The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 91

Sorrow and Love encouraged my poor tongue, Discreet in sadness, where it should not go, To speak of her for whom I burn'd and sung, What, even were it true, 'twere wrong to show.

That blessed saint my miserable state Might surely soothe, and ease my spirit's strife, Since she in heaven is now domesticate With Him who ever ruled her heart in life.

Wherefore I am contented and consoled, Nor would again in life her form behold; Nay, I prefer to die, and live alone.

Fairer than ever to my mental eye, I see her soaring with the angels high, Before our Lord, her maker and my own.

MACGREGOR.

My love and grief compell'd me to proclaim My heart's lament, and urged me to convey That, were it true, of her I should not say Who woke alike my song and bosom's flame.

For I should comfort find, 'mid this world's shame, To mark her soul's beatified array, To think that He who here had own'd its sway, Doth now within his home its presence claim.

And true I comfort find--myself resign'd, I would not woo her back to earthly gloom; Oh! rather let me die, or live still lone!

My mental eye, that holds her there enshrined, Now paints her wing'd, bright with celestial bloom, Prostrate beneath our mutual Heaven's throne.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXV.

_Gli angeli eletti e l' anime beate._

HE DIRECTS ALL HIS THOUGHTS TO HEAVEN, WHERE LAURA AWAITS AND BECKONS HIM.

The chosen angels, and the spirits blest, Celestial tenants, on that glorious day My Lady join'd them, throng'd in bright array Around her, with amaze and awe imprest.

"What splendour, what new beauty stands confest Unto our sight?"--among themselves they say; "No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clay To our high realms has risen so fair a guest."

Delighted to have changed her mortal state, She ranks amid the purest of her kind; And ever and anon she looks behind, To mark my progress and my coming wait; Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast; 'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste.

NOTT.

The chosen angels, and the blest above, Heaven's citizens!--the day when Laura ceased To adorn the world, about her thronging press'd, Replete with wonder and with holy love.

"What sight is this?--what will this beauty prove?"

Said they; "for sure no form in charms so dress'd, From yonder globe to this high place of rest, In all the latter age, did e'er remove!"

She, pleased and happy with her mansion new, Compares herself with the most perfect there; And now and then she casts a glance to view If yet I come, and seems to wish me near.

Rise then, my thoughts, to heaven!--vain world, adieu!

My Laura calls! her quickening voice I hear!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET LXXVI.

_Donna che lieta col Principio nostro._

HE CONJURES LAURA, BY THE PURE LOVE HE EVER BORE HER, TO OBTAIN FOR HIM A SPEEDY ADMISSION TO HER IN HEAVEN.

Lady, in bliss who, by our Maker's feet, As suited for thine excellent life alone, Art now enthroned in high and glorious seat, Adorn'd with charms nor pearls nor purple own; O model high and rare of ladies sweet!

Now in his face to whom all things are known, Look on my love, with that pure faith replete, As long my verse and truest tears have shown, And know at last my heart on earth to thee Was still as now in heaven, nor wish'd in life More than beneath thine eyes' bright sun to be: Wherefore, to recompense the tedious strife, Which turn'd my liege heart from the world away, Pray that I soon may come with thee to stay.

MACGREGOR.

Lady! whose gentle virtues have obtain'd For thee a dwelling with thy Maker blest, To sit enthroned above, in angels' vest (Whose l.u.s.tre gold nor purple had attain'd): Ah! thou who here the most exalted reign'd, Now through the eyes of Him who knows each breast, That heart's pure faith and love thou canst attest, Which both my pen and tears alike sustain'd.

Thou, knowest, too, my heart was thine on earth, As now it is in heaven; no wish was there But to avow thine eyes, its only shrine: Thus to reward the strife which owes its birth To thee, who won my each affection'd care, Pray G.o.d to waft me to his home and thine!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXVII.

_Da' piu begli occhi e dal piu chiaro viso._

HIS ONLY COMFORT IS THE EXPECTATION OF MEETING HER AGAIN IN HEAVEN.

The brightest eyes, the most resplendent face That ever shone; and the most radiant hair, With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare; The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace; Hands, arms, that would e'en motionless abase Those who to Love the most rebellious were; Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appear Like that of her who first did Eden trace; These fann'd life's spark: now heaven, and all its choir Of angel hosts those kindred charms admire; While lone and darkling I on earth remain.

Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can read Each secret of my soul, shall intercede; And I her sainted form behold again.

NOTT.

Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweet That ever shone, and from that loveliest hair, With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare, That speech with love, that smile with grace replete, From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat.

Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e'er To Love were rebels; from those feet so fair, From her whole form, for Eden only meet, My spirit took its life--now these delight The King of Heaven and his angelic train, While, blind and naked, I am left in night.

One only balm expect I 'mid my pain-- That she, mine every thought who now can see, May win this grace--that I with her may be.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXVIII.

_E' mi par d' or in ora udire il messo._

HE FEELS THAT THE DAY OF THEIR REUNION IS AT HAND.

Methinks from hour to hour her voice I hear: My Lady calls me! I would fain obey; Within, without, I feel myself decay; And am so alter'd--not with many a year-- That to myself a stranger I appear; All my old usual life is put away-- Could I but know how long I have to stay!

Grant, Heaven, the long-wish'd summons may be near!

Oh, blest the day when from this earthly gaol I shall be freed, when burst and broken lies This mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail, When from this black night my saved spirit flies, Soaring up, up, above the bright serene, Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.

MACGREGOR.