The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_La.s.so! ben so che dolorose prede._
THOUGH FOR FOURTEEN YEARS HE HAS STRUGGLED UNSUCCESSFULLY, HE STILL HOPES TO CONQUER HIS Pa.s.sION.
Alas! well know I what sad havoc makes Death of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares!
How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes, How short the faith it to the friendless bears!
Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes; For the last day though now my heart prepares, Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks, And still my cheek grief's wonted tribute wears.
I mark the days, the moments, and the hours Bear the full years along, nor find deceit, Bow'd 'neath a greater force than magic spell.
For fourteen years have fought with varying powers Desire and Reason: and the best shall beat; If mortal spirits here can good foretell.
MACGREGOR.
Alas! I know death makes us all his prey, Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man; How swift the world completes its circling span, And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way.
My heart repeats the blast of earth's last day, Yet for its grief no recompense can scan, Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban, And still my eyes their usual tribute pay.
My watchful senses mark how on their wing The circling years transport their fleeter kin, And still I bow enslaved as by a spell: For fourteen years did reason proudly fling Defiance at my tameless will, to win A triumph blest, if Man can good foretell.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET Lx.x.xI.
_Cesare, poi che 'l traditor d' Egitto._
THE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEART.
When Egypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd head To Caesar sent; then, records so relate, To shroud a gladness manifestly great, Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed: And, when misfortune her dark mantle spread O'er Hannibal, and his afflicted state, He laugh'd 'midst those who wept their adverse fate, That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.
Thus doth the mind oft variously conceal Its several pa.s.sions by a different veil; Now with a countenance that's sad, now gay: So mirth and song if sometimes I employ, 'Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy, 'Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.
NOTT.
Caesar, when Egypt's cringing traitor brought The gory gift of Pompey's honour'd head, Check'd the full gladness of his instant thought, And specious tears of well-feign'd pity shed: And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wrought On his afflicted empire evils dread, 'Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, sought To ease the anger at his heart that fed.
Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides, Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien, Bright'ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen.
Thus ever if I sing, or smile betides, The outward joy serves only to conceal The inner ail and anguish that I feel.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET Lx.x.xII.
_Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi._
TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI.
Hannibal conquer'd oft, but never knew The fruits and gain of victory to get, Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yet A like misfortune happen not to you.
Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q] who Rough pasturage and sour in May have met, With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet, And vengeance of past loss on us pursue: While this new grief disheartens and appalls, Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword, But, boldly following where your fortune calls, E'en to its goal be glory's path explored, Which fame and honour to the world may give That e'en for centuries after death will live.
MACGREGOR.
[Footnote Q: _Orsa_. A play on the word _Orsim_.]
SONNET Lx.x.xIII.
_L' aspettata virtu che 'n voi fioriva._
TO PAUDOLFO MALATESTA, LORD OF RIMINI.
Sweet virtue's blossom had its promise shed Within thy breast (when Love became thy foe); Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow, And not by visions hath my hope been fed.
To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led, That by my pen thy name renown should know; No marble can the lasting fame bestow Like that by poets' characters is spread.
Dost think Marcellus' or proud Caesar's name, Or Africa.n.u.s, Paulus--still resound, That sculptors proud have effigied their deed?
No, Pandolph, frail the statuary's fame, For immortality alone is found Within the records of a poet's meed.
WOLLASTON.
The flower, in youth which virtue's promise bore, When Love in your pure heart first sought to dwell, Now beareth fruit that flower which matches well, And my long hopes are richly come ash.o.r.e, Prompting my spirit some glad verse to pour Where to due honour your high name may swell, For what can finest marble truly tell Of living mortal than the form he wore?
Think you great Caesar's or Marcellus' name, That Paulus, Africa.n.u.s to our days, By anvil or by hammer ever came?
No! frail the sculptor's power for lasting praise: Our study, my Pandolfo, only can Give immortality of fame to man.
MACGREGOR.
CANZONE XI.[R]
_Mai non vo' piu cantar, com' io soleva._
ENIGMAS.
Never more shall I sing, as I have sung: For still she heeded not; and I was scorn'd: So e'en in loveliest spots is trouble found.
Unceasingly to sigh is no relief.
Already on the Alp snow gathers round: Already day is near; and I awake.
An affable and modest air is sweet; And in a lovely lady that she be n.o.ble and dignified, not proud and cold, Well pleases it to find.
Love o'er his empire rules without a sword.
He who has miss'd his way let him turn back: Who has no home the heath must be his bed: Who lost or has not gold, Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.
