The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 57

Here tarry, Love, our glory to behold; Nought in creation so sublime we trace; Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face, Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold!

See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold, That form transcendant, unexampled, grace: Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace, Her glance replete with elegance untold!

The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue, Cl.u.s.tering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom, For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue; The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky, Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, a.s.sume Superior l.u.s.tre and serenity.

NOTT.

SONNET CLX.

_Pasco la mente d' un s n.o.bil cibo._

TO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISS.

I feed my fancy on such n.o.ble food, That Jove I envy not his G.o.dlike meal; I see her--joy invades me like a flood, And lethe of all other bliss I feel; I hear her--instantly that music rare Bids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow; Borne by the hand of Love I know not where, A double pleasure in one draught I know.

Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well, So winning are its words, its sound so sweet, None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell; Thus, in the same small s.p.a.ce, visibly, meet All charms of eye and ear wherewith our race Art, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.

MACGREGOR.

Such n.o.ble aliment sustains my soul, That Jove I envy not his G.o.dlike food; I gaze on her--and feel each other good Engulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl: Her every word I in my heart enrol, That on its grief it still may constant brood; Prostrate by Love--my doom not understood From that one form, I feel a twin control.

My spirit drinks the music of her voice, Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear) They only feel who in its tone partake: Again within her face my eyes rejoice, For in its gentle lineaments appear What Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXI.

_L' aura gentil che ra.s.serena i poggi._

JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.

The gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue, And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade, I know; its breathings such impression made, Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too: My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieu To those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd; And, to dispel the gloom around me spread, I seek this day my cheering sun to view, Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great, That Love again compels me to its light; Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.

Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fate I ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die, When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.

NOTT.

The gentle air, which brightens each green hill, Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade, I recognise it by its soft breath still, My sorrow and renown which long has made: Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought, From my dear native Tuscan air I flee: That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought, I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see.

That sun so great and genial sweetness brings, That Love compels me to his beams again, Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain: I ask for my escape not arms, but wings: Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die, Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXII.

_Di d in d vo cangiando il viso e 'l pelo._

HIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATH.

I alter day by day in hair and mien, Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear, Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green, Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear.

Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen, Ere I shall cease to covet and to fear Her lovely shadow, and--which ill I screen-- To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here: For never hope I respite from my pain, From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free, Unless mine enemy some pity deign, Till things impossible accomplish'd be, None but herself or death the blow can heal Which Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIII.

_L' aura serena che fra verdi fronde._

THE GENTLE BREEZE (L' AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER.

The gentle gale, that plays my face around, Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove, To fond remembrance brings the time, when Love First gave his deep, although delightful wound; Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er found Veil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move; To view her locks that shone bright gold above, Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound: Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind, And then coil'd up again so gracefully, That but to think on it still thrills the sense.

These Time has in more sober braids confined; And bound my heart with such a powerful tie, That death alone can disengage it thence.

NOTT.

The balmy airs that from yon leafy spray My fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet, Recall to my fond heart the fatal day When Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet, And gave me the fair face--in scorn away Since turn'd, or hid by jealousy--to meet; The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array, Whose s.h.i.+ning tints with finest gold compete, So sweetly on the wind were then display'd, Or gather'd in with such a graceful art, Their very thought with pa.s.sion thrills my mind.

Time since has twined them in more sober braid, And with a snare so powerful bound my heart, Death from its fetters only can unbind.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIV.

_L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde Lauro._

HER HAIR AND EYES.

The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd, Where Love to Phoebus whilom dealt his stroke, Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke, That freedom thence I hope not to behold, O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab old Medusa, when she changed him to an oak; Nor ever can the fairy knot be broke Whose light outs.h.i.+nes the sun, not merely gold; I mean of those bright locks the curled snare Which folds and fastens with so sweet a grace My soul, whose humbleness defends alone.

Her mere shade freezes with a cold despair My heart, and tinges with pale fear my face; And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.

MACGREGOR.