The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 61

HE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURA.

The loved hills where I left myself behind, Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear, Before me rise; at each remove I bear The dear load to my lot by Love consign'd.

Often I wonder inly in my mind, That still the fair yoke holds me, which despair Would vainly break, that yet I breathe this air; Though long the chain, its links but closer bind.

And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart, Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast, Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd, So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart, Endure at once my death and my delight, Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.

MACGREGOR.

Those gentle hills which hold my spirit still (For though I fly, my heart there must remain), Are e'er before me, whilst my burthen's pain, By love bestow'd, I bear with patient will.

I marvel oft that I can yet fulfil That yoke's sweet duties, which my soul enchain, I seek release, but find the effort vain; The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill.

So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart, Its poison'd iron rankling in his side, Flies swifter at each quickening anguish'd throb,-- I feel the fatal arrow at my heart; Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide; My flight exhausts me--grief my life doth rob!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXV.

_Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo Idaspe._

HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED.

From Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old, Exploring ocean in its every nook, From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian sh.o.r.e, In earth, in heaven one only Phoenix dwells.

What fortunate, or what disastrous bird Omen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn, That I alone find Pity deaf as asp, And wretched live who happy hoped to be?

Let me not speak of her, but him her guide, Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills-- Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her, Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be, Dissembleth, careth not, or will not see That silver'd, ere my time, these temples are.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXVI.

_Voglia mi sp.r.o.na; Amor mi guida e scorge._

HE DESCRIBES HIS STATE, SPECIFYING THE DATE OF HIS ATTACHMENT.

Pa.s.sion impels me, Love escorts and leads, Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain, Hope with its flatteries comforts me again, And, at my hara.s.s'd heart, with fond touch pleads.

Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heeds The blind and faithless leader of our train; Reason is dead, the senses only reign: One fond desire another still succeeds.

Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy, With winning words and many a graceful way, My heart entangled in that laurel sweet.

In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I --'Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day-- Enter'd Love's labyrinth, whence is no retreat.

MACGREGOR.

By will impell'd, Love o'er my path presides; By Pleasure led, o'ercome by Habit's reign, Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts me again; At her bright touch, my heart's despair subsides.

It takes her proffer'd hand, and there confides.

To doubt its blind disloyal guide were vain; Each sense usurps poor Reason's broken rein; On each desire, another wilder rides!

Grace, virtue, honour, beauty, words so dear, Have twined me with that laurell'd bough, whose power My heart hath tangled in its lab'rinth sweet: The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh year, The sixth of April's suns--in that first hour, My entrance mark'd, whence I see no retreat.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXVII.

_Beato in sogno, e di languir contento._

THOUGH SO LONG LOVE'S FAITHFUL SERVANT, HIS ONLY REWARD HAS BEEN TEARS.

Happy in visions, and content to pine, Shadows to clasp, to chase the summer gale, On sh.o.r.eless and unfathom'd sea to sail, To build on sand, and in the air design, The sun to gaze on till these eyes of mine Abash'd before his noonday splendour fail, To chase adown some soft and sloping vale, The winged stag with maim'd and heavy kine; Weary and blind, save my own harm to all, Which day and night I seek with throbbing heart, On Love, on Laura, and on Death I call.

Thus twenty years of long and cruel smart, In tears and sighs I've pa.s.s'd, because I took Under ill stars, alas! both bait and hook.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXVIII.

_Grazie ch' a pochi 'l ciel largo destina._

THE ENCHANTMENTS THAT ENTHRALL HIM

Graces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows; Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind; With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd; Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows; An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flows Music that can the sense in fetters bind; A G.o.ddess step; a lovely ardent mind, That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows; Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart, To glooms, to shades that can a light impart, Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low; Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity; With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh; Such are the witcheries that transform me so.

NOTT.

Graces which liberal Heaven grants few to share: Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind; Experienced judgment with fair hair combined; High heavenly beauty in a humble fair; A gracefulness most excellent and rare; A voice whose music sinks into the mind; An angel gait; wit glowing and refined, The hard to break, the high and haughty tear, And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone, Strong to enlighten h.e.l.l and night, and take Souls from our bodies and their own to make; A speech where genius high yet gentle shone, Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs --Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA VI.

_Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte._