The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 78

MACGREGOR.

Alas! this changing world! my present joy Was once my grief's dark source, and now I feel My sufferings pa.s.s'd were but my soul to heal Its fearful warfare--peace's soft decoy.

Poor human wishes! Hope, thou fragile toy To lovers oft! my woe had met its seal, Had she but hearken'd to my love's appeal, Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world's alloy.

My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind, Resistless urged me to my bosom's shame, And where my soul's destruction I had met: But blessed she who bade life's current find A holier course, who still'd my spirit's flame With gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXIII.

_Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l' Aurora._

MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.

When from the heavens I see Aurora beam, With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair, Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear: "There Laura dwells!" I with a sigh exclaim.

Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem, Happy t.i.thonus, thy much-valued fair; But not to her I love can I repair, Till death extinguishes this vital flame.

Yet need'st thou not thy separation mourn; Certain at evening's close is the return Of her, who doth not thy h.o.a.r locks despise; But my nights sad, my days are render'd drear, By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies, And only a remember'd name left here.

NOTT.

When from the east appears the purple ray Of morn arising, and salutes the eyes That wear the night in watching for the day, Thus speaks my heart: "In yonder opening skies, In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!"

Thou sun, that know'st to wheel thy burning car, Each eve, to the still surface of the deep, And there within thy Thetis' bosom sleep; Oh! could I thus my Laura's presence share, How would my patient heart its sorrows bear!

Adored in life, and honour'd in the dust, She that in this fond breast for ever reigns Has pa.s.s'd the gulph of death!--To deck that bust, No trace of her but the sad name remains.

WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET XXIV.

_Gli occhi di ch' io parlai s caldamente._

HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.

The eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould, So long the theme of my impa.s.sion'd lay, Charms which so stole me from myself away, That strange to other men the course I hold; The crisped locks of pure and lucid gold, The lightning of the angelic smile, whose ray To earth could all of paradise convey, A little dust are now!--to feeling cold!

And yet I live!--but that I live bewail, Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led My shatter'd bark, bereft of mast and sail: Hush'd be for aye the song that breathed love's fire!

Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed, And turn'd to mourning my once tuneful lyre.

DACRE.

The eyes, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face, Which made my thoughts and words so warm and wild, That I was almost from myself exiled, And render'd strange to all the human race; The lucid locks that curl'd in golden grace, The lightening beam that, when my angel smiled, Diffused o'er earth an Eden heavenly mild; What are they now? Dust, lifeless dust, alas!

And I live on, a melancholy slave, Toss'd by the tempest in a shatter'd bark, Reft of the lovely light that cheer'd the wave.

The flame of genius, too, extinct and dark, Here let my lays of love conclusion have; Mute be the lyre: tears best my sorrows mark.

MOREHEAD.

Those eyes whose living l.u.s.tre shed the heat Of bright meridian day; the heavenly mould Of that angelic form; the hands, the feet, The taper arms, the crisped locks of gold; Charms that the sweets of paradise enfold; The radiant lightning of her angel-smile, And every grace that could the sense beguile Are now a pile of ashes, deadly cold!

And yet I bear to drag this c.u.mbrous chain, That weighs my soul to earth--to bliss or pain Alike insensible:--her anchor lost, The frail dismantled bark, all tempest-toss'd, Surveys no port of comfort--closed the scene Of life's delusive joys;--and dry the Muse's vein.

WOODHOUSELEE.

Those eyes, sweet subject of my rapturous strain!

The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face, By which I from myself divided was, And parted from the vulgar and the vain; Those crisped locks, pure gold unknown to stain!

Of that angelic smile the lightening grace, Which wont to make this earth a heavenly place!

Dissolved to senseless ashes now remain!

And yet I live, to endless grief a prey, 'Reft of that star, my loved, my certain guide, Disarm'd my bark, while tempests round me blow!

Stop, then, my verse--dry is the fountain's tide.

That fed my genius! Cease, my amorous lay!

Changed is my lyre, attuned to endless woe!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXV.

_S' io avessi pensato che s care._

HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.

Had I e'er thought that to the world so dear The echo of my sighs would be in rhyme, I would have made them in my sorrow's prime Rarer in style, in number more appear.

Since she is dead my muse who prompted here, First in my thoughts and feelings at all time, All power is lost of tender or sublime My rough dark verse to render soft and clear.

And certes, my sole study and desire Was but--I knew not how--in those long years To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire.

I wept, but wish'd no honour in my tears.

Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair, Silent and weary, calls me to her there.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! had I deem'd my sighs, in numbers rung, Could e'er have gain'd the world's approving smile, I had awoke my rhymes in choicer style, My sorrow's birth more tunefully had sung: But she is gone whose inspiration hung On all my words, and did my thoughts beguile; My numbers harsh seem'd melody awhile, Now she is mute who o'er them music flung.

Nor fame, nor other incense, then I sought, But how to quell my heart's o'erwhelming grief; I wept, but sought no honour in my tear: But could the world's fair suffrage now be bought, 'Twere joy to gain, but that my hour is brief, Her lofty spirit waves me to her bier.

WOLLASTON.