The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 65

Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace, The chastest beauty in celestial frame,-- These be the roots whence birth so n.o.ble came.

Such ever in my mind her form I trace, A happy burden and a holy thing, To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIII.

_Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza._

THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.

I sang, who now lament; nor less delight Than in my song I found, in tears I find; For on the cause and not effect inclined, My senses still desire to scale that height: Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite, Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind, All I endure, nor care what weights they bind, E'en though her rage would break my armour quite.

Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join, And still pursue their usual course for me, I care not, if unblest, in life to be.

Let me or burn to death or living pine, No gentler state than mine beneath the sun, Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIV.

_I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume._

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.

I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light That living sun conceals not from my view, But virtuous love therein revealeth true His holy purposes and precious might; Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs To shorten of my life the friendless course, Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force To forward mine escape, nor even wings.

But so profound and of so full a vein My suff'ring is, so far its sh.o.r.e appears, Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive: Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain, But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears, And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCV.

_I' mi vivea di mia sorte contento._

HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.

I lived so tranquil, with my lot content, No sorrow visited, nor envy pined, To other loves if fortune were more kind One pang of mine their thousand joys outwent; But those bright eyes, whence never I repent The pains I feel, nor wish them less to find, So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind, Seems as my sun of life in them were spent.

O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern, Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds, Such lovely things to make and mar in turn?

True, from one living fount all power proceeds: But how couldst Thou consent, great G.o.d of Heaven, That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCVI.

_Vincitore Alessandro l' ira vinse._

THE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGER.

What though the ablest artists of old time Left us the sculptured bust, the imaged form Of conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercame And made him for the while than Philip less?

Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus drove That dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe; Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye, But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end.

Well Valentinian knew that to such pain Wrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought.

Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last.

Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd, Long madness, which its master often leads To shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.

ANON.

SONNET CXCVII.

_Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno._

HE REJOICES AT PARTIc.i.p.aTING IN HER SUFFERINGS.

Strange, pa.s.sing strange adventure! when from one Of the two brightest eyes which ever were, Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim, Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.

I had return'd, to break the weary fast Of seeing her, my sole care in this world, Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en If all their other gifts together join'd, When from the right eye--rather the right sun-- Of my dear Lady to my right eye came The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes; As if it intellect possess'd and wings It pa.s.s'd, as stars that shoot along the sky: Nature and pity then pursued their course.

ANON.

SONNET CXCVIII.

_O cameretta che gia fosti un porto._

HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.

Thou little chamber'd haven to the woes Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!

From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control; Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.

My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose, 'Mid sorrows vast--Love's iv'ried hand hath stole Griefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll, That hand which good on all but me bestows.

Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly, But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit On pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport: The mult.i.tude I did so long defy, Now as my hope and refuge I salute, So much I tremble solitude to court.