The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

SONNET XXXIX

Io sentia dentr' al cor già venir menoHE DESIRES AGAIN TO GAZE ON THE EYES Of LAURAI now perceived that from within me fledThose spirits to which you their being lend;And since by nature's dictates to defendThemselves from death all animals are made,The reins I loosed, with which Desire I stay'd,And sent him on his way without a friend;There whither day and night my course he'd bend,Though still from thence by me reluctant led.And me ashamed and slow along he drewTo see your eyes their matchless influence shower,Which much I shun, afraid to give you pain.Yet for myself this once I'll live; such powerHas o'er this wayward life one look from you:—Then die, unless Desire prevails again.Anon., Ox., 1795.
Because the powers that take their life from youAlready had I felt within decay,And because Nature, death to shield or slay,Arms every animal with instinct true,To my long-curb'd desire the rein I threw,And turn'd it in the old forgotten way,Where fondly it invites me night and day,Though 'gainst its will, another I pursue.And thus it led me back, ashamed and slow,To see those eyes with love's own lustre rifeWhich I am watchful never to offend:Thus may I live perchance awhile below;One glance of yours such power has o'er my lifeWhich sure, if I oppose desire, shall end.Macgregor.

SONNET XL

Se mai foco per foco non si spenseHIS HEART IS ALL IN FLAMES, BUT HIS TONGUE IS MUTE, IN HER PRESENCEIf fire was never yet by fire subdued,If never flood fell dry by frequent rain,But, like to like, if each by other gain,And contraries are often mutual food;Love, who our thoughts controllest in each mood,Through whom two bodies thus one soul sustain,How, why in her, with such unusual strainMake the want less by wishes long renewed?Perchance, as falleth the broad Nile from high,Deafening with his great voice all nature round,And as the sun still dazzles the fix'd eye,So with itself desire in discord foundLoses in its impetuous object force,As the too frequent spur oft checks the course.Macgregor.

SONNET XLI

Perch' io t' abbia guardato di menzognaIN HER PRESENCE HE CAN NEITHER SPEAK, WEEP, NOR SIGHAlthough from falsehood I did thee restrainWith all my power, and paid thee honour due,Ungrateful tongue; yet never did accrueHonour from thee, but shame, and fierce disdain:Most art thou cold, when most I want the strainThy aid should lend while I for pity sue;And all thy utterance is imperfect too,When thou dost speak, and as the dreamer's vain.Ye too, sad tears, throughout each lingering nightUpon me wait, when I alone would stay;But, needed by my peace, you take your flight:And, all so prompt anguish and grief t' impart,Ye sighs, then slow, and broken breathe your way:My looks alone truly reveal my heart.Nott.
With all my power, lest falsehood should invade,I guarded thee and still thy honour sought,Ungrateful tongue! who honour ne'er hast brought,But still my care with rage and shame repaid:For, though to me most requisite, thine aid,When mercy I would ask, availeth nought,Still cold and mute, and e'en to words if wroughtThey seem as sounds in sleep by dreamers made.And ye, sad tears, o' nights, when I would fainBe left alone, my sure companions, flow,But, summon'd for my peace, ye soon depart:Ye too, mine anguish'd sighs, so prompt to pain,Then breathe before her brokenly and slow,And my face only speaks my suffering heart.Macgregor.

CANZONE V

Nella stagion che 'l ciel rapido inchinaNIGHT BRINGS REPOSE TO OTHERS, BUT NOT TO HIMIn that still season, when the rapid sunDrives down the west, and daylight flies to greetNations that haply wait his kindling flame;In some strange land, alone, her weary feetThe time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone,Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame;Her solitude the same,When night has closed around;Yet has the wanderer foundA deep though short forgetfulness at lastOf every woe, and every labour past.But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows,As fast, and yet more fast,Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.When Phœbus rolls his everlasting wheelsTo give night room; and from encircling wood,Broader and broader yet descends the shade;The labourer arms him for his evening trade,And all the weight his burthen'd heart concealsLightens with glad discourse or descant rude;Then spreads his board with food,Such as the forest hoarTo our first fathers bore,By us disdain'd, yet praised in hall and bower,But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,I never knew, I will not say of mirth,But of repose, an hour,When Phœbus leaves, and stars salute the earth.Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of dayHe sees descending to its western bed,And the wide Orient all with shade embrown'd,Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head,Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way,Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around;Then far from human sound,Some desert cave he strowsWith leaves and verdant boughs,And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep.Ah, cruel Love!—then dost thou bid me keepMy idle chase, the airy steps pursuingOf her I ever weep,Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.E'en the rude seaman, in some cave confined,Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene,On the hard deck, with vilest mat o'erspread;And when the Sun in orient wave sereneBathes his resplendent front, and leaves behindThose antique pillars of his boundless bed;Forgetfulness has shedO'er man, and beast, and flower,Her mild restoring power:But my determined grief finds no repose;And every day but aggravates the woesOf that remorseless flood, that, ten long years,Flowing, yet ever flows,Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.Merivale.
What time towards the western skiesThe sun with parting radiance flies,And other climes gilds with expected light,Some aged pilgrim dame who straysAlone, fatigued, through pathless ways,Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of nightThen, the day's journey o'er, she'll steepHer sense awhile in grateful sleep;Forgetting all the pain, and peril past;But I, alas! find no repose,Each sun to me brings added woes,While light's eternal orb rolls from us fast.
When the sun's wheels no longer glow,And hills their lengthen'd shadows throw,The hind collects his tools, and carols gay;Then spreads his board with frugal fare,Such as those homely acorns were,Which all revere, yet casting them away,Let those, who pleasure can enjoy,In cheerfulness their hours employ;While I, of all earth's wretches most unblest,Whether the sun fierce darts his beams,Whether the moon more mildly gleams,Taste no delight, no momentary rest!
When the swain views the star of dayQuench in the pillowing waves its ray,And scatter darkness o'er the eastern skiesRising, his custom'd crook he takes,The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes,As calmly homeward with his flock he hiesRemote from man, then on his bedIn cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread,He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care,While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursueThat voice, those footsteps which subdueMy soul; yet movest not th' obdurate fair!
Lock'd in some bay, to taste reposeOn the hard deck, the sailor throwsHis coarse garb o'er him, when the car of lightGranada, with Marocco leaves,The Pillars famed, Iberia's waves,And the world's hush'd, and all its race, in night.But never will my sorrows cease,Successive days their sum increase,Though just ten annual suns have mark'd my pain;Say, to this bosom's poignant griefWho shall administer relief?Say, who at length shall free me from my chain?
And, since there's comfort in the strain,I see at eve along each plain.And furrow'd hill, the unyoked team return:Why at that hour will no one stayMy sighs, or bear my yoke away?Why bathed in tears must I unceasing mourn?Wretch that I was, to fix my sightFirst on that face with such delight,Till on my thought its charms were strong imprest,Which force shall not efface, nor art,Ere from this frame my soul dispart!Nor know I then if passion's votaries rest.
O hasty strain, devoid of worth,Sad as the bard who brought thee forth,Show not thyself, be with the world at strife,From nook to nook indulge thy grief;While thy lorn parent seeks relief,Nursing that amorous flame which feeds his life!Nott.

SONNET XLII

Poco era ad appressarsi agli occhi mieiSUCH ARE HIS SUFFERINGS THAT HE ENVIES THE INSENSIBILITY OF MARBLEHad but the light which dazzled them afarDrawn but a little nearer to mine eyes,Methinks I would have wholly changed my form,Even as in Thessaly her form she changed:But if I cannot lose myself in herMore than I have—small mercy though it won—I would to-day in aspect thoughtful be,Of harder stone than chisel ever wrought,Of adamant, or marble cold and white,Perchance through terror, or of jasper rareAnd therefore prized by the blind greedy crowd.Then were I free from this hard heavy yokeWhich makes me envy Atlas, old and worn,Who with his shoulders brings Morocco night.Anon.

MADRIGALE I

Non al suo amante più Diana piacqueANYTHING THAT REMINDS HIM OF LAURA RENEWS HIS TORMENTSNot Dian to her lover was more dear,When fortune 'mid the waters cold and clear,Gave him her naked beauties all to see,Than seem'd the rustic ruddy nymph to me,Who, in yon flashing stream, the light veil laved,Whence Laura's lovely tresses lately waved;I saw, and through me felt an amorous chill,Though summer burn, to tremble and to thrill.Macgregor.

CANZONE VI

Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggiTO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTYSpirit heroic! who with fire divineKindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim holdOn earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thineRome and her wandering children to confine,And yet reclaim her to the old good way:To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a rayOf virtue can I find, extinct below,Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.Why Italy still waits, and what her aimI know not, callous to her proper woe,Indolent, aged, slow,Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'erShe yet will waken from her heavy sleep:But not, methinks, without some better endWas this our Rome entrusted to thy care,Who surest may revive and best defend.Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,'Mid her dishevell'd locks, thy fingers spread,And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,For this, in thee, have fix'd my certain trust,That, if her sons yet turn.And their eyes ever to true honour raise.The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!Her ancient walls, which still with fear and loveThe world admires, whene'er it calls to mindThe days of Eld, and turns to look behind;Her hoar and cavern'd monuments aboveThe dust of men, whose fame, until the worldIn dissolution sink, can never fail;Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl'd,Hopes to have heal'd by thee its every ail.O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead!To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:And how his laurell'd crest,Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,And their mere mortal frames have left below,Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,Which kills all confidence, nips every good,Which bars the way to many a roof, where menOnce holy, hospitable lived, the denOf fearless rapine now and frequent blood,Whose doors to virtue only are denied.While beneath plunder'd Saints, in outraged fanesPlots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;And, contrast sad and wide,The very bells which sweetly wont to flingSummons to prayer and praise now Battle's tocsin ring!Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowdOf tender years, infirm and desolate Age,Which hates itself and its superfluous days,With each blest order to religion vow'd,Whom works of love through lives of want engage,To thee for help their hands and voices raise;While our poor panic-stricken land displaysThe thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,That e'en from foes compassion they command;Or more if Christendom thy care may claim.Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a handMoves to subdue the flame:—Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend!Often against our marble Column highWolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base SnakeEven to their own injury insult shower;Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,The noble Dame who calls thee here to breakAway the evil weeds which will not flower.A thousand years and more! and gallant menThere fix'd her seat in beauty and in power;The breed of patriot hearts has fail'd since then!And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,A race, which ne'er to her in reverence bends,Her husband, father thou!Like care from thee and counsel she attends,As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends.'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest schemeSome adverse fortune will not mix, and marWith instant ill ambition's noblest dreams;But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that IMay pardon her past faults, great as they are,If now at least she give herself the lie.For never, in all memory, as to thee,To mortal man so sure and straight the wayOf everlasting honour open lay,For thine the power and will, if right I see,To lift our empire to its old proud state.Let this thy glory be!They succour'd her when young, and strong, and great,He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the boldTarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,The chief, by general Italy revered,Tell him from me, to whom he is but knownAs one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd,Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be,That, day by day to thee,With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries.Macgregor.

MADRIGALE II

Perchè al viso d' Amor portava insegnaA LOVE JOURNEY—DANGER IN THE PATH—HE TURNS BACKBright in whose face Love's conquering ensign stream'd,A foreign fair so won me, young and vain,That of her sex all others worthless seem'd:Her as I follow'd o'er the verdant plain,I heard a loud voice speaking from afar,"How lost in these lone woods his footsteps are!"Then paused I, and, beneath the tall beech shade,All wrapt in thought, around me well survey'd,Till, seeing how much danger block'd my way,Homeward I turn'd me though at noon of day.Macgregor.

BALLATA III

Quel foco, ch' io pensai che fosse spentoHE THOUGHT HIMSELF FREE, BUT FINDS THAT HE IS MORE THAN EVER ENTHRALLED BY LOVEThat fire for ever which I thought at rest,Quench'd in the chill blood of my ripen'd years,Awakes new flames and torment in my breast.Its sparks were never all, from what I see,Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder'd o'er;Haply this second error worse may be,For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour,Grief, through these eyes, distill'd from my heart's core,Which holds within itself the spark and bait,Remains not as it was, but grows more great.What fire, save mine, had not been quench'd and kill'dBeneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed?Struggling 'mid opposites—so Love has will'd—Now here, now there, my vain life must be led,For in so many ways his snares are spread,When most I hope him from my heart expell'dThen most of her fair face its slave I'm held.Macgregor.

SONNET XLIII

Se col cieco desir che 'l cor distruggeBLIGHTED HOPEEither that blind desire, which life destroysCounting the hours, deceives my misery,Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies,Promised at once to pity and to me.Alas! what baneful shade o'erhangs and driesThe seed so near its full maturity?'Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise?From murderous wolves not even my fold is free.Ah, woe is me! Too clearly now I findThat felon Love, to aggravate my pain,Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;And now the maxim sage I call to mind,That mortal bliss must doubtful still remainTill death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.Charlemont.
Counting the hours, lest I myself misleadBy blind desire wherewith my heart is torn,E'en while I speak away the moments speed,To me and pity which alike were sworn.What shade so cruel as to blight the seedWhence the wish'd fruitage should so soon be born?What beast within my fold has leap'd to feed?What wall is built between the hand and corn?Alas! I know not, but, if right I guess,Love to such joyful hope has only ledTo plunge my weary life in worse distress;And I remember now what once I read,Until the moment of his full releaseMan's bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.Macgregor.

SONNET XLIV

Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigreFEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVEEver my hap is slack and slow in coming,Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertainWith doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,The Thames shall back return into his fountain,And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,Ere I in this find peace or quietness;Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.And if I have, after such bitterness,One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,That all my trust and travail is but waste.Wyatt.
Late to arrive my fortunes are and slow—Hopes are unsure, desires ascend and swell,Suspense, expectancy in me rebel—But swifter to depart than tigers go.Tepid and dark shall be the cold pure snow,The ocean dry, its fish on mountains dwell,The sun set in the East, by that old wellAlike whence Tigris and Euphrates flow,Ere in this strife I peace or truce shall find,Ere Love or Laura practise kinder ways,Sworn friends, against me wrongfully combined.After such bitters, if some sweet allays,Balk'd by long fasts my palate spurns the fare,Sole grace from them that falleth to my share.Macgregor.

SONNET XLV

La guancia che fu già piangendo stancaTO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENTThy weary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows,My much loved lord, upon the one repose;More careful of thyself against Love be,Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;And with the other close the left-hand pathToo easy entrance where his message hath;In sun and storm thyself the same display,Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.And, with the third, drink of the precious herbWhich purges every thought that would disturb,Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste:But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.Macgregor.

BALLATA IV

Perchè quel che mi trasse ad amar primaHE WILL ALWAYS LOVE HER, THOUGH DENIED THE SIGHT OF HERThough cruelty denies my viewThose charms which led me first to love;To passion yet will I be true,Nor shall my will rebellious prove.Amid the curls of golden hairThat wave those beauteous temples round,Cupid spread craftily the snareWith which my captive heart he bound:And from those eyes he caught the rayWhich thaw'd the ice that fenced my breast,Chasing all other thoughts away,With brightness suddenly imprest.But now that hair of sunny gleam,Ah me! is ravish'd from my sight;Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam,And change to sadness past delight.A glorious death by all is prized;Tis death alone shall break my chain:Oh! be Love's timid wail despised.Lovers should nobly suffer pain.Nott.
Though barr'd from all which led me first to loveBy coldness or caprice,Not yet from its firm bent can passion cease!The snare was set amid those threads of gold,To which Love bound me fast;And from those bright eyes melted the long coldWithin my heart that pass'd;So sweet the spell their sudden splendour cast,Its single memory stillDeprives my soul of every other will.But now, alas! from me of that fine hairIs ravish'd the dear sight;The lost light of those twin stars, chaste as fair,Saddens me in her flight;But, since a glorious death wins honour bright,By death, and not through grief,Love from such chain shall give at last relief.Macgregor.

SONNET XLVI

L' arbor gentil che forte amai molt' anniIMPRECATION AGAINST THE LAURELThe graceful tree I loved so long and well,Ere its fair boughs in scorn my flame declined,Beneath its shade encouraged my poor mindTo bud and bloom, and 'mid its sorrow swell.But now, my heart secure from such a spell,Alas, from friendly it has grown unkind!My thoughts entirely to one end confined,Their painful sufferings how I still may tell.What should he say, the sighing slave of love,To whom my later rhymes gave hope of bliss,Who for that laurel has lost all—but this?May poet never pluck thee more, nor JoveExempt; but may the sun still hold in hateOn each green leaf till blight and blackness wait.Macgregor.

SONNET XLVII

Benedetto sia 'l giorno e 'l mese e l' annoHE BLESSES ALL THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF HIS PASSIONBlest be the day, and blest the month, the year,The spring, the hour, the very moment blest,The lovely scene, the spot, where first oppress'dI sunk, of two bright eyes the prisoner:And blest the first soft pang, to me most dear,Which thrill'd my heart, when Love became its guest;And blest the bow, the shafts which pierced my breast,And even the wounds, which bosom'd thence I bear.Blest too the strains which, pour'd through glade and grove,Have made the woodlands echo with her name;The sighs, the tears, the languishment, the love:And blest those sonnets, sources of my fame;And blest that thought—Oh! never to remove!Which turns to her alone, from her alone which came.Wrangham.
Blest be the year, the month, the hour, the day,The season and the time, and point of space,And blest the beauteous country and the placeWhere first of two bright eyes I felt the sway:Blest the sweet pain of which I was the prey,When newly doom'd Love's sovereign law to embrace,And blest the bow and shaft to which I trace,The wound that to my inmost heart found way:Blest be the ceaseless accents of my tongue,Unwearied breathing my loved lady's name:Blest my fond wishes, sighs, and tears, and pains:Blest be the lays in which her praise I sung,That on all sides acquired to her fair fame,And blest my thoughts! for o'er them all she reigns.Dacre.

SONNET XLVIII

Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorniCONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS GOD TO TURN HIM TO A BETTER LIFEFather of heaven! after the days misspent,After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bentOn nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;That so my foe, spreading with dark intentHis mortal snares, be foil'd, and held at nought.E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,That I have bow'd me to the tyrannyRelentless most to fealty most tried.Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills:Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;How on the cross this day a Saviour died.Dacre.
Father of heaven! despite my days all lost,Despite my nights in doting folly spentWith that fierce passion which my bosom rentAt sight of her, too lovely for my cost;Vouchsafe at length that, by thy grace, I turnTo wiser life, and enterprise more fair,So that my cruel foe, in vain his snareSet for my soul, may his defeat discern.Already, Lord, the eleventh year circling wanesSince first beneath his tyrant yoke I fellWho still is fiercest where we least rebel:Pity my undeserved and lingering pains,To holier thoughts my wandering sense restore,How on this day his cross thy Son our Saviour bore.Macgregor.

BALLATA V

Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo coloreHER KIND SALUTE SAVED HIM FROM DEATHLate as those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave,Compassion moved you to that greeting kind,Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave.The poor frail life which yet to me is leftWas of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift,And of that voice angelical and mild;My present state derived from them I see;As the rod quickens the slow sullen child,So waken'd they the sleeping soul in me.Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keysYou hold in hand, and yet your captive please:Ready to sail wherever winds may blow,By me most prized whate'er to you I owe.Macgregor.

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