The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
So far the wing of genius ne'er could fly-- Poor style like mine and faltering tongue much less-- As Nature rose, in that rare fabric, high.
Love follow'd Nature with such full success In gracing her, no claim could I advance Even to look, and yet was bless'd by chance.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XL.
_Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' Arno._
HE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUES.
She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign, And for free poverty court-affluence spurn, Has known to sour the precious sweets to turn On which I lived, for which I burn and pine.
Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mine That future ages from my song should learn Her heavenly beauties, and like me should burn, My poor verse fails her sweet face to define.
The gifts, though all her own, which others share, Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er, Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare; But when to the diviner part I soar, To the dull world a brief and brilliant light, Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XLI.
_L' alto e novo miracol ch' a d nostri._
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.
The wonder, high and new, that, in our days, Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain, Which heaven but show'd to us to s.n.a.t.c.h again Better to blazon its own starry ways; That to far times I her should paint and praise Love wills, who prompted first my pa.s.sionate strain; But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vain To the fond task a thousand times he sways.
My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while; I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below, Or speak or write of love will prove it so.
Who justly deems the truth beyond all style, Here silent let him muse, and sighing say, Blessed the eyes who saw her living day!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XLII.
_Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimena._
RETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEF.
Zephyr returns; and in his jocund train Brings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear; Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain, With every bloom that paints the vernal year; Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain; With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear; Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main; All beings join'd in fond accord appear.
But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs, Forced from my inmost heart by her who bore Those keys which govern'd it unto the skies: The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air, Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more; Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear.
NOTT.
The spring returns, with all her smiling train; The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers, The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers, And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain: And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain, Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove: All nature feels the kindling fire of love, The vital force of spring's returning reign.
But not to me returns the cheerful spring!
O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief, Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief, Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring: She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before, Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!
WOODHOUSELEE.
Returning Zephyr the sweet season brings, With flowers and herbs his breathing train among, And Progne twitters, Philomela sings, Leading the many-colour'd spring along; Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field, Jove views his daughter with complacent brow; Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield, And creatures all his magic power avow: But nought, alas! for me the season brings, Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawn By her who can from heaven unlock its springs; And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn, And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild, A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.
DACRE.
Zephyr returns and winter's rage restrains, With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny!
Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains, And spring a.s.sumes her robe of various dye; The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdains To view his daughter with delighted eye; While Love through universal nature reigns, And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy!
But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn, And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceed For her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne.
The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead, And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn, A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey!
CHARLEMONT.
SONNET XLIII.
_Quel rosignuol che s soave piagne._
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOT.
Yon nightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone, Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat, Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan, Filling the fields and skies with pity's note; Here lingering till the long long night is gone, Awakes the memory of my cruel lot-- But I my wretched self must wail alone: Fool, who secure from death an angel thought!
O easy duped, who thus on hope relies!
Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears, From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise?
Now know I, made by sad experience wise, That Fate would teach me by a life of tears, On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies!
WRANGHAM.
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate, A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state: And all the night she seems my kindred woes With me to weep and on my sorrows wait; Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose, Who deem'd a G.o.ddess could not yield to fate.
How easy to deceive who sleeps secure!
Who could have thought that to dull earth would turn Those eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure?
Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure: That loathing life, yet living I should see How few its joys, how little they endure!
ANON., OX., 1795.
That nightingale, who now melodious mourns Perhaps his children or his consort dear, The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bourns Resound his notes, so piteous and so clear; With me all night he weeps, and seems by turns To upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear, Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns, A G.o.ddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear.
Security, how easy to betray!
