The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
SONNET LVI
Amor con sue promesse lusingandoLOVE CHAINS ARE STILL DEAR TO HIMBy promise fair and artful flatteryMe Love contrived in prison old to snare,And gave the keys to her my foe in care,Who in self-exile dooms me still to lie.Alas! his wiles I knew not until IWas in their power, so sharp yet sweet to bear,(Man scarce will credit it although I swear)That I regain my freedom with a sigh,And, as true suffering captives ever do,Carry of my sore chains the greater part,And on my brow and eyes so writ my heartThat when she witnesseth my cheek's wan hueA sigh shall own: if right I read his face,Between him and his tomb but small the space!Macgregor.SONNET LVII
Per mirar Policleto a prova fisoON THE PORTRAIT OF LAURA PAINTED BY SIMON MEMMIHad Policletus seen her, or the restWho, in past time, won honour in this art,A thousand years had but the meaner partShown of the beauty which o'ercame my breast.But Simon sure, in Paradise the blest,Whence came this noble lady of my heart,Saw her, and took this wond'rous counterpartWhich should on earth her lovely face attest.The work, indeed, was one, in heaven aloneTo be conceived, not wrought by fellow-men,Over whose souls the body's veil is thrown:'Twas done of grace: and fail'd his pencil whenTo earth he turn'd our cold and heat to bear,And felt that his own eyes but mortal were.Macgregor.Had Polycletus in proud rivalryOn her his model gazed a thousand years,Not half the beauty to my soul appears,In fatal conquest, e'er could he descry.But, Simon, thou wast then in heaven's blest sky,Ere she, my fair one, left her native spheres,To trace a loveliness this world reveresWas thus thy task, from heaven's reality.Yes—thine the portrait heaven alone could wake,This clime, nor earth, such beauty could conceive,Where droops the spirit 'neath its earthly shrine:The soul's reflected grace was thine to take,Which not on earth thy painting could achieve,Where mortal limits all the powers confine.Wollaston.
SONNET LVIII
Quando giunse a Simon l' alto concettoHE DESIRES ONLY THAT MEMMI HAD BEEN ABLE TO IMPART SPEECH TO HIS PORTRAIT OF LAURAWhen, at my word, the high thought fired his mind,Within that master-hand which placed the pen,Had but the painter, in his fair work, thenLanguage and intellect to beauty join'd,Less 'neath its care my spirit since had pined,Which worthless held what still pleased other men;And yet so mild she seems that my fond kenOf peace sees promise in that aspect kind.When further communing I hold with herBenignantly she smiles, as if she heardAnd well could answer to mine every word:But far o'er mine thy pride and pleasure were,Bright, warm and young, Pygmalion, to have press'dThine image long and oft, while mine not once has blest.Macgregor.When Simon at my wish the proud designConceived, which in his hand the pencil placed,Had he, while loveliness his picture graced,But added speech and mind to charms divine;What sighs he then had spared this breast of mine:That bliss had given to higher bliss distaste:For, when such meekness in her look was traced,'Twould seem she soon to kindness might incline.But, urging converse with the portray'd fair,Methinks she deigns attention to my prayer,Though wanting to reply the power of voice.What praise thyself, Pygmalion, hast thou gain'd;Forming that image, whence thou hast obtain'dA thousand times what, once obtain'd, would me rejoice.Nott.
SONNET LIX
Se al principio risponde il fine e 'l mezzoIF HIS PASSION STILL INCREASE, HE MUST SOON DIEIf, of this fourteenth year wherein I sigh,The end and middle with its opening vie,Nor air nor shade can give me now release,I feel mine ardent passion so increase:For Love, with whom my thought no medium knows,Beneath whose yoke I never find repose,So rules me through these eyes, on mine own illToo often turn'd, but half remains to kill.Thus, day by day, I feel me sink apace,And yet so secretly none else may trace,Save she whose glances my fond bosom tear.Scarcely till now this load of life I bearNor know how long with me will be her stay,For death draws near, and hastens life away.Macgregor.SESTINA IV
Chi è fermato di menar sua vitaHE PRAYS GOD TO GUIDE HIS FRAIL BARK TO A SAFE PORTWho is resolved to venture his vain lifeOn the deceitful wave and 'mid the rocks,Alone, unfearing death, in little bark,Can never be far distant from his end:Therefore betimes he should return to portWhile to the helm yet answers his true sail.The gentle breezes to which helm and sailI trusted, entering on this amorous life,And hoping soon to make some better port,Have led me since amid a thousand rocks,And the sure causes of my mournful endAre not alone without, but in my bark.Long cabin'd and confined in this blind bark,I wander'd, looking never at the sail,Which, prematurely, bore me to my end;Till He was pleased who brought me into lifeSo far to call me back from those sharp rocks,That, distantly, at last was seen my port.As lights at midnight seen in any port,Sometimes from the main sea by passing bark,Save when their ray is lost 'mid storms or rocks;So I too from above the swollen sailSaw the sure colours of that other life,And could not help but sigh to reach my end.Not that I yet am certain of that end,For wishing with the dawn to be in port,Is a long voyage for so short a life:And then I fear to find me in frail bark,Beyond my wishes full its every sailWith the strong wind which drove me on those rocks.Escape I living from these doubtful rocks,Or if my exile have but a fair end,How happy shall I be to furl my sail,And my last anchor cast in some sure port;But, ah! I burn, and, as some blazing bark,So hard to me to leave my wonted life.Lord of my end and master of my life,Before I lose my bark amid the rocks,Direct to a good port its harass'd sail!Macgregor.SONNET LX
Io son sì stanco sotto 'l fascio anticoHE CONFESSES HIS ERRORS, AND THROWS HIMSELF ON THE MERCY OF GODEvil by custom, as by nature frail,I am so wearied with the long disgrace,That much I dread my fainting in the raceShould let th' original enemy prevail.Once an Eternal Friend, that heard my cries,Came to my rescue, glorious in his might,Arm'd with all-conquering love, then took his flight,That I in vain pursued Him with my eyes.But his dear words, yet sounding, sweetly say,"O ye that faint with travel, see the way!Hopeless of other refuge, come to me."What grace, what kindness, or what destinyWill give me wings, as the fair-feather'd dove,To raise me hence and seek my rest above?Basil Kennet.So weary am I 'neath the constant thrallOf mine own vile heart, and the false world's taint,That much I fear while on the way to faint,And in the hands of my worst foe to fall.Well came, ineffably, supremely kind,A friend to free me from the guilty bond,But too soon upward flew my sight beyond,So that in vain I strive his track to find;But still his words stamp'd on my heart remain,All ye who labour, lo! the way in me;Come unto me, nor let the world detain!Oh! that to me, by grace divine, were givenWings like a dove, then I away would flee,And be at rest, up, up from earth to heaven!Macgregor.
SONNET LXI
Io non fu' d' amar voi lassato unquancoUNLESS LAURA RELENT, HE IS RESOLVED TO ABANDON HERYet was I never of your love aggrieved,Nor never shall while that my life doth last:But of hating myself, that date is past;And tears continual sore have me wearied:I will not yet in my grave be buried;Nor on my tomb your name have fixèd fast,As cruel cause, that did the spirit soon hasteFrom the unhappy bones, by great sighs stirr'd.Then if a heart of amorous faith and willContent your mind withouten doing grief;Please it you so to this to do relief:If otherwise you seek for to fulfilYour wrath, you err, and shall not as you ween;And you yourself the cause thereof have been.Wyatt.Weary I never was, nor can be e'er,Lady, while life shall last, of loving you,But brought, alas! myself in hate to view,Perpetual tears have bred a blank despair:I wish a tomb, whose marble fine and fair,When this tired spirit and frail flesh are two,May show your name, to which my death is due,If e'en our names at last one stone may share;Wherefore, if full of faith and love, a heartCan, of worst torture short, suffice your hate,Mercy at length may visit e'en my smart.If otherwise your wrath itself would sate,It is deceived: and none will credit show;To Love and to myself my thanks for this I owe.Macgregor.
SONNET LXII
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempieTHOUGH NOT SECURE AGAINST THE WILES OF LOVE, HE FEELS STRENGTH ENOUGH TO RESIST THEMTill silver'd o'er by age my temples grow,Where Time by slow degrees now plants his grey,Safe shall I never be, in danger's wayWhile Love still points and plies his fatal bowI fear no more his tortures and his tricks,That he will keep me further to ensnareNor ope my heart, that, from without, he thereHis poisonous and ruthless shafts may fix.No tears can now find issue from mine eyes,But the way there so well they know to win,That nothing now the pass to them denies.Though the fierce ray rekindle me within,It burns not all: her cruel and severeForm may disturb, not break my slumbers here.Macgregor.SONNET LXIII
Occhi, piangete; accompagnate il coreDIALOGUE BETWEEN THE POET AND HIS EYESPlayne ye, myne eyes, accompanye my harte,For, by your fault, lo, here is death at hand!Ye brought hym first into this bitter band,And of his harme as yett ye felt no part;But now ye shall: Lo! here beginnes your smart.Wett shall you be, ye shall it not withstandWith weepinge teares that shall make dymm your sight,And mystic clowdes shall hang still in your light.Blame but yourselves that kyndlyd have this brand,With suche desyre to strayne that past your might;But, since by you the hart hath caught his harme,His flamèd heat shall sometyme make you warme.Harrington.P. Weep, wretched eyes, accompany the heartWhich only from your weakness death sustains.E. Weep? evermore we weep; with keener painsFor others' error than our own we smart.P. Love, entering first through you an easy part,Took up his seat, where now supreme he reigns.E. We oped to him the way, but Hope the veinsFirst fired of him now stricken by death's dart.P. The lots, as seems to you, scarce equal fall'Tween heart and eyes, for you, at first sight, wereEnamour'd of your common ill and shame.E. This is the thought which grieves us most of all;For perfect judgments are on earth so rareThat one man's fault is oft another's blame.Macgregor.
SONNET LXIV
Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancoraHE LOVES, AND WILL ALWAYS LOVE, THE SPOT AND THE HOUR IN WHICH HE FIRST BECAME ENAMOURED OF LAURAI always loved, I love sincerely yet,And to love more from day to day shall learn,The charming spot where oft in grief I turnWhen Love's severities my bosom fret:My mind to love the time and hour is setWhich taught it each low care aside to spurn;She too, of loveliest face, for whom I burnBids me her fair life love and sin forget.Who ever thought to see in friendship join'd,On all sides with my suffering heart to cope,The gentle enemies I love so well?Love now is paramount my heart to bind,And, save that with desire increases hope,Dead should I lie alive where I would dwell.Macgregor.SONNET LXV
Io avrò sempre in odio la fenestraBETTER IS IT TO DIE HAPPY THAN TO LIVE IN PAINAlways in hate the window shall I bear,Whence Love has shot on me his shafts at will,Because not one of them sufficed to kill:For death is good when life is bright and fair,But in this earthly jail its term to outwearIs cause to me, alas! of infinite ill;And mine is worse because immortal still,Since from the heart the spirit may not tear.Wretched! ere this who surely ought'st to knowBy long experience, from his onward courseNone can stay Time by flattery or by force.Oft and again have I address'd it so:Mourner, away! he parteth not too soonWho leaves behind him far his life's calm June.Macgregor.SONNET LXVI
Sì tosto come avvien che l' arco scocchiHE CALLS THE EYES OF LAURA FOES, BECAUSE THEY KEEP HIM IN LIFE ONLY TO TORMENT HIMInstantly a good archer draws his bowSmall skill it needs, e'en from afar, to seeWhich shaft, less fortunate, despised may be,Which to its destined sign will certain go:Lady, e'en thus of your bright eyes the blow,You surely felt pass straight and deep in me,Searching my life, whence—such is fate's decree—Eternal tears my stricken heart overflow;And well I know e'en then your pity said:Fond wretch! to misery whom passion leads,Be this the point at once to strike him dead.But seeing now how sorrow sorrow breeds,All that my cruel foes against me plot,For my worse pain, and for my death is not.Macgregor.SONNET LXVII
Poi che mia speme è lunga a venir troppoHE COUNSELS LOVERS TO FLEE, RATHER THAN BE CONSUMED BY THE FLAMES OF LOVESince my hope's fruit yet faileth to arrive,And short the space vouchsafed me to survive,Betimes of this aware I fain would be,Swifter than light or wind from Love to flee:And I do flee him, weak albeit and lameO' my left side, where passion racked my frame.Though now secure yet bear I on my faceOf the amorous encounter signal trace.Wherefore I counsel each this way who comes,Turn hence your footsteps, and, if Love consumes,Think not in present pain his worst is done;For, though I live, of thousand scapes not one!'Gainst Love my enemy was strong indeed—Lo! from his wounds e'en she is doom'd to bleed.Macgregor.SONNET LXVIII
Fuggendo la prigione ov' Amor m' ebbeHE LONGS TO RETURN TO THE CAPTIVITY OF LOVEFleeing the prison which had long detain'd,Where Love dealt with me as to him seem'd well,Ladies, the time were long indeed to tell,How much my heart its new-found freedom pain'd.I felt within I could not, so bereaved,Live e'en a day: and, midway, on my eyesThat traitor rose in so complete disguise,A wiser than myself had been deceived:Whence oft I've said, deep sighing for the past,Alas! the yoke and chains of old to meWere sweeter far than thus released to be.Me wretched! but to learn mine ill at last;With what sore trial must I now forgetErrors that round my path myself have set.Macgregor.SONNET LXIX
Erano i capei d' oro all' aura sparsiHE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE LOVELoose to the breeze her golden tresses flow'dWildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown,And from her eyes unconquer'd glances shone,Those glances now so sparingly bestow'd.And true or false, meseem'd some signs she show'dAs o'er her cheek soft pity's hue was thrown;I, whose whole breast with love's soft food was sown,What wonder if at once my bosom glow'd?Graceful she moved, with more than mortal mien,In form an angel: and her accents wonUpon the ear with more than human sound.A spirit heavenly pure, a living sun,Was what I saw; and if no more 'twere seen,T' unbend the bow will never heal the wound.Anon., Ox., 1795.Her golden tresses on the wind she threw,Which twisted them in many a beauteous braid;In her fine eyes the burning glances play'd,With lovely light, which now they seldom show:Ah! then it seem'd her face wore pity's hue,Yet haply fancy my fond sense betray'd;Nor strange that I, in whose warm heart was laidLove's fuel, suddenly enkindled grew!Not like a mortal's did her step appear,Angelic was her form; her voice, methought,Pour'd more than human accents on the ear.A living sun was what my vision caught,A spirit pure; and though not such still found,Unbending of the bow ne'er heals the wound.Nott.
Her golden tresses to the gale were streaming,That in a thousand knots did them entwine,And the sweet rays which now so rarely shineFrom her enchanting eyes, were brightly beaming,And—was it fancy?—o'er that dear face gleamingMethought I saw Compassion's tint divine;What marvel that this ardent heart of mineBlazed swiftly forth, impatient of Love's dreaming?There was nought mortal in her stately treadBut grace angelic, and her speech awokeThan human voices a far loftier sound,A spirit of heaven,—a living sun she brokeUpon my sight;—what if these charms be fled?—The slackening of the bow heals not the wound.Wrottesley.
SONNET LXX
La bella donna che cotanto amaviTO HIS BROTHER GERARDO, ON THE DEATH OF A LADY TO WHOM HE WAS ATTACHEDThe beauteous lady thou didst love so wellToo soon hath from our regions wing'd her flight,To find, I ween, a home 'mid realms of light;So much in virtue did she here excelThy heart's twin key of joy and woe can dwellNo more with her—then re-assume thy might,Pursue her by the path most swift and right,Nor let aught earthly stay thee by its spell.Thus from thy heaviest burthen being freed,Each other thou canst easier dispel,And an unfreighted pilgrim seek thy sky;Too well, thou seest, how much the soul hath need,(Ere yet it tempt the shadowy vale) to quellEach earthly hope, since all that lives must die.Wollaston.The lovely lady who was long so dearTo thee, now suddenly is from us gone,And, for this hope is sure, to heaven is flown,So mild and angel-like her life was here!Now from her thraldom since thy heart is clear,Whose either key she, living, held alone,Follow where she the safe short way has shown,Nor let aught earthly longer interfere.Thus disencumber'd from the heavier weight,The lesser may aside be easier laid,And the freed pilgrim win the crystal gate;So teaching us, since all things that are madeHasten to death, how light must be his soulWho treads the perilous pass, unscathed and whole!Macgregor.
SONNET LXXI
Piangete, donne, e con voi pianga AmoreON THE DEATH OF CINO DA PISTOIAWeep, beauteous damsels, and let Cupid weep,Of every region weep, ye lover train;He, who so skilfully attuned his strainTo your fond cause, is sunk in death's cold sleep!Such limits let not my affliction keep,As may the solace of soft tears restrain;And, to relieve my bosom of its pain,Be all my sighs tumultuous, utter'd deep!Let song itself, and votaries of verse,Breathe mournful accents o'er our Cino's bier,Who late is gone to number with the blest!Oh! weep, Pistoia, weep your sons perverse;Its choicest habitant has fled our sphere,And heaven may glory in its welcome guest!Nott.Ye damsels, pour your tears! weep with you. Love!Weep, all ye lovers, through the peopled sphere!Since he is dead who, while he linger'd here,With all his might to do you honour strove.For me, this tyrant grief my prayers shall moveNot to contest the comfort of a tear,Nor check those sighs, that to my heart are dear,Since ease from them alone it hopes to prove.Ye verses, weep!—ye rhymes, your woes renew!For Cino, master of the love-fraught lay,E'en now is from our fond embraces torn!Pistoia, weep, and all your thankless crew!Your sweetest inmate now is reft away—But, heaven, rejoice, and hail your son new-born!Charlemont.
SONNET LXXII
Più volte Amor m' avea già detto: scriviHE WRITES WHAT LOVE BIDS HIMWhite—to my heart Love oftentimes had said—Write what thou seest in letters large of gold,That livid are my votaries to behold,And in a moment made alive and dead.Once in thy heart my sovran influence spreadA public precedent to lovers told;Though other duties drew thee from my fold,I soon reclaim'd thee as thy footsteps fled.And if the bright eyes which I show'd thee first,If the fair face where most I loved to stay,Thy young heart's icy hardness when I burst,Restore to me the bow which all obey,Then may thy cheek, which now so smooth appears,Be channell'd with my daily drink of tears.Macgregor.SONNET LXXIII
Quando giugne per gli occhi al cor profondoHE DESCRIBES THE STATE OF TWO LOVERS, AND RETURNS IN THOUGHT TO HIS OWN SUFFERINGSWhen reaches through the eyes the conscious heartIts imaged fate, all other thoughts depart;The powers which from the soul their functions takeA dead weight on the frame its limbs then make.From the first miracle a second springs,At times the banish'd faculty that brings,So fleeing from itself, to some new seat,Which feeds revenge and makes e'en exile sweet.Thus in both faces the pale tints were rife,Because the strength which gave the glow of lifeOn neither side was where it wont to dwell—I on that day these things remember'd well,Of that fond couple when each varying mienTold me in like estate what long myself had been.Macgregor.SONNET LXXIV
Così potess' io ben chiuder in versiHE COMPLAINS THAT TO HIM ALONE IS FAITH HURTFULCould I, in melting verse, my thoughts but throw,As in my heart their living load I bear,No soul so cruel in the world was e'erThat would not at the tale with pity glow.But ye, blest eyes, which dealt me the sore blow,'Gainst which nor helm nor shield avail'd to spareWithin, without, behold me poor and bare,Though never in laments is breathed my woe.But since on me your bright glance ever shines,E'en as a sunbeam through transparent glass,Suffice then the desire without the lines.Faith Peter bless'd and Mary, but, alas!It proves an enemy to me alone,Whose spirit save by you to none is known.Macgregor.SONNET LXXV
Io son dell' aspectar omai sì vintoHAVING ONCE SURRENDERED HIMSELF, HE IS COMPELLED EVER TO ENDURE THE PANGS OF LOVEWeary with expectation's endless round,And overcome in this long war of sighs,I hold desires in hate and hopes despise,And every tie wherewith my breast is bound;But the bright face which in my heart profoundIs stamp'd, and seen where'er I turn mine eyes,Compels me where, against my will, ariseThe same sharp pains that first my ruin crown'd.Then was my error when the old way quiteOf liberty was bann'd and barr'd to me:He follows ill who pleases but his sight:To its own harm my soul ran wild and free,Now doom'd at others' will to wait and wend;Because that once it ventured to offend.Macgregor.SONNET LXXVI
Ahi bella libertà, come tu m' haiHE DEPLORES HIS LOST LIBERTY AND THE UNHAPPINESS OF HIS PRESENT STATEAlas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee,Well hast thou taught my discontented heartTo mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love's dartDealt me the wound which heal'd can never be;Mine eyes so charm'd with their own weakness growThat my dull mind of reason spurns the chain;All worldly occupation they disdain,Ah! that I should myself have train'd them so.Naught, save of her who is my death, mine earConsents to learn; and from my tongue there flowsNo accent save the name to me so dear;Love to no other chase my spirit spurs,No other path my feet pursue; nor knowsMy hand to write in other praise but hers.Macgregor.Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence,Too well didst thou reveal unto my heartIts careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart,Of whose dread wound I ne'er can lose the senseMy eyes, enamour'd of their grief intense,Did in that hour from Reason's bridle start,Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;Each other mortal work is an offence.No other theme will now my soul contentThan she who plants my death, with whose blest nameI make the air resound in echoes sweet:Love spurs me to her as his only bent,My hand can trace nought other but her fame,No other spot attracts my willing feet.Wollaston.
SONNET LXXVII
Orso, al vostro destrier si può ben porreHE SYMPATHISES WITH HIS FRIEND ORSO AT HIS INABILITY TO ATTEND A TOURNAMENTOrso, a curb upon thy gallant horseWell may we place to turn him from his course,But who thy heart may bind against its willWhich honour courts and shuns dishonour still?Sigh not! for nought its praise away can take,Though Fate this journey hinder you to make.For, as already voiced by general fame,Now is it there, and none before it came.Amid the camp, upon the day design'd,Enough itself beneath those arms to findWhich youth, love, valour, and near blood concern,Crying aloud: With noble fire I burn,As my good lord unwillingly at home,Who pines and languishes in vain to come.Macgregor.SONNET LXXVIII
Poi che voi ed io più volte abbiam provatoTO A FRIEND, COUNSELLING HIM TO ABANDON EARTHLY PLEASURESStill has it been our bitter lot to proveHow hope, or e'er it reach fruition, flies!Up then to that high good, which never dies,Lift we the heart—to heaven's pure bliss above.On earth, as in a tempting mead, we rove,Where coil'd 'mid flowers the traitor serpent lies;And, if some casual glimpse delight our eyes,'Tis but to grieve the soul enthrall'd by Love.Oh! then, as thou wouldst wish ere life's last dayTo taste the sweets of calm unbroken rest,Tread firm the narrow, shun the beaten way—Ah! to thy friend too well may be address'd:"Thou show'st a path, thyself most apt to stray,Which late thy truant feet, fond youth, have never press'd."Wrangham.Friend, as we both in confidence complainTo see our ill-placed hopes return in vain,Let that chief good which must for ever pleaseExalt our thought and fix our happiness.This world as some gay flowery field is spread,Which hides a serpent in its painted bed,And most it wounds when most it charms our eyes,At once the tempter and the paradise.And would you, then, sweet peace of mind restore,And in fair calm expect your parting hour,Leave the mad train, and court the happy few.Well may it be replied, "O friend, you showOthers the path, from which so often youHave stray'd, and now stray farther than before."Basil Kennet.
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