The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
SONNET CLXII
Di dì in dì vo cangiando il viso e 'l peloHIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATHI alter day by day in hair and mien,Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear,Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green,Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear.Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen,Ere I shall cease to covet and to fearHer lovely shadow, and—which ill I screen—To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here:For never hope I respite from my pain,From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free,Unless mine enemy some pity deign,Till things impossible accomplish'd be,None but herself or death the blow can healWhich Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.Macgregor.SONNET CLXIII
L' aura serena che fra verdi frondeTHE GENTLE BREEZE (L' AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HERThe gentle gale, that plays my face around,Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove,To fond remembrance brings the time, when LoveFirst gave his deep, although delightful wound;Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er foundVeil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move;To view her locks that shone bright gold above,Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound:Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind,And then coil'd up again so gracefully,That but to think on it still thrills the sense.These Time has in more sober braids confined;And bound my heart with such a powerful tie,That death alone can disengage it thence.Nott.The balmy airs that from yon leafy sprayMy fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet,Recall to my fond heart the fatal dayWhen Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet,And gave me the fair face—in scorn awaySince turn'd, or hid by jealousy—to meet;The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array,Whose shining tints with finest gold compete,So sweetly on the wind were then display'd,Or gather'd in with such a graceful art,Their very thought with passion thrills my mind.Time since has twined them in more sober braid,And with a snare so powerful bound my heart,Death from its fetters only can unbind.Macgregor.
SONNET CLXIV
L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde LauroHER HAIR AND EYESThe heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke,Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,That freedom thence I hope not to behold,O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab oldMedusa, when she changed him to an oak;Nor ever can the fairy knot be brokeWhose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snareWhich folds and fastens with so sweet a graceMy soul, whose humbleness defends alone.Her mere shade freezes with a cold despairMy heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.Macgregor.SONNET CLXV
L' aura soave ch' al sol spiega e vibraHIS HEART LIES TANGLED IN HER HAIRThe pleasant gale, that to the sun unplaitsAnd spreads the gold Love's fingers weave, and braidO'er her fine eyes, and all around her head,Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates:No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats,Approaching my fair arbiter with dread,Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh'dWhether or death or life on me awaits;Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display,And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair,Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare.But how this magic's wrought I cannot say;For twofold radiance doth my reason blind,And sweetness to excess palls and o'erpowers my mind.Nott.The soft gale to the sun which shakes and spreadsThe gold which Love's own hand has spun and wrought.There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads,Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought.My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail,Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze,Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail,My life and death together holds and weighs,And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn,And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves,Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn;Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives.From two such lights is intellect distress'd,And by such sweetness weary and oppress'd.Macgregor.
SONNET CLXVI
O bella man, che mi distringi 'l coreTHE STOLEN GLOVEO beauteous hand! that dost my heart subdue,And in a little space my life confine;Hand where their skill and utmost efforts joinNature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show!Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue,To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine!Love, who towards me kindness doth design,For once permits ye naked to our view.Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white,Encasing ivory tinted with the rose;More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight.Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd!O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows!'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd.Nott.O beauteous hand! which robb'st me of my heart,And holdest all my life in little space;Hand! which their utmost effort and best artNature and Heaven alike have join'd to grace;O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fineAnd fairy fingers! to my wounds aloneCruel and cold, does Love awhile inclineIn my behalf, that naked ye are shown?O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear,Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set,Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met,Unless her fair veil thus reward us here?Inconstancy of human things! the theftLate won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!Macgregor.
SONNET CLXVII
Non pur quell' una bella ignuda manoHE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTYNot of one dear hand only I complain,Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,But its fair fellow and her soft arms tooAre prompt my meek and passive heart to pain.Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,That so her high and heavenly part endue,No style can equal it, no mind attain.That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and roseContrast each other, whence rich music flows,These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,The fine head, the bright tresses which defiedThe sun to match them in his noonday pride.Macgregor.SONNET CLXVIII
Mia ventura ed Amor m' avean sì adornoHE REGRETS HAVING RETURNED HER GLOVEMe Love and Fortune then supremely bless'd!Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore!I seem'd to reach of utmost bliss the crest,Musing within myself on her who wore.Ne'er on that day I think, of days the best,Which made me rich, then beggar'd as before,But rage and sorrow fill mine aching breast.With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er;That on my precious prize in time of needI kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand'Gainst what at best was merely angel force,That my feet were not wings their flight to speed,And so at last take vengeance on the hand,Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.Macgregor.SONNET CLXIX
D' un bel, chiaro, polito e vivo ghiaccioTHOUGH RACKED BY AGONY, HE DOES NOT COMPLAIN OF HERThe flames that ever on my bosom preyFrom living ice or cold fair marble pour,And so exhaust my veins and waste my core,Almost insensibly I melt away.Death, his stern arm already rear'd to slay,As thunders angry heaven or lions roar,Pursues my life that vainly flies before,While I with terror shake, and mute obey.And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they mightA double column for my succour throwBetween my worn soul and the mortal blow:It may not be; such feelings in the sightOf my loved foe and mistress never stir;The fault is in my fortune, not in her.Macgregor.SONNET CLXX
Lasso, ch' i' ardo, ed altri non mel crede!POSTERITY WILL ACCORD TO HIM THE PITY WHICH LAURA REFUSESAlas, with ardour past belief I glow!None doubt this truth, except one only fair,Who all excels, for whom alone I care;She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thouLook in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?Were I not fated by my baleful star,For me from pity's fount might favour flow.My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,O'er many a breast may future influence spread:These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.Nott.Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gainAll others credit it save only sheAll others who excels, alone for me;She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plainInfinite beauty, little faith and slow,Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,May thousands yet inflame in after times;These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,Shall lighten other loves and live in death.Macgregor.
SONNET CLXXI
Anima, che diverse cose tanteHE REJOICES AT BEING ON EARTH WITH HER, AS HE IS THEREBY ENABLED BETTER TO IMITATE HER VIRTUESSoul! with such various faculties enduedTo think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear!Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;Your fortune smiles; if after or before,The path were won so badly follow'd yet,Ye had not then her bright eyes' lustre met,Nor traced her light feet earth's green carpet o'er.Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign,'Twere shame to err or halt on the brief wayWhich makes thee worthy of a home divine.That better course, my weary will, essay!To pierce the cloud of her sweet scorn be thine,Pursuing her pure steps and heavenly ray.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXII
Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paciHE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITYSweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"Nott.Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"Anon. 1777.
CANZONE XIX
S' il dissi mai, ch' i' venga in odio a quellaHE VEHEMENTLY REBUTS THE CHARGE OF LOVING ANOTHERPerdie! I said it not,Nor never thought to do:As well as I, ye wotI have no power thereto.And if I did, the lotThat first did me enchainMay never slake the knot,But strait it to my pain.And if I did, each thingThat may do harm or woe,Continually may wringMy heart, where so I go!Report may always ringOf shame on me for aye,If in my heart did springThe words that you do say.And if I did, each starThat is in heaven above,May frown on me, to marThe hope I have in love!And if I did, such warAs they brought unto Troy,Bring all my life afarFrom all his lust and joy!And if I did so say,The beauty that me boundIncrease from day to day,More cruel to my wound!With all the moan that mayTo plaint may turn my song;My life may soon decay,Without redress, by wrong!If I be clear from thought,Why do you then complain?Then is this thing but soughtTo turn my heart to pain.Then this that you have wrought,You must it now redress;Of right, therefore, you oughtSuch rigour to repress.And as I have deserved,So grant me now my hire;You know I never swerved,You never found me liar.For Rachel have I served,For Leah cared I never;And her I have reservedWithin my heart for ever.Wyatt.If I said so, may I be hated byHer on whose love I live, without which I should die—If I said so, my days be sad and short,May my false soul some vile dominion court.If I said so, may every star to meBe hostile; round me growPale fear and jealousy;And she, my foe,As cruel still and cold as fair she aye must be.If I said so, may Love upon my heartExpend his golden shafts, on her the leaden dart;Be heaven and earth, and God and man my foe,And she still more severe if I said so:If I said so, may he whose blind lights leadMe straightway to my grave,Trample yet worse his slave,Nor she behaveGentle and kind to me in look, or word, or deed.If I said so, then through my brief life mayAll that is hateful block my worthless weary way:If I said so, may the proud frost in theeGrow prouder as more fierce the fire in me:If I said so, no more then may the warmSun or bright moon be view'd,Nor maid, nor matron's form,But one dread stormSuch as proud Pharaoh saw when Israel he pursued.If I said so, despite each contrite sigh,Let courtesy for me and kindly feeling die:If I said so, that voice to anger swell,Which was so sweet when first her slave I fell:If I said so, I should offend whom I,E'en from my earliest breathUntil my day of death,Would gladly take,Alone in cloister'd cell my single saint to make.But if I said not so, may she who first,In life's green youth, my heart to hope so sweetly nursed,Deign yet once more my weary bark to guideWith native kindness o'er the troublous tide;And graceful, grateful, as her wont before,When, for I could no more,My all, myself I gave,To be her slave,Forget not the deep faith with which I still adore.I did not, could not, never would say so,For all that gold can give, cities or courts bestow:Let truth, then, take her old proud seat on high,And low on earth let baffled falsehood lie.Thou know'st me, Love! if aught my state withinBelief or care may win,Tell her that I would callHim blest o'er allWho, doom'd like me to pine, dies ere his strife begin.Rachel I sought, not Leah, to secure,Nor could I this vain life with other fair endure,And, should from earth Heaven summon her again,Myself would gladly dieFor her, or with her, whenElijah's fiery car her pure soul wafts on high.Macgregor.
CANZONE XX
Ben mi credea passar mio tempo omaiHE CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT SEEING HER, BUT WOULD NOT DIE THAT HE MAY STILL LOVE HERAs pass'd the years which I have left behind,To pass my future years I fondly thought,Amid old studies, with desires the same;But, from my lady since I fail to findThe accustom'd aid, the work himself has wroughtLet Love regard my tempter who became;Yet scarce I feel the shameThat, at my age, he makes me thus a thiefOf that bewitching lightFor which my life is steep'd in cureless grief;In youth I better mightHave ta'en the part which now I needs must take,For less dishonour boyish errors make.Those sweet eyes whence alone my life had healthWere ever of their high and heavenly charmsSo kind to me when first my thrall begun,That, as a man whom not his proper wealth,But some extern yet secret succour arms,I lived, with them at ease, offending none:Me now their glances shunAs one injurious and importunate,Who, poor and hungry, didMyself the very act, in better stateWhich I, in others, chid.From mercy thus if envy bar me, beMy amorous thirst and helplessness my plea.In divers ways how often have I triedIf, reft of these, aught mortal could retainE'en for a single day in life my frame:But, ah! my soul, which has no rest beside,Speeds back to those angelic lights again;And I, though but of wax, turn to their flame,Planting my mind's best aimWhere less the watch o'er what I love is sure:As birds i' th' wild wood green,Where less they fear, will sooner take the lure,So on her lovely mien,Now one and now another look I turn,Wherewith at once I nourish me and burn.Strange sustenance! upon my death I feed,And live in flames, a salamander rare!And yet no marvel, as from love it flows.A blithe lamb 'mid the harass'd fleecy breed.Whilom I lay, whom now to worst despairFortune and Love, as is their wont, expose.Winter with cold and snows,With violets and roses spring is rife,And thus if I obtainSome few poor aliments of else weak life,Who can of theft complain?So rich a fair should be content with this,Though others live on hers, if nought she miss.Who knows not what I am and still have been,From the first day I saw those beauteous eyes,Which alter'd of my life the natural mood?Traverse all lands, explore each sea between,Who can acquire all human qualities?There some on odours live by Ind's vast flood;Here light and fire are foodMy frail and famish'd spirit to appease!Love! more or nought bestow;With lordly state low thrift but ill agrees;Thou hast thy darts and bow,Take with thy hands my not unwilling breath,Life were well closed with honourable death.Pent flames are strongest, and, if left to swell,Not long by any means can rest unknown,This own I, Love, and at your hands was taught.When I thus silent burn'd, you knew it well;Now e'en to me my cries are weary grown,Annoy to far and near so long that wrought.O false world! O vain thought!O my hard fate! where now to follow thee?Ah! from what meteor lightSprung in my heart the constant hope which she,Who, armour'd with your might,Drags me to death, binds o'er it as a chain?Yours is the fault, though mine the loss and pain.Thus bear I of true love the pains along,Asking forgiveness of another's debt,And for mine own; whose eyes should rather shunThat too great light, and to the siren's songMy ears be closed: though scarce can I regretThat so sweet poison should my heart o'errun.Yet would that all were done,That who the first wound gave my last would deal;For, if I right divine,It were best mercy soon my fate to seal;Since not a chance is mineThat he may treat me better than before,'Tis well to die if death shut sorrow's door.My song! with fearless feetThe field I keep, for death in flight were shame.Myself I needs must blameFor these laments; tears, sighs, and death to meet,Such fate for her is sweet.Own, slave of Love, whose eyes these rhymes may catch,Earth has no good that with my grief can match.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXIII
Rapido fiume che d' alpestra venaJOURNEYING ALONG THE RHONE TO AVIGNON, PETRARCH BIDS THE RIVER KISS LAURA'S HAND, AS IT WILL ARRIVE AT HER DWELLING BEFORE HIMImpetuous flood, that from the Alps' rude head,Eating around thee, dost thy name obtain;22Anxious like me both night and day to gainWhere thee pure nature, and me love doth lead;Pour on: thy course nor sleep nor toils impede;Yet, ere thou pay'st thy tribute to the main,Oh, tarry where most verdant looks the plain,Where most serenity the skies doth spread!There beams my radiant sun of cheering ray,Which deck thy left banks, and gems o'er with flowers;E'en now, vain thought! perhaps she chides my stay:Kiss then her feet, her hand so beauteous fair;In place of language let thy kiss declareStrong is my will, though feeble are my powers.Nott.O rapid flood! which from thy mountain bedGnawest thy shores, whence (in my tongue) thy name;23Thou art my partner, night and day the same,Where I by love, thou art by nature led:Precede me now; no weariness doth shedIts spell o'er thee, no sleep thy course can tame;Yet ere the ocean waves thy tribute claim,Pause, where the herb and air seem brighter fed.There beams our sun of life, whose genial rayWith brighter verdure thy left shore adorns;Perchance (vain hope!) e'en now my stay she mourns.Kiss then her foot, her lovely hand, and mayThy kiss to her in place of language speak,The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.Wollaston.
SONNET CLXXIV
I' dolci colli ov' io lasciai me stessoHE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURAThe loved hills where I left myself behind,Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear,Before me rise; at each remove I bearThe dear load to my lot by Love consign'd.Often I wonder inly in my mind,That still the fair yoke holds me, which despairWould vainly break, that yet I breathe this air;Though long the chain, its links but closer bind.And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart,Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast,Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd,So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart,Endure at once my death and my delight,Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.Macgregor.Those gentle hills which hold my spirit still(For though I fly, my heart there must remain),Are e'er before me, whilst my burthen's pain,By love bestow'd, I bear with patient will.I marvel oft that I can yet fulfilThat yoke's sweet duties, which my soul enchain,I seek release, but find the effort vain;The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill.So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart,Its poison'd iron rankling in his side,Flies swifter at each quickening anguish'd throb,—I feel the fatal arrow at my heart;Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide;My flight exhausts me—grief my life doth rob!Wollaston.
SONNET CLXXV
Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo IdaspeHIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLEDFrom Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,Exploring ocean in its every nook,From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore,In earth, in heaven one only Phœnix dwells.What fortunate, or what disastrous birdOmen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn,That I alone find Pity deaf as asp,And wretched live who happy hoped to be?Let me not speak of her, but him her guide,Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills—Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her,Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be,Dissembleth, careth not, or will not seeThat silver'd, ere my time, these temples are.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXVI
Voglia mi sprona; Amor mi guida e scorgeHE DESCRIBES HIS STATE, SPECIFYING THE DATE OF HIS ATTACHMENTPassion impels me, Love escorts and leads,Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain,Hope with its flatteries comforts me again,And, at my harass'd heart, with fond touch pleads.Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heedsThe blind and faithless leader of our train;Reason is dead, the senses only reign:One fond desire another still succeeds.Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy,With winning words and many a graceful way,My heart entangled in that laurel sweet.In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I—'Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day—Enter'd Love's labyrinth, whence is no retreat.Macgregor.By will impell'd, Love o'er my path presides;By Pleasure led, o'ercome by Habit's reign,Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts me again;At her bright touch, my heart's despair subsides.It takes her proffer'd hand, and there confides.To doubt its blind disloyal guide were vain;Each sense usurps poor Reason's broken rein;On each desire, another wilder rides!Grace, virtue, honour, beauty, words so dear,Have twined me with that laurell'd bough, whose powerMy heart hath tangled in its lab'rinth sweet:The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh year,The sixth of April's suns—in that first hour,My entrance mark'd, whence I see no retreat.Wollaston.
SONNET CLXXVII
Beato in sogno, e di languir contentoTHOUGH SO LONG LOVE'S FAITHFUL SERVANT, HIS ONLY REWARD HAS BEEN TEARSHappy in visions, and content to pine,Shadows to clasp, to chase the summer gale,On shoreless and unfathom'd sea to sail,To build on sand, and in the air design,The sun to gaze on till these eyes of mineAbash'd before his noonday splendour fail,To chase adown some soft and sloping vale,The wingèd stag with maim'd and heavy kine;Weary and blind, save my own harm to all,Which day and night I seek with throbbing heart,On Love, on Laura, and on Death I call.Thus twenty years of long and cruel smart,In tears and sighs I've pass'd, because I tookUnder ill stars, alas! both bait and hook.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXVIII
Grazie ch' a pochi 'l ciel largo destinaTHE ENCHANTMENTS THAT ENTHRALL HIMGraces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows;Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind;With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd;Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows;An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flowsMusic that can the sense in fetters bind;A goddess step; a lovely ardent mind,That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows;Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart,To glooms, to shades that can a light impart,Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low;Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity;With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh;Such are the witcheries that transform me so.Nott.Graces which liberal Heaven grants few to share:Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind;Experienced judgment with fair hair combined;High heavenly beauty in a humble fair;A gracefulness most excellent and rare;A voice whose music sinks into the mind;An angel gait; wit glowing and refined,The hard to break, the high and haughty tear,And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone,Strong to enlighten hell and night, and takeSouls from our bodies and their own to make;A speech where genius high yet gentle shone,Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs—Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.Macgregor.
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