The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch - LightNovelsOnl.com
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That ever-honour'd, yet too bitter day, Her image hath so graven in my breast, That only memory can return it dress'd In living charms, no genius could portray: Her air such graceful sadness did display, Her plaintive, soft laments my ear so bless'd, I ask'd if mortal, or a heavenly guest, Did thus the threatening clouds in smiles array.
Her locks were gold, her cheeks were breathing snow, Her brows with ebon arch'd--bright stars her eyes, Wherein Love nestled, thence his dart to aim: Her teeth were pearls--the rose's softest glow Dwelt on that mouth, whence woke to speech grief's sighs Her tears were crystal--and her breath was flame.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CXXV.
_Ove ch' i' posi gli occhi la.s.si o giri._
HER IMAGE IS EVER IN HIS HEART.
Where'er I rest or turn my weary eyes, To ease the longings which allure them still, Love pictures my bright lady at his will, That ever my desire may verdant rise.
Deep pity she with graceful grief applies-- Warm feelings ever gentle bosoms fill-- While captived equally my fond ears thrill With her sweet accents and seraphic sighs.
Love and fair Truth were both allied to tell The charms I saw were in the world alone, That 'neath the stars their like was never known.
Nor ever words so dear and tender fell On listening ear: nor tears so pure and bright From such fine eyes e'er sparkled in the light.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXXVI.
_In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea._
HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA.
Say from what part of heaven 'twas Nature drew, From what idea, that so perfect mould To form such features, bidding us behold, In charms below, what she above could do?
What fountain-nymph, what dryad-maid e'er threw Upon the wind such tresses of pure gold?
What heart such numerous virtues can unfold?
Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew.
He for celestial charms may look in vain, Who has not seen my fair one's radiant eyes, And felt their glances pleasingly beguile.
How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again, He only knows, who knows how sweet her sighs, How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile.
NOTT.
In what celestial sphere--what realm of thought, Dwelt the bright model from which Nature drew That fair and beauteous face, in which we view Her utmost power, on earth, divinely wrought?
What sylvan queen--what nymph by fountain sought, Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw?
When did such virtues one sole breast imbue?
Though with my death her chief perfection's fraught.
For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires, Who ne'er beheld her eyes' celestial stain, Where'er she turns around their brilliant fires: He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again, Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respires The sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain!
ANON.
SONNET CXXVII.
_Amor ed io s pien di maraviglia._
HER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINE.
As one who sees a thing incredible, In mutual marvel Love and I combine, Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine, None but herself can be her parallel.
Where the fine arches of that fair brow swell So sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine, Than whom no safer brighter beacons s.h.i.+ne His course to guide who'd wisely love and well.
What miracle is this, when, as a flower, She sits on the rich gra.s.s, or to her breast, Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'd And oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour, To see her pa.s.s, alone, in pure thought there, Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXXVIII.
_O pa.s.si sparsi, o pensier vaghi e p.r.o.nti._
EVERY CIRc.u.mSTANCE OF HIS Pa.s.sION IS A TORMENT TO HIM.
O scatter'd steps! O vague and busy thoughts!
O firm-set memory! O fierce desire!
O pa.s.sion powerful! O failing heart!
O eyes of mine, not eyes, but fountains now!
O leaf, which honourest ill.u.s.trious brows, Sole sign of double valour, and best crown!
O painful life, O error oft and sweet!
That make me search the lone plains and hard hills.
O beauteous face! where Love together placed The spurs and curb, to strive with which is vain, They p.r.i.c.k and turn me so at his sole will.
O gentle amorous souls, if such there be!
And you, O naked spirits of mere dust, Tarry and see how great my suffering is!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXXIX.
_Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbe._
HE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTS.
