The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

SONNET XIII

Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passoON QUITTING LAURAWith weary frame which painfully I bear,I look behind me at each onward pace,And then take comfort from your native air,Which following fans my melancholy face;The far way, my frail life, the cherish'd fairWhom thus I leave, as then my thoughts retrace,I fix my feet in silent pale despair,And on the earth my tearful eyes abase.At times a doubt, too, rises on my woes,"How ever can this weak and wasted frameLive from life's spirit and one source afar?"Love's answer soon the truth forgotten shows—"This high pure privilege true lovers claim,Who from mere human feelings franchised are!"Macgregor.
I look behind each step I onward trace,Scarce able to support my wearied frame,Ah, wretched me! I pantingly exclaim,And from her atmosphere new strength embrace;I think on her I leave—my heart's best grace—My lengthen'd journey—life's capricious flame—I pause in withering fear, with purpose tame,Whilst down my cheek tears quick each other chase.My doubting heart thus questions in my grief:"Whence comes it that existence thou canst knowWhen from thy spirit thou dost dwell entire?"Love, holy Love, my heart then answers brief:"Such privilege I do on all bestowWho feed my flame with nought of earthly fire!"Wollaston.

SONNET XIV

Movesi 'l vecchierel canuto e biancoHE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIMThe palmer bent, with locks of silver gray,Quits the sweet spot where he has pass'd his years,Quits his poor family, whose anxious fearsPaint the loved father fainting on his way;And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne,In these last days that close his earthly course,He, in his soul's strong purpose, finds new force,Though weak with age, though by long travel worn:Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love,He seeks the image of that Saviour LordWhom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above:So, oft in other forms I seek to traceSome charm, that to my heart may yet affordA faint resemblance of thy matchless grace.Dacre.
As parts the aged pilgrim, worn and gray,From the dear spot his life where he had spent,From his poor family by sorrow rent,Whose love still fears him fainting in decay:Thence dragging heavily, in life's last day,His suffering frame, on pious journey bent,Pricking with earnest prayers his good intent,Though bow'd with years, and weary with the way,He reaches Rome, still following his desireThe likeness of his Lord on earth to see,Whom yet he hopes in heaven above to meet;So I, too, seek, nor in the fond quest tire,Lady, in other fair if aught there beThat faintly may recall thy beauties sweet.Macgregor.

SONNET XV

Piovonmi amare lagrime dal visoHIS STATE WHEN LAURA IS PRESENT, AND WHEN SHE DEPARTSDown my cheeks bitter tears incessant rain,And my heart struggles with convulsive sighs,When, Laura, upon you I turn my eyes,For whom the world's allurements I disdain,But when I see that gentle smile again,That modest, sweet, and tender smile, arise,It pours on every sense a blest surprise;Lost in delight is all my torturing pain.Too soon this heavenly transport sinks and dies:When all thy soothing charms my fate removesAt thy departure from my ravish'd view.To that sole refuge its firm faith approvesMy spirit from my ravish'd bosom flies,And wing'd with fond remembrance follows you.Capel Lofft.
Tears, bitter tears adown my pale cheek rain,Bursts from mine anguish'd breast a storm of sighs,Whene'er on you I turn my passionate eyes,For whom alone this bright world I disdain.True! to my ardent wishes and old painThat mild sweet smile a peaceful balm supplies,Rescues me from the martyr fire that tries,Rapt and intent on you whilst I remain;Thus in your presence—but my spirits freezeWhen, ushering with fond acts a warm adieu,My fatal stars from life's quench'd heaven decay.My soul released at last with Love's apt keysBut issues from my heart to follow you,Nor tears itself without much thought away.Macgregor.

SONNET XVI

Quand' io son tutto volto in quella parteHE FLIES, BUT PASSION PURSUES HIMWhen I reflect and turn me to that partWhence my sweet lady beam'd in purest light,And in my inmost thought remains that lightWhich burns me and consumes in every part,I, who yet dread lest from my heart it partAnd see at hand the end of this my light,Go lonely, like a man deprived of light,Ignorant where to go; whence to depart.Thus flee I from the stroke which lays me dead,Yet flee not with such speed but that desireFollows, companion of my flight alone.Silent I go:—but these my words, though dead,Others would cause to weep—this I desire,That I may weep and waste myself alone.Capel Lofft.
When all my mind I turn to the one partWhere sheds my lady's face its beauteous light,And lingers in my loving thought the lightThat burns and racks within me ev'ry part,I from my heart who fear that it may part,And see the near end of my single light,Go, as a blind man, groping without light,Who knows not where yet presses to depart.Thus from the blows which ever wish me deadI flee, but not so swiftly that desireCeases to come, as is its wont, with me.Silent I move: for accents of the deadWould melt the general age: and I desireThat sighs and tears should only fall from me.Macgregor.

SONNET XVII

Son animali al mondo di sì alteraHE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A MOTHCreatures there are in life of such keen sightThat no defence they need from noonday sun,And others dazzled by excess of lightWho issue not abroad till day is done,And, with weak fondness, some because 'tis bright,Who in the death-flame for enjoyment run,Thus proving theirs a different virtue quite—Alas! of this last kind myself am one;For, of this fair the splendour to regard,I am but weak and ill—against late hoursAnd darkness gath'ring round—myself to ward.Wherefore, with tearful eyes of failing powers,My destiny condemns me still to turnWhere following faster I but fiercer burn.Macgregor.

SONNET XVIII

Vergognando talor ch' ancor si tacciaTHE PRAISES OF LAURA TRANSCEND HIS POETIC POWERSAshamed sometimes thy beauties should remainAs yet unsung, sweet lady, in my rhyme;When first I saw thee I recall the time,Pleasing as none shall ever please again.But no fit polish can my verse attain,Not mine is strength to try the task sublime:My genius, measuring its power to climb,From such attempt doth prudently refrain.Full oft I oped my lips to chant thy name;Then in mid utterance the lay was lost:But say what muse can dare so bold a flight?Full oft I strove in measure to indite;But ah, the pen, the hand, the vein I boast,At once were vanquish'd by the mighty theme!Nott.
Ashamed at times that I am silent, yet,Lady, though your rare beauties prompt my rhyme,When first I saw thee I recall the timeSuch as again no other can be met.But, with such burthen on my shoulders set.My mind, its frailty feeling, cannot climb,And shrinks alike from polish'd and sublime,While my vain utterance frozen terrors let.Often already have I sought to sing,But midway in my breast the voice was stay'd,For ah! so high what praise may ever spring?And oft have I the tender verse essay'd,But still in vain; pen, hand, and intellectIn the first effort conquer'd are and check'd.Macgregor.

SONNET XIX

Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerreraHIS HEART, REJECTED BY LAURA, WILL PERISH, UNLESS SHE RELENTA thousand times, sweet warrior, have I tried,Proffering my heart to thee, some peace to gainFrom those bright eyes, but still, alas! in vain,To such low level stoops not thy chaste pride.If others seek the love thus thrown aside,Vain were their hopes and labours to obtain;The heart thou spurnest I alike disdain,To thee displeasing, 'tis by me denied.But if, discarded thus, it find not theeIts joyless exile willing to befriend,Alone, untaught at others' will to wend,Soon from life's weary burden will it flee.How heavy then the guilt to both, but moreTo thee, for thee it did the most adore.Macgregor.
A thousand times, sweet warrior, to obtainPeace with those beauteous eyes I've vainly tried,Proffering my heart; but with that lofty prideTo bend your looks so lowly you refrain:Expects a stranger fair that heart to gain,In frail, fallacious hopes will she confide:It never more to me can be allied;Since what you scorn, dear lady, I disdain.In its sad exile if no aid you lendBanish'd by me; and it can neither stayAlone, nor yet another's call obey;Its vital course must hasten to its end:Ah me, how guilty then we both should prove,But guilty you the most, for you it most doth love.Nott.

SESTINA I

A qualunque animale alberga in terraNIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIRTo every animal that dwells on earth,Except to those which have in hate the sun,Their time of labour is while lasts the day;But when high heaven relumes its thousand stars,This seeks his hut, and that its native wood,Each finds repose, at least until the dawn.But I, when fresh and fair begins the dawnTo chase the lingering shades that cloak'd the earth,Wakening the animals in every wood,No truce to sorrow find while rolls the sun;And, when again I see the glistening stars,Still wander, weeping, wishing for the day.When sober evening chases the bright day,And this our darkness makes for others dawn,Pensive I look upon the cruel starsWhich framed me of such pliant passionate earth,And curse the day that e'er I saw the sun,Which makes me native seem of wildest wood.And yet methinks was ne'er in any wood,So wild a denizen, by night or day,As she whom thus I blame in shade and sun:Me night's first sleep o'ercomes not, nor the dawn,For though in mortal coil I tread the earth,My firm and fond desire is from the stars.Ere up to you I turn, O lustrous stars,Or downwards in love's labyrinthine wood,Leaving my fleshly frame in mouldering earth,Could I but pity find in her, one dayWould many years redeem, and to the dawnWith bliss enrich me from the setting sun!Oh! might I be with her where sinks the sun,No other eyes upon us but the stars,Alone, one sweet night, ended by no dawn,Nor she again transfigured in green wood,To cheat my clasping arms, as on the day,When Phœbus vainly follow'd her on earth.I shall lie low in earth, in crumbling wood.And clustering stars shall gem the noon of day,Ere on so sweet a dawn shall rise that sun.Macgregor.
Each creature on whose wakeful eyesThe bright sun pours his golden fire,By day a destined toil pursues;And, when heaven's lamps illume the skies,All to some haunt for rest retire,Till a fresh dawn that toil renews.But I, when a new morn doth rise,Chasing from earth its murky shades,While ring the forests with delight,Find no remission of my sighs;And, soon as night her mantle spreads,I weep, and wish returning lightAgain when eve bids day retreat,O'er other climes to dart its rays;Pensive those cruel stars I view,Which influence thus my amorous fate;And imprecate that beauty's blaze,Which o'er my form such wildness threw.No forest surely in its gloomsNurtures a savage so unkindAs she who bids these sorrows flow:Me, nor the dawn nor sleep o'ercomes;For, though of mortal mould, my mindFeels more than passion's mortal glow.Ere up to you, bright orbs, I fly,Or to Love's bower speed down my way,While here my mouldering limbs remain;Let me her pity once espy;Thus, rich in bliss, one little dayShall recompense whole years of pain.Be Laura mine at set of sun;Let heaven's fires only mark our loves,And the day ne'er its light renew;My fond embrace may she not shun;Nor Phœbus-like, through laurel groves,May I a nymph transform'd pursue!But I shall cast this mortal veil on earth,And stars shall gild the noon, ere such bright scenes have birth.Nott.

CANZONE I

Nel dolce tempo della prima etadeHIS SUFFERINGS SINCE HE BECAME THE SLAVE OF LOVEIn the sweet season when my life was new,Which saw the birth, and still the being seesOf the fierce passion for my ill that grew,Fain would I sing—my sorrow to appease—How then I lived, in liberty, at ease,While o'er my heart held slighted Love no sway;And how, at length, by too high scorn, for aye,I sank his slave, and what befell me then,Whereby to all a warning I remain;Although my sharpest painBe elsewhere written, so that many a penIs tired already, and, in every vale,The echo of my heavy sighs is rife,Some credence forcing of my anguish'd life;And, as her wont, if here my memory fail,Be my long martyrdom its saving plea,And the one thought which so its torment made,As every feeling else to throw in shade,And make me of myself forgetful be—Ruling life's inmost core, its bare rind left for me.Long years and many had pass'd o'er my head,Since, in Love's first assault, was dealt my wound,And from my brow its youthful air had fled,While cold and cautious thoughts my heart aroundHad made it almost adamantine ground,To loosen which hard passion gave no rest:No sorrow yet with tears had bathed my breast,Nor broke my sleep: and what was not in mineA miracle to me in others seem'd.Life's sure test death is deem'd,As cloudless eve best proves the past day fine;Ah me! the tyrant whom I sing, descriedEre long his error, that, till then, his dartNot yet beneath the gown had pierced my heart,And brought a puissant lady as his guide,'Gainst whom of small or no avail has beenGenius, or force, to strive or supplicate.These two transform'd me to my present state,Making of breathing man a laurel green,Which loses not its leaves though wintry blasts be keen.What my amaze, when first I fully learn'dThe wondrous change upon my person done,And saw my thin hairs to those green leaves turn'd(Whence yet for them a crown I might have won);My feet wherewith I stood, and moved, and run—Thus to the soul the subject members bow—Become two roots upon the shore, not nowOf fabled Peneus, but a stream as proud,And stiffen'd to a branch my either arm!Nor less was my alarm,When next my frame white down was seen to shroud,While, 'neath the deadly leven, shatter'd layMy first green hope that soar'd, too proud, in air,Because, in sooth, I knew not when nor whereI left my latter state; but, night and day,Where it was struck, alone, in tears, I went,Still seeking it alwhere, and in the wave;And, for its fatal fall, while able, gaveMy tongue no respite from its one lament,For the sad snowy swan both form and language lent.Thus that loved wave—my mortal speech put byFor birdlike song—I track'd with constant feet,Still asking mercy with a stranger cry;But ne'er in tones so tender, nor so sweet,Knew I my amorous sorrow to repeat,As might her hard and cruel bosom melt:Judge, still if memory sting, what then I felt!But ah! not now the past, it rather needsOf her my lovely and inveterate foeThe present power to show,Though such she be all language as exceeds.She with a glance who rules us as her own,Opening my breast my heart in hand to take,Thus said to me: "Of this no mention make."I saw her then, in alter'd air, alone,So that I recognised her not—O shameBe on my truant mind and faithless sight!And when the truth I told her in sore fright,She soon resumed her old accustom'd frame,While, desperate and half dead, a hard rock mine became.As spoke she, o'er her mien such feeling stirr'd,That from the solid rock, with lively fear,"Haply I am not what you deem," I heard;And then methought, "If she but help me here,No life can ever weary be, or drear;To make me weep, return, my banish'd Lord!"I know not how, but thence, the power restored,Blaming no other than myself, I went,And, nor alive, nor dead, the long day past.But, because time flies fast,And the pen answers ill my good intent,Full many a thing long written in my mindI here omit; and only mention suchWhereat who hears them now will marvel much.Death so his hand around my vitals twined,Not silence from its grasp my heart could save,Or succour to its outraged virtue bring:As speech to me was a forbidden thing,To paper and to ink my griefs I gave—Life, not my own, is lost through you who dig my grave.I fondly thought before her eyes, at length,Though low and lost, some mercy to obtain;And this the hope which lent my spirit strength.Sometimes humility o'ercomes disdain,Sometimes inflames it to worse spite again;This knew I, who so long was left in night,That from such prayers had disappear'd my light;Till I, who sought her still, nor found, alas!Even her shade, nor of her feet a sign,Outwearied and supine,As one who midway sleeps, upon the grassThrew me, and there, accusing the brief ray,Of bitter tears I loosed the prison'd flood,To flow and fall, to them as seem'd it good.Ne'er vanish'd snow before the sun away,As then to melt apace it me befell,Till, 'neath a spreading beech a fountain swell'd;Long in that change my humid course I held,—Who ever saw from Man a true fount well?And yet, though strange it sound, things known and sure I tell.The soul from God its nobler nature gains(For none save He such favour could bestow)And like our Maker its high state retains,To pardon who is never tired, nor slow,If but with humble heart and suppliant show,For mercy for past sins to Him we bend;And if, against his wont, He seem to lend,Awhile, a cold ear to our earnest prayers,'Tis that right fear the sinner more may fill;For he repents but illHis old crime for another who prepares.Thus, when my lady, while her bosom yearn'dWith pity, deign'd to look on me, and knewThat equal with my fault its penance grew,To my old state and shape I soon return'd.But nought there is on earth in which the wiseMay trust, for, wearying braving her afresh,To rugged stone she changed my quivering flesh.So that, in their old strain, my broken criesIn vain ask'd death, or told her one name to deaf skies.A sad and wandering shade, I next recall,Through many a distant and deserted glen,That long I mourn'd my indissoluble thrall.At length my malady seem'd ended, whenI to my earthly frame return'd again,Haply but greater grief therein to feel;Still following my desire with such fond zealThat once (beneath the proud sun's fiercest blaze,Returning from the chase, as was my wont)Naked, where gush'd a font,My fair and fatal tyrant met my gaze;I whom nought else could pleasure, paused to look,While, touch'd with shame as natural as intense,Herself to hide or punish my offence,She o'er my face the crystal waters shook—I still speak true, though truth may seem a lie—Instantly from my proper person torn,A solitary stag, I felt me borneIn wingèd terrors the dark forest through,As still of my own dogs the rushing storm I flewMy song! I never was that cloud of goldWhich once descended in such precious rain,Easing awhile with bliss Jove's amorous pain;I was a flame, kindled by one bright eye,I was the bird which gladly soar'd on high,Exalting her whose praise in song I wake;Nor, for new fancies, knew I to forsakeMy first fond laurel, 'neath whose welcome shadeEver from my firm heart all meaner pleasures fade.Macgregor.

SONNET XX

Se l' onorata fronde, che prescriveTO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE POETRYIf the world-honour'd leaf, whose green defiesThe wrath of Heaven when thunders mighty Jove,Had not to me prohibited the crownWhich wreathes of wont the gifted poet's brow,I were a friend of these your idols too,Whom our vile age so shamelessly ignores:But that sore insult keeps me now aloofFrom the first patron of the olive bough:For Ethiop earth beneath its tropic sunNe'er burn'd with such fierce heat, as I with rageAt losing thing so comely and beloved.Resort then to some calmer fuller fount,For of all moisture mine is drain'd and dry,Save that which falleth from mine eyes in tears.Macgregor.

SONNET XXI

Amor piangeva, ed io con lui talvoltaHE CONGRATULATES BOCCACCIO ON HIS RETURN TO THE RIGHT PATHLove grieved, and I with him at times, to seeBy what strange practices and cunning art,You still continued from his fetters free,From whom my feet were never far apart.Since to the right way brought by God's decree,Lifting my hands to heaven with pious heart,I thank Him for his love and grace, for HeThe soul-prayer of the just will never thwart:And if, returning to the amorous strife,Its fair desire to teach us to deny,Hollows and hillocks in thy path abound,'Tis but to prove to us with thorns how rifeThe narrow way, the ascent how hard and high,Where with true virtue man at last is crown'd.Macgregor.

SONNET XXII

Più di me lieta non si vede a terraON THE SAME SUBJECTThan me more joyful never reach'd the shoreA vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,More glad than me, that weapon laid asideWhich to my lord hostility long bore.All ye who honour love in poet strain,To the good minstrel of the amorous layReturn due praise, though once he went astray;For greater glory is, in Heaven's blest reign,Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,Than e'en for ninety-nine of perfect ways.Macgregor.

SONNET XXIII

Il successor di Carlo, che la chiomaON THE MOVEMENT OF THE EMPEROR AGAINST THE INFIDELS, AND THE RETURN OF THE POPE TO ROMEThe high successor of our Charles,16 whose hairThe crown of his great ancestor adorns,Already has ta'en arms, to bruise the hornsOf Babylon, and all her name who bear;Christ's holy vicar with the honour'd loadOf keys and cloak, returning to his home,Shall see Bologna and our noble Rome,If no ill fortune bar his further road.Best to your meek and high-born lamb belongsTo beat the fierce wolf down: so may it beWith all who loyalty and love deny.Console at length your waiting country's wrongs,And Rome's, who longs once more her spouse to see,And gird for Christ the good sword on thy thigh.Macgregor.

CANZONE II

O aspettata in ciel, beata e bellaIN SUPPORT OF THE PROPOSED CRUSADE AGAINST THE INFIDELSO spirit wish'd and waited for in heaven,That wearest gracefully our human clay,Not as with loading sin and earthly stain,Who lov'st our Lord's high bidding to obey,—Henceforth to thee the way is plain and evenBy which from hence to bliss we may attain.To waft o'er yonder mainThy bark, that bids the world adieu for ayeTo seek a better strand,The western winds their ready wings expand;Which, through the dangers of that dusky way,Where all deplore the first infringed command,Will guide her safe, from primal bondage free,Reckless to stop or stay,To that true East, where she desires to be.Haply the faithful vows, and zealous prayers,And pious tears by holy mortals shed,Have come before the mercy-seat above:Yet vows of ours but little can bestead,Nor human orison such merit bearsAs heavenly justice from its course can move.But He, the King whom angels serve and love,His gracious eyes hath turn'd upon the landWhere on the cross He died;And a new Charlemagne hath qualifiedTo work the vengeance that on high was plann'd,For whose delay so long hath Europe sigh'd.Such mighty aid He brings his faithful spouse,That at its sound the prideOf Babylon with trembling terror bows.All dwellers 'twixt the hills and wild Garonne,The Rhodanus, and Rhine, and briny wave,Are banded under red-cross banners brave;And all who honour'd guerdon fain would haveFrom Pyrenees to the utmost west, are gone,Leaving Iberia lorn of warriors keen,And Britain, with the islands that are seenBetween the columns and the starry wain,(Even to that land where shoneThe far-famed lore of sacred Helicon,)Diverse in language, weapon, garb and strain,Of valour true, with pious zeal rush on.What cause, what love, to this compared may be?What spouse, or infant trainE'er kindled such a righteous enmity?There is a portion of the world that liesFar distant from the sun's all-cheering ray,For ever wrapt in ice and gelid snows;There under cloudy skies, in stinted day,A people dwell, whose heart their clime outviesBy nature framed stern foemen of repose.Now new devotion in their bosom glows,With Gothic fury now they grasp the sword.Turk, Arab, and Chaldee,With all between us and that sanguine sea,Who trust in idol-gods, and slight the Lord,Thou know'st how soon their feeble strength would yield;A naked race, fearful and indolent,Unused the brand to wield,Whose distant aim upon the wind is sent.Now is the time to shake the ancient yokeFrom off our necks, and rend the veil asideThat long in darkness hath involved our eyes;Let all whom Heaven with genius hath supplied,And all who great Apollo's name invoke,With fiery eloquence point out the prize,With tongue and pen call on the brave to rise;If Orpheus and Amphion, legends old,No marvel cause in thee,It were small wonder if Ausonia seeCollecting at thy call her children bold,Lifting the spear of Jesus joyfully.Nor, if our ancient mother judge aright,Doth her rich page unfoldSuch noble cause in any former fight.Thou who hast scann'd, to heap a treasure fair,Story of ancient day and modern time,Soaring with earthly frame to heaven sublime,Thou know'st, from Mars' bold son, her ruler prime,To great Augustus, he whose waving hairWas thrice in triumph wreathed with laurel green,How Rome hath of her blood still lavish beenTo right the woes of many an injured land;And shall she now be slow,Her gratitude, her piety to show?In Christian zeal to buckle on the brand,For Mary's glorious Son to deal the blow?What ills the impious foeman must betideWho trust in mortal hand,If Christ himself lead on the adverse side!And turn thy thoughts to Xerxes' rash emprize,Who dared, in haste to tread our Europe's shore,Insult the sea with bridge, and strange caprice;And thou shalt see for husbands then no moreThe Persian matrons robed in mournful guise,And dyed with blood the seas of Salamis,Nor sole example this:(The ruin of that Eastern king's design),That tells of victory nigh:See Marathon, and stern Thermopylæ,Closed by those few, and chieftain leonine,And thousand deeds that blaze in history.Then bow in thankfulness both heart and kneeBefore his holy shrine,Who such bright guerdon hath reserved for thee.Thou shalt see Italy and that honour'd shore,O song! a land debarr'd and hid from meBy neither flood nor hill!But love alone, whose power hath virtue stillTo witch, though all his wiles be vanity,Nor Nature to avoid the snare hath skill.Go, bid thy sisters hush their jealous fears,For other loves there beThan that blind boy, who causeth smiles and tears.Miss * * * (Foscolo's Essay).
O thou, in heaven expected, bright and blest,Spirit! who, from the common frailty freeOf human kind, in human form art drest,God's handmaid, dutiful and dear to theeHenceforth the pathway easy lies and plain,By which, from earth, we bless eternal gain:Lo! at the wish, to waft thy venturous proreFrom the blind world it fain would leave behindAnd seek that better shore,Springs the sweet comfort of the western wind,Which safe amid this dark and dangerous vale,Where we our own, the primal sin deplore,Right on shall guide her, from her old chains freed,And, without let or fail,Where havens her best hope, to the true East shall lead.Haply the suppliant tears of pious men,Their earnest vows and loving prayers at lastUnto the throne of heavenly grace have past;Yet, breathed by human helplessness, ah! whenHad purest orison the skill and forceTo bend eternal justice from its course?But He, heaven's bounteous ruler from on high,On the sad sacred spot, where erst He bled,Will turn his pitying eye,And through the spirit of our new Charles spreadThirst of that vengeance, whose too long delayFrom general Europe wakes the bitter sigh;To his loved spouse such aid will He convey,That, his dread voice to hear,Proud Babylon shall shrink assail'd with secret fear.All, by the gay Garonne, the kingly Rhine,Between the blue Rhone and salt sea who dwell,All in whose bosoms worth and honour swell,Eagerly haste the Christian cross to join;Spain of her warlike sons, from the far westUnto the Pyrenee, pours forth her best:Britannia and the Islands, which are foundNorthward from Calpe, studding Ocean's breast,E'en to that land renown'dIn the rich lore of sacred Helicon,Various in arms and language, garb and guise,With pious fury urge the bold emprize.What love was e'er so just, so worthy, known?Or when did holier flameKindle the mind of man to a more noble aim?Far in the hardy north a land there lies,Buried in thick-ribb'd ice and constant snows,Where scant the days and clouded are the skies,And seldom the bright sun his glad warmth throws;There, enemy of peace by nature, springsA people to whom death no terror brings;If these, with new devotedness, we seeIn Gothic fury baring the keen glaive,Turk, Arab, and Chaldee!All, who, between us and the Red Sea wave,To heathen gods bow the idolatrous knee,Arm and advance! we heed not your blind rage;A naked race, timid in act, and slow,Unskill'd the war to wage,Whose far aim on the wind contrives a coward blow.Now is the hour to free from the old yokeOur gallèd necks, to rend the veil awayToo long permitted our dull sight to cloak:Now too, should all whose breasts the heavenly rayOf genius lights, exert its powers sublime,And or in bold harangue, or burning rhyme,Point the proud prize and fan the generous flame.If Orpheus and Amphion credit claim,Legends of distant time,Less marvel 'twere, if, at thy earnest call,Italia, with her children, should awake,And wield the willing lance for Christ's dear sake.Our ancient mother, read she right, in allHer fortune's history ne'erA cause of combat knew so glorious and so fair!Thou, whose keen mind has every theme explored,And truest ore from Time's rich treasury won,On earthly pinion who hast heavenward soar'd,Well knowest, from her founder, Mars' bold son,To great Augustus, he, whose brow aroundThrice was the laurel green in triumph bound,How Rome was ever lavish of her blood,The right to vindicate, the weak redress;And now, when gratitude,When piety appeal, shall she do lessTo avenge the injury and end the scornBy blessed Mary's glorious offspring borne?What fear we, while the heathen for successConfide in human powers,If, on the adverse side, be Christ, and his side ours?Turn, too, when Xerxes our free shores to treadRush'd in hot haste, and dream'd the perilous mainWith scourge and fetter to chastise and chain,—What see'st? Wild wailing o'er their husbands dead,Persia's pale matrons wrapt in weeds of woe,And red with gore the gulf of Salamis!To prove our triumph certain, to foreshowThe utter ruin of our Eastern foe,No single instance this;Miltiades and Marathon recall,See, with his patriot few, LeonidasClosing, Thermopylæ, thy bloody pass!Like them to dare and do, to God let allWith heart and knee bow down,Who for our arms and age has kept this great renown.Thou shalt see Italy, that honour'd land,Which from my eyes, O Song! nor seas, streams, heights,So long have barr'd and bann'd,But love alone, who with his haughty lightsThe more allures me as he worse excites,Till nature fails against his constant wiles.Go then, and join thy comrades; not aloneBeneath fair female zoneDwells Love, who, at his will, moves us to tears or smiles.Macgregor.

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