The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

SONNET C

Poi che 'l cammin m' è chiuso di mercedeTHOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIMSince mercy's door is closed, alas! to me,And hopeless paths my poor life separateFrom her in whom, I know not by what fate,The guerdon lay of all my constancy,My heart that lacks not other food, on sighsI feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears:Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appearsMy present grief than others can surmise.On thy dear portrait rests alone my view,Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew,But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.What shore can hide me, or what distance shield,If by my cruel exile yet untamedInsatiate Envy finds me here concealed?Macgregor.

SONNET CI

Io canterei d' Amor sì novamenteREPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINOWays apt and new to sing of love I'd find,Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh,And re-enkindle in her frozen mindDesires a thousand, passionate and high;O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass,See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns,As one who sorrows when too late, alas!For his own error and another's pains;See the fresh roses edging that fair snowMove with her breath, that ivory descried,Which turns to marble him who sees it near;See all, for which in this brief life belowMyself I weary not but rather prideThat Heaven for later times has kept me here.Macgregor.

SONNET CII

S' Amor non è, che dunque è quel ch' i' sento?THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVEIf no love is, O God, what fele I so?And if love is, what thing and which is he?If love be gode, from whence cometh my woe?If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh meWhen every torment and adversiteThat cometh of him may to me savory thinke:For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke.And if that at my owne lust I brenne,From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte?If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne?I not nere why unwery that I feinte.O quickè deth, O surelè harme so quainte,How may I see in me such quantite,But if that I consent that so it be?Chaucer.
If 'tis not love, what is it feel I then?If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above!If love be kind, why does it fatal prove?If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain?If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain?If not my will, tears cannot love remove.O living death! O rapturous pang!—why, love!If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign?If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn:Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borneBy adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost;Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze,My blind opinion ever dubious strays;I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.Anon. 1777.

SONNET CIII

Amor m' ha posto come segno a straleLOVE'S ARMOURYLove makes me as the target for his dart,As snow in sunshine, or as wax in flame,Or gale-driven cloud; and, Laura, on thy nameI call, but thou no pity wilt impart.Thy radiant eyes first caused my bosom's smart;No time, no place can shield me from their beam;From thee (but, ah, thou treat'st it as a dream!)Proceed the torments of my suff'ring heart.Each thought's an arrow, and thy face a sun,My passion's flame: and these doth Love employTo wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy.Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I'm won,All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul,Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.Nott.
Me Love has placed as mark before the dart,As to the sun the snow, as wax to fire,As clouds to wind: Lady, e'en now I tire,Craving the mercy which never warms thy heart.From those bright eyes was aim'd the mortal blow,'Gainst which nor time nor place avail'd me aught;From thee alone—nor let it strange be thought—The sun, the fire, the wind whence I am so.The darts are thoughts of thee, thy face the sun,The fire my passion; such the weapons beWith which at will Love dazzles yet destroys.Thy fragrant breath and angel voice—which wonMy heart that from its thrall shall ne'er be free—The wind which vapour-like my frail life flies.Macgregor.

SONNET CIV

Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerraLOVE'S INCONSISTENCYI fynde no peace and all my warre is done,I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse;I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse;And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season,That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson,And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse.Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce,And yet of death it giveth none occasion.Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne;I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health;I love another, and yet I hate my self;I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne,Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf,And my delight is cawser of my greif.Wyatt.19
Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace;I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again;Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face;Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain.His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain;In toils he holds me not, nor will release;He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain;Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease.Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn;I scorn existence, and yet court its stay;Detest myself, and for another burn;By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay;Death I despise, and life alike I hate:Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!Nott.

CANZONE XVIII

Qual più diversa e novaHE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATIONWhate'er most wild and newWas ever found in any foreign land,If viewed and valued true,Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand.Whence the bright day breaks through,Alone and consortless, a bird there flies,Who voluntary dies,To live again regenerate and entire:So ever my desire,Alone, itself repairs, and on the crestOf its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun,There melts and is undone,And sinking to its first state of unrest,So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes,And, Phœnix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms.Where Indian billows sweep,A wondrous stone there is, before whose strengthStout navies, weak to keepTheir binding iron, sink engulf'd at length:So prove I, in this deepOf bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride,That fair rock knew to guideWhere now my life in wreck and ruin drives:Thus too the soul deprives,By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was,It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed:For mine, O fate accurst!A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws,Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet,Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet.Neath the far Ethiop skiesA beast is found, most mild and meek of air,Which seems, yet in her eyesDanger and dool and death she still does bear:Much needs he to be wiseTo look on hers whoever turns his mien:Although her eyes unseen,All else securely may be viewed at willBut I to mine own illRun ever in rash grief, though well I knowMy sufferings past and future, still my mindIts eager, deaf and blindDesire o'ermasters and unhinges so,That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face,Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace.In the rich South there flowsA fountain from the sun its name that wins,This marvel still that shows,Boiling at night, but chill when day begins;Cold, yet more cold it growsAs the sun's mounting car we nearer see:So happens it with me(Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat),When the bright light and sweet,My only sun retires, and lone and drearMy eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign,I burn, but if againThe gold rays of the living sun appear,My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange;Within me and without I feel the frozen change!Another fount of fameSprings in Epirus, which, as bards have told,Kindles the lurking flame,And the live quenches, while itself is cold.My soul, that, uncontroll'd,And scathless from love's fire till now had pass'd,Carelessly left at lastNear the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,Was kindled instantly:Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night,A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.Which first her charms inflamedHer fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire,Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.Beyond our earth's known brinks,In the famed Islands of the Blest, there beTwo founts: of this who drinksDies smiling: who of that to live is free.A kindred fate Heaven linksTo my sad life, who, smilingly, could dieFor like o'erflowing joy,But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay.Love! still who guidest my way,Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites,Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour,Ever with larger powerO'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites;So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet,But in that season most when I my Lady met.Should any ask, my Song!Or how or where I am, to such reply:Where the tall mountain throwsIts shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows,He roams, where never eyeSave Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by,And one dear image who his peace destroys,Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies.Macgregor.

SONNET CV

Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piovaHE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROMEVengeaunce must fall on thee, thow filthie whoreOf Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold,That from achorns, and from the water colde,Art riche become with making many poore.Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holdeOf cankard malice, and of myschief moreThan pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde,Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde;For wyne and ease which settith all thie storeUppon whoredome and none other lore,In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and oldeTheare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde:Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde:It is but late, as wryting will recorde,That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde;Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde,In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode,That it dothe stincke before the face of God.(?) Wyatt.20
May fire from heaven rain down upon thy head,Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by,Made rich and great by others' poverty;How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed!Nest of all treachery, in which is bredWhate'er of sin now through the world doth fly;Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony;With sensuality's excesses fed!Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance;Then in the midst see Belzebub advanceWith mirrors and provocatives obscene.Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down;But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown:Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean.Nott.

SONNET CVI

L' avara Babilonia ha colmo 'l saccoHE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUECovetous Babylon of wrath divineBy its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now,And for its future Gods to whom to bowNot Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine.Though hoping reason, I consume and pine,Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow,Who shall again build up, and we avowOne faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine.Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dustHer proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd,Her wardens into flames and exile thrust,Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the worldPossess in peace; and we shall see it madeAll gold, and fully its old works display'd.Macgregor.

SONNET CVII

Fontana di dolore, albergo d' iraHE ATTRIBUTES THE WICKEDNESS OF THE COURT OF ROME TO ITS GREAT WEALTHSpring of all woe, O den of curssed ire,Scoole of errour, temple of heresye;Thow Pope, I meane, head of hypocrasye,Thow and thie churche, unsaciat of desyre,Have all the world filled full of myserye;Well of disceate, thow dungeon full of fyre,That hydes all truthe to breed idolatrie.Thow wicked wretche, Chryste cannot be a lyer,Behold, therefore, thie judgment hastelye;Thye first founder was gentill povertie,But there against is all thow dost requyre.Thow shameless beaste wheare hast thow thie trust,In thie whoredome, or in thie riche attyre?Loe! Constantyne, that is turned into dust,Shall not retourne for to mayntaine thie lust;But now his heires, that might not sett thee higher,For thie greate pryde shall teare thye seate asonder,And scourdge thee so that all the world shall wonder.(?) Wyatt.21
Fountain of sorrows, centre of mad ire,Rank error's school and fane of heresy,Once Rome, now Babylon, the false and free,Whom fondly we lament and long desire.O furnace of deceits, O prison dire,Where good roots die and the ill-weed grows a treeHell upon earth, great marvel will it beIf Christ reject thee not in endless fire.Founded in humble poverty and chaste,Against thy founders lift'st thou now thy horn,Impudent harlot! Is thy hope then placedIn thine adult'ries and thy wealth ill-born?Since comes no Constantine his own to claim,The vext world must endure, or end its shame.Macgregor.

SONNET CVIII

Quanto più desiose l' ali spandoFAR FROM HIS FRIENDS, HE FLIES TO THEM IN THOUGHTThe more my own fond wishes would impelMy steps to you, sweet company of friends!Fortune with their free course the more contends,And elsewhere bids me roam, by snare and spellThe heart, sent forth by me though it rebel,Is still with you where that fair vale extends,In whose green windings most our sea ascends,From which but yesterday I wept farewell.It took the right-hand way, the left I tried,I dragg'd by force in slavery to remain,It left at liberty with Love its guide;But patience is great comfort amid pain:Long habits mutually form'd declareThat our communion must be brief and rare.Macgregor.

SONNET CIX

Amor che nel pensier mio vive e regnaTHE COURAGE AND TIMIDITY OF LOVEThe long Love that in my thought I harbour,And in my heart doth keep his residence,Into my face pressèth with bold pretence,And there campèth displaying his bannèr.She that me learns to love and to suffèr,And wills that my trust, and lust's negligenceBe rein'd by reason, shame, and reverence,With his hardiness takes displeasure.Wherewith Love to the heart's forest he fleeth,Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,And there him hideth, and not appearèth.What may I do, when my master fearèth,But in the field with him to live and die?For good is the life, ending faithfully.Wyatt.
Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought,That built its seat within my captive breast;Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.She, that me taught to love, and suffer pain;My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desireWith shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain,Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.And coward love then to the heart apaceTaketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plainsHis purpose lost, and dare not show his face.For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains.Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.Surrey.
Love in my thought who ever lives and reigns,And in my heart still holds the upper place,At times come forward boldly in my face,There plants his ensign and his post maintains:She, who in love instructs us and its pains,Would fain that reason, shame, respect should chasePresumptuous hope and high desire abase,And at our daring scarce herself restrains,Love thereon to my heart retires dismay'd,Abandons his attempt, and weeps and fears,And hiding there, no more my friend appears.What can the liege whose lord is thus afraid,More than with him, till life's last gasp, to dwell?For who well loving dies at least dies well.Macgregor.

SONNET CX

Come talora al caldo tempo suoleHE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE'S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATHAs when at times in summer's scorching heats.Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,Whence death the one and pain the other meets,Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness liesThat reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,And by strong will is better judgment beat.I clearly see they value me but ill,And, for against their torture fails my strength.That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,My heart their pain and not my loss laments,And blind, to its own death my soul consents.Macgregor.

SESTINA V

Alia dolce ombra de le belle frondiHE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LOVE, RESOLVING HENCEFORTH TO DEVOTE HIMSELF TO GODBeneath the pleasant shade of beauteous leavesI ran for shelter from a cruel light,E'en here below that burnt me from high heaven,When the last snow had ceased upon the hills,And amorous airs renew'd the sweet spring time,And on the upland flourish'd herbs and boughs.Ne'er did the world behold such graceful boughs,Nor ever wind rustled so verdant leaves,As were by me beheld in that young time:So that, though fearful of the ardent light,I sought not refuge from the shadowing hills,But of the plant accepted most in heaven.A laurel then protected from that heaven:Whence, oft enamour'd with its lovely boughs,A roamer I have been through woods, o'er hills,But never found I other trunk, nor leavesLike these, so honour'd with supernal light,Which changed not qualities with changing time.Wherefore each hour more firm, from time to timeFollowing where I heard my call from heaven,And guided ever by a soft clear light,I turn'd, devoted still, to those first boughs,Or when on earth are scatter'd the sere leaves,Or when the sun restored makes green the hills.The woods, the rocks, the fields, the floods, and hills,All that is made, are conquer'd, changed by time:And therefore ask I pardon of those leaves,If after many years, revolving heavenSway'd me to flee from those entangling boughs,When I begun to see its better light.So dear to me at first was the sweet light,That willingly I pass'd o'er difficult hills,But to be nearer those beloved boughs;Now shortening life, the apt place and full timeShow me another path to mount to heaven,And to make fruit not merely flowers and leaves.Other love, other leaves, and other light,Other ascent to heaven by other hillsI seek—in sooth 'tis time—and other boughs.Macgregor.

SONNET CXI

Quand' io v' odo parlar si dolcementeTO ONE WHO SPOKE TO HIM OF LAURAWhene'er you speak of her in that soft toneWhich Love himself his votaries surely taught,My ardent passion to such fire is wrought,That e'en the dead reviving warmth might own:Where'er to me she, dear or kind, was knownThere the bright lady is to mind now brought,In the same bearing which, to waken thought,Needed no sound but of my sighs alone.Half-turn'd I see her looking, on the breezeHer light hair flung; so true her memories rollOn my fond heart of which she keeps the keys;But the surpassing bliss which floods my soulSo checks my tongue, to tell how, queen-like, there,She sits as on her throne, I never dare.Macgregor.

SONNET CXII

Nè così bello il sol giammai levarsiTHE CHARMS OF LAURA WHEN SHE FIRST MET HIS SIGHTNe'er can the sun such radiance soft display,Piercing some cloud that would its light impair;Ne'er tinged some showery arch the humid air,With variegated lustre half so gay,As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away,All-beauteous shone my captivating fair;For charms what mortal can with her compare!But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyesWith such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll,That every human glance I since despise.Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.Anon. 1777.
Sun never rose so beautiful and brightWhen skies above most clear and cloudless show'd,Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glow'dWith tints so varied, delicate, and light,As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,The day I first took up this am'rous load,That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode—Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bendSo sweetly, every other face obscureHas from that hour till now appear'd to me.The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,From whom life since has never been secure,Whom still I madly yearn again to see.Macgregor.

SONNET CXIII

Pommi ove 'l sol occide i fiori e l' erbaHIS INVINCIBLE CONSTANCYPlace me where herb and flower the sun has dried,Or where numb winter's grasp holds sterner sway:Place me where Phœbus sheds a temperate ray,Where first he glows, where rests at eventide.Place me in lowly state, in power and pride,Where lour the skies, or where bland zephyrs playPlace me where blind night rules, or lengthened day,In age mature, or in youth's boiling tide:Place me in heaven, or in the abyss profound,On lofty height, or in low vale obscure,A spirit freed, or to the body bound;Bank'd with the great, or all unknown to fame,I still the same will be! the same endure!And my trilustral sighs still breathe the same!Dacre.
Place me where Phœbus burns each herb, each flower;Or where cold snows, and frost o'ercome his rays:Place me where rolls his car with temp'rate blaze;In climes that feel not, or that feel his power.Place me where fortune may look bright, or lour;Mid murky airs, or where soft zephyr plays:Place me in night, in long or short-lived days,Where age makes sad, or youth gilds ev'ry hour:Place me on mountains high, in vallies drear,In heaven, on earth, in depths unknown to-day;Whether life fosters still, or flies this clay:Place me where fame is distant, where she's near:Still will I love; nor shall those sighs yet cease,Which thrice five years have robb'd this breast of peace.Anon. 1777.
Place me where angry Titan burns the Moor,And thirsty Afric fiery monsters brings,Or where the new-born phœnix spreads her wings,And troops of wond'ring birds her flight adore:Place me by Gange, or Ind's empamper'd shore,Where smiling heavens on earth cause double springs:Place me where Neptune's quire of Syrens sings,Or where, made hoarse through cold, he leaves to roar:Me place where Fortune doth her darlings crown,A wonder or a spark in Envy's eye,Or late outrageous fates upon me frown,And pity wailing, see disaster'd me.Affection's print my mind so deep doth prove,I may forget myself, but not my love.Drummond.

SONNET CXIV

O d' ardente virtute ornata e caldaHE CELEBRATES LAURA'S BEAUTY AND VIRTUEO mind, by ardent virtue graced and warm'd.To whom my pen so oft pours forth my heart;Mansion of noble probity, who artA tower of strength 'gainst all assault full arm'd.O rose effulgent, in whose foldings, charm'd,We view with fresh carnation snow take part!O pleasure whence my wing'd ideas startTo that bless'd vision which no eye, unharm'd,Created, may approach—thy name, if rhymeCould bear to Bactra and to Thule's coast,Nile, Tanaïs, and Calpe should resound,And dread Olympus.—But a narrower boundConfines my flight: and thee, our native climeBetween the Alps and Apennine must boast.Capel Lofft.
With glowing virtue graced, of warm heart known,Sweet Spirit! for whom so many a page I trace,Tower in high worth which foundest well thy base!Centre of honour, perfect, and alone!O blushes! on fresh snow like roses thrown,Wherein I read myself and mend apace;O pleasures! lifting me to that fair faceBrightest of all on which the sun e'er shone.Oh! if so far its sound may reach, your nameOn my fond verse shall travel West and East,From southern Nile to Thule's utmost bound.But such full audience since I may not claim,It shall be heard in that fair land at leastWhich Apennine divides, which Alps and seas surround.Macgregor.

SONNET CXV

Quando 'l voler, che con duo sproni ardentiHER LOOKS BOTH COMFORT AND CHECK HIMWhen, with two ardent spurs and a hard rein,Passion, my daily life who rules and leads,From time to time the usual law exceedsThat calm, at least in part, my spirits may gain,It findeth her who, on my forehead plain,The dread and daring of my deep heart reads,And seeth Love, to punish its misdeeds,Lighten her piercing eyes with worse disdain.Wherefore—as one who fears the impending blowOf angry Jove—it back in haste retires,For great fears ever master great desires;But the cold fire and shrinking hopes which soLodge in my heart, transparent as a glass,O'er her sweet face at times make gleams of grace to pass.Macgregor.

SONNET CXVI

Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e TebroHE EXTOLS THE LAUREL AND ITS FAVOURITE STREAMNot all the streams that water the bright earth,Not all the trees to which its breast gives birth,Can cooling drop or healing balm impartTo slack the fire which scorches my sad heart,As one fair brook which ever weeps with me,Or, which I praise and sing, as one dear tree.This only help I find amid Love's strife;Wherefore it me behoves to live my lifeIn arms, which else from me too rapid goes.Thus on fresh shore the lovely laurel grows;Who planted it, his high and graceful thought'Neath its sweet shade, to Sorga's murmurs, wrote.Macgregor.[IMITATION.]Nor Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber,Sebethus, nor the flood into whose streamsHe fell who burnt the world with borrow'd beams;Gold-rolling Tagus, Munda, famous Iber,Sorgue, Rhone, Loire, Garron, nor proud-bank'd Seine,Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble Ladon,Nor she whose nymphs excel her who loved Adon,Fair Tamesis, nor Ister large, nor Rhine,Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Hermus, Gange,Pearly Hydaspes, serpent-like Meander,—The gulf bereft sweet Hero her Leander—Nile, that far, far his hidden head doth range,Have ever had so rare a cause of praiseAs Ora, where this northern Phœnix stays.Drummond.

Предыдущая 1...22 23 24 25 26...39 Следующая

Авторизация