The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

As an example of pleasing and calm reflection, I would cite the first of his sonnets, according to the order in which they are usually printed. It is singular to find it confessing the poet's shame at the retrospect of so many years spent.

Voi ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono.

Ye who shall hear amidst my scatter'd laysThe sighs with which I fann'd and fed my heart.When, young and glowing, I was but in partThe man I am become in later days;Ye who have mark'd the changes of my styleFrom vain despondency to hope as vain,From him among you, who has felt love's pain,I hope for pardon, ay, and pity's smile,Though conscious, now, my passion was a theme,Long, idly dwelt on by the public tongue,I blush for all the vanities I've sung,And find the world's applause a fleeting dream.[Pg cxxxix]

The following sonnet (cxxvi.) is such a gem of Petrarchan and Platonic homage to beauty that I subjoin my translation of it with the most sincere avowal of my conscious inability to do it justice.

In what ideal world or part of heavenDid Nature find the model of that faceAnd form, so fraught with loveliness and grace,In which, to our creation, she has givenHer prime proof of creative power above?What fountain nymph or goddess ever letSuch lovely tresses float of gold refinedUpon the breeze, or in a single mind,Where have so many virtues ever met,E'en though those charms have slain my bosom's weal?He knows not love who has not seen her eyesTurn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs,Or how the power of love can hurt or heal.

Sonnet lxix. is remarkable for the fineness of its closing thought.

Time was her tresses by the breathing airWere wreathed to many a ringlet golden bright,Time was her eyes diffused unmeasured light,Though now their lovely beams are waxing rare,Her face methought that in its blushes show'dCompassion, her angelic shape and walk,Her voice that seem'd with Heaven's own speech to talk;At these, what wonder that my bosom glow'd!A living sun she seem'd—a spirit of heaven.Those charms decline: but does my passion? No!I love not less—the slackening of the bowAssuages not the wound its shaft has given.

The following sonnet is remarkable for its last four lines having puzzled all the poet's commentators to explain what he meant by the words "Al man ond' io scrivo è fatta arnica, a questo volta." I agree with De Sade in conjecturing that Laura in receiving some of his verses had touched the hand that presented them, in token of her gratitude.15

In solitudes I've ever loved to abideBy woods and streams, and shunn'd the evil-hearted,Who from the path of heaven are foully parted;Sweet Tuscany has been to me denied,Whose sunny realms I would have gladly haunted,Yet still the Sorgue his beauteous hills amongHas lent auxiliar murmurs to my song,And echoed to the plaints my love has chanted.Here triumph'd, too, the poet's hand that wroteThese lines—the power of love has witness'd this.Delicious victory! I know my bliss,She knows it too—the saint on whom I dote.

Of Petrarch's poetry that is not amatory, Ugo Foscolo says with justice, that his three political canzoni, exquisite as they are in versification and style, do not breathe that enthusiasm which opened to Pindar's grasp all the wealth of imagination, all the treasures of historic lore and moral truth, to illustrate and dignify his strain. Yet the vigour, the arrangement, and the perspicuity of the ideas in these canzoni of Petrarch, the tone of conviction and melancholy in which the patriot upbraids and mourns over his country, strike the heart with such force, as to atone for the absence of grand and exuberant imagery, and of the irresistible impetus which peculiarly belongs to the ode.

Petrarch's principal Italian poem that is not thrown into the shape of the sonnet is his Trionfi, or Triumphs, in five parts. Though not consisting of sonnets, however, it has the same amatory and constant allusions to Laura as the greater part of his poetry. Here, as elsewhere, he recurs from time to time to the history of his passion, its rise, its progress, and its end. For this purpose, he describes human life in its successive stages, omitting no opportunity of introducing his mistress and himself.

1. Man in his youthful state is the slave of love. 2. As he advances in age, he feels the inconveniences of his amatory propensities, and endeavours to conquer them by chastity. 3. Amidst the victory which he obtains over himself, Death steps in, and levels alike the victor and the vanquished. 4. But Fame arrives after death, and makes man as it were live again after death, and survive it for ages by his fame. 5. But man even by fame cannot live for ever, if God has not granted him a happy existence throughout eternity. Thus Love triumphs over Man; Chastity triumphs over Love; Death triumphs over both; Fame triumphs over Death; Time triumphs over Fame; and Eternity triumphs over Time.

The subordinate parts and imagery of the Trionfi have a beauty rather arabesque than classical, and resembling the florid tracery of the later oriental Gothic architecture. But the whole effect of the poem is pleasing, from the general grandeur of its design.

In summing up Petrarch's character, moral, political, and poetical, I should not stint myself to the equivocal phrase used by Tacitus respecting Agricola: Bonum virum facile dixeris, magnum libenter, but should at once claim for his memory the title both of great and good. A restorer of ancient learning, a rescuer of its treasures from oblivion, a despiser of many contemporary superstitions, a man, who, though no reformer himself, certainly contributed to the Reformation, an Italian patriot who was above provincial partialities, a poet who still lives in the hearts of his country, and who is shielded from oblivion by more generations than there were hides in the sevenfold shield of Ajax—if this was not a great man, many who are so called must bear the title unworthily. He was a faithful friend, and a devoted lover, and appears to have been one of the most fascinating beings that ever existed. Even when his failings were admitted, it must still be said that even his failings leaned to virtue's side, and, altogether we may pronounce that

His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mix'd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, "This was a man!"

PETRARCH'S SONNETS,

ETC

TO LAURA IN LIFE

SONNET I

Voi, ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suonoHE CONFESSES THE VANITY OF HIS PASSIONYe who in rhymes dispersed the echoes hearOf those sad sighs with which my heart I fedWhen early youth my mazy wanderings led,Fondly diverse from what I now appear,Fluttering 'twixt frantic hope and frantic fear,From those by whom my various style is read,I hope, if e'er their hearts for love have bled,Not only pardon, but perhaps a tear.But now I clearly see that of mankindLong time I was the tale: whence bitter thoughtAnd self-reproach with frequent blushes teem;While of my frenzy, shame the fruit I find,And sad repentance, and the proof, dear-bought,That the world's joy is but a flitting dream.Charlemont.
O ye, who list in scatter'd verse the soundOf all those sighs with which my heart I fed,When I, by youthful error first misled,Unlike my present self in heart was found;Who list the plaints, the reasonings that aboundThroughout my song, by hopes, and vain griefs bred;If e'er true love its influence o'er ye shed,Oh! let your pity be with pardon crown'd.But now full well I see how to the crowdFor length of time I proved a public jest:E'en by myself my folly is allow'd:And of my vanity the fruit is shame,Repentance, and a knowledge strong imprest,That worldly pleasure is a passing dream.Nott.
Ye, who may listen to each idle strainBearing those sighs, on which my heart was fedIn life's first morn, by youthful error led,(Far other then from what I now remain!)That thus in varying numbers I complain,Numbers of sorrow vain and vain hope bred,If any in love's lore be practisèd,His pardon,—e'en his pity I may obtain:But now aware that to mankind my nameToo long has been a bye-word and a scorn,I blush before my own severer thought;Of my past wanderings the sole fruit is shame,And deep repentance, of the knowledge bornThat all we value in this world is naught.Dacre.

SONNET II

Per far una leggiadra sua vendettaHOW HE BECAME THE VICTIM OF LOVEFor many a crime at once to make me smart,And a delicious vengeance to obtain,Love secretly took up his bow again,As one who acts the cunning coward's part;My courage had retired within my heart,There to defend the pass bright eyes might gain;When his dread archery was pour'd amainWhere blunted erst had fallen every dart.Scared at the sudden brisk attack, I foundNor time, nor vigour to repel the foeWith weapons suited to the direful need;No kind protection of rough rising ground,Where from defeat I might securely speed,Which fain I would e'en now, but ah, no method know!Nott.
One sweet and signal vengeance to obtainTo punish in a day my life's long crime,As one who, bent on harm, waits place and time,Love craftily took up his bow again.My virtue had retired to watch my heart,Thence of weak eyes the danger to repell,When momently a mortal blow there fellWhere blunted hitherto dropt every dart.And thus, o'erpower'd in that first attack,She had nor vigour left enough, nor roomEven to arm her for my pressing need,Nor to the steep and painful mountain backTo draw me, safe and scathless from that doom,Whence, though alas! too weak, she fain had freed.Macgregor.

SONNET III

Era 'l giorno ch' al sol si scoloraroHE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD FRIDAY)'Twas on the morn, when heaven its blessed rayIn pity to its suffering master veil'd,First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.Ah! little reck'd I that, on such a day,Needed against Love's arrows any shield;And trod, securely trod, the fatal field:Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.On every side Love found his victim bare,And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:But poor the triumph of his boasted art,Who thus could pierce a naked youth, nor dareTo you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!Wrangham.
'Twas on the blessed morning when the sunIn pity to our Maker hid his light,That, unawares, the captive I was won,Lady, of your bright eyes which chain'd me quite;That seem'd to me no time against the blowsOf love to make defence, to frame relief:Secure and unsuspecting, thus my woesDate their commencement from the common grief.Love found me feeble then and fenceless all,Open the way and easy to my heartThrough eyes, where since my sorrows ebb and flow:But therein was, methinks, his triumph small,On me, in that weak state, to strike his dart,Yet hide from you so strong his very bow.Macgregor.

SONNET IV

Quel ch' infinita providenza ed arteHE CELEBRATES THE BIRTHPLACE OF LAURAHe that with wisdom, goodness, power divine,Did ample Nature's perfect book design,Adorn'd this beauteous world, and those above,Kindled fierce Mars, and soften'd milder Jove:When seen on earth the shadows to fulfillOf the less volume which conceal'd his will,Took John and Peter from their homely care,And made them pillars of his temple fair.Nor in imperial Rome would He be born,Whom servile Judah yet received with scorn:E'en Bethlehem could her infant King disown,And the rude manger was his early throne.Victorious sufferings did his pomp display,Nor other chariot or triumphal way.At once by Heaven's example and decree,Such honour waits on such humility.Basil Kennet.
The High Eternal, in whose works supremeThe Master's vast creative power hath spoke:At whose command each circling sphere awoke,Jove mildly rose, and Mars with fiercer beam:To earth He came, to ratify the schemeReveal'd to us through prophecy's dark cloak,To sound redemption, speak man's fallen yoke:He chose the humblest for that heavenly theme.But He conferr'd not on imperial RomeHis birth's renown; He chose a lowlier sky,—To stand, through Him, the proudest spot on earth!And now doth shine within its humble homeA star, that doth each other so outvie,That grateful nature hails its lovely birth.Wollaston.
Who show'd such infinite providence and skillIn his eternal government divine,Who launch'd the spheres, gave sun and moon to shine,And brightest wonders the dark void to fill;On earth who came the Scriptures to maintain,Which for long years the truth had buried yet,Took John and Peter from the fisher's netAnd gave to each his part in the heavenly reign.He for his birth fair Rome preferr'd not then,But lowly Bethlehem; thus o'er proudest stateHe ever loves humility to raise.Now rises from small spot like sun again,Whom Nature hails, the place grows bright and greatWhich birth so heavenly to our earth displays.Macgregor.

SONNET V

Quand' io movo i sospiri a chiamar voiHE PLAYS UPON THE NAME LAURETA OR LAURAIn sighs when I outbreathe your cherish'd name,That name which love has writ upon my heart,LAUd instantly upon my doting tongue,At the first thought of its sweet sound, is heard;Your REgal state, which I encounter next,Doubles my valour in that high emprize:But TAcit ends the word; your praise to tellIs fitting load for better backs than mine.Thus all who call you, by the name itself,Are taught at once to LAUd and to REvere,O worthy of all reverence and esteem!Save that perchance Apollo may disdainThat mortal tongue of his immortal boughsShould ever so presume as e'en to speak.Anon.

SONNET VI

Sì traviato è 'l folle mio desioOF HIS FOOLISH PASSION FOR LAURASo wayward now my will, and so unwise,To follow her who turns from me in flight,And, from love's fetters free herself and light,Before my slow and shackled motion flies,That less it lists, the more my sighs and criesWould point where passes the safe path and right,Nor aught avails to check or to excite,For Love's own nature curb and spur defies.Thus, when perforce the bridle he has won,And helpless at his mercy I remain,Against my will he speeds me to mine end'Neath yon cold laurel, whose false boughs uponHangs the harsh fruit, which, tasted, spreads the painI sought to stay, and mars where it should mend.Macgregor.
My tameless will doth recklessly pursueHer, who, unshackled by love's heavy chain,Flies swiftly from its chase, whilst I in vainMy fetter'd journey pantingly renew;The safer track I offer to its view,But hopeless is my power to restrain,It rides regardless of the spur or rein;Love makes it scorn the hand that would subdue.The triumph won, the bridle all its own,Without one curb I stand within its power,And my destruction helplessly presage:It guides me to that laurel, ever known,To all who seek the healing of its flower,To aggravate the wound it should assuage.Wollaston.

SONNET VII

La gola e 'l sonno e l' oziose piumeTO A FRIEND, ENCOURAGING HIM TO PURSUE POETRYTorn is each virtue from its earthly throneBy sloth, intemperance, and voluptuous ease;E'en nature deviates from her wonted ways,Too much the slave of vicious custom grown.Far hence is every light celestial gone,That guides mankind through life's perplexing maze;And those, whom Helicon's sweet waters please,From mocking crowds receive contempt alone.Who now would laurel, myrtle-wreaths obtain?Let want, let shame, Philosophy attend!Cries the base world, intent on sordid gain.What though thy favourite path be trod by few;Let it but urge thee more, dear gentle friend!Thy great design of glory to pursue.Anon.
Intemperance, slumber, and the slothful downHave chased each virtue from this world away;Hence is our nature nearly led astrayFrom its due course, by habitude o'erthrown;Those kindly lights of heaven so dim are grown,Which shed o'er human life instruction's ray;That him with scornful wonder they survey,Who would draw forth the stream of Helicon."Whom doth the laurel please, or myrtle now?Naked and poor, Philosophy, art thou!"The worthless crowd, intent on lucre, cries.Few on thy chosen road will thee attend;Yet let it more incite thee, gentle friend,To prosecute thy high-conceived emprize.Nott.

SONNET VIII

A piè de' colli ove la bella vestaHE FEIGNS AN ADDRESS FROM SOME BIRDS WHICH HE HAD PRESENTEDBeneath the verdant hills—where the fair vestOf earthly mould first took the Lady dear,Who him that sends us, feather'd captives, hereAwakens often from his tearful rest—Lived we in freedom and in quiet, blestWith everything which life below might cheer,No foe suspecting, harass'd by no fearThat aught our wanderings ever could molest;But snatch'd from that serener life, and thrownTo the low wretched state we here endure,One comfort, short of death, survives alone:Vengeance upon our captor full and sure!Who, slave himself at others' power, remainsPent in worse prison, bound by sterner chains.Macgregor.
Beneath those very hills, where beauty threwHer mantle first o'er that earth-moulded fair,Who oft from sleep, while shedding many a tear,Awakens him that sends us unto you,Our lives in peacefulness and freedom flew,E'en as all creatures wish who hold life dear;Nor deem'd we aught could in its course come near,Whence to our wanderings danger might accrue.But from the wretched state to which we're brought,Leaving another with sereneness fraught,Nay, e'en from death, one comfort we obtain;That vengeance follows him who sent us here;Another's utmost thraldom doomed to bear,Bound he now lies with a still stronger chain.Nott.

SONNET IX

Quando 'l pianeta che distingue l' oreWITH A PRESENT OF FRUIT IN SPRINGWhen the great planet which directs the hoursTo dwell with Taurus from the North is borne,Such virtue rays from each enkindled horn,Rare beauty instantly all nature dowers;Nor this alone, which meets our sight, that flowersRichly the upland and the vale adorn,But Earth's cold womb, else lustreless and lorn,Is quick and warm with vivifying powers,Till herbs and fruits, like these I send, are rife.—So she, a sun amid her fellow fair,Shedding the rays of her bright eyes on me,Thoughts, acts, and words of love wakes into life—But, ah! for me is no new Spring, nor e'er,Smile they on whom she will, again can be.Macgregor.
When Taurus in his house doth Phœbus keep,There pours so bright a virtue from his crestThat Nature wakes, and stands in beauty drest,The flow'ring meadows start with joy from sleep:Nor they alone rejoice—earth's bosom deep(Though not one beam illumes her night of rest)Responsive smiles, and from her fruitful breastGives forth her treasures for her sons to reap.Thus she, who dwells amid her sex a sun,Shedding upon my soul her eyes' full light,Each thought creates, each deed, each word of love:But though my heart's proud mastery she hath wonAlas! within me dwells eternal night:My spirit ne'er Spring's genial breath doth prove.Wollaston.

SONNET X

Gloriosa Colonna, in cui s' appoggiaTO STEFANO COLONNA THE ELDER, INVITING HIM TO THE COUNTRYGlorious Colonna! still the strength and stayOf our best hopes, and the great Latin nameWhom power could never from the true right waySeduce by flattery or by terror tame:No palace, theatres, nor arches here,But, in their stead, the fir, the beech, and pineOn the green sward, with the fair mountain nearPaced to and fro by poet friend of thine;Thus unto heaven the soul from earth is caught;While Philomel, who sweetly to the shadeThe livelong night her desolate lot complains,Fills the soft heart with many an amorous thought:—Ah! why is so rare good imperfect madeWhile severed from us still my lord remains.Macgregor.
Glorious Colonna! thou, the Latins' hope,The proud supporter of our lofty name,Thou hold'st thy path of virtue still the same,Amid the thunderings of Rome's Jove—the Pope.Not here do human structures interlopeThe fir to rival, or the pine-tree's claim,The soul may revel in poetic flameUpon yon mountain's green and gentle slope.And thus from earth to heaven the spirit soars,Whilst Philomel her tale of woe repeatsAmid the sympathising shades of night,Thus through man's breast love's current sweetly pours:Yet still thine absence half the joy defeats,—Alas! my friend, why dim such radiant light?Wollaston.

BALLATA I

Lassare il velo o per sole o per ombraPERCEIVING HIS PASSION, LAURA'S SEVERITY INCREASESNever thy veil, in sun or in the shade,Lady, a moment I have seenQuitted, since of my heart the queenMine eyes confessing thee my heart betray'dWhile my enamour'd thoughts I kept conceal'd.Those fond vain hopes by which I die,In thy sweet features kindness beam'd:Changed was the gentle language of thine eyeSoon as my foolish heart itself reveal'd;And all that mildness which I changeless deem'd—All, all withdrawn which most my soul esteem'd.Yet still the veil I must obey,Which, whatsoe'er the aspect of the day,Thine eyes' fair radiance hides, my life to overshade.Capel Lofft.
Wherefore, my unkind fair one, say,Whether the sun fierce darts his ray,Or whether gloom o'erspreads the sky,That envious veil is ne'er thrown by;Though well you read my heart, and knewHow much I long'd your charms to view?While I conceal'd each tender thought,That my fond mind's destruction wrought,Your face with pity sweetly shone;But, when love made my passion known,Your sunny locks were seen no more,Nor smiled your eyes as heretofore;Behind a jealous cloud retiredThose beauties which I most admired.And shall a veil thus rule my fate?O cruel veil, that whether heatOr cold be felt, art doom'd to proveFatal to me, shadowing the lights I love!Nott.

SONNET XI

Se la mia vita dall' aspro tormentoHE HOPES THAT TIME WILL RENDER HER MORE MERCIFULIf o'er each bitter pang, each hidden throeSadly triumphant I my years drag on,Till even the radiance of those eyes is gone,Lady, which star-like now illume thy brow;And silver'd are those locks of golden glow,And wreaths and robes of green aside are thrown,And from thy cheek those hues of beauty flown,Which check'd so long the utterance of my woe,Haply my bolder tongue may then revealThe bosom'd annals of my heart's fierce fire,The martyr-throbs that now in night I veil:And should the chill Time frown on young Desire.Still, still some late remorse that breast may feel,And heave a tardy sigh—ere love with life expire.Wrangham.
Lady, if grace to me so long be lentFrom love's sharp tyranny and trials keen,Ere my last days, in life's far vale, are seen,To know of thy bright eyes the lustre spent,The fine gold of thy hair with silver sprent,Neglected the gay wreaths and robes of green,Pale, too, and thin the face which made me, e'en'Gainst injury, slow and timid to lament:Then will I, for such boldness love would give,Lay bare my secret heart, in martyr's fireYears, days, and hours that yet has known to live;And, though the time then suit not fair desire,At least there may arrive to my long grief,Too late of tender sighs the poor relief.Macgregor.

SONNET XII

Quando fra l' altre donne ad ora ad oraTHE BEAUTY OF LAURA LEADS HIM TO THE CONTEMPLATION OF THE SUPREME GOODThroned on her angel brow, when Love displaysHis radiant form among all other fair,Far as eclipsed their choicest charms appear,I feel beyond its wont my passion blaze.And still I bless the day, the hour, the place,When first so high mine eyes I dared to rear;And say, "Fond heart, thy gratitude declare,That then thou had'st the privilege to gaze.'Twas she inspired the tender thought of love,Which points to heaven, and teaches to despiseThe earthly vanities that others prize:She gave the soul's light grace, which to the skiesBids thee straight onward in the right path move;Whence buoy'd by hope e'en, now I soar to worlds above."Wrangham.
When Love, whose proper throne is that sweet face,At times escorts her 'mid the sisters fair,As their each beauty is than hers less rare,So swells in me the fond desire apace.I bless the hour, the season and the place,So high and heavenward when my eyes could dare;And say: "My heart! in grateful memory bearThis lofty honour and surpassing grace:From her descends the tender truthful thought,Which follow'd, bliss supreme shall thee repay,Who spurn'st the vanities that win the crowd:From her that gentle graceful love is caught,To heaven which leads thee by the right-hand way,And crowns e'en here with hopes both pure and proud."Macgregor.

BALLATA II

Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch' io vi giroHE INVITES HIS EYES TO FEAST THEMSELVES ON LAURAMy wearied eyes! while looking thusOn that fair fatal face to us,Be wise, be brief, for—hence my sighs—Already Love our bliss denies.Death only can the amorous trackShut from my thoughts which leads them backTo the sweet port of all their weal;But lesser objects may concealOur light from you, that meaner farIn virtue and perfection are.Wherefore, poor eyes! ere yet appears,Already nigh, the time of tears,Now, after long privation past,Look, and some comfort take at last.Macgregor.