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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...
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by
Francesco Petrarch
SESTINA I. Mia benigna fortuna e 'l viver lieto. IN HIS MISERY HE DESIRES DEATH THE MORE HE REMEMBERS HIS PAST CONTENTMENT AND COMFORT. My favouring fortune and my life of joy,My days so cloudless, and my tranquil nights,The tender sigh, the pleasing power of song,Which gently wont to sound in verse and rhyme,[Pg 289]Suddenly darken'd into grief and tears,Make me hate life and inly pray for death! O cruel, grim, inexorable Death!How hast thou dried my every source of joy,And left me to drag on a life of tears,Through darkling days and melancholy nights.My heavy sighs no longer meet in rhyme,And my hard martyrdom exceeds all song! Where now is vanish'd my once amorous song?To talk of anger and to treat with death;Where the fond verses, where the happy rhymeWelcomed by gentle hearts with pensive joy?Where now Love's communings that cheer'd my nights?My sole theme, my one thought, is now but tears! Erewhile to my desire so sweet were tearsTheir tenderness refined my else rude song,And made me...
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by
Francesco Petrarch
SESTINA VII. Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED. Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves,Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,[Pg 208]Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve. Each day I hope that this my latest eveShall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;So many torments man beneath the moonNe'er bore as I have borne; this know the woodsThrough which I wander lonely day and night. For never have I had a tranquil night,But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,Since love first made me tenant of the woods:The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill. Thus, to myself a prey, from hill...
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