The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
SONNET XXXI
Ov' è la fronte che con picciol cennoHE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURAWhere is the brow whose gentlest beckonings ledMy raptured heart at will, now here, now there?Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere,Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed?Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?Where, group'd in one rich form, the beauties rare,Which long their magic influence o'er me shed?Where is the shade, within whose sweet recessMy wearied spirit still forgot its sighs,And all my thoughts their constant record found?Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?—Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes(Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drown'd.Wrangham.Where is that face, whose slightest air could moveMy trembling heart, and strike the springs of love?That heaven, where two fair stars, with genial ray,Shed their kind influence on life's dim way?Where are that science, sense, and worth confess'd?That speech by virtue, by the graces dress'd?Where are those beauties, where those charms combined,That caused this long captivity of mind?Where the dear shade of all that once was fair,The source, the solace, of each amorous care—My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast?—Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!Langhorne.
SONNET XXXII
Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terraHE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASUREO earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face,And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone,Whence all that gave delight on earth was known,How much I envy thee that harsh embrace!O heaven, that in thy airy courts confinedThat purest spirit, when from earth she fled,And sought the mansions of the righteous dead;How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind!O angels, that in your seraphic choirReceived her sister-soul, and now enjoyStill present, those delights without alloy,Which my fond heart must still in vain desire!In her I lived—in her my life decays;Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.Woodhouselee.What envy of the greedy earth I bear,That holds from me within its cold embraceThe light, the meaning, of that angel face,On which to gaze could soften e'en despair.What envy of the saints, in realms so fair,Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of graceThe spirit pure to summon to its place,Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;What envy of the blest in heaven above,With whom she dwells in sympathies divineDenied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove,That with her life has ta'en the light of mine,Yet calls me not,—though fixed and cold those eyes.Wrottesley.
SONNET XXXIII
Valle che d' lamenti miei se' pienaON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATHValley, which long hast echoed with my cries;Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed;Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bedOf Cabrieres' wave display your speckled dyes;Air, hush'd to rest and soften'd by my sighs;Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread;Hill of delight—though now delight is fled—To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys;Well I retain your old unchanging face!Myself how changed! in whom, for joy's light throng,Infinite woes their constant mansion find!Here bloom'd my bliss: and I your tracks retrace,To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung,Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!Wrangham.Ye vales, made vocal by my plaintive lay;Ye streams, embitter'd with the tears of love;Ye tenants of the sweet melodious grove;Ye tribes that in the grass fringed streamlet play;Ye tepid gales, to which my sighs conveyA softer warmth; ye flowery plains, that moveReflection sad; ye hills, where yet I rove,Since Laura there first taught my steps to stray;—You, you are still the same! How changed, alas,Am I! who, from a state of life so blest,Am now the gloomy dwelling-place of woe!'Twas here I saw my love: here still I traceHer parting steps, when she her mortal vestCast to the earth, and left these scenes below.Anon.
SONNET XXXIV
Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov' eraSOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPYFond fancy raised me to the spot, where straysShe, whom I seek but find on earth no more:There, fairer still and humbler than before,I saw her, in the third heaven's blessèd maze.She took me by the hand, and "Thou shalt trace,If hope not errs," she said, "this happy shore:I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore,And ere its evening closed my day's brief space.What human heart conceives, my joys exceed;Thee only I expect, and (what remainBelow) the charms, once objects of thy love."Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?Such of her soft and hallow'd tones the chain,From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move.Wrangham.Thither my ecstatic thought had rapt me, whereShe dwells, whom still on earth I seek in vain;And there, with those whom the third heavens contain,I saw her, much more kind, and much more fair.My hand she took, and said: "Within this sphere,If hope deceive me not, thou shalt againWith me reside: who caused thy mortal painAm I, and even in summer closed my year.My bliss no human thought can understand:Thee only I await; and, that erewhileYou held so dear, the veil I left behind."—She ceased—ah why? Why did she loose my hand?For oh! her hallow'd words, her roseate smileIn heaven had well nigh fix'd my ravish'd mind!Charlemont.
SONNET XXXV
Amor che meco al buon tempo ti staviHE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITYLove, that in happier days wouldst meet me hereAlong these meads that nursed our kindred strains;And that old debt to clear which still remains,Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share:Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air,Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains:The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains,And all my various chance, my racking care:Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade;Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursueThat life its cool and grassy bottom lends:—My days were once so fair; now dark and dreadAs death that makes them so. Thus the world throughOn each as soon as born his fate attends.Anon., Ox., 1795.On these green banks in happier days I stray'dWith Love, who whisper'd many a tender tale;And the glad waters, winding through the dale,Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display'd.You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade;Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale;Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled valeWhich oft have beard the tender plaints I made;Ye blue-hair'd nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep,In the cool bosom of the crystal deep;Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain's brow;Ye mark'd how joy once wing'd each hour so gay;Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away!So fate with human bliss blends human woe!Anon. 1777.
SONNET XXXVI
Mentre che 'l cor dagli amorosi vermiHAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILYWhile on my heart the worms consuming prey'dOf Love, and I with all his fire was caught;The steps of my fair wild one still I soughtTo trace o'er desert mountains as she stray'd;And much I dared in bitter strains to upbraidBoth Love and her, whom I so cruel thought;But rude was then my genius, and untaughtMy rhymes, while weak and new the ideas play'd.Dead is that fire; and cold its ashes lieIn one small tomb; which had it still grown onE'en to old age, as oft by others felt,Arm'd with the power of rhyme, which wretched IE'en now disclaim, my riper strains had wonE'en stones to burst, and in soft sorrows melt.Anon., Ox., 1795.SONNET XXXVII
Anima bella, da quel nodo scioltaHE PRAYS LAURA TO LOOK DOWN UPON HIM FROM HEAVENBright spirit, from those earthly bonds released,The loveliest ever wove in Nature's loom,From thy bright skies compassionate the gloomShrouding my life that once of joy could taste!Each false suggestion of thy heart has ceased,That whilom bade thee stem disdain assume;Now, all secure, heaven's habitant become,List to my sighs, thy looks upon me cast.Mark the huge rock, whence Sorga's waters rise;And see amidst its waves and borders strayOne fed by grief and memory that ne'er diesBut from that spot, oh! turn thy sight awayWhere I first loved, where thy late dwelling lies;That in thy friends thou nought ungrateful may'st survey!Nott.Blest soul, that, loosen'd from those bands, art flown—Bands than which Nature never form'd more fair,Look down and mark how changed to carking careFrom gladdest thoughts I pass my days unknown.Each false opinion from my heart is gone,That once to me made thy sweet sight appearMost harsh and bitter; now secure from fearHere turn thine eyes, and listen to my moan.Turn to this rock whence Sorga's waters rise,And mark, where through the mead its waters flow,One who of thee still mindful ceaseless sighs:But leave me there unsought for, where to glowOur flames began, and where thy mansion lies,Lest thou in thine shouldst see what grieved thee so.Anon., Ox., 1795.
SONNET XXXVIII
Quel sol che mi mostrava il cammin destroLOVE AND HE SEEK LAURA, BUT FIND NO TRACES OF HER EXCEPT IN THE SKYThat sun, which ever signall'd the right road,Where flash'd her own bright feet, to heaven to fly,Returning to the Eternal Sun on high,Has quench'd my light, and cast her earthly load;Thus, lone and weary, my oft steps have trode,As some wild animal, the sere woods by,Fleeing with heavy heart and downcast eyeThe world which since to me a blank has show'd.Still with fond search each well-known spot I paceWhere once I saw her: Love, who grieves me so,My only guide, directs me where to go.I find her not: her every sainted traceSeeks, in bright realms above, her parent starFrom grisly Styx and black Avernus far.Macgregor.SONNET XXXIX
Io pensava assai destro esser sull' aleUNWORTHY TO HAVE LOOKED UPON HER, HE IS STILL MORE SO TO ATTEMPT HER PRAISESI thought me apt and firm of wing to rise(Not of myself, but him who trains us all)In song, to numbers fitting the fair thrallWhich Love once fasten'd and which Death unties.Slow now and frail, the task too sorely tries,As a great weight upon a sucker small:"Who leaps," I said, "too high may midway fall:Man ill accomplishes what Heaven denies."So far the wing of genius ne'er could fly—Poor style like mine and faltering tongue much less—As Nature rose, in that rare fabric, high.Love follow'd Nature with such full successIn gracing her, no claim could I advanceEven to look, and yet was bless'd by chance.Macgregor.SONNET XL
Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' ArnoHE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUESShe, for whose sake fair Arno I resign,And for free poverty court-affluence spurn,Has known to sour the precious sweets to turnOn which I lived, for which I burn and pine.Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mineThat future ages from my song should learnHer heavenly beauties, and like me should burn,My poor verse fails her sweet face to define.The gifts, though all her own, which others share,Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er,Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare;But when to the diviner part I soar,To the dull world a brief and brilliant light,Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.Macgregor.SONNET XLI
L' alto e novo miracol ch' a dì nostriIT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCESThe wonder, high and new, that, in our days,Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch againBetter to blazon its own starry ways;That to far times I her should paint and praiseLove wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vainTo the fond task a thousand times he sways.My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,Or speak or write of love will prove it so.Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!Macgregor.SONNET XLII
Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimenaRETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEFZephyr returns; and in his jocund trainBrings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear;Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain,With every bloom that paints the vernal year;Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain;With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear;Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main;All beings join'd in fond accord appear.But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs,Forced from my inmost heart by her who boreThose keys which govern'd it unto the skies:The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air,Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more;Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear.Nott.The spring returns, with all her smiling train;The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers,And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:All nature feels the kindling fire of love,The vital force of spring's returning reign.But not to me returns the cheerful spring!O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief,Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!Woodhouselee.
Returning Zephyr the sweet season brings,With flowers and herbs his breathing train among,And Progne twitters, Philomela sings,Leading the many-colour'd spring along;Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field,Jove views his daughter with complacent brow;Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield,And creatures all his magic power avow:But nought, alas! for me the season brings,Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawnBy her who can from heaven unlock its springs;And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn,And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild,A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.Dacre.
Zephyr returns and winter's rage restrains,With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny!Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains,And spring assumes her robe of various dye;The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdainsTo view his daughter with delighted eye;While Love through universal nature reigns,And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy!But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn,And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceedFor her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne.The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead,And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn,A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey!Charlemont.
SONNET XLIII
Quel rosignuol che sì soave piagneTHE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOTYon nightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone,Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat,Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan,Filling the fields and skies with pity's note;Here lingering till the long long night is gone,Awakes the memory of my cruel lot—But I my wretched self must wail alone:Fool, who secure from death an angel thought!O easy duped, who thus on hope relies!Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears,From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise?Now know I, made by sad experience wise,That Fate would teach me by a life of tears,On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies!Wrangham.Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throwsAnd skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state:And all the night she seems my kindred woesWith me to weep and on my sorrows wait;Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose,Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate.How easy to deceive who sleeps secure!Who could have thought that to dull earth would turnThose eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure?Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure:That loathing life, yet living I should seeHow few its joys, how little they endure!Anon., Ox., 1795.
That nightingale, who now melodious mournsPerhaps his children or his consort dear,The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bournsResound his notes, so piteous and so clear;With me all night he weeps, and seems by turnsTo upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear,Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns,A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear.Security, how easy to betray!The radiance of those eyes who could have thoughtShould e'er become a senseless clod of clay?Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to sayThat here below—Oh, knowledge dearly bought!—Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day!Charlemont.
SONNET XLIV
Nè per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelleNOTHING THAT NATURE OFFERS CAN AFFORD HIM CONSOLATIONNot skies serene, with glittering stars inlaid,Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing,Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing,Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade,Nor tidings new of happiness delay'd,Nor poesie, Love's witchery enhancing,Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing,In beauty's pride, with chastity array'd;Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show,Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tombWho was erewhile my life and light below!So heavy—tedious—sad—my days unblest,That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom,Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were best!Dacre.Nor stars bright glittering through the cool still air,Nor proud ships riding on the tranquil main,Nor armed knights light pricking o'er the plain,Nor deer in glades disporting void of care,Nor tidings hoped by recent messenger,Nor tales of love in high and gorgeous strain,Nor by clear stream, green mead, or shady laneSweet-chaunted roundelay of lady fair;Nor aught beside my heart shall e'er engage—Sepulchred, as 'tis henceforth doom'd to be,With her, my eyes' sole mirror, beam, and bliss.Oh! how I long this weary pilgrimageTo close; that I again that form may see,Which never to have seen had been my happiness!Wrangham.
SONNET XLV
Passato è 'l tempo omai, lasso! che tantoHIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HERFled—fled, alas! for ever—is the day,Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote:Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay!And fled that angel vision far away;But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, soughtHer, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's carShe reaps the meed of matchless holiness:So might I, of this flesh discumberèd,Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow farWith her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!Wrangham.Ah! gone for ever are the happy yearsThat soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire,And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyreHas gone, alas!—But left my lyre, my tears:Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;—My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheresOf light she bore it captive, soaring high,In angel robe triumphant, and now standsCrown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity:Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bandsThat tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,—To join blest spirits in celestial lands!Morehead.
SONNET XLVI
Mente mia che presaga de' tuoi danniHE RECALLS WITH GRIEF THEIR LAST MEETINGMy mind! prophetic of my coming fate,Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent,On the loved lineaments still fix'd, intentTo seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow's date!From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait,From her unwonted pity with sadness blent,Thou might'st have said, hadst thou been prescient,"I taste my last of bliss in this low state!"My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet!That through my eyes instill'd the burning smart,Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet!To them—my bosom's wealth! condemn'd to partOn a far journey—as to friends discreet,All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.Dacre.SONNET XLVII
Tutta la mia fiorita e verde etadeJUST WHEN HE MIGHT FAIRLY HOPE SOME RETURN OF AFFECTION, ENVIOUS DEATH CARRIES HER OFFAll my green years and golden prime of manHad pass'd away, and with attemper'd sighsMy bosom heaved—ere yet the days ariseWhen life declines, contracting its brief span.Already my loved enemy beganTo lull suspicion, and in sportive guise,With timid confidence, though playful, wise,In gentle mockery my long pains to scan:The hour was near when Love, at length, may mateWith Chastity; and, by the dear one's side,The lover's thoughts and words may freely flow:Death saw, with envy, my too happy state,E'en its fair promise—and, with fatal pride,Strode in the midway forth, an armèd foe!Dacre.Now of my life each gay and greener yearPass'd by, and cooler grew each hour the flameWith which I burn'd: and to that point we cameWhence life descends, as to its end more near;Now 'gan my lovely foe each virtuous fearGently to lay aside, as safe from blame;And though with saint-like virtue still the same,Mock'd my sweet pains indeed, but deign'd to hearNigh drew the time when Love delights to dwellWith Chastity; and lovers with their mateCan fearless sit, and all they muse of tell.Death envied me the joys of such a state;Nay, e'en the hopes I form'd: and on them fellE'en in midway, like some arm'd foe in wait.Anon., Ox., 1795.
SONNET XLVIII
Tempo era omai da trovar pace o treguaHE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM'Twas time at last from so long war to findSome peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh,But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind,Who levels all distinctions, low as high;And as a cloud dissolves before the wind,So she, who led me with her lustrous eye,Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind,Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky.Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and oldHer tone had changed, and no distrust had beenTo parley with me on my cherish'd ill:With what frank sighs and fond I then had toldMy lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween,She sees, and with me sympathises still.Macgregor.My life's long warfare seem'd about to cease,Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed;But levelling Death, who doth to all concedeAn equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace:As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece,So did her life from this world's breath recede,Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead,But now my all, save thought, she doth release.Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd,For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand,And calmer I had told my storied love:To her in virtue's tone I had convey'dMy heart's long grief—now, she doth understand,And sympathises with that grief above.Wollaston.
SONNET XLIX
Tranquillo porto avea mostrato AmoreDEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFEFrom life's long storm of trouble and of tearsLove show'd a tranquil haven and fair end'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend,That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers.She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears,And its high faith which could no more offend;Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rendIn so few hours the fruit of many years!A longer life the time had surely broughtWhen in her chaste ear my full heart had laidThe ancient burthen of its dearest thought;And she, perchance, might then have answer made,Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and fewOur locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue.Macgregor.SONNET L
Al cader d' una pianta che si svelseUNDER THE ALLEGORY OF A LAUREL HE AGAIN DEPLORES HER DEATHAs a fair plant, uprooted by oft blowsOf trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves,Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves,And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows;Love such another for my object chose,Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves,Who in my captured heart her home achieves,As on some wall or tree the ivy growsThat living laurel—where their chosen nestMy high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief,Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf—To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest,Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cryI call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.Macgregor.Авторизация