The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 31

SONNET LVI.

_Amor con sue promesse lusingando._

LOVE CHAINS ARE STILL DEAR TO HIM.

By promise fair and artful flattery Me Love contrived in prison old to snare, And gave the keys to her my foe in care, Who in self-exile dooms me still to lie.

Alas! his wiles I knew not until I Was in their power, so sharp yet sweet to bear, (Man scarce will credit it although I swear) That I regain my freedom with a sigh, And, as true suffering captives ever do, Carry of my sore chains the greater part, And on my brow and eyes so writ my heart That when she witnesseth my cheek's wan hue A sigh shall own: if right I read his face, Between him and his tomb but small the s.p.a.ce!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LVII.

_Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso._

ON THE PORTRAIT OF LAURA PAINTED BY SIMON MEMMI.

Had Policletus seen her, or the rest Who, in past time, won honour in this art, A thousand years had but the meaner part Shown of the beauty which o'ercame my breast.

But Simon sure, in Paradise the blest, Whence came this n.o.ble lady of my heart, Saw her, and took this wond'rous counterpart Which should on earth her lovely face attest.

The work, indeed, was one, in heaven alone To be conceived, not wrought by fellow-men, Over whose souls the body's veil is thrown: 'Twas done of grace: and fail'd his pencil when To earth he turn'd our cold and heat to bear, And felt that his own eyes but mortal were.

MACGREGOR.

Had Polycletus in proud rivalry On her his model gazed a thousand years, Not half the beauty to my soul appears, In fatal conquest, e'er could he descry.

But, Simon, thou wast then in heaven's blest sky, Ere she, my fair one, left her native spheres, To trace a loveliness this world reveres Was thus thy task, from heaven's reality.

Yes--thine the portrait heaven alone could wake, This clime, nor earth, such beauty could conceive, Where droops the spirit 'neath its earthly shrine: The soul's reflected grace was thine to take, Which not on earth thy painting could achieve, Where mortal limits all the powers confine.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LVIII.

_Quando giunse a Simon l' alto concetto._

HE DESIRES ONLY THAT MEMMI HAD BEEN ABLE TO IMPART SPEECH TO HIS PORTRAIT OF LAURA.

When, at my word, the high thought fired his mind, Within that master-hand which placed the pen, Had but the painter, in his fair work, then Language and intellect to beauty join'd, Less 'neath its care my spirit since had pined, Which worthless held what still pleased other men; And yet so mild she seems that my fond ken Of peace sees promise in that aspect kind.

When further communing I hold with her Benignantly she smiles, as if she heard And well could answer to mine every word: But far o'er mine thy pride and pleasure were, Bright, warm and young, Pygmalion, to have press'd Thine image long and oft, while mine not once has blest.

MACGREGOR.

When Simon at my wish the proud design Conceived, which in his hand the pencil placed, Had he, while loveliness his picture graced, But added speech and mind to charms divine; What sighs he then had spared this breast of mine: That bliss had given to higher bliss distaste: For, when such meekness in her look was traced, 'Twould seem she soon to kindness might incline.

But, urging converse with the portray'd fair, Methinks she deigns attention to my prayer, Though wanting to reply the power of voice.

What praise thyself, Pygmalion, hast thou gain'd; Forming that image, whence thou hast obtain'd A thousand times what, once obtain'd, would me rejoice.

NOTT.

SONNET LIX.

_Se al principio risponde il fine e 'l mezzo._

IF HIS Pa.s.sION STILL INCREASE, HE MUST SOON DIE.

If, of this fourteenth year wherein I sigh, The end and middle with its opening vie, Nor air nor shade can give me now release, I feel mine ardent pa.s.sion so increase: For Love, with whom my thought no medium knows, Beneath whose yoke I never find repose, So rules me through these eyes, on mine own ill Too often turn'd, but half remains to kill.

Thus, day by day, I feel me sink apace, And yet so secretly none else may trace, Save she whose glances my fond bosom tear.

Scarcely till now this load of life I bear Nor know how long with me will be her stay, For death draws near, and hastens life away.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA IV.

_Chi e fermato di menar sua vita._

HE PRAYS G.o.d TO GUIDE HIS FRAIL BARK TO A SAFE PORT.

Who is resolved to venture his vain life On the deceitful wave and 'mid the rocks, Alone, unfearing death, in little bark, Can never be far distant from his end: Therefore betimes he should return to port While to the helm yet answers his true sail.

The gentle breezes to which helm and sail I trusted, entering on this amorous life, And hoping soon to make some better port, Have led me since amid a thousand rocks, And the sure causes of my mournful end Are not alone without, but in my bark.

Long cabin'd and confined in this blind bark, I wander'd, looking never at the sail, Which, prematurely, bore me to my end; Till He was pleased who brought me into life So far to call me back from those sharp rocks, That, distantly, at last was seen my port.

As lights at midnight seen in any port, Sometimes from the main sea by pa.s.sing bark, Save when their ray is lost 'mid storms or rocks; So I too from above the swollen sail Saw the sure colours of that other life, And could not help but sigh to reach my end.

Not that I yet am certain of that end, For wis.h.i.+ng with the dawn to be in port, Is a long voyage for so short a life: And then I fear to find me in frail bark, Beyond my wishes full its every sail With the strong wind which drove me on those rocks.

Escape I living from these doubtful rocks, Or if my exile have but a fair end, How happy shall I be to furl my sail, And my last anchor cast in some sure port; But, ah! I burn, and, as some blazing bark, So hard to me to leave my wonted life.

Lord of my end and master of my life, Before I lose my bark amid the rocks, Direct to a good port its hara.s.s'd sail!

MACGREGOR.