The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
SONNET CXXXVIII
Giunto m' ha Amor fra belle e crude bracciaHE CANNOT END HER CRUELTY, NOR SHE HIS HOPEMe Love has left in fair cold arms to lie,Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain,My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain:Better in silence love, and loving die!For she the frozen Rhine with burning eyeCan melt at will, the hard rock break in twain,So equal to her beauty her disdainThat others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh.A breathing moving marble all the rest,Of very adamant is made her heart,So hard, to move it baffles all my art.Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast,One thing she cannot, my fond heart deterFrom tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.Macgregor.SONNET CXXXIX
O Invidia, nemica di virtuteENVY MAY DISTURB, BUT CANNOT DESTROY HIS HOPEO deadly Envy, virtue's constant foe,With good and lovely eager to contest!Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breastHast entrance found? by what arts changed it so?Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn,Too blest in love hast shown me to that fairWho welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer,But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn.But though you may by acts severe and illSigh at my good and smile at my distress,You cannot change for me a single thought.Not though a thousand times each day she killCan I or hope in her or love her less.For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.Macgregor.SONNET CXL
Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi serenoTHE SWEETS AND BITTERS OF LOVEMarking of those bright eyes the sun sereneWhere reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves,My hopeless heart the weary spirit leavesOnce more to gain its paradise terrene;Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene,And in the world how vast the web it weaves.A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves,Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.By these two contrary and mix'd extremes,With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught,To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems:Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought,But mostly contrite for its bold emprize,For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!Macgregor.SONNET CXLI
Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi)TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHERIll-omen'd was that star's malignant gleamThat ruled my hapless birth; and dim the mornThat darted on my infant eyes the beam;And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;And hard the sterile earth, which first was wornBeneath my infant feet; but harder far,And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,In league with savage Love, inflamed the warOf all my passions.—Love himself more tame,With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,Insensible to the devouring flameWhich wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.One thought is comfort—that her scorn to bear,Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.Woodhouselee.An evil star usher'd my natal morn(If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scornAnd fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mournWhose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:She, too, severer would have wished the blow,A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.One comfort rests—better to suffer soFor her, than others to enjoy: and I,Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.Macgregor.
SONNET CXLII
Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e 'l locoRECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LOVEThe time and scene where I a slave becameWhen I remember, and the knot so dearWhich Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here,Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game;My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flameOf those soft sighs familiar to mine ear,So lit within, its very sufferings cheer;On these I live, and other aid disclaim.That sun, alone which beameth for my sight,With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burnsNow in the eve of life as in its prime,And from afar so gives me warmth and light,Fresh and entire, at every hour, returnsOn memory the knot, the scene, the time.Macgregor.SONNET CXLIII
Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggiEVER THINKING ON HER, HE PASSES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF ARDENNESThrough woods inhospitable, wild, I rove,Where armèd travellers bend their fearful way;Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love,Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray,Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove:And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, moveLike nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her playI seem to hear her, when the whispering galeSteals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird,When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.How grateful might this darksome wood appear,Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard;But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.Anon. 1777.Amid the wild wood's lone and difficult ways,Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms,I pass secure—for only me alarmsThat sun, which darts of living love the rays—Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to herWhom time and space so little hide from me;E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see,But maids and matrons in each beech and fir:Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan,The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dellWhere its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues.Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone,The solitary horror pleased so well,Except that of my sun too much I lose.Macgregor.
SONNET CXLIV
Mille piagge in un giorno e mille riviTO BE NEAR HER RECOMPENSES HIM FOR ALL THE PERILS OF THE WAYLove, who his votary wings in heart and feet,To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,In one short day has many a stream and shoreGiven to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweetWhere war in earnest strikes, nor tells before—A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar—My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,From too great courage conscious terror springs.But this fair country and belovèd streamWith smiling welcome reassures my heart,Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.Macgregor.SONNET CXLV
Amor mi sprona in un tempo ed affrenaHE HEARS THE VOICE OF REASON, BUT CANNOT OBEYLove in one instant spurs me and restrains,Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns,Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns,In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains:Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls,Until fond passion loses quite the path,And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath—My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds!A friendly thought there points the proper track,Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks,To go where soon it hopes to be at ease,But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back,Despite itself, another way it takes,And to its own slow death and mine agrees.Macgregor.SONNET CXLVI
Geri, quando talor meco s' adiraHE APPEASES HER BY HUMILITY, AND EXHORTS A FRIEND TO DO LIKEWISEWhen my sweet foe, so haughty oft and high,Moved my brief ire no more my sight can thole,One comfort is vouchsafed me lest I die,Through whose sole strength survives my harass'd soul;Where'er her eyes—all light which would denyTo my sad life—in scorn or anger roll,Mine with such true humility reply,Soon their meek glances all her rage control,Were it not so, methinks I less could brookTo gaze on hers than on Medusa's mien,Which turn'd to marble all who met her look.My friend, act thus with thine, for closed I weenAll other aid, and nothing flight availsAgainst the wings on which our master sails.Macgregor.SONNET CXLVII
Po, ben puo' tu portartene la scorzaTO THE RIVER PO, ON QUITTING LAURAThou Po to distant realms this frame mayst bear,On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide;But the free spirit that within doth bideNor for thy might, nor any might doth care:Not varying here its course, nor shifting there,Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide;Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride,In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air.Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong,That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day,But in the west dost quit a fairer light;Thy curvèd course this body wafts along;My spirit on Love's pinions speeds its way,And to its darling home directs its flight!Nott.Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide,This frame corporeal mayst onward bear:But a free spirit is concealèd there,Which nor thy power nor any power can guide.That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy'd,With course unvarying backward cleaves the air—Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care—And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel's pride.'Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borneTo meet the sun, as he leads on the day;And from a brighter west 'tis thine to turn:Thy hornèd flood these passive limbs obey—But, uncontrollèd, to its sweet sojournOn Love's untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.Wrangham.
SONNET CXLVIII
Amor fra l' orbe una leggiadra reteHE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NETLove 'mid the grass beneath a laurel green—The plant divine which long my flame has fed,Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I weenBitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has beenSince first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:And the bright light which disenthrones the sunWas flashing round, and in her hand, more fairThan snow or ivory, was the master rope.So fell I in the snare; their slave so wonHer speech angelical and winning air,Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.Macgregor.SONNET CXLIX
Amor che 'ncende 'l cor d' ardente zeloLOVE AND JEALOUSY'Tis Love's caprice to freeze the bosom nowWith bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern—Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow.In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn:As if her thin robe by a rival worn,Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blowBut more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day;And how I love the death by which I die,Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing:Not so my freezing fire—impartiallyShe shines to all; and who would speed his wayTo that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.Wrangham.Love with hot zeal now burns the heart within,Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear,Leaving it doubtful to our judgment hereIf hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win.In June I shiver, burn December in,Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear;E'en as a lady who her loving feeHides 'neath a little veil of texture thin.Of the two ills the first is all mine own,By day, by night to burn; how sweet that painDwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings:Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,She levels all: who hopes the crest to gainOf that proud light expands in vain his wings.Macgregor.
SONNET CL
Se 'l dolce sguardo di costei m' ancideHE IS CONTINUALLY IN FEAR OF DISPLEASING HERIf thus the dear glance of my lady slay,On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait,If o'er me Love usurp a power so great,Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play;Alas! what were it if she put away,Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate,Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate,Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray.Thus if at heart with terror I am cold,When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring,The feeling has its source in sufferings old.Woman by nature is a fickle thing,And female hearts—time makes the proverb sure—Can never long one state of love endure.Macgregor.If the soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise,Of that beloved one can wound me so,And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow,Or even smiles, Love gains such victories;Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes,Which now secure my life through weal and woe,From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slowTo shed on me their light in pity's guise?And if my trembling spirit groweth coldWhene'er I see change to her aspect spring,This fear is only born of trials old;(Woman by nature is a fickle thing,)And hence I know her heart hath power to holdBut a brief space Love's sweet imagining!Wrottesley.
SONNET CLI
Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umileDURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURALove, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,Against my peace: To pierce with mortal painsLove toils—such ever are his stern designs.Nature by bonds so slight to earth confinesHer slender form, a breath may break its chains;And she, so much her heart the world disdains,Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.Hence still in her sweet frame we view decayAll that to earth can joy and radiance lend,Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,Too well I see where all those hopes must end,With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.Wrangham.Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strainsHis every power that I may perish quite.Nature her delicate form by bonds so slightHolds in existence, that no help sustains;She is so modest that she now disdainsLonger to brook this vile life's painful fight.Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,Our mirror of true grace which wont to give:And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,Alas! too well I see in what sad stateAre those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.Macgregor.
SONNET CLII
Questa Fenice dell' aurata piumaHE COMPARES HER TO THE PHŒNIXThis wondrous Phœnix with the golden plumesForms without art so rare a ring to deckThat beautiful and soft and snowy neck,That every heart it melts, and mine consumes:Forms, too, a natural diadem which lightsThe air around, whence Love with silent steelDraws liquid subtle fire, which still I feelFierce burning me though sharpest winter bites;Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest,Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair:Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone!Fame, in the opulent and odorous breastOf Arab mountains, buries her sole lair,Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown.Macgregor.SONNET CLIII
Se Virgilio ed Omero avessin vistoTHE MOST FAMOUS POETS OF ANTIQUITY WOULD HAVE SUNG HER ONLY, HAD THEY SEEN HERHad tuneful Maro seen, and Homer old,The living sun which here mine eyes behold,The best powers they had join'd of either lyre,Sweetness and strength, that fame she might acquire;Unsung had been, with vex'd Æneas, thenAchilles and Ulysses, godlike men,And for nigh sixty years who ruled so wellThe world; and who before Ægysthus fell;Nay, that old flower of virtues and of arms,As this new flower of chastity and charms,A rival star, had scarce such radiance flung.In rugged verse him honour'd Ennius sung,I her in mine. Grant, Heaven! on my poor laysShe frown not, nor disdain my humble praise.Anon.SONNET CLIV
Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tombaHE FEARS THAT HE IS INCAPABLE OF WORTHILY CELEBRATING HERThe son of Philip, when he saw the tombOf fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said:"O happy, whose achievements erst found roomFrom that illustrious trumpet to be spreadO'er earth for ever!"—But, beyond the gloomOf deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid,Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom,By my imperfect accents be convey'd?Her of the Homeric, the Orphèan Lyre,Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua's pride,To be the theme of their immortal lays;Her stars and unpropitious fate deniedThis palm:—and me bade to such height aspire,Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.Capel Lofft.When Alexander at the famous tombOf fierce Achilles stood, the ambitious sighBurst from his bosom—"Fortunate! on whomTh' eternal bard shower'd honours bright and high."But, ah! for so to each is fix'd his doom,This pure fair dove, whose like by mortal eyeWas never seen, what poor and scanty roomFor her great praise can my weak verse supply?Whom, worthiest Homer's line and Orpheus' song,Or his whom reverent Mantua still admires—Sole and sufficient she to wake such lyres!An adverse star, a fate here only wrong,Entrusts to one who worships her dear name,Yet haply injures by his praise her fame.Macgregor.
SONNET CLV
Almo Sol, quella fronde ch' io sola amoTO THE SUN, WHOSE SETTING HID LAURA'S DWELLING FROM HIS VIEWO blessed Sun! that sole sweet leaf I love,First loved by thee, in its fair seat, alone,Bloometh without a peer, since from aboveTo Adam first our shining ill was shown.Pause we to look on her! Although to stayThy course I pray thee, yet thy beams retire;Their shades the mountains fling, and parting dayParts me from all I most on earth desire.The shadows from yon gentle heights that fall,Where sparkles my sweet fire, where brightly grewThat stately laurel from a sucker small,Increasing, as I speak, hide from my viewThe beauteous landscape and the blessèd scene,Where dwells my true heart with its only queen.Macgregor.SONNET CLVI
Passa la nave mia colma d' oblioUNDER THE FIGURE OF A TEMPEST-TOSSED VESSEL, HE DESCRIBES HIS OWN SAD STATEMy bark, deep laden with oblivion, ridesO'er boisterous waves, through winter's midnight gloom,'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis, while, in roomOf pilot, Love, mine enemy, presides;At every oar a guilty fancy bides,Holding at nought the tempest and the tomb;A moist eternal wind the sails consume,Of sighs, of hopes, and of desire besides.A shower of tears, a fog of chill disdainBathes and relaxes the o'er-wearied cords,With error and with ignorance entwined;My two loved lights their wonted aid restrain;Reason or Art, storm-quell'd, no help affords,Nor hope remains the wish'd-for port to find.Charlemont.My lethe-freighted bark with reckless proreCleaves the rough sea 'neath wintry midnight skies,My old foe at the helm our compass eyes,With Scylla and Charybdis on each shore,A prompt and daring thought at every oar,Which equally the storm and death defies,While a perpetual humid wind of sighs,Of hopes, and of desires, its light sail tore.Bathe and relax its worn and weary shrouds(Which ignorance with error intertwines),Torrents of tears, of scorn and anger clouds;Hidden the twin dear lights which were my signs;Reason and Art amid the waves lie dead,And hope of gaining port is almost fled.Macgregor.
SONNET CLVII
Una candida cerva sopra l' erbaTHE VISION OF THE FAWNBeneath a laurel, two fair streams between,At early sunrise of the opening year,A milk-white fawn upon the meadow green,Of gold its either horn, I saw appear;So mild, yet so majestic, was its mien,I left, to follow, all my labours here,As miners after treasure, in the keenDesire of new, forget the old to fear."Let none impede"—so, round its fair neck, runThe words in diamond and topaz writ—"My lord to give me liberty sees fit."And now the sun his noontide height had wonWhen I, with weary though unsated view,Fell in the stream—and so my vision flew.Macgregor.A form I saw with secret awe, nor ken I what it warns;Pure as the snow, a gentle doe it seem'd, with silver horns:Erect she stood, close by a wood, between two running streams;And brightly shone the morning sun upon that land of dreams!The pictured hind fancy design'd glowing with love and hope;Graceful she stepp'd, but distant kept, like the timid antelope;Playful, yet coy, with secret joy her image fill'd my soul;And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet oblivion stole.Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that she wore;Words, too—but theirs were characters of legendary lore."Cæsar's decree hath made me free; and through his solemn charge,Untouch'd by men o'er hill and glen I wander here at large."The sun had now, with radiant brow, climb'd his meridian throne,Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely one.A voice was heard—quick disappear'd my dream—the spell was broken.Then came distress: to the consciousness of life I had awoken.Father Prout.
SONNET CLVIII
Siccome eterna vita è veder DioALL HIS HAPPINESS IS IN GAZING UPON HERAs life eternal is with God to be,No void left craving, there of all possess'd,So, lady mine, to be with you makes blest,This brief frail span of mortal life to me.So fair as now ne'er yet was mine to see—If truth from eyes to heart be well express'd—Lovely and blessèd spirit of my breast,Which levels all high hopes and wishes free.Nor would I more demand if less of hasteShe show'd to part; for if, as legends tellAnd credence find, are some who live by smell,On water some, or fire who touch and taste,All, things which neither strength nor sweetness give,Why should not I upon your dear sight live?Macgregor.SONNET CLIX
Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostraTO LOVE, ON LAURA WALKING ABROADHere stand we, Love, our glory to behold—How, passing Nature, lovely, high, and rare!Behold! what showers of sweetness falling there!What floods of light by heaven to earth unroll'd!How shine her robes, in purple, pearls, and gold,So richly wrought, with skill beyond compare!How glance her feet!—her beaming eyes how fairThrough the dark cloister which these hills enfold!The verdant turf, and flowers of thousand huesBeneath yon oak's old canopy of state,Spring round her feet to pay their amorous duty.The heavens, in joyful reverence, cannot chooseBut light up all their fires, to celebrateHer praise, whose presence charms their awful beauty.Merivale.Here tarry, Love, our glory to behold;Nought in creation so sublime we trace;Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face,Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold!See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold,That form transcendant, unexampled, grace:Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace,Her glance replete with elegance untold!The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue,Clustering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom,For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue;The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky,Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, assumeSuperior lustre and serenity.Nott.
SONNET CLX
Pasco la mente d' un sì nobil ciboTO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISSI feed my fancy on such noble food,That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;I see her—joy invades me like a flood,And lethe of all other bliss I feel;I hear her—instantly that music rareBids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,A double pleasure in one draught I know.Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meetAll charms of eye and ear wherewith our raceArt, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.Macgregor.Such noble aliment sustains my soul,That Jove I envy not his godlike food;I gaze on her—and feel each other goodEngulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl:Her every word I in my heart enrol,That on its grief it still may constant brood;Prostrate by Love—my doom not understoodFrom that one form, I feel a twin control.My spirit drinks the music of her voice,Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)They only feel who in its tone partake:Again within her face my eyes rejoice,For in its gentle lineaments appearWhat Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.Wollaston.
SONNET CLXI
L' aura gentil che rasserena i poggiJOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHESThe gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue,And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,I know; its breathings such impression made,Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too:My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieuTo those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd;And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,I seek this day my cheering sun to view,Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,That Love again compels me to its light;Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fateI ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die,When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.Nott.The gentle air, which brightens each green hill,Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade,I recognise it by its soft breath still,My sorrow and renown which long has made:Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought,From my dear native Tuscan air I flee:That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought,I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see.That sun so great and genial sweetness brings,That Love compels me to his beams again,Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain:I ask for my escape not arms, but wings:Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.Macgregor.
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