The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 87

O Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last, O stars conspired to make me poor indeed!

O look too true, in which I seem'd to read.

At parting, that my happiness was past; Now my full loss I know, I feel at last: Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!) 'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead, Was there a hope that flew not with the blast?

For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'd That the sweet light of all my life should die: 'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye!

But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd; Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd, That I might sink in sudden misery!

MOREHEAD.

Dark hour, last moment of that fatal day!

Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined!

O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to say Farewell to me, farewell to peace of mind!

Awaken'd now, my losses I survey: Alas! I fondly thought--thoughts weak and blind!-- That absence would take part, not all, away; How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind.

Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise, To quench for ever my life's genial light, And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so.

Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes, That blinded me to all before my sight, And sank at once my life in deepest woe.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LIX.

_Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardo._

HE SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN HIS LOSS IN THE UNUSUAL l.u.s.tRE OF HER EYES.

That glance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet, Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh; For here no more thou'lt see me, till on high From earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet."

O intellect than forest pard more fleet!

Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry, How didst thou fail to see in her bright eye What since befell, whence I my ruin meet.

Silently s.h.i.+ning with a fire sublime, They said, "O friendly lights, which long have been Mirrors to us where gladly we were seen, Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time; Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond, But wills in your despite that you shall live beyond."

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE V.

_Solea dalla fontana di mia vita._

MEMORY IS HIS ONLY SOLACE AND SUPPORT.

I who was wont from life's best fountain far So long to wander, searching land and sea, Pursuing not my pleasure, but my star, And alway, as Love knows who strengthen'd me, Ready in bitter exile to depart, For hope and memory both then fed my heart; Alas! now wring my hands, and to unkind And angry Fortune, which away has reft That so sweet hope, my armour have resign'd; And, memory only left, I feed my great desire on that alone, Whence frail and famish'd is my spirit grown.

As haply by the way, if want of food Compel the traveller to relax his speed, Losing that strength which first his steps endued, So feeling, for my weary life, the need Of that dear nourishment Death rudely stole, Leaving the world all bare, and sad my soul, From time to time fair pleasures pall, my sweet To bitter turns, fear rises, and hopes fail, My course, though brief, that I shall e'er complete: Cloudlike before the gale, To win some resting-place from rest I flee, --If such indeed my doom, so let it be.

Never to mortal life could I incline, --Be witness, Love, with whom I parley oft-- Except for her who was its light and mine.

And since, below extinguish'd, s.h.i.+nes aloft The life in which I lived, if lawful 'twere, My chief desire would be to follow her: But mine is ample cause of grief, for I To see my future fate was ill supplied; This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eye Elsewhere my hopes to guide: Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad, Whom death a little earlier had made glad.

In those bright eyes, where wont my heart to dwell, Until by envy my hard fortune stirr'd Rose from so rich a temple to expel, Love with his proper hand had character'd In lines of pity what, ere long, I ween The issue of my old desire had been.

Dying alone, and not my life with me, Comely and sweet it then had been to die, Leaving my life's best part unscathed and free; But now my fond hopes lie Dead in her silent dust: a secret chill Shoots through me when I think that I live still.

If my poor intellect had but the force To help my need, and if no other lure Had led it from the plain and proper course, Upon my lady's brow 'twere easy sure To have read this truth, "Here all thy pleasure dies, And hence thy lifelong trial dates its rise."

My spirit then had gently pa.s.s'd away In her dear presence from all mortal care; Freed from this troublesome and heavy clay, Mounting, before her, where Angels and saints prepared on high her place, Whom I but follow now with slow sad pace.

My song! if one there be Who in his love finds happiness and rest, Tell him this truth from me, "Die, while thou still art bless'd, For death betimes is comfort, not dismay, And who can rightly die needs no delay."

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA I.

_Mia benigna fortuna e 'l viver lieto._

IN HIS MISERY HE DESIRES DEATH THE MORE HE REMEMBERS HIS PAST CONTENTMENT AND COMFORT.

My favouring fortune and my life of joy, My days so cloudless, and my tranquil nights, The tender sigh, the pleasing power of song, Which gently wont to sound in verse and rhyme, Suddenly darken'd into grief and tears, Make me hate life and inly pray for death!

O cruel, grim, inexorable Death!

How hast thou dried my every source of joy, And left me to drag on a life of tears, Through darkling days and melancholy nights.

My heavy sighs no longer meet in rhyme, And my hard martyrdom exceeds all song!

Where now is vanish'd my once amorous song?

To talk of anger and to treat with death; Where the fond verses, where the happy rhyme Welcomed by gentle hearts with pensive joy?

Where now Love's communings that cheer'd my nights?

My sole theme, my one thought, is now but tears!

Erewhile to my desire so sweet were tears Their tenderness refined my else rude song, And made me wake and watch the livelong nights; But sorrow now to me is worse than death, Since lost for aye that look of modest joy, The lofty subject of my lowly rhyme!

Love in those bright eyes to my ready rhyme Gave a fair theme, now changed, alas! to tears; With grief remembering that time of joy, My changed thoughts issue find in other song, Evermore thee beseeching, pallid Death, To s.n.a.t.c.h and save me from these painful nights!

Sleep has departed from my anguish'd nights, Music is absent from my rugged rhyme, Which knows not now to sound of aught but death; Its notes, so thrilling once, all turn'd to tears, Love knows not in his reign such varied song, As full of sadness now as then of joy!

Man lived not then so crown'd as I with joy, Man lives not now such wretched days and nights; And my full festering grief but swells the song Which from my bosom draws the mournful rhyme; I lived in hope, who now live but in tears, Nor against death have other hope save death!

Me Death in her has kill'd; and only Death Can to my sight restore that face of joy, Which pleasant made to me e'en sighs and tears, Balmy the air, and dewy soft the nights, Wherein my choicest thoughts I gave to rhyme While Love inspirited my feeble song!

Would that such power as erst graced Orpheus' song Were mine to win my Laura back from death, As he Eurydice without a rhyme; Then would I live in best excess of joy; Or, that denied me, soon may some sad night Close for me ever these twin founts of tears!

Love! I have told with late and early tears, My grievous injuries in doleful song; Not that I hope from thee less cruel nights; And therefore am I urged to pray for death, Which hence would take me but to crown with joy, Where lives she whom I sing in this sad rhyme!

If so high may aspire my weary rhyme, To her now shelter'd safe from rage and tears, Whose beauties fill e'en heaven with livelier joy, Well would she recognise my alter'd song, Which haply pleased her once, ere yet by death Her days were cloudless made and dark my nights!