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Poem	[Pg 287] CANZONE V. Solea dalla fontana di mia vita. MEMORY IS HIS ONLY SOLACE AND SUPPORT. I who was wont from life's best fountain farSo long to wander, searching land and sea,Pursuing not my pleasure, but my star,And alway, as Love knows who strengthen'd me,Ready in bitter exile to depart,For hope and memory both then fed my heart;Alas! now wring my hands, and to unkindAnd angry Fortune, which away has reftThat so sweet hope, my armour have resign'd;And, memory only left,I feed my great desire on that alone,Whence frail and famish'd is my spirit grown. As haply by the way, if want of foodCompel the traveller to relax his speed,Losing that strength which first his steps endued,So feeling, for my weary life, the needOf that dear nourishment Death rudely stole,Leaving the world all bare, and sad my soul,From time to time fair pleasures pall, my sweetTo bitter turns, fear rises, and hopes fail,My course, though brief, that I shall e'er complete:Cloudlike before the gale,To win some resting-place from rest I flee,—If such indeed my doom, so let it be. Never to mortal life could I incline,—Be witness, Love, with whom I parley oft—Except for her who was its light and mine.And since, below extinguish'd, shines aloftThe life in which I lived, if lawful 'twere,My chief desire would be to follow her:But mine is ample cause of grief, for ITo see my future fate was ill supplied;This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eyeElsewhere my hopes to guide:Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad,Whom death a little earlier had made glad. [Pg 288]In those bright eyes, where wont my heart to dwell,Until by envy my hard fortune stirr'dRose from so rich a temple to expel,Love with his proper hand had character'dIn lines of pity what, ere long, I weenThe issue of my old desire had been.Dying alone, and not my life with me,Comely and sweet it then had been to die,Leaving my life's best part unscathed and free;But now my fond hopes lieDead in her silent dust: a secret chillShoots through me when I think that I live still. If my poor intellect had but the forceTo help my need, and if no other lureHad led it from the plain and proper course,Upon my lady's brow 'twere easy sureTo have read this truth, "Here all thy pleasure dies,And hence thy lifelong trial dates its rise."My spirit then had gently pass'd awayIn her dear presence from all mortal care;Freed from this troublesome and heavy clay,Mounting, before her, whereAngels and saints prepared on high her place,Whom I but follow now with slow sad pace. My song! if one there beWho in his love finds happiness and rest,Tell him this truth from me,"Die, while thou still art bless'd,For death betimes is comfort, not dismay,And who can rightly die needs no delay." Macgregor.
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