The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 90

Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes convey Sweet visions, worthy thee;--why is my sighing Unheeded now?--who keeps thee from replying?

Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay: Often on earth the gentlest heart is fain To feed and banquet on another's woe (Thus love is conquer'd in his own domain), But thou, who seest through me, and dost know All that I feel,--thou, who canst soothe my pain, Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LXX.

_Deh qual pieta, qual angel fu s presto._

HIS PRAYER IS HEARD.

What angel of compa.s.sion, hovering near, Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore, Whence now I feel descending as of yore My lady, in that bearing chaste and dear, My lone and melancholy heart to cheer, So free from pride, of humbleness such store, In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door, I live, and life no more is dull and drear.

Blessed is she who so can others bless With her fair sight, or with that tender speech To whose full meaning love alone can reach.

"Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress; But for our good I did thy homage shun"-- In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXI.

_Del cibo onde 'l signor mio sempre abbonda._

HE DESCRIBES THE APPARITION OF LAURA.

Food wherewithal my lord is well supplied, With tears and grief my weary heart I've fed; As fears within and paleness o'er me spread, Oft thinking on its fatal wound and wide: But in her time with whom no other vied, Equal or second, to my suffering bed Comes she to look on whom I almost dread, And takes her seat in pity by my side.

With that fair hand, so long desired in vain, She check'd my tears, while at her accents crept A sweetness to my soul, intense, divine.

"Is this thy wisdom, to parade thy pain?

No longer weep! hast thou not amply wept?

Would that such life were thine as death is mine!"

MACGREGOR.

With grief and tears (my soul's proud sovereign's food) I ever nourish still my aching heart; I feel my blanching cheek, and oft I start As on Love's sharp engraven wound I brood.

But she, who e'er on earth unrivall'd stood, Flits o'er my couch, when prostrate by his dart I lie; and there her presence doth impart.

Whilst scarce my eyes dare meet their vision'd good, With that fair hand in life I so desired, She stays my eyes' sad tide; her voice's tone Awakes the balm earth ne'er to man can give: And thus she speaks:--"Oh! vain hath wisdom fired The hopeless mourner's breast; no more bemoan, I am not dead--would thou like me couldst live!"

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXII.

_Ripensando a quel ch' oggi il ciel onora._

HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM BY HER PRESENCE.

To that soft look which now adorns the skies, The graceful bending of the radiant head, The face, the sweet angelic accents fled, That soothed me once, but now awake my sighs Oh! when to these imagination flies, I wonder that I am not long since dead!

'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly tread Is round my couch when morning visions rise!

In every att.i.tude how holy, chaste!

How tenderly she seems to hear the tale Of my long woes, and their relief to seek!

But when day breaks she then appears in haste The well-known heavenward path again to scale, With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!

MOREHEAD.

'Tis sweet, though sad, my trembling thoughts to raise, As memory dwells upon that form so dear, And think that now e'en angels join to praise The gentle virtues that adorn'd her here; That face, that look, in fancy to behold-- To hear that voice that did with music vie-- The bending head, crown'd with its locks of gold-- _All, all_ that charm'd, now but sad thoughts supply.

How had I lived her bitter loss to weep, If that pure spirit, pitying my woe, Had not appear'd to bless my troubled sleep, Ere memory broke upon the world below?

What pure, what gentle greetings then were mine!

In what attention wrapt she paused to hear My life's sad course, of which she bade me speak!

But as the dawn from forth the East did s.h.i.+ne Back to that heaven to which her way was clear, She fled,--while falling tears bedew'd each cheek.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LXXIII.

_Fu forse un tempo dolce cosa amore._

HE COMPLAINS OF HIS SUFFERINGS, WHICH ADMIT OF NO RELIEF.

Love, haply, was erewhile a sweet relief; I scarce know when; but now it bitter grows Beyond all else. Who learns from life well knows, As I have learnt to know from heavy grief; She, of our age, who was its honour chief, Who now in heaven with brighter l.u.s.tre glows, Has robb'd my being of the sole repose It knew in life, though that was rare and brief.

Pitiless Death my every good has ta'en!

Not the great bliss of her fair spirit freed Can aught console the adverse life I lead.

I wept and sang; who now can wake no strain, But day and night the pent griefs of my soul From eyes and tongue in tears and verses roll.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXIV.

_Spinse amor e dolor ove ir non debbe._

REFLECTING THAT LAURA IS IN HEAVEN, HE REPENTS HIS EXCESSIVE GRIEF, AND IS CONSOLED.