The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 53

MACGREGOR.

SONNET Cx.x.xIX.

_O Invidia, nemica di virtute._

ENVY MAY DISTURB, BUT CANNOT DESTROY HIS HOPE.

O deadly Envy, virtue's constant foe, With good and lovely eager to contest!

Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breast Hast entrance found? by what arts changed it so?

Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn, Too blest in love hast shown me to that fair Who welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer, But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn.

But though you may by acts severe and ill Sigh at my good and smile at my distress, You cannot change for me a single thought.

Not though a thousand times each day she kill Can I or hope in her or love her less.

For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXL.

_Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi sereno._

THE SWEETS AND BITTERS OF LOVE.

Marking of those bright eyes the sun serene Where reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves, My hopeless heart the weary spirit leaves Once more to gain its paradise terrene; Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene, And in the world how vast the web it weaves.

A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves, Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.

By these two contrary and mix'd extremes, With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught, To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems: Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought, But mostly contrite for its bold emprize, For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLI.

_Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi)._

TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHER.

Ill-omen'd was that star's malignant gleam That ruled my hapless birth; and dim the morn That darted on my infant eyes the beam; And harsh the wail, that told a man was born; And hard the sterile earth, which first was worn Beneath my infant feet; but harder far, And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn, In league with savage Love, inflamed the war Of all my pa.s.sions.--Love himself more tame, With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart, Insensible to the devouring flame Which wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.

One thought is comfort--that her scorn to bear, Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.

WOODHOUSELEE.

An evil star usher'd my natal morn (If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said), Hard was the cradle where I lay when born, And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd; Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scorn And fatal bow, whose mark I still was made, Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mourn Whose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.

But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring: She, too, severer would have wished the blow, A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.

One comfort rests--better to suffer so For her, than others to enjoy: and I, Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLII.

_Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e 'l loco._

RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LOVE.

The time and scene where I a slave became When I remember, and the knot so dear Which Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here, Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game; My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flame Of those soft sighs familiar to mine ear, So lit within, its very sufferings cheer; On these I live, and other aid disclaim.

That sun, alone which beameth for my sight, With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burns Now in the eve of life as in its prime, And from afar so gives me warmth and light, Fresh and entire, at every hour, returns On memory the knot, the scene, the time.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLIII.

_Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi._

EVER THINKING ON HER, HE Pa.s.sES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF ARDENNES.

Through woods inhospitable, wild, I rove, Where armed travellers bend their fearful way; Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love, Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.

Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray, Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove: And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, move Like nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her play I seem to hear her, when the whispering gale Steals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird, When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.

How grateful might this darksome wood appear, Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard; But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.

ANON. 1777.

Amid the wild wood's lone and difficult ways, Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms, I pa.s.s secure--for only me alarms That sun, which darts of living love the rays-- Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to her Whom time and s.p.a.ce so little hide from me; E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see, But maids and matrons in each beech and fir: Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan, The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dell Where its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues.

Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone, The solitary horror pleased so well, Except that of my sun too much I lose.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLIV