The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 41

Not now of adamant, but frail as gla.s.s, I see my best hopes fall from me or fade, And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.

MACGREGOR.

Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind, Which loathes the present in its memoried past, So wound my spirit, that on all I cast An envied thought who rest in darkness find.

My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkind No comfort grants, until its sorrow vast Impotent frets, then melts to tears at last: Thus I to painful warfare am consign'd.

My halcyon days I hope not to return, But paint my future by a darker tint; My spring is gone--my summer well-nigh fled: Ah! wretched me! too well do I discern Each hope is now (unlike the diamond flint) A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE XIII.

_Se 'l pensier che mi strugge._

HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE.

Oh! that my cheeks were taught By the fond, wasting thought To wear such hues as could its influence speak; Then the dear, scornful fair Might all my ardour share; And where Love slumbers now he might awake!

Less oft the hill and mead My wearied feet should tread; Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream; If she, who cold as snow, With equal fire would glow-- She who dissolves me, and converts to flame.

Since Love exerts his sway, And bears my sense away, I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs: Nor leaves, nor blossoms show, Nor rind, upon the bough, What is the nature that thereto belongs.

Love, and those beauteous eyes, Beneath whose shade he lies, Discover all the heart can comprehend: When vented are my cares In loud complaints, and tears; These harm myself, and others those offend.

Sweet lays of sportive vein, Which help'd me to sustain Love's first a.s.sault, the only arms I bore; This flinty breast say who Shall once again subdue, That I with song may soothe me as before?

Some power appears to trace Within me Laura's face, Whispers her name; and straight in verse I strive To picture her again, But the fond effort's vain: Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive.

E'en as some babe unties Its tongue in stammering guise, Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep: So fond words I essay; And listen'd be the lay By my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep!

But if, of beauty vain, She treats me with disdain; Do thou, O verdant sh.o.r.e, attend my sighs: Let them so freely flow, That all the world may know, My sorrow thou at least didst not despise!

And well art thou aware, That never foot so fair The soil e'er press'd as that which trod thee late; My sunk soul and worn heart Now seek thee, to impart The secret griefs that on my pa.s.sion wait.

If on thy margent green, Or 'midst thy flowers, were seen Some traces of her footsteps lingering there.

My wearied life 'twould cheer, Bitter'd with many a tear: Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care?

Where'er I bend mine eye, What sweet serenity I feel, to think here Laura shone of yore.

Each plant and scented bloom I gather, seems to come From where she wander'd on the custom'd sh.o.r.e: Ofttimes in this retreat A fresh and fragrant seat She found; at least so fancy's vision shows: And never let truth seek Th' illusion dear to break-- O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows!

To thee, my simple song, No polish doth belong; Thyself art conscious of thy little worth!

Solicit not renown Throughout the busy town, But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth.

NOTT.

CANZONE XIV.

_Chiare, fresche e dolci acque._

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE--CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.

Ye limpid brooks, by whose clear streams My G.o.ddess laid her tender limbs!

Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shade Gave shelter to the lovely maid!

Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly press'd By her soft rising snowy breast!

Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed around The place where Love my heart did wound!

Now at my summons all appear, And to my dying words give ear.

If then my destiny requires, And Heaven with my fate conspires, That Love these eyes should weeping close, Here let me find a soft repose.

So Death will less my soul affright, And, free from dread, my weary spright Naked alone will dare t' essay The still unknown, though beaten way; Pleased that her mortal part will have So safe a port, so sweet a grave.

The cruel fair, for whom I burn, May one day to these shades return, And smiling with superior grace, Her lover seek around this place, And when instead of me she finds Some crumbling dust toss'd by the winds, She may feel pity in her breast, And, sighing, wish me happy rest, Drying her eyes with her soft veil, Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.

Well I remember how the flowers Descended from these boughs in showers, Encircled in the fragrant cloud She set, nor midst such glory proud.

These blossoms to her lap repair, These fall upon her flowing hair, (Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,) These on the ground, these on the stream; In giddy rounds these dancing say, Here Love and Laura only sway.

In rapturous wonder oft I said, Sure she in Paradise was made, Thence sprang that bright angelic state, Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait, That beauteous smile, that voice divine, Those graces that around her s.h.i.+ne: Transported I beheld the fair, And sighing cried, How came I here?

In heaven, amongst th' immortal blest, Here let me fix and ever rest.

MOLESWORTH.

Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose blight wave She all her beauties gave,-- Sole of her s.e.x in my impa.s.sion'd mind!

Thou sacred branch so graced, (With sighs e'en now retraced!) On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form reclined!

Herbage and flowers that bent the robe beneath, Whose graceful folds compress'd Her pure angelic breast!

Ye airs serene, that breathe Where Love first taught me in her eyes his lore!

Yet once more all attest, The last sad plaintive lay my woe-worn heart may pour!

If so I must my destiny fulfil, And Love to close these weeping eyes be doom'd By Heaven's mysterious will, Oh! grant that in this loved retreat, entomb'd, My poor remains may lie, And my freed soul regain its native sky!

Less rude shall Death appear, If yet a hope so dear Smooth the dread pa.s.sage to eternity!

No shade so calm--serene, My weary spirit finds on earth below; No grave so still--so green, In which my o'ertoil'd frame may rest from mortal woe!

Yet one day, haply, she--so heavenly fair!

So kind in cruelty!-- With careless steps may to these haunts repair, And where her beaming eye Met mine in days so blest, A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest, And seeking me around, May mark among the stones a lowly mound, That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense!

Then may she breathe a sigh, Of power to win me mercy from above!

Doing Heaven violence, All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love!

Still dear to memory! when, in odorous showers, Scattering their balmy flowers, To summer airs th' o'ershadowing branches bow'd, The while, with humble state, In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate, Wrapt in the roseate cloud!

Now cl.u.s.tering blossoms deck her vesture's hem, Now her bright tresses gem,-- (In that all-blissful day, Like burnish'd gold with orient pearls inwrought,) Some strew the turf--some on the waters float!

Some, fluttering, seem to say In wanton circlets toss'd, "Here Love holds sovereign sway!"

Oft I exclaim'd, in awful tremor rapt, "Surely of heavenly birth This gracious form that visits the low earth!"

So in oblivion lapp'd Was reason's power, by the celestial mien, The brow,--the accents mild-- The angelic smile serene!

That now all sense of sad reality O'erborne by transport wild,-- "Alas! how came I here, and when?" I cry,-- Deeming my spirit pa.s.s'd into the sky!

E'en though the illusion cease, In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart finds peace.

If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my song!