the usual chains,
This cross, thy livid face, thy pierced hands and feet,
The spear thrust in thy side.
4
O star! O ship of France, beat back and baffled long!
Bear up, O smitten orb! O ship, continue on!
Sure, as the ship of all, the Earth itself,
Product of deathly fire and turbulent chaos,
Forth from its spasms of fury and its poisons,
Issuing at last in perfect power and beauty,
Onward, beneath the sun, following its course,
So thee, O ship of France!
Finish’d the days, the clouds dispell’d,
The travail o’er, the long-sought extrication,
When lo! reborn, high o’er the European world,
(In gladness, answering thence, as face afar to face, reflecting ours, Columbia,)
Again thy star, O France—fair, lustrous star,
In heavenly peace, clearer, more bright than ever,
Shall beam immortal.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXV. Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo Idaspe. HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED. From Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,Exploring ocean in its every nook,[Pg 191]From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore,In earth, in heaven one only Phœnix dwells.What fortunate, or what disastrous birdOmen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn,That I alone find Pity deaf as asp,And wretched live who happy hoped to be?Let me not speak of her, but him her guide,Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills—Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her,Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be,Dissembleth, careth not, or will not seeThat silver'd, ere my time, these temples are. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXVII. Soleano i miei pensier soavemente. HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM. My thoughts in fair alliance and arrayHold converse on the theme which most endears:Pity approaches and repents delay:E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.Since the last day, the terrible hour when FateThis present life of her fair being reft,From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state:No other hope than this to me is left.O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd.Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,Who to the world so eminent and clearMade her great virtue and my passion here. Macgregor. My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweetTo meditate their object in my breast—Perhaps her sympathies my wishes meetWith gentlest pity, seeing me distress'd:Nor when removed to that her sacred restThe present life changed for that blest retreat,Vanish'd in air my former visions fleet,My hopes, my tears, in vain to her address'd.O lovely miracle! O favour'd mind!Beauty beyond example high and rare,So soon return'd from us to whence it came!There the immortal wreaths her temples bind;The sacred palm is hers: on earth so fairWho shone by her own virtues and my flame.
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