The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 66

WOLLASTON.

Room! which to me hast been a port and s.h.i.+eld From life's rude daily tempests for long years, Now the full fountain of my nightly tears Which in the day I bear for shame conceal'd: Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears Love o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears, Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.

But e'en than solitude and rest, I flee More from myself and melancholy thought, In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.

The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me, Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought, Such fear have I to find myself alone!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIX.

_La.s.so! Amor mi trasporta ov' io non voglio._

HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCH.

Alas! Love bears me where I would not go, And well I see how duty is transgress'd, And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast, More than my wont importunate I grow.

Never from rocks wise sailor guarded so His s.h.i.+p of richest merchandise possess'd, As evermore I s.h.i.+eld my bark distress'd From shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrow Torrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs --For, in my sea, nights horrible and dark And pitiless winter reign--have driven my bark, Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies, Or, drifting at the mercy of the main, Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CC.

_Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire._

HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIM.

O Love, I err, and I mine error own, As one who burns, whose fire within him lies And aggravates his grief, while reason dies, With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown.

I strove mine ardent longing to restrain, Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb: I can no more; falls from my hand the curb, And my despairing soul is bold again; Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim, The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so, No way too rough or steep for her to go: But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blame Shrined in herself: let her at least feel this, Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA VII.

_Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde._

HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED.

Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves, Not overhead, where circles the pale moon, Were stars so numerous ever seen by night, Nor dwell so many birds among the woods, Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill, As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.

Each day I hope that this my latest eve Shall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves, And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill; So many torments man beneath the moon Ne'er bore as I have borne; this know the woods Through which I wander lonely day and night.

For never have I had a tranquil night, But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve, Since love first made me tenant of the woods: The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves, The sun his light shall borrow from the moon, And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.

Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill, Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night, No one state mine, but changeful as the moon; And when I see approaching the brown eve, Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves, The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.

Hostile the cities, friendly are the woods To thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill, Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves, Through the sweet silence of the spangled night, So that the livelong day I wait the eve, When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.

Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon, That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods, And that ere vesper she who makes my eve, With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill, Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night, While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.

Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon, Song, that art born of night amid the woods, Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!

MACGREGOR.

Count the ocean's finny droves; Count the twinkling host of stars.

Round the night's pale orb that moves; Count the groves' wing'd choristers; Count each verdant blade that grows; Counted then will be my woes.

When shall these eyes cease to weep; When shall this world-wearied frame, Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?-- Sure, beneath yon planet's beam, None like me have made such moan; This to every bower is known.

Sad my nights; from morn till eve, Tenanting the woods, I sigh: But, ere I shall cease to grieve, Ocean's vast bed shall be dry, Suns their light from moons shall gain.

And spring wither on each plain.

Pensive, weeping, night and day, From this sh.o.r.e to that I fly, Changeful as the lunar ray; And, when evening veils the sky, Then my tears might swell the floods, Then my sighs might bow the woods!

Towns I hate, the shades I love; For relief to yon green height, Where the rill resounds, I rove At the grateful calm of night; There I wait the day's decline, For the welcome moon to s.h.i.+ne.

Oh, that in some lone retreat, Like Endymion I were lain; And that she, who rules my fate, There one night to stay would deign; Never from his billowy bed More might Phoebus lift his head!

Song, that on the wood-hung stream In the silent hour wert born, Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.

Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn, Thou shalt seek a glorious plain, There with Laura to remain!

DACRE.

SESTINA VIII.

_La ver l' aurora, che s dolce l' aura._

SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS.

When music warbles from each thorn, And Zephyr's dewy wings Sweep the young flowers; what time the morn Her crimson radiance flings: Then, as the smiling year renews, I feel renew'd Love's tender pain; Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain; And I for comfort court the weeping muse.

Oh! could my sighs in accents flow So musically lorn, That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe, And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn: Yet, ere within thy icy breast The smallest spark of pa.s.sion's found, Winter's cold temples shall be bound With all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.

The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye, The love-impa.s.sion'd strain To move thy flinty bosom try Full oft;--but, ah! in vain Would tears, and melting song avail; As vainly might the silken breeze, That bends the flowers, that fans the trees, Some rugged rock's tremendous brow a.s.sail.