The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 84

My life's long warfare seem'd about to cease, Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed; But levelling Death, who doth to all concede An equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace: As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece, So did her life from this world's breath recede, Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead, But now my all, save thought, she doth release.

Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd, For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand, And calmer I had told my storied love: To her in virtue's tone I had convey'd My heart's long grief--now, she doth understand, And sympathises with that grief above.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XLIX.

_Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore._

DEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFE.

From life's long storm of trouble and of tears Love show'd a tranquil haven and fair end 'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend, That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers.

She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears, And its high faith which could no more offend; Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rend In so few hours the fruit of many years!

A longer life the time had surely brought When in her chaste ear my full heart had laid The ancient burthen of its dearest thought; And she, perchance, might then have answer made, Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and few Our locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET L.

_Al cader d' una pianta che si svelse._

UNDER THE ALLEGORY OF A LAUREL HE AGAIN DEPLORES HER DEATH.

As a fair plant, uprooted by oft blows Of trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves, Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves, And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows; Love such another for my object chose, Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves, Who in my captured heart her home achieves, As on some wall or tree the ivy grows That living laurel--where their chosen nest My high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief, Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf-- To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest, Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cry I call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LI.

_I d miei piu leggier che nessun cervo._

HIS Pa.s.sION FINDS ITS ONLY CONSOLATION IN CONTEMPLATING HER IN HEAVEN.

My days more swiftly than the forest hind Have fled like shadows, and no pleasure seen Save for a moment, and few hours serene, Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind.

O wretched world, unstable, wayward! Blind Whose hopes in thee alone have centred been; In thee my heart was captived by her mien Who bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd: Her better spirit, now a deathless flower, And in the highest heaven that still shall be, Each day inflames me with its beauties more.

Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour, I muse on her--Now what, and where is she, And what the lovely veil which here she wore?

MACGREGOR.

Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled, A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seen Its only good; its hours (how few serene!) The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed: Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred, Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been; I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.

Her form decay'd--its beauty still survives, For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom, With which each day I more enamour'd grow: Thus though my locks are blanch'd, my hope revives In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom: Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LII.

_Sente l' aura mia antica, e i dolci colli._

HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.

I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spy So pleasant, whence my fair her being drew, Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shew Wishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry.

O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity!

Wither'd the gra.s.s, the rills of turbid hue; And void and cheerless is that dwelling too, In which I live, in which I wish'd to die; Hoping its mistress might at length afford Some respite to my woes by plaintive sighs, And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes.

I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord: While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired; And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.

NOTT.

Once more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow; Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beams Gild your green summits; while your silver streams Through vales of fragrance undulating flow.

But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer here Give life and beauty to the glowing scene: For stern remembrance stands where you have been, And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.

O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee, Would I could find a refuge from despair!

Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tear A heart thy coward malice dares not free; And bid it live, while every hope is fled, To weep, among the ashes of the dead?

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET LIII.

_E questo 'l nido in che la mia Fenice._

THE SIGHT OF LAURA'S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.

Is this the nest in which my phoenix first Her plumage donn'd of purple and of gold, Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold, For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst?

Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth, Where is the fair face whence that bright light came.

Alive and glad which kept me in my flame?

Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth; Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here, Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd, To thee which consecrate I still revere.

Watching the hills as dark night gathers round, Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take, And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.