The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 22

HE PRAYS FOR DEATH, BUT IN VAIN.

Had I believed that Death could set me free From the anxious amorous thoughts my peace that mar, With these my own hands which yet stainless are, Life had I loosed, long hateful grown to me.

Yet, for I fear 'twould but a pa.s.sage be From grief to grief, from old to other war, Hither the dark shades my escape that bar, I still remain, nor hope relief to see.

High time it surely is that he had sped The fatal arrow from his pitiless bow, In others' blood so often bathed and red; And I of Love and Death have pray'd it so-- He listens not, but leaves me here half dead.

Nor cares to call me to himself below.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! had I deem'd that Death had freed my soul From Love's tormenting, overwhelming thought, To crush its aching burthen I had sought, My wearied life had hasten'd to its goal; My s.h.i.+vering bark yet fear'd another shoal, To find one tempest with another bought, Thus poised 'twixt earth and heaven I dwell as naught, Not daring to a.s.sume my life's control.

But sure 'tis time that Death's relentless bow Had wing'd that fatal arrow to my heart, So often bathed in life's dark crimson tide: But though I crave he would this boon bestow, He to my cheek his impress doth impart, And yet o'erlooks me in his fearful stride.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE IV.

_Si e debile il filo a cui s' attene._

HE GRIEVES IN ABSENCE FROM LAURA.

The thread on which my weary life depends So fragile is and weak, If none kind succour lends, Soon 'neath the painful burden will it break; Since doom'd to take my sad farewell of her, In whom begins and ends My bliss, one hope, to stir My sinking spirit from its black despair, Whispers, "Though lost awhile That form so dear and fair, Sad soul! the trial bear, For thee e'en yet the sun may brightly s.h.i.+ne, And days more happy smile, Once more the lost loved treasure may be thine."

This thought awhile sustains me, but again To fail me and forsake in worse excess of pain.

Time flies apace: the silent hours and swift So urge his journey on, Short span to me is left Even to think how quick to death I run; Scarce, in the orient heaven, yon mountain crest Smiles in the sun's first ray, When, in the adverse west, His long round run, we see his light decay So small of life the s.p.a.ce, So frail and clogg'd with woe, To mortal man below, That, when I find me from that beauteous face Thus torn by fate's decree, Unable at a wish with her to be, So poor the profit that old comforts give, I know not how I brook in such a state to live.

Each place offends, save where alone I see Those eyes so sweet and bright, Which still shall bear the key Of the soft thoughts I hide from other sight; And, though hard exile harder weighs on me, Whatever mood betide, I ask no theme beside, For all is hateful that I since have seen.

What rivers and what heights, What sh.o.r.es and seas between Me rise and those twin lights, Which made the storm and blackness of my days One beautiful serene, To which tormented Memory still strays: Free as my life then pa.s.s'd from every care, So hard and heavy seems my present lot to bear.

Alas! self-parleying thus, I but renew The warm wish in my mind, Which first within it grew The day I left my better half behind: If by long absence love is quench'd, then who Guides me to the old bait, Whence all my sorrows date?

Why rather not my lips in silence seal'd?

By finest crystal ne'er Were hidden tints reveal'd So faithfully and fair, As my sad spirit naked lays and bare Its every secret part, And the wild sweetness thrilling in my heart, Through eyes which, restlessly, o'erfraught with tears, Seek her whose sight alone with instant gladness cheers.

Strange pleasure!--yet so often that within The human heart to reign Is found--to woo and win Each new brief toy that men most sigh to gain: And I am one from sadness who relief So draw, as if it still My study were to fill These eyes with softness, and this heart with grief: As weighs with me in chief Nay rather with sole force, The language and the light Of those dear eyes to urge me on that course, So where its fullest source Long sorrow finds, I fix my often sight, And thus my heart and eyes like sufferers be, Which in love's path have been twin pioneers to me.

The golden tresses which should make, I ween, The sun with envy pine; And the sweet look serene, Where love's own rays so bright and burning s.h.i.+ne, That, ere its time, they make my strength decline, Each wise and truthful word, Rare in the world, which late She smiling gave, no more are seen or heard.

But this of all my fate Is hardest to endure, That here I am denied The gentle greeting, angel-like and pure, Which still to virtue's side Inclined my heart with modest magic lure; So that, in sooth, I nothing hope again Of comfort more than this, how best to bear my pain.

And--with fit ecstacy my loss to mourn-- The soft hand's snowy charm, The finely-rounded arm, The winning ways, by turns, that quiet scorn, Chaste anger, proud humility adorn, The fair young breast that shrined Intellect pure and high, Are now all hid the rugged Alp behind.

My trust were vain to try And see her ere I die, For, though awhile he dare Such dreams indulge, Hope ne'er can constant be, But falls back in despair Her, whom Heaven honours, there again to see, Where virtue, courtesy in her best mix, And where so oft I pray my future home to fix.

My Song! if thou shalt see, Our common lady in that dear retreat, We both may hope that she Will stretch to thee her fair and fav'ring hand, Whence I so far am bann'd; --Touch, touch it not, but, reverent at her feet, Tell her I will be there with earliest speed, A man of flesh and blood, or else a spirit freed.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.x.

_Orso, e' non furon mai fiumi ne stagni._

HE COMPLAINS OF THE VEIL AND HAND OF LAURA, THAT THEY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER EYES.

Orso, my friend, was never stream, nor lake, Nor sea in whose broad lap all rivers fall, Nor shadow of high hill, or wood, or wall, Nor heaven-obscuring clouds which torrents make, Nor other obstacles my grief so wake, Whatever most that lovely face may pall, As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall, That veil which bids my heart "Now burn or break,"

And, whether by humility or pride, Their glance, extinguis.h.i.+ng mine every joy, Conducts me prematurely to my tomb: Also my soul by one fair hand is tried, Cunning and careful ever to annoy, 'Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xI.

_Io temo s de' begli occhi l' a.s.salto._

HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO LONG DELAYED TO VISIT HER.

So much I fear to encounter her bright eye.

Alway in which my death and Love reside, That, as a child the rod, its glance I fly, Though long the time has been since first I tried; And ever since, so wearisome or high, No place has been where strong will has not hied, Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die, And, cold as marble, I am laid aside: Wherefore if I return to see you late, Sure 'tis no fault, unworthy of excuse, That from my death awhile I held aloof: At all to turn to what men shun, their fate, And from such fear my hara.s.s'd heart to loose, Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xII.

_S' amore o morte non da qualche stroppio._

HE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.

If Love or Death no obstacle entwine With the new web which here my fingers fold, And if I 'scape from beauty's tyrant hold While natural truth with truth reveal'd I join, Perchance a work so double will be mine Between our modern style and language old, That (timidly I speak, with hope though bold) Even to Rome its growing fame may s.h.i.+ne: But, since, our labour to perfect at last Some of the blessed threads are absent yet Which our dear father plentifully met, Wherefore to me thy hands so close and fast Against their use? Be prompt of aid and free, And rich our harvest of fair things shall be.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xIII