The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 35

SONNET LXXV.

_Io son dell' aspectar omai s vinto._

HAVING ONCE SURRENDERED HIMSELF, HE IS COMPELLED EVER TO ENDURE THE PANGS OF LOVE.

Weary with expectation's endless round, And overcome in this long war of sighs, I hold desires in hate and hopes despise, And every tie wherewith my breast is bound; But the bright face which in my heart profound Is stamp'd, and seen where'er I turn mine eyes, Compels me where, against my will, arise The same sharp pains that first my ruin crown'd.

Then was my error when the old way quite Of liberty was bann'd and barr'd to me: He follows ill who pleases but his sight: To its own harm my soul ran wild and free, Now doom'd at others' will to wait and wend; Because that once it ventured to offend.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXVI.

_Ahi bella liberta, come tu m' hai._

HE DEPLORES HIS LOST LIBERTY AND THE UNHAPPINESS OF HIS PRESENT STATE.

Alas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee, Well hast thou taught my discontented heart To mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love's dart Dealt me the wound which heal'd can never be; Mine eyes so charm'd with their own weakness grow That my dull mind of reason spurns the chain; All worldly occupation they disdain, Ah! that I should myself have train'd them so.

Naught, save of her who is my death, mine ear Consents to learn; and from my tongue there flows No accent save the name to me so dear; Love to no other chase my spirit spurs, No other path my feet pursue; nor knows My hand to write in other praise but hers.

MACGREGOR.

Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence, Too well didst thou reveal unto my heart Its careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart, Of whose dread wound I ne'er can lose the sense My eyes, enamour'd of their grief intense, Did in that hour from Reason's bridle start, Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part; Each other mortal work is an offence.

No other theme will now my soul content Than she who plants my death, with whose blest name I make the air resound in echoes sweet: Love spurs me to her as his only bent, My hand can trace nought other but her fame, No other spot attracts my willing feet.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXVII.

_Orso, al vostro destrier si pu ben porre._

HE SYMPATHISES WITH HIS FRIEND ORSO AT HIS INABILITY TO ATTEND A TOURNAMENT.

Orso, a curb upon thy gallant horse Well may we place to turn him from his course, But who thy heart may bind against its will Which honour courts and shuns dishonour still?

Sigh not! for nought its praise away can take, Though Fate this journey hinder you to make.

For, as already voiced by general fame, Now is it there, and none before it came.

Amid the camp, upon the day design'd, Enough itself beneath those arms to find Which youth, love, valour, and near blood concern, Crying aloud: With n.o.ble fire I burn, As my good lord unwillingly at home, Who pines and languishes in vain to come.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXVIII.

_Poi che voi ed io piu volte abbiam provato._

TO A FRIEND, COUNSELLING HIM TO ABANDON EARTHLY PLEASURES.

Still has it been our bitter lot to prove How hope, or e'er it reach fruition, flies!

Up then to that high good, which never dies, Lift we the heart--to heaven's pure bliss above.

On earth, as in a tempting mead, we rove, Where coil'd 'mid flowers the traitor serpent lies; And, if some casual glimpse delight our eyes, 'Tis but to grieve the soul enthrall'd by Love.

Oh! then, as thou wouldst wish ere life's last day To taste the sweets of calm unbroken rest, Tread firm the narrow, shun the beaten way-- Ah! to thy friend too well may be address'd: "Thou show'st a path, thyself most apt to stray, Which late thy truant feet, fond youth, have never press'd."

WRANGHAM.

Friend, as we both in confidence complain To see our ill-placed hopes return in vain, Let that chief good which must for ever please Exalt our thought and fix our happiness.

This world as some gay flowery field is spread, Which hides a serpent in its painted bed, And most it wounds when most it charms our eyes, At once the tempter and the paradise.

And would you, then, sweet peace of mind restore, And in fair calm expect your parting hour, Leave the mad train, and court the happy few.

Well may it be replied, "O friend, you show Others the path, from which so often you Have stray'd, and now stray farther than before."

BASIL KENNET.

SONNET LXXIX.

_Quella fenestra, ove l' un sol si vede._

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

That window where my sun is often seen Refulgent, and the world's at morning's hours; And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers, And the short days reveal a clouded scene; That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien, My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers; Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers, And her feet press the paths or herbage green: The place where Love a.s.sail'd me with success; And spring, the fatal time that, first observed, Revives the keen remembrance every year; With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved A power no length of time can render less, Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.

PENN.

That window where my sun is ever seen, Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none; And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen: The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been, Pensive and parleying with herself alone: Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown, Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green: The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest, And the new season which, from year to year, Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast: The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear, Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd, All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET Lx.x.x.