Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

  But thou, beloved, who call’st me from on high,

  By the sad memory of thine early fate,

  Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.

  MACGREGOR.

  Never till now so clearly have I seen

  Her whom my eyes desire, my soul still views;

  Never enjoy’d a freedom thus serene;

  Ne’er thus to heaven breathed my enamour’d muse,

  As in this vale sequester’d, darkly green;

  Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues,

  And nought intrusively may intervene,

  And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews.

  To Love and meditation, faithful shade,

  Receive the breathings of my grateful breast!

  Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nest

  As this, by pine and arching laurel made!

  The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;

  Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.

  CAPEL LOFFT.

  SONNET XIII.

  Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto.

  HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.

  How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat

  From man and from myself I strive to fly,

  Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,

  And swelling every blossom with a sigh!

  How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,

  Along the dark and silent glens I lie,

  In thought again that dearest form to meet

  By death possess’d, and therefore wish to die!

  How oft I see her rising from the tide

  Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;

  Or pensive wander by the river’s side;

  Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;

  Bright as in life; while angel pity throws

  O’er her fair face the impress of my woes.

  MERIVALE.

  SONNET XIV.

  Alma felice, che sovente torni.

  HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE.

  O blessed spirit! who dost oft return,

  Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,

  From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,

  Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:

  How am I gladden’d, that thou dost not scorn

  O’er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!

  Thus do I seem again to trace below

  Thy beauties, hovering o’er their loved sojourn.

  There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been

  My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell —

  Of thee! — oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.

  One only solace cheers the wretched scene:

  By many a sign I know thy coming well —

  Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour’d green.

  WRANGHAM.

  When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,

  I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;

  Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:

  In all but frail mortality the same.

  Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,

  Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:

  Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;

  Now vocal only while I weep for thee.

  For thee! — ah, no! From human ills secure.

  Thy hallow’d soul exults in endless day;

  ’Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:

  No balm relieves the anguish I endure;

  Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near

  To soothe my sufferings with an angel’s tear.

  ANNE BANNERMAN.

  SONNET XV.

  Discolorato hai, Morte, il più bel volto.

  HER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATION.

  Death, thou of fairest face hast ‘reft the hue,

  And quench’d in deep thick night the brightest eyes,

  And loosed from all its tenderest, closest ties

  A spirit to faith and ardent virtue true.

  In one short hour to all my bliss adieu!

  Hush’d are those accents worthy of the skies,

  Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs;

  And all I hear is grief, and all I view.

  Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish’d heart,

  By pity led, she comes my couch to seek,

  Nor find I other solace here below:

  And if her thrilling tones my strain could speak

  And look divine, with Love’s enkindling dart

  Not man’s sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.

  WRANGHAM.

  Thou hast despoil’d the fairest face e’er seen —

  Thou hast extinguish’d, Death, the brightest eyes,

  And snapp’d the cord in sunder of the ties

  Which bound that spirit brilliantly serene:

  In one short moment all I love has been

  Torn from me, and dark silence now supplies

  Those gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs,

  Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen:

  Yet doth my lady, by compassion led,

  Return to solace my unfailing woe;

  Earth yields no other balm: — oh! could I tell

  How bright she seems, and how her accents flow,

  Not unto man alone Love’s flames would spread,

  But even bears and tigers share the spell.

  WROTTESLEY.

  SONNET XVI.

  Sì breve è ‘l tempo e ‘l pensier sì veloce.

  THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEART.

  So brief the time, so fugitive the thought

  Which Laura yields to me, though dead, again,

  Small medicine give they to my giant pain;

  Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought.

  Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought,

  Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain,

  Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign,

  Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought.

  As rules a mistress in her home of right,

  From my dark heavy heart her placid brow

  Dispels each anxious thought and omen drear.

  My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light,

  Says with a sigh: “O blessed day! when thou

  Didst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!”

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XVII.

  Nè mai pietosa madre al caro figlio.

  HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.

  Ne’er did fond mother to her darling son,

  Or zealous spouse to her belovèd mate,

  Sage counsel give, in perilous estate,

  With such kind caution, in such tender tone,

  As gives that fair one, who, oft looking down

  On my hard exile from her heavenly seat,

  With wonted kindness bends upon my fate

  Her brow, as friend or parent would have done:

  Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear,

  Instructive speech, that points what several ways

  To seek or shun, while journeying here below;

  Then all the ills of life she counts, and prays

  My soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere:

  And by her words alone I’m soothed and freed from woe.

  NOTT.

  Ne’er to the son, in whom her age is blest,

  The anxious mother — nor to her loved lord

  The wedded dame, impending ill to ward,

  With careful sighs so faithful counsel press’d,

  As she, who, from her high eternal rest,

  Bending — as though my exile she deplored —

  With all her wonted tenderness restored,

  And softer pity on her brow impress’d!

  Now with a mother’s
fears, and now as one

  Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech

  She points what to pursue and what to shun!

  Our years retracing of long, various grief,

  Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,

  And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!

  DACRE.

  SONNET XVIII.

  Se quell’ aura soave de’ sospiri.

  SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.

  If that soft breath of sighs, which, from above,

  I hear of her so long my lady here,

  Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere,

  To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love,

  I could but paint, my passionate verse should move

  Warmest desires; so jealous, yet so dear

  O’er me she bends and breathes, without a fear,

  That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove.

  She points the path on high: and I who know

  Her chaste anxiety and earnest prayer,

  In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low,

  Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there:

  And find such sweetness in her words alone

  As with their power should melt the hardest stone.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XIX.

  Sennuccio mio, benchè doglioso e solo.

  ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.

  O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here,

  By thee though left in solitude to roam,

  Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home,

  On angel pinions borne, in bright career?

  Now thou behold’st the ever-turning sphere,

  And stars that journey round the concave dome;

  Now thou behold’st how short of truth we come,

  How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear!

  That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress’d.

  O friend! salute from me the laurell’d band,

  Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest:

  And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand,

  Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess’d,

  While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.

  MOREHEAD.

  Sennuccio mine! I yet myself console,

  Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone,

  For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown,

  Free from the flesh which did so late enrol;

  Thence, at one view, commands it either pole,

  The planets and their wondrous courses known,

  And human sight how brief and doubtful shown;

  Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control.

  One favour — in the third of those bright spheres.

  Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute,

  With Franceschin and all that tuneful train,

  And tell my lady how I live, in tears,

  (Savage and lonely as some forest brute)

  Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XX.

  I’ ho pien di sospir quest’ aer tutto.

  VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.

  To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute,

  When from rude rocks, I view the smiling land

  Where she was born, who held my life in hand

  From its first bud till blossoms turn’d to fruit:

  To heaven she’s gone, and I’m left destitute

  To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain

  These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain

  Where’er they turn, o’erflow with grief acute;

  There’s not a root or stone amongst these hills,

  Nor branch nor verdant leaf ‘midst these soft glades,

  Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,

  Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,

  Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,

  But knows how sharp my grief — how deep my woes.

  WROTTESLEY.

  SONNET XXI.

  L’ alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella.

  HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.

  My noble flame — more fair than fairest are

  Whom kind Heaven here has e’er in favour shown —

  Before her time, alas for me! has flown

  To her celestial home and parent star.

  I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar

  She placed on passion ’twas for good alone,

  As, with a gentle coldness all her own,

  She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war.

  My thanks on her for such wise care I press,

  That with her lovely face and sweet disdain

  She check’d my love and taught me peace to gain.

  O graceful artifice! deserved success!

  I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she,

  Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

  MACGREGOR.

  SONNET XXII.

  Come va ‘l mondo! or mi diletta e piace.

  HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.

  How goes the world! now please me and delight

  What most displeased me: now I see and feel

  My trials were vouchsafed me for my weal,

  That peace eternal should brief war requite.

  O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight,

  In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal!

  Worse had she yielded to my warm appeal

  Whom Heaven has welcomed from the grave’s dark night.

  But blind love and my dull mind so misled,

  I sought to trespass even by main force

  Where to have won my precious soul were dead.

  Blessèd be she who shaped mine erring course

  To better port, by turns who curb’d and lured

  My bold and passionate will where safety was secured.

  MACGREGOR.

  Alas! this changing world! my present joy

  Was once my grief’s dark source, and now I feel

  My sufferings pass’d were but my soul to heal

  Its fearful warfare — peace’s soft decoy.

  Poor human wishes! Hope, thou fragile toy

  To lovers oft! my woe had met its seal,

  Had she but hearken’d to my love’s appeal,

  Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world’s alloy.

  My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind,

  Resistless urged me to my bosom’s shame,

  And where my soul’s destruction I had met:

  But blessèd she who bade life’s current find

  A holier course, who still’d my spirit’s flame

  With gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.

  WOLLASTON.

  SONNET XXIII.

  Quand’ io veggio dal ciel scender l’ Aurora.

  MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.

  When from the heavens I see Aurora beam,

  With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair,

  Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear:

  “There Laura dwells!” I with a sigh exclaim.

  Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem,

  Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued fair;

  But not to her I love can I repair,

  Till death extinguishes this vital flame.

  Yet need’st thou not thy separation mourn;

  Certain at evening’s close is the return

  Of her, who doth not thy hoar locks despise;

  But my nights sad, my days are render’d drear,

  By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies,

  And only a remember’d name left here.

  NOTT.

  When from the east appears the purple ray

  Of morn arising, and salutes the eyes

  That wear the night in watching for the day,

  Thus speaks my heart: “In yonder opening skies,


  In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!”

  Thou sun, that know’st to wheel thy burning car,

  Each eve, to the still surface of the deep,

  And there within thy Thetis’ bosom sleep;

  Oh! could I thus my Laura’s presence share,

  How would my patient heart its sorrows bear!

  Adored in life, and honour’d in the dust,

  She that in this fond breast for ever reigns

  Has pass’d the gulph of death! — To deck that bust,

  No trace of her but the sad name remains.

  WOODHOUSELEE.

  SONNET XXIV.

  Gli occhi di ch’ io parlai sì caldamente.

  HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.

  The eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould,

  So long the theme of my impassion’d lay,

  Charms which so stole me from myself away,

  That strange to other men the course I hold;

  The crispèd locks of pure and lucid gold,

  The lightning of the angelic smile, whose ray

  To earth could all of paradise convey,

  A little dust are now! — to feeling cold!

  And yet I live! — but that I live bewail,

  Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led

  My shatter’d bark, bereft of mast and sail:

  Hush’d be for aye the song that breathed love’s fire!

  Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed,

  And turn’d to mourning my once tuneful lyre.

  DACRE.

  The eyes, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face,

  Which made my thoughts and words so warm and wild,

  That I was almost from myself exiled,

  And render’d strange to all the human race;

  The lucid locks that curl’d in golden grace,

  The lightening beam that, when my angel smiled,

  Diffused o’er earth an Eden heavenly mild;

  What are they now? Dust, lifeless dust, alas!

  And I live on, a melancholy slave,

  Toss’d by the tempest in a shatter’d bark,

  Reft of the lovely light that cheer’d the wave.

  The flame of genius, too, extinct and dark,

  Here let my lays of love conclusion have;

  Mute be the lyre: tears best my sorrows mark.

  MOREHEAD.