The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 21

Near and more near as life's last period draws, Which oft is hurried on by human woe, I see the pa.s.sing hours more swiftly flow, And all my hopes in disappointment close.

And to my heart I say, amidst its throes, "Not long shall we discourse of love below; For this my earthly load, like new-fall'n snow Fast melting, soon shall leave us to repose.

With it will sink in dust each towering hope, Cherish'd so long within my faithful breast; No more shall we resent, fear, smile, complain: Then shall we clearly trace why some are blest, Through deepest misery raised to Fortune's top, And why so many sighs so oft are heaved in vain."

WRANGHAM.

The nearer I approach my life's last day, The certain day that limits human woe, I better mark, in Time's swift silent flow, How the fond hopes he brought all pa.s.s'd away.

Of love no longer--to myself I say-- We now may commune, for, as virgin snow, The hard and heavy load we drag below Dissolves and dies, ere rest in heaven repay.

And prostrate with it must each fair hope lie Which here beguiled us and betray'd so long, And joy, grief, fear and pride alike shall cease: And then too shall we see with clearer eye How oft we trod in weary ways and wrong, And why so long in vain we sigh'd for peace.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXVI.

_Gia fiammeggiava l' amorosa stella._

LAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND a.s.sURES HIM _THAT SHE STILL LIVES._

Throughout the orient now began to flame The star of love; while o'er the northern sky That, which has oft raised Juno's jealousy, Pour'd forth its beauteous scintillating beam: Beside her kindled hearth the housewife dame, Half-dress'd, and slipshod, 'gan her distaff ply: And now the wonted hour of woe drew nigh, That wakes to tears the lover from his dream: When my sweet hope unto my mind appear'd, Not in the custom'd way unto my sight; For grief had bathed my lids, and sleep had weigh'd; Ah me, how changed that form by love endear'd!

"Why lose thy fort.i.tude?" methought she said, "These eyes not yet from thee withdraw their light."

NOTT.

Already in the east the amorous star Illumined heaven, while from her northern height Great Juno's rival through the dusky night Her beamy radiance shot. Returning care Had roused th' industrious hag, with footstep bare, And loins ungirt, the sleeping fire to light; And lovers thrill'd that season of despight, Which wont renew their tears, and wake despair.

When my soul's hope, now on the verge of fate, (Not by th' accustomed way; for that in sleep Was closed, and moist with griefs,) attain'd my heart.

Alas, how changed! "Servant, no longer weep,"

She seem'd to say; "resume thy wonted state: Not yet thine eyes from mine are doom'd to part."

CHARLEMONT.

Already, in the east, the star of love Was flaming, and that other in the north, Which Juno's jealousy is wont to move, Its beautiful and l.u.s.trous rays shot forth; Barefooted and half clad, the housewife old Had stirr'd her fire, and set herself to weave; Each tender heart the thoughtful time controll'd Which evermore the lover wakes to grieve, When my fond hope, already at life's last, Came to my heart, not by the wonted way, Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast-- Alas! how changed--and said, or seem'd to say, "Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse, Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?"

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXVII.

_Apollo, s' ancor vive il bel desio._

HE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFEND.

O Phoebus, if that fond desire remains, Which fired thy breast near the Thessalian wave; If those bright tresses, which such pleasure gave, Through lapse of years thy memory not disdains; From sluggish frosts, from rude inclement rains.

Which last the while thy beams our region leave, That honour'd sacred tree from peril save, Whose name of dear accordance waked our pains!

And, by that amorous hope which soothed thy care, What time expectant thou wert doom'd to sigh Dispel those vapours which disturb our sky!

So shall we both behold our favorite fair With wonder, seated on the gra.s.sy mead, And forming with her arms herself a shade.

NOTT.

If live the fair desire, Apollo, yet Which fired thy spirit once on Peneus' sh.o.r.e, And if the bright hair loved so well of yore In lapse of years thou dost not now forget, From the long frost, from seasons rude and keen, Which last while hides itself thy kindling brow, Defend this consecrate and honour'd bough, Which snared thee erst, whose slave I since have been.

And, by the virtue of the love so dear Which soothed, sustain'd thee in that early strife, Our air from raw and lowering vapours clear: So shall we see our lady, to new life Restored, her seat upon the greensward take, Where her own graceful arms a sweet shade o'er her make.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXVIII.

_Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi._

HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE.

Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade Measuring I roam with ling'ring steps and slow; And still a watchful glance around me throw, Anxious to shun the print of human tread: No other means I find, no surer aid From the world's prying eye to hide my woe: So well my wild disorder'd gestures show, And love lorn looks, the fire within me bred, That well I deem each mountain, wood and plain, And river knows, what I from man conceal, What dreary hues my life's fond prospects dim.

Yet whate'er wild or savage paths I've ta'en, Where'er I wander, love attends me still, Soft whisp'ring to my soul, and I to him.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Alone, and pensive, near some desert sh.o.r.e, Far from the haunts of men I love to stray, And, cautiously, my distant path explore Where never human footsteps mark'd the way.

Thus from the public gaze I strive to fly, And to the winds alone my griefs impart; While in my hollow cheek and haggard eye Appears the fire that burns my inmost heart.

But ah, in vain to distant scenes I go; No solitude my troubled thoughts allays.

Methinks e'en things inanimate must know The flame that on my soul in secret preys; Whilst Love, unconquer'd, with resistless sway Still hovers round my path, still meets me on my way.

J.B. TAYLOR.

Alone and pensive, the deserted plain, With tardy pace and sad, I wander by; And mine eyes o'er it rove, intent to fly Where distant sh.o.r.es no trace of man retain; No help save this I find, some cave to gain Where never may intrude man's curious eye, Lest on my brow, a stranger long to joy, He read the secret fire which makes my pain For here, methinks, the mountain and the flood, Valley and forest the strange temper know Of my sad life conceal'd from others' sight-- Yet where, where shall I find so wild a wood, A way so rough that there Love cannot go Communing with me the long day and night?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXIX.

_S' io credessi per morte essere scarco._