The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 77

HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.

Ne'er did fond mother to her darling son, Or zealous spouse to her beloved mate, Sage counsel give, in perilous estate, With such kind caution, in such tender tone, As gives that fair one, who, oft looking down On my hard exile from her heavenly seat, With wonted kindness bends upon my fate Her brow, as friend or parent would have done: Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear, Instructive speech, that points what several ways To seek or shun, while journeying here below; Then all the ills of life she counts, and prays My soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere: And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.

NOTT.

Ne'er to the son, in whom her age is blest, The anxious mother--nor to her loved lord The wedded dame, impending ill to ward, With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd, As she, who, from her high eternal rest, Bending--as though my exile she deplored-- With all her wonted tenderness restored, And softer pity on her brow impress'd!

Now with a mother's fears, and now as one Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech She points what to pursue and what to shun!

Our years retracing of long, various grief, Wooing my soul at higher good to reach, And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!

DACRE.

SONNET XVIII.

_Se quell' aura soave de' sospiri._

SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.

If that soft breath of sighs, which, from above, I hear of her so long my lady here, Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere, To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love, I could but paint, my pa.s.sionate verse should move Warmest desires; so jealous, yet so dear O'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear, That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove.

She points the path on high: and I who know Her chaste anxiety and earnest prayer, In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low, Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there: And find such sweetness in her words alone As with their power should melt the hardest stone.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XIX.

_Sennuccio mio, benche doglioso e solo._

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.

O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here, By thee though left in solitude to roam, Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home, On angel pinions borne, in bright career?

Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere, And stars that journey round the concave dome; Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come, How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear!

That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd.

O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band, Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest: And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand, Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd, While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.

MOREHEAD.

Sennuccio mine! I yet myself console, Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone, For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown, Free from the flesh which did so late enrol; Thence, at one view, commands it either pole, The planets and their wondrous courses known, And human sight how brief and doubtful shown; Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control.

One favour--in the third of those bright spheres.

Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute, With Franceschin and all that tuneful train, And tell my lady how I live, in tears, (Savage and lonely as some forest brute) Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XX.

_I' ho pien di sospir quest' aer tutto._

VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.

To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute, When from rude rocks, I view the smiling land Where she was born, who held my life in hand From its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit: To heaven she's gone, and I'm left dest.i.tute To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain Where'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute; There's not a root or stone amongst these hills, Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades, Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows, Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils, Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades, But knows how sharp my grief--how deep my woes.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XXI.

_L' alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella._

HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.

My n.o.ble flame--more fair than fairest are Whom kind Heaven here has e'er in favour shown-- Before her time, alas for me! has flown To her celestial home and parent star.

I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar She placed on pa.s.sion 'twas for good alone, As, with a gentle coldness all her own, She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war.

My thanks on her for such wise care I press, That with her lovely face and sweet disdain She check'd my love and taught me peace to gain.

O graceful artifice! deserved success!

I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she, Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXII.

_Come va 'l mondo! or mi diletta e piace._

HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.

How goes the world! now please me and delight What most displeased me: now I see and feel My trials were vouchsafed me for my weal, That peace eternal should brief war requite.

O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight, In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal!

Worse had she yielded to my warm appeal Whom Heaven has welcomed from the grave's dark night.

But blind love and my dull mind so misled, I sought to trespa.s.s even by main force Where to have won my precious soul were dead.

Blessed be she who shaped mine erring course To better port, by turns who curb'd and lured My bold and pa.s.sionate will where safety was secured.